A/N: Well, here's a silly little thing I started because my friend and I had a conversation that ended with "I DARE YOU" (I think) and then suddenly modern!AU and? Okay, being honest, I don't actually know anything about piano. Also the playlist to go with this is called Ivory on 8tracks by ghostyyy. Maybe I'll make this multi-chaptered...
She's playing Nocturne in C minor the very first day he sees her. Every note is patient and careful, each keystroke precise. She's leaned over only very slightly, her back a beautiful arch that carries much poise and it looks strange to see it topped off by an off-white hoodie, but little strands of hair, escaping her messy ballerina bun fall in her eyes. Eyes that look through the piano, into nothingness. She's reading music that's invisible to everyone but her.
A man looms over her. Blonde, too. His brow is stern and expression incomprehensible, much like hers. They both look too serious to not be related. Armin can't remember where he was supposed to be going, but Mikasa's calls his name gently and he realizes he's standing outside the piano shop looking like a moron, staring at the girl who is playing Chopin like she's the one who wrote it, and it takes everything in him to pull himself away.
Annie looks up to the storefront windows when the piece is finished, certain that she felt eyes on her. Her father brings the ruler down hard - a sharp, stinging scald to the back of her hand - and she doesn't even wince as she sees a flash of gold disappear from the glass.
Of course he can't help himself. He makes an excuse about errands, or meeting with friends, or something, and his grandfather waves him off as he slides out the door wearing his favourite shirt and shiniest shoes and he books it. He nearly tumbles getting onto his bike, and his palms sweat like crazy and his heart is racing, but he makes it there and parks outside, panting and trembling and she's playing Intermezzo in Eb.
For the first few minutes, he stands there like a fool again, the fibers of his too-old cardigan catching on the clean red bricks of the building. The piano shop is fairly new, the name Gendarmery in scrawling gold cursive and the windows looking resplendent, probably polished every morning. Her playing is beautiful and steady, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when the door opens with the ring of a tiny bell, and a couple exits, smiling as they discuss prices, and the sound of her playing is no longer muffled, only clear and crisp and real. He considers sliding in before the door closes, so he can look at the pianist girl again and her intimidating mentor, but he debates too long in his own head and the door shuts without a sound.
He didn't really plan this out, did he? There's people walking by the shop, minding their own business unlike him, who has twitchy palms and a bad case of warm ears and nervous eyes.
His fingernails drift against the brick. Maybe he'll just go in. Pretend to browse. Listen instead.
He pulls away from the wall and his shoes scuff on the concrete, and he takes one step, and instead is left peering through the window, completely unable to make himself enter the building.
That's okay, though. Her song ends softly, and the world is then too quiet. Armin can't remember the last time he felt so strongly about piano, not since he quit when he was younger out of frustration, but it doesn't mean he never stopped dreaming of the music. Doesn't mean he can't appreciate how beautifully the girl inside plays. He wanders back to the wall, resting his back to it, sighing in defeat.
The bell signals someone exiting again. He wishes she'd play more, but his heart stops in his chest when a powerful figure walks by him, blonde and piercing eyes and a look that could gut your insides with no effort at all. Armin makes momentary eye contact with probably one of the most intimidating-looking men he's ever seen, who looks back at him with an unreadable expression, and then continues on his way.
Armin releases a breath he doesn't realize he was holding.
The door opens for a third time.
"You."
It's the first word he ever hears her say. Her voice is low and austere and pretty - the type of voice you'd hear on a phone sex line if the girl on the line was completely fed up with you. She seems to already be at that point.
Armin realizes he's standing there, gaping at her like a dead fish with his lips parted and his eyes wide, just drinking her in and not saying a word. She's shorter than him! She looks like she could throttle him to death and walk away unscathed, she looks like a million bucks, her fingers are trim and she's lean herself, and her hair is in the same old, simple, careless bun from yesterday that makes her face stand out clearly. She's wearing the same white hoodie, and her nose is so absurdly Roman he feels his eyebrows perk, and her mouth is pursed but light and rosy, her skin is smooth, and finally, finally, Armin Arlert looks into the wary eyes of the girl who plays Chopin and sees nothing but the seas that had been hidden away by God.
His heart is somewhere in his throat when she looks angrier, and repeats, "I'm talking to you." And Armin feels a little sick.
"Hello," he warbles, almost smiling at her, instead looking incredibly alarmed and pleased. "I'm Armin. I'm sorry. You play so beautifully."
She stares blankly at him. Her mouth parts, as if she's going to reply, but she can't seem to - instead, she blinks, completely at a loss for words. The tenseness seems to have gone out of her brow though, at least, so she looks less stern than before.
Armin thinks his ears are hot and awkwardly pats his stringy hair down over them to hide his blush, all while trying to plaster on a convincing smile. "Um, it's nice to meet you. The way you played Nocturne was just... perfect, actually. Chopin can be difficult, too, to catch just right, but you..." Armin can't hide the honesty in his voice, the way he got quiet and said it like he was explaining her music to the angels at the gates. "...You got it."
The pianist stands before him, still and still staring, utterly stunned. But Armin sees her shifting under her skin, the mercurial tendency of her eyes softening and her shoulders relaxing, her fingers drifting into little fists that she presses against her jeans. Her lashes are so long, and the breeze carries some leaves that miss them by inches and gust her loose strands of hair into her face, which she sweeps away, finally looking down at the sidewalk.
"Thank you," she whispers. All of the vitriol in her voice has vanished, though she still feels reserved to Armin. That's completely okay though. Because she's talking to him, and she doesn't seem so bitter anymore. "I'm Annie."
There is overwhelming reverence in his voice as Armin says with the utmost seriousness, "It's nice to meet you, Annie." And holds out his hand, gentle and unthreatening.
Annie looks back up, and she seems flustered underneath her quiet exterior, but she sees his hand and awkwardly reaches out to take it in her own.
That night, when Armin lays in bed with his arms spread and the starlight spilling in past the cracks in the curtains his grandmother made, he remembers in exact detail the softness of her palms; the temperature of her hand; the silent strength of her grip; the merciless current of electricity that ran from where they touched, straight to his chest, simmering.
He wonders, heart still pounding in his ears, if she had felt it, too.
"You can come in, if you'd like," she says after a moment, gazing off into the streets where people are browsing. The location is in the pleasant section of downtown, where the buildings are close and have hanging wooden signs out front, little trees speckle the sidewalks beside benches and cafe tables. The streets are a crisp and dark brick, and the shoppes are all warm and inviting - coffee, pastries, books, boutiques, toys, lunch, dinner, yoga. It's a cool and distinctly autumn day, and people comfortably line the streets, chatty and carefree.
Certainly, it must be too good to be true. But Annie has plucked up the courage to look him in the eye again, if only she knew how it made his insides twist, and he pushes hard on his knuckle til it hurts so he won't blurt out YES.
Instead, Armin says carefully, "Are you sure?" Maybe it could be taken as are you sure I'm allowed to come in? but she seemed sharp so he guessed she'd pick out the real reason (are you sure you want me to?).
She vaguely smiled, said, "Yes." And Armin followed her into Gendarmary.
A lot of memories came back when he stepped in. He couldn't even hear the bell ring, his senses were so overwhelmed by the scent of the fresh, polished wood in glossy ebony and pearl, trimmed with gold or silver or modest red. The benches all looked too new to be comfortable, and in the corner, where the AC ran, pages of musical sheets fluttered gently in the draft.
"My father owns this place," Annie said after a moment, filling the quiet of the empty shop. He instinctually followed her, feet moving automatically while his eyes drank in the room. "My family's owned it for some generations, so I'm supposed to either inherit it or become a real pianist."
That struck Armin from his daze.
"Real pianist?" he parroted. His brow furrowed in confusion. "How do you mean?"
Annie made it to the front counter, where he saw a folded apron in subdued green that she shook open, sliding it in over her head with familiarity. The shop's name was scrawled across in the same golden font as it did on the sign, though faded and cracked with age.
"Professional." She tied the apron cleanly in the back.
"But... you play at a professional level already. Anyone with half their hearing could be able to discern it. You could easily be a concert pianist-!"
"Armin."
Armin halted.
"I appreciate that. But you're wrong. You don't know me, and you don't know piano."
She was right. Armin watched Annie roll her neck, eyes closed like she didn't want anybody to see them rather than the other way around. She tugged her hoodie down comfortably, scooped a few stray hairs out of the back of the apron string, and then tucked her hands protectively into her front pockets. And she was right. Armin suddenly felt very far away from the girl who stood mere feet in front of him, impenetrable glass walls all around her. It followed with a feeling - more so a desire, compulsion - to never have to feel that way again. But he didn't want to break the walls. He didn't want to shatter what she had obviously built for herself carefully and intricately.
No; he wanted her to come out instead.
"I'd like to know," he admitted quietly.
Annie's eyes opened. She looked at him, and maybe it was a moment too soon, because Armin saw the full intensity of the roiling conflict of vulnerability in her eyes. Then it was gone. Vanished, just like that. Annie didn't answer him, just wet her lips and offered a brief half-hearted smile, before turning and heading towards the piano he'd seen her playing at. In the entire room, from his glance-over, it appeared to be the only one with a bench that looked worn and was the most inviting. The keys were less shiny than the others, dulled with her (?) touch, but it was kept clean and in marvelous condition.
"Do you play at all?" she asked, sitting down at it and running a fingertip down the keys.
"Truthfully? Ah... I used to take lessons, but I quit. I wasn't patient enough as a little kid. I still listen, though."
Annie ran her fingers up and down, pressing and playing a few scales with no effort. "That so." It turned into light playing, tapping some notes in succession to make a vague melody. "You don't seem like someone who'd be terribly impatient."
Armin grimaced. "I could memorize the songs well... Just, when it came to playing them, my fingers would fumble a lot. Messing with eighty-eight keys in quick succession was a bit overwhelming as a kid."
Annie's song seemed to grow in complexity, and he wondered if this was her way of mocking him. Her back was straight, but there was the smallest increments of her head nodding in time with the measure.
"A lot of people underestimate the physical tenacity that's required," she commented levelly. "Posture. Hand positioning. Muscle memory training."
"And I'm not really good at that stuff in the first place..."
He thinks he caught her rolling her eyes. Her music is definitely a song, something she slowly transformed - it's oddly familiar, a Satie piece he can't remember the name of. But he doesn't want to say it and be wrong.
The melody is haunting, secretive.
It talks about a mystery, of a thousand spiral staircases and walls of tomes and old paintings that have only seen late afternoon light and candles for centuries.
Someone wandering through the labyrinth, on tiptoes, dust gathering on their heels with every step.
There are cobwebs and echoes, where every corner speaks to you, invites you in -
But the staircases are long and tempting, and you can never bring yourself to stop.
When the song comes to an end, Armin blinks, not realizing he had even spaced out. The daydream had been vividly real, and he had to make real effort to turn his attention back to Annie.
She was tucking hair behind her ear, and her hands were back in her pockets, absentminded.
"That was so good," he breathed out as if he couldn't believe it.
Annie looked away, seemingly holding back a happier reaction. "Thanks. Do you know Satie?"
Satie! Thank the stars. "Yeah, that's who I thought it was. I can't remember the name, though..."
"That was Gnossienne no. 1."
"Ahhh, that's it. Do you like Satie?"
Annie finally let a small smile come through. "Yeah." Was all she said.
For a moment, while their conversation subsided, Armin considered sitting down, too, but didn't think it prudent to sit on her store property. There was the bench she sat on, of course, but... he assumed that was too intimate for their budding acquaintanceship... Relationship? Could he use that word? Armin's heart stumbled for a moment, and there were flashes of sitting on that bench with her, and her smiling without holding back, and the blistering memory of her hand brushing against his skin, and for a split second Armin Arlert thought he might faint.
"You might have to go in a minute."
Annie rose gracefully from the bench, still gazing at the floor. She scuffed the toe of her Converse against the dark green carpet, and didn't make eye contact.
For a moment, panic filled him. Did he say or do something wrong? Was she offended? Had he failed the trial so soon? A voice in his head said no over and over and over, but he knew that if she didn't want him to come back ever again, he would have to respect her decision, because Annie was Annie and screw it if he'd known her for barely a few minutes, it felt like he'd known her from Eden. He knew that she was good, he could see it in every tiny twitch of her mouth and every hue in her eyes.
So Armin said, "Okay. Thank you for inviting me in. I'll..." See you later? He felt his gaze turn crestfallen and looked away, too, because he didn't want to be so obvious. "It was nice meeting you."
And Annie looked up, almost sad. He could only begin to imagine how much time she'd spent perfecting that stoic facade.
"You can come back tomorrow, if you want," she said, chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully. She glanced at the door, and her shoe kept swaying back and forth over the carpet, and Armin felt a weight lift from his shoulders.
"I will," he beamed. "Thank you. Have a good day, Annie!"
The blond girl - the not-real pianist - half-smiled, and waved a little, remaining where she stood as he reluctantly (but filled with new anticipation for the morrow) walked to the door.
"Bye."
The bell jingled. The door closed.