A/N: Honestly, I'd like to say I know what happened here, but I really don't. It's called 'I was sitting in my room, dabbling with different oneshot ideas and this came out'. And I'm proud to say, I kind of like it. It kind of starts off in an inanimate object POV, but ends up not...so, if it's difficult to read, let me know. Anyway, I'm glad my eight years of piano (I recently quit), finally paid off somewhere. So, like it? Don't? Let me know, reviews make my life.
This oneshot, along with the title, were both inspired by Jack's Mannequin's Hammers & Strings.
Be sure to check out my chapter story, Finish my Sentences, and my collab fic, Thin Lines between Truth and Lies.
Hammers and Strings
The Suzuki stands grandly in the center of the living room, covered in a thin sheet of dust. It's nothing more than a piece of furniture; it's merely a decoration in a room filled with other beauties.
There used to be a time when the piano was played, not just looked at. There used to be a time when old ladies would come in, click their tongues and ask, "Do you play?", and it would always be followed by a confident, "Of course, I do." But that doesn't happen anymore. Old ladies don't come anymore, and the answer, if the question were to be addressed at all, would only be a sullen and pitiful, yet blank stare. There used to be a time when the piano's tunes could liven the entire house, but now it sits in the empty room, only taking up space. It's still splendid, though. It's like nighttime, really. It's ebony like the darkness, and silent like the stillness.
Occasionally he'll walk into the room, stare at it, then let a defeated sigh escape his lips. Occasionally he'll let a small smile dance on the corners of his mouth, before slipping away into his indefinite case of moroseness. Sometimes he'll let his fingers graze the smooth, marble surface―only for a second, though― before jerking away, returning to his empty lifestyle.
If a piano could tell stories, this one would be the greatest story-teller ever. It's seen so much, in fact, it probably has seen it all. It's seen it's fair share of life, laughter, tears, and joy. It's seen fights, anger, and hatred. But most of all, it's seen love. It's seen the inseparable love that holds two people together closer than imaginable. This piano is certainly knowledgeable.
***
He hates the majestic piano that sits in the living room; he hates it more than he's hated his worst enemy. It's beauty, it's royalty, but everything about it brings unwanted memories flooding back to him. The joyous tunes it can play, the swelling music that comes from it, everything angers him. He hates it so much.
On occasion, he'll imagine smashing the piano, he'll imagine his horrified glory as he brings the sledgehammer onto the cold, smooth surface, pounding it's grandness into nothing but bits of debris and remnants of the hammers and strings. But as he pulls the mallet out…nothing. He can't do it. He simply cannot bring himself to ruin his last memory of her. It's impossible.
He doesn't hate the piano, he's come to realize. He hates the person he's become, locked away, unable to face the painful reality. But he can't try anymore; for years he has pretended to be okay, but he's done. There's no pretending, no falseness, just a broken man, crumpled to the point of despair.
***
He has to face his fear, he finally decides, settling onto the padded cushion of the piano bench. He's skittish even before he's opened the lid of the piano, but he knows he has to do it.
His hand trembles, only a little, as he lifts the lid, revealing a perfect, beautiful set of keys. The fifty-three white keys gleam wonderfully, like little, perfectly shining, white teeth. The thirty-five black keys look almost alive, tempting him to touch them.
His fingers gently brush the middle C, playing the note in his head, before finally realizing, startled, that he hasn't touched the key at all. He wants to, so badly, so badly.
"Blair," Chuck says, letting his lips tenderly touch hers.
"Chuck," she mimics, a soft smile playing at the corner of her lips, "Play me something."
And he does. He plays her everything he knows; from Schumann, to Bach, from Mozart, to Beethoven, he lets the fingers fly over the keys, drinking in the basking glow of the beautiful music wafting into the air.
A tear almost forms, as Blair rests her head on the edge of the piano. She murmurs to him drowsily, "Don't stop, Chuck. Please don't stop."
Angrily, he jumps away from the piano, hating it once more. If he had stopped, if only he had stopped, she would've been home before…
He opens the back of the piano, propping it up, gazing longingly at the thin rows of gold strings, and the little padded hammers. He wants to play again, he wants to be able to create the beautiful songs, but it's too damn hard.
He sits back down at the seat, breathing heavily. It's now or never, he thinks, letting his fingers crash onto the keyboard creating a cacophonous clang. All the notes, all the sounds, everything hurts.
Banging his hands heavily onto the keys, slamming them over and over, he lets himself relieve his bottled up pain. Everything he's been holding in for a year, he lets out onto the poor piano keys.
It isn't long before the clangs form melodies, soon morphing into pitiful tunes. Minutes later, they're starting to harmonize, starting to become beautiful again. And he lets himself this time; he lets himself play.
He plays a sorrowful ballad for the day he found out she was gone, he plays a painful piece for the day he attended her funeral. He plays a fast-moving jig for the moments they spent together, he plays a slow, sweet waltz for the moments they spent apart. The notes build, screeching, yet melodious, louder and louder, until the whole room vibrates from the trembling notes.
He won't stop. He'll never stop, he's determined, because it's the one last thing she asked of him. His fingers ache, but it doesn't matter. It's her last wish, and he'll do whatever it takes to fulfill it.
fin.