Music Does What Words Cannot
A/N: I should probably add in a little disclaimer: I know absolutely nothing about playing piano. I based this off of the impression I got from the French film Au bout des doigts/In Your Hands (where they played extracts from the Concerto mentioned below). This is kind of a sequel to my previous story "Dinner and Red Ice", but it can be read separately, as they don't have any direct relation to each other (rather, they exist in the same universe). Anyway, forgive my lack of knowledge on piano, and I hope you enjoy the story!
"So you play the piano?" Connor has noticed the practice keyboard on a corner of his room. Markus hasn't touched it since before November, before Carl. He hasn't forgotten it's there — but almost wants to, as if that would take his grief away as well.
It doesn't, but the young man refuses to touch it still.
"I do. Haven't played in a while. What about you, do you play?"
"No. It's been a long time since I've touched an instrument." He gets this faraway look in his eyes that betrays the reminder of old memories he tried to sweep under the rug and failed.
Markus knows the feeling.
"I don't think I've ever heard you play," the young man adds curiously, managing to rid himself of the intruding thoughts and return to their conversation.
"That's because I haven't. Not in a while."
Silence stretches between them, and Connor gets this glint in his eyes as if he knows, as if he understands.
"Maybe you should try it. Maybe it will help."
Or maybe it will make everything worse.
Connor's phone vibrates, and he excuses himself to answer, as it appears to be his father calling. (Oh, the irony of the situation is crystal clear.)
Markus is left alone with his thoughts.
He eyes the piano with a sudden temptation he hasn't felt since the summer, even though it's only a keyboard and not Carl's grand piano. Without realising it, he's already moving to sit in front of it, hands finding their place on the keys instinctively. He toys with some notes at first, getting used to the feel and sound of it all over again. And once he's done that, he starts playing.
Grief is a hard thing to express with words or images, so he does it through music instead. The initial sombre notes of the first movement of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto n°2 call to him, even though he hasn't played in a long time, and this particular concerto is complicated and requires something of an expert hand.
But Markus doesn't care.
He doesn't care that he's making mistakes, that his hands start to ache the longer he plays, that he's not alone in the apartment.
He thinks of Carl — of his father — and of his grief, still too fresh, still too recent. He thinks of them and plays.
He reaches the last few notes, and after the last piece, his hands give out. He hasn't played in far too long, and this particular concerto isn't easy.
But he does it anyway.
Only when the music dies down does he realise he's been crying. He's left exhausted — emotionally more than physically — and he wants nothing more than to curl up in his be and lie there for hours until the sun goes down.
He leaves his room instead.
Connor has made him a cup of tea — his favourite — and, despite his exhaustion, Markus almost cries right there. Instead, he pulls the young man into a hug. He hesitates at first, but slowly returns the embrace, once he realises how much the other needs it.
No words are spoken, and that is enough.
After all, not everything can be expressed through words.