The sound of piano keys clanged through the apartment. Riven closed the front door behind him and went to put the grocery bag in the kitchen, finding himself thankful that the walls in this building were thick. When he'd left half an hour earlier, Musa had been at her piano trying to write. It was the first time she'd sat at the piano since her father had passed five months earlier. Riven could have cried tears of joy. She'd been so broken after losing her dad that she'd barely sung, much less written or played a single note (apart from one song at his funeral that she'd broken down halfway through and barely been able to carry on). To hear her say I think I want to get some writing done tonight had been like hearing her say I love you for the first time all over again. Absolute bliss.
Now, though, he wasn't so sure. He'd never heard her smash at the keys before and it concerned him.
Torn or balled up pieces of paper littered the floor of the spare room they used as a music room. He kicked a few pieces together as he entered, eyeing his now stone-still girlfriend with concern. Her back was to him, but he could see in the way that her fingers trembled as they brushed over the keys that something was off. "Muse? Everything okay?"
"Mhm" came her response, short and strained. She was trying not to cry. At 18 he never would have figured that out. Hell, at 22 he would have had an inkling but doubted himself into thinking he was imagining it. One breakup, some therapy, and 3 years back together had done them so much good. This time around, they had taken the time to really get to know each other and break down the walls that both of them had built up so tall. Riven was sure he knew every single one of Musa's mannerisms and tones better than his own.
He took a seat on the piano bench, back to the piano, and reached for her hand. It fit perfectly in his – all of her did – and the trembles subsided a bit. He caressed the back of her hand with his thumb, letting silence settle around them as he tried to find the words to lull her into a calmness and get her to open up. Therapy – both individual and as a couple – had done them wonders, but vulnerability was still a weak point for them; that ease and peace needed to be there before either of them spilled their hearts.
"This is so fucking stupid. I'm… I'm so fucking stupid" she whispered, her voice breaking near the end, before he could fully formulate his calming speech. His eyes found their way to her, but she didn't meet them. Her head was down, staring at her feet on the pedals. He could see the tears starting to form in the corner of her eyes, slowly dripping onto her cheeks.
"What?" His question was left unanswered as Musa pulled her hand from his and slammed the piano lid shut. She turned away from him and walked out of the room. He debated letting her go, but his gut told him he should follow. Of the many ways they were alike, their handling of negative emotions was the most similar. Musa would want to wallow in her frustrations in silence until she was ready to talk or move on, so he would sit in silence with her. He would wait hours with her in slow, agonising silence in hopes that his presence gave her some peace to cling onto.
She'd barricaded herself in the master bathroom, the very one that they'd lost the only remaining key to a month earlier. It took him a bit longer than it should have – he was rusty – but he managed to pick his way in. Musa was sitting on the floor against the wall, curled up into herself. Quietly, he sat beside her and waited patiently until she rested her head on his shoulder. He didn't ask what was wrong; didn't push her to talk about it. He'd started far too many accidental fights trying to pull information out of her before she was ready; it had taken years, but he finally learned not to do that.
His cheek found a resting spot against the top of her head, pulling her legs over his so she could curl herself into him. Feeling her nuzzle closer into his neck, silent tears dropping onto his exposed neck and t-shirt collar, he wrapped his arms around her, locking her in his embrace. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the building: the dripping of the bathroom faucet, the footsteps of their upstairs neighbour, the rushing water in the pipes as someone in another apartment flushed the toilet.
"I can't get it" she mumbled into his neck. He might have missed it if it weren't for the feeling of her breath against his skin. He lifted his head and turned it to look at her, prompting her to please keep talking. Her head stayed on his shoulder, eyes looking down at their entangled legs. "I keep trying to write something – anything – but it's shit. The words are wrong, the melody is off, the beat is unnatural. It's like I just can't do it."
The idea that Musa could ever lose her musical ability was ridiculous to him. Music was her raison d'être. It was such an integral part of who she was that separating her from music would be like trying to pry a rusted door open with a single pinky. It just wasn't possible. "I'm sure that's not true."
"No?" she scoffed. "Go look at the crap I wrote and tell me any of it is halfway decent."
"I don't think I'm the best judge for that." On more than one occasion, Riven had peaked over her shoulder while she was writing and told her he liked what she was working on only for her to say that it wasn't turning out as well as she'd hoped and that she might scrap the whole thing. It always made Riven sad to watch her throw out pages she'd worked so hard on. She was so critical of her writing when she didn't need to be; words had always seemed to come easy to her – at least when it came to songs. "It's been a while since you wrote anything, maybe you're just rusty?"
"It's not riding a bike, Riven. You don't just forget how to write a song."
"Then maybe you're overthinking it?"
She glared at him through her eyelashes, so he backed off, opting instead to choose another approach. A foolproof one if his experiences were to be trusted: ask her what she was writing about. Life and enthusiasm coursed through her when she spoke about music, and her love for it became palpable. It was beautiful; he loved watching her come to life. Maybe he could bring that out.
"I was trying to write a love song."
"... A love song?" That wasn't the answer he'd expected. Given her mood these last few months, he had thought she'd be writing something in memory of her father. Or, at the very least, something depressing.
"Stupid, right?" she sniffled as she pushed herself upright and finally met his gaze. Her face was red and splotchy, watery eyes reflecting the bathroom light.
"Not stupid." He wrapped his arm around her neck and kissed her forehead. "Just not what I thought you'd be writing about." Something about the way she looked at him prompted him to start rambling an elaboration– a leftover nervous habit. Apparently, therapy didn't fix everything.
"I don't... I don't want to think about him. Every time I do, I feel like a part of me is missing."
"Muse..." Riven said softly. He repositioned himself closer to her, moving to brush away the tear that had fallen.
"Ridiculous, I know."
"It's not." Musa didn't reply but leaned into the hand he'd left caressing her cheek. He kissed her forehead once again before pulling his hand away and getting to his feet. Tear-flecked and confused blue eyes looked up at him from the bathroom floor, brows above them furrowing in further confusion when he extended his hand to help her up. Musa accepted his hand and followed as he led her out of the bathroom, through their bedroom and back into the music room.
"Riven" she grumbled, trying to pull her hand free to very little success. "I don't - "
"Do you remember when we first started dating – the first time around – and I was in the Alfea music room reading while you wrote?"
"No?"
He remembered the day clearly. It was the first time she'd let him sit with her while she wrote. Her hair was still short then, done up in her signature pigtails. It was the last day on campus, but Musa had wanted to write so instead of going into the city with their friends like they'd planned, they stayed behind. He'd been looking forward to laser tag, but he was much happier to stay behind and have her all to himself anyways. "I was asking you about why you'd taken to music so strongly. You skirted around the answer a bit, giving me the same answers you give everyone: I'm from Melody, I was raised in a musical family, that kind of shit. I wasn't going to push but then you got kind of quiet and you started telling me about how your mom had taught you to play piano, and that you would play together all the time; that after she died, you played to feel close to her."
"You remember that?"
"Of course I do" he shrugged, taking a seat on the piano bench. He tried to pull her down to sit beside him, but she resisted. "Anyways, I know it's not the same, but you and your dad were both writers, right?"
"Yeah."
"So maybe by opening yourself up and writing about him is how you remember him."
"I..."
"It's gonna hurt, I know. And it'll make you sad, I know that too. If you need to cry, I'll be right here to hold you while you do, but I really think you need to let yourself feel it."
Musa's gaze lowered, and she fixated on the bench feet for a few minutes. Finally, she looked up at him with a sad smile, and moved forwards to sit with him. As she opened the piano lid, she glanced at him. "You're gonna sit there the whole time I'm writing?"
"If that's what you want" he assured her, knowing full well that that was exactly what she wanted. Relief washed over him when she smiled – a real, genuine smile, the first in months. It made him so happy to see her smile that he might have cried. He returned her smile, a thought occurring to him. "It might mean supper has to be take out, though."
