(no subject)

Even now, after more than a year here and the rocky months that preceded his arrival, S still sometimes finds it strange that he barely plays the piano anymore. There is, of course, a whole ton of baggage that comes along with that, too, but every once in a while, he's simply struck by the oddity of it. For such a long time, it was such a huge part of his life, the thing that helped bring him and his boyfriend together, the path he'd chosen for his future, both his schoolwork and his leisure time largely revolving around it. Now he doesn't even play daily, though he works around instruments. At least he has a good environment in which to do so. Playing at home would be out of the question for numerous reasons, not the least of which is that they don't have and can't afford a piano. At work, he can get it out of his system, so to speak, get some practice in so he doesn't lose all his skill. It's not something he has the same drive to pursue anymore. As much as he misses it, he can't force that feeling back. This is enough — a perfect arrangement, really.

He just has to keep telling himself that.

As is fairly usual, it's quiet near the end of the work day, no customers around. With his coworker in the back, the store is momentarily empty, and that feels worth taking advantage of. Sitting down at one of the display pianos — a beautiful grand, far nicer than anything he ever owned or ever really expected to, he remains still for a moment, just breathing in deep, savoring the familiar feeling of it, his hands resting delicately against the keys and eyes closed. When he opens them again, he begins playing Tchaikovsky, the simple, lilting, bittersweet melody coming from him easily. He means to be paying attention to the store still, but with so little time left until they close up anyway, he isn't expecting anyone to show up. He winds up, then, immersed enough in the music that he doesn't notice when the door opens and someone walks into the store.