There was nothing exceptional about it. He didn't feel like playing. He smirked; the only smile he knew. A scowl. The only response he knew.
The next day was the same. He was asked. He declined. He knew he was pushing it now; sooner or later he'd play. He'd have to play.
That was how that day started. He had pulled off the act long enough. Now he stood reluctantly before the instrument; wishing everyone would disappear. His scarlet eyes took in the closed lid. He slid it back slowly, as if it were a heavy burden. Softly it obeyed, slipping back its wooden lip into a hollow slice; exposing a sea of ebony and ivory keys. He reached for the bench, allowing it to slide the dust back as its felt-padded feet cleared the floor. Then he sat down.
Spite washed him over. His will revolted against pressing his fingers into the white and black rows. He felt hot and horrible under his suit; it exposed his soul to the world. What he was, how he saw himself. He hated it.
His foot finally found the pedals; his hands ached as they were brought over the cursed line of keys. Then he played.
Invisible sheet music subconsciously guided his mind and soul and fingers. The keys were played softly, loudly, strangely, chaotically, emotionally. He suddenly forgot that he hated playing for people. He was playing.
Suddenly, he didn't feel Them around himself anymore. He remembered They had been gone a long time. His mind, for a moment, let go of the hatred that still kept Them burning in his soul. He only knew himself, and one other.
There was only one today. He didn't know her, had only glimpsed her. Blonde hair, emerald eyes. That's all he remembered.
His song continued; dark and strange. His identity imprinted in every note, he exposed himself in a spinning riddle of a song. It ended just as his heart slowed and his soul calmed.
He turned around, smiling; a smile he hadn't used. A smile he almost didn't know.
"This is me."
The girl smiled back.