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Fallen London: Some sort of title, whatever
yaaaay more Shai. also I'm borrowing my friend's OC. Shai and Ari are kinda dating but I don't think they've quite realized it yet, so mostly they drink coffee and booze and have inappropriate conversations in public.
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It's supposed to be music. It used to be music, years ago when your hands were your own. You weren't amazing at it, but still, you were at least good. You were. But now? Even with your more flexible set of hands, your fingers keep tripping over the keys.
You bungle the first few measures of the same song for the fourth time, and you switch to a new one so you can repeat the process. Your thoughts skirt four songs ahead for a moment, wryly getting a jump on how many times you know you're likely to botch it again tonight.
You didn't hear Ari enter, but you spot them from the corner of one eye when they come to stand in the doorway. And part of you sort of wants to stop--slam your hands on the keys, laugh, pretend it's on purpose--but you carry on for a few measures longer, until you're too fed to bother anymore. At least for tonight. You won't say you're glaring at the keys, but your weight leans heavy on your hands, and if you could crack the ivory with sheer willpower you can't say you would protest.
They sidle over, not a care in the world, and drop down beside you on the bench. For a few seconds, neither of you says anything.
Slowly, they look down at your hands, their eyebrows rising.
"You're going to crack the ivory," they inform you eventually, so very helpful. You relax your elbows and your hands go slack against the edge of the keys.
This used to be easy. But no, it wasn't, it's 88 keys and being off by one could ruin a song.
I used to be good at this. But you used to be able to sew, too. Objectively speaking, you should probably be more fussed about losing the more practical skill.
This shouldn't be so hard. But that's just whining, isn't it? When it comes right down to it, some pretty music isn't all that important.
In the end, you can't quite find the words to put to your frustration, so you don't bother.
Ari prods one key, and the note reverberates long after their hand falls back to their side. Their silence is...thoughtful? Mostly it's making you sort of wary, and you tap two claws against the edge of the keys.
"Teach me how to play something."
You shoot them a sidelong, incredulous look, and abruptly you can't help but to wonder if they need their hearing checked. Or perhaps they're simply making fun of you. You turn that idea over for a split second before discarding it.
"What?" they protest mildly, leaning closer to your shoulder. "You know how." You're looking at the keys again, but you can practically feel the expectant look they're giving you.
Slowly, you sigh. You roll your shoulders, and then your wrists. You curl your fingers over the keys again. "First of all," you sigh, "you need to hold your hands properly." You can manage the basics. You can still do that, at least.
00000000
It's supposed to be music. It used to be music, years ago when your hands were your own. You weren't amazing at it, but still, you were at least good. You were. But now? Even with your more flexible set of hands, your fingers keep tripping over the keys.
You bungle the first few measures of the same song for the fourth time, and you switch to a new one so you can repeat the process. Your thoughts skirt four songs ahead for a moment, wryly getting a jump on how many times you know you're likely to botch it again tonight.
You didn't hear Ari enter, but you spot them from the corner of one eye when they come to stand in the doorway. And part of you sort of wants to stop--slam your hands on the keys, laugh, pretend it's on purpose--but you carry on for a few measures longer, until you're too fed to bother anymore. At least for tonight. You won't say you're glaring at the keys, but your weight leans heavy on your hands, and if you could crack the ivory with sheer willpower you can't say you would protest.
They sidle over, not a care in the world, and drop down beside you on the bench. For a few seconds, neither of you says anything.
Slowly, they look down at your hands, their eyebrows rising.
"You're going to crack the ivory," they inform you eventually, so very helpful. You relax your elbows and your hands go slack against the edge of the keys.
This used to be easy. But no, it wasn't, it's 88 keys and being off by one could ruin a song.
I used to be good at this. But you used to be able to sew, too. Objectively speaking, you should probably be more fussed about losing the more practical skill.
This shouldn't be so hard. But that's just whining, isn't it? When it comes right down to it, some pretty music isn't all that important.
In the end, you can't quite find the words to put to your frustration, so you don't bother.
Ari prods one key, and the note reverberates long after their hand falls back to their side. Their silence is...thoughtful? Mostly it's making you sort of wary, and you tap two claws against the edge of the keys.
"Teach me how to play something."
You shoot them a sidelong, incredulous look, and abruptly you can't help but to wonder if they need their hearing checked. Or perhaps they're simply making fun of you. You turn that idea over for a split second before discarding it.
"What?" they protest mildly, leaning closer to your shoulder. "You know how." You're looking at the keys again, but you can practically feel the expectant look they're giving you.
Slowly, you sigh. You roll your shoulders, and then your wrists. You curl your fingers over the keys again. "First of all," you sigh, "you need to hold your hands properly." You can manage the basics. You can still do that, at least.