Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and Rodney McKay belong to MGM Television and Acme Shark (according to Wikipedia). Moonlight Sonata, aka Sonata Quasi Una Fantasia, aka Sonata in C# Minor, belongs to Ludwig van Beethoven. Das Wohltemperiert Klavier, aka The Well-Tempered Keyboard, belongs to Johann Sebastian Bach. Canon in D Major belongs to Johann Pachelbel.

Notes: A short story of Rodney's reaction to his piano teacher's comment. Somewhat more dramatic than most such stories, and largely based on my life and feelings towards music at the moment.

Obviously I've made various assumptions about Rodney's family life. I'm convinced that he has Asperger's Syndrome himself, so having younger siblings with autism isn't too much of a stretch. And I tend to depict him as having a French-speaking mother, partly because that's just random, and partly because he's Canadian. And it's fun to write characters with an interesting linguistic background.

If you are dealing with depression or feelings of despair, this probably isn't the best story for you to be reading.

"You're a technical player, Meredith. You've got no sense of the art!"

Twelve-year-old Meredith McKay stared at his piano teacher in shock for several seconds, before reality set in, and he snapped his head away, grabbing his books and hurrying out of the house. He knew it was rude, but he had to do it. He couldn't face staying there any longer.

Clutching his books to his chest like a child might hold a teddy bear, Meredith kept his head down, fighting tears as his feet led him home. It was only a short walk, and he got there soon enough.

"Tu as rentré tôt, Meredith," his mother observed as he came in, looking up from where she was doing therapy with Digby.

Meredith stormed past her, down the corridor to the bedrooms, slamming doors behind him. "Tais-toi!" he yelled out. "Et te perdres!"

As he left, he could hear Jeannie commenting drolly, "He's so weird."

Finally in his bedroom, Meredith went straight to his bed, curling up on the covers. His chest hurt. He didn't think that was normal. A lump built in his throat and his eyes stung, but he didn't want to cry. He couldn't. Everyone knew boys didn't cry, even if they had a sissy girl's name like Meredith. He never cried, not even that time he'd had to wear his underpants on his head at lunch-time.

It wasn't fair.

He'd spent his entire life – well, eight years anyway, which for a twelve-year-old was tantamount to his entire life – trying to become a good musician. It was his one dream; to become a concert pianist. He had loved the music, the way it all worked together and came out sounding beautiful. It resonated within him, even as a child, a way to express himself the way nothing else could. He spent hours practicing each day, trying to get all the notes to come together just right. He lived for that one moment, when the music would come from his fingers and sound perfect. It never did, though.

Frustrated, and angry with himself and with the music, he grabbed the books he had carried home, opened them, and ripped out the pages. He bunched them in his hands, ripped them to shreds. Goodbye, Moonlight Sonata. Farewell, Well-Tempered Keyboard. And may they never meet again.

He envied the natural musicians, the ones who could sit down at a piano and play perfectly, even if they'd never had lessons or practiced a day in their life. The ones to whom it came naturally, the notes just falling into place. The good musicians.

He wasn't one of them. Obviously. He hated them, with a passion. Show-offs. He could practice and practice and practice, but he would never attain that ultimate goal – perfection in music. He'd even stopped enjoying music. He didn't think he'd really, properly enjoying playing the piano in almost two years. But he still practiced, because he thought that every time he did, he was slightly closer to that goal. Maybe one day he'd be good.

Maybe if he were good enough, if he played well enough, people would notice him. Notice him in a good way. Maybe they would give him praise, give him attention. Buy him a metronome. Meredith thought that might be why he was so terrible at playing. When he was six, his teacher had said that he needed a metronome to practice with. But they hadn't had enough money, and he had gone metronome-less.

"Next year," his parents had said, "We'll buy you a metronome next year." But he had heard them talking after he had left the room. "What sort of boy wants a metronome?" his father had asked. "There's no point in it. Music is worthless."

Of course he'd think that; Meredith's father was tone-deaf.

Meredith didn't have a perfect ear; far from it, actually. But he practiced and practiced, trying to hear the notes, learn them, work out what they were from the sound. He did jobs for the neighbours and saved up money. Barely enough for a piece of music, let alone a metronome.

He remembered going into the music shop, and standing there, staring at the metronome. It seemed perfect, a pyramid of shining, gleaming wood; numbers and words up the front and an arm which ticked in perfect time. It stood there, behind the glass, so perfect… And so inaccessible.

When he was eight, he'd bought a copy of Pachelbel's Canon in D. Now there was perfection. Just a simple chord progression, a simple tune, repeated over and over, made more intricate each time. Genius, in notes. Perfect rhythm, perfect time, simple and predictable and ordered. He'd played it so many times he could do it in his sleep.

A metronome would have been useful.

"Stupid boy," Donald McKay had often said of his oldest son. "Can't do anything useful. He's always at that blasted piano, making noise."

There wasn't enough money for lessons or books or music. His current teacher had only taken him in out of charity. All money in the McKay household went to providing therapy for his brother. Digby had autism, and there was never enough money for therapy, and Maman often fretted about that. Meredith had, too.

Now he didn't care, he decided. He'd had enough of kind, caring, considerate Meredith. Meredith, who faded into the background for the benefit of his parents or siblings. Meredith, who bit his tongue to keep from saying something which might upset the emotionally needy people around him. Meredith, who put everyone before himself and never spoke his own mind. Meredith, who always accepted what life threw at him without a complaint.

Well, no more. It was time he accepted that he would never be even a mediocre pianist, and stopped trying to be someone he wasn't. He was sick of keeping his thoughts inside and never voicing his feelings and opinions, sick of sitting through complaints from his parents and siblings as they told him their troubles. Sick of barely letting his own emotional state be known, because he knew it would upset his very emotional mother. Sick of bottling in his own feelings and never telling anyone that he was overwhelmed and despairing. Sick of feeling overwhelmingly guilty if he accidentally said or did something that someone else didn't like.

From now on, there would be a new Meredith. No, not Meredith. Meredith was a sissy, with a sissy's name. A girl, who was nice and gave of himself. He didn't want to be called Meredith anymore. Maybe his middle name would be better. Rodney. It was tougher, more masculine, less nice. And going by his middle name would upset his parents. Maybe Meredith would feel guilty about that, but Rodney wouldn't. Never.

Rodney would be different. Rodney would be a new person. Rodney wouldn't be afraid of telling people that they were stupid or incompetent or if they were annoying him. Rodney would put himself first, and he certainly wouldn't bury himself so deep that sometimes he forgot that he actually existed under all the problems and needs of his family. And Rodney wouldn't play the piano.

Maybe Rodney would be into sciences instead. Sciences were nice, Meredith reflected. Science and maths used cold, hard facts. One question, one answer, no need to factor in emotional variables and cater to other people's whims. Sciences were nice and comforting, and had probably already begun filling the gap in his life where the joy of music had once been. Sciences made sense, and could bring him the recognition that music never could.

Yes, Meredith decided. Rodney was definitely a change for the better.

Translation Note: "Tu as renter tôt." = "You've returned early."; "Tais-toi!" = "Shut up!"; "Te perdres!" = "Get lost!"

Additional Note: A small modification was made 12.03.13, when it came to my attention that Rodney was 12 when he stopped playing piano, not 14.