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His right hand was injured beyond recognition months before the war came to an end.
Most lads in his units expressed their jealousy or congratulated him on getting away from the crash with such a minor injury, but as soon as the doctor let him unbandage the digits his heart broke. They told him the bones would mend with time and movement, but the skin would remain damaged.
When the other pilots drank themselves to exhaustion or played a game of cards at night, he would remain on his own cot. It pained him, but he kept moving the shaking fingers with difficulty around the identity disc of the lost pilot, hoping one day they would see each other again.
Every night, he prayed that the man he loved would heal along with his hand, perhaps so that one day in the distant future he would play the piano again, to get lost in the melody and the arms of the sea-storm eyed pilot.
- - - - - - - - -
His childhood was surrounded by loving hands and colours. Most adults would carry him with able limbs until his father prohibited it, deeming the act as a way to make him dependent on others. This, however, did not stop his imagination or fascination for adventure, and he kept being the outgoing child for many years.
Father's hands were rough and damaged by the last war, and nearly never touched him except for a slap, accompanied by a glare of disappointment.
Lizzie’s hands were small but strong, a maid that not only worked hard but loved harder. She didn't know how to read, but she did paint the prettiest lands all around his room.
However, his mother's hands were the most beautiful. She had long, tenuous fingers with short nails that were always perfect whenever he watched them. She played the piano in an almost genius manner, making it his favourite object in the house.
The fingers would dance on the black and white keys like ballerinas, swift and angelic. From an early age, Collins would sit on her lap and silently observe as they filled the room with melodies of musicians he didn't know.
Their family piano was a black polished instrument that was placed near the windows, where guests would be amazed by Mrs. Collins’ abilities when dinners were prepared. As a curious but quiet child, he would observe his reflection on the mirror-like surface or simply press his hands against the wood, sitting behind a settee or drawer so that the guests did not notice his presence. The notes would vibrate against his palms and his mind would get lost in the tunes, floating in a faraway ocean of dreams and fantasy.
“Just watch carefully.” she would say, placing his small hands atop of hers.
Sometimes, at night, he would sneak to the sitting room and imitate his mother's movements. Every time he watched her, his mind would copy the dancing fingers, to be repeated during midnight. Lift, pull, move, change, high note, low note, black and white. Once every piece of the puzzle is memorised by digits, they come together intricate to form majestic sounds.
His father never let him play the piano, accusing the art of being a “women's task”. However, his mother only encouraged him to continue the clandestine activity.
Playing was the highlight of his childhood. Living in a street with few kids limited his interaction with youth to school, but the keys and pedals made up for it.
At least until his mother died.
He remembered the morning was the colour of snow, the same colour of her face and hands. The digits were cold, and don't grasp back when he shook her hand. The same day all colours in the house turned to shades of grey. His father's devastated face followed him on the seat of the piano, where he had stared at the keys with such misery.
With one shaking finger, he played a note.
From the edge of his peripheral view, his father twitched, but said nothing. Then he played another. and another. Soon enough a bittersweet, nearly ghastly melody engulfed the house, and his fingers danced madly, beating the keys with an almost violent demanour so unlike the peaceful boy.
When the tune ended, he flinched back and expected another slap from his father, who had stood next to him.
Instead, the man just stared and whispered.
“Claire de Lune.”
He leaned down and planted a kiss on the boy’s head. A thin sheet was placed over the piano to collect dust. A week later, Collins was sent to boarding school and would not see his father till five years later.
And the memory of his mother would fade, but the piano would be locked in a special corner of his heart.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Darling?”
Farrier's hands covered his own and gently brought him back to reality, letting the bittersweet memory fade from his mind. The touch was soft, even when the skin on his fingers were roughend by war. The pilot rested his head on his husband’s shoulder, exhaling softly while gazing at the keys before him.
The piano was different to the one of his childhood- upright and second hand, not nearly as polished, but it made the same melodious tunes that made him dream of the heavens.
He turned his neck, still resting on the other’s shoulder, to meet with Farrier’s eyes. “Yes?”
“You were off there for a moment.”
“Oh, sorry. I was just…” he looked back down on his right hand, where the fingers were still badly crooked and burnt. “Just thinking.”
Farrier nuzzled his nose against his hair. “It'll get better. It just takes time.”
“I know, I know, but I miss the sound. I can't play with one hand only.”
Farrier lifted his hand, only to push it against the piano keys underneath his injured one.
“I know I’m going to be slow and clumsy, but why don’t you teach me? I can be your right hand.” he said.
Collins perked his head, a smile twitching on his lips as the memory came back, but this time filtered with only the sweet voice of his mother. He took Farrier's hand slowly and placed it on top of his own.
“Just watch carefully.”