Work Text:
(The piano is brand-new and never been touched, the shine still sticks to the sharp edges of the wooden bench.)
Tommy can play the piano, he can yes. He's been learning forever, sitting on the velvet bench almost every day for as long as he can remember, memorizing the notes of Beethoven and the tempos of Schumann, and scribbling down the rhythms of Bach in his theory books.
He'll admit he hated it at first, the notes were always too slow, the added flats in songs tripped him on occasion, and he found himself drifting towards old songs his father likes, as well as theme songs. He learned every theme song he could get his hands on, making his parents almost hate the Gumball theme song, and despise the melody of the Star Wars theme song.
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(The piano is only a bit worn-in now, the bench creaks a bit if you sit on it in a certain place. On top of the piano, there are books and papers stacked everywhere, a pencil is strewn across the keyboard. The wooden bench is a bit less glossy, more worn. )
As he grew up, he drifted away from the crickety-old piano, going from playing it daily, to a few times a week. But old habits die hard, he learns, (should've listened to the teacher.) He finds that, when he starts streams, he unconsciously rolls his wrists down the scale of A-flat major, moving his fingers with the imprints of the flats, up and down the width of his desk. Sometimes he'll tap out different chords on his desk while he is either listening to someone or completely ignoring the game at hand.
Occasionally, when he sits down at the piano, hands ready to play, he ponders if he should switch, considering he could read any instruments sheet music at this point, but decides against it every time.
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(The piano is more worn-in now, the bench creaks in indignation if you sit on it in a certain place. On top of the piano, there are books and papers stacked everywhere, some books are thin, others are twice as big as the others. Multiple pens and pencils are strewn across the instrument, and so are sheet papers. A coke can sits on the little table next to it. )
His parents mildly regret signing him up for playing piano at this point, considering the number of times they've had to drag him off the chair because his hands were getting sore and the notes began getting ever-so slightly repetitive.
It's therapeutic for him, when school gets hard he vents his frustrations onto the keys, swinging through the notes with loud bangs that may or may not have gotten a few complaints from his parents and neighbors. He keeps a notebook he got as a present one year on the old piano, filled to the brim with different combinations of notes he's found go well together.
Some chords have quickly-scrawled lyrics on them, matching the pages with similarly scrawled song titles on them. Flipping through them, "I HAVE WOMAN BITCH" and "where's the stars", do not seem like they would fit side by side on worn paper but Tommy manages to make them seem normal.
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(The piano is worn-in now, the bench creaks in indignation nearly every time you sit on it. On top of the piano, there was an attempt to clear the books off, but that just gave more room for the messiness to spread. There’s the addition of a pencil holder, plenty of erasers, pens, and pencils sitting inside of the plastic cup. An empty coke-can sits on the little table next to it. )
He scrolls through Twitter sometimes, people wonder if he plays the drums, and he smiles, not-disputing the donor's who ask or the chat messages he sees about the instrument. He sees a fanart of him drumming, and he likes it, making the fan theories become wild-fires, all while he peacefully plays the keys sitting down the stairs.
Sometimes he'll be in VC with Fundy and Tubbo, listening to their notes and fingers dance across their keyboards, and haphazardly reminds himself to practice again. His desk is scattered with both music sheets with scribbled lyrics and notes, and other junk he hasn't found the time to throw out. He'll forever remember the moment Tubbo found out he can play the piano, his stomach still hurts from laughing too hard.
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(The piano is old now, about 11 years old at the point, but still working. Old books have been replaced by sheet paper and pencils. The keys seem to almost have dents in them, a sign of worn-out love. The wooden bench fits two on occasion when Wilbur comes to town. It features in a video of Tommy’s, of him playing his new song. The piano has grown up with Tommy and still is, and Tommy doesn’t think he’ll ever let it go.)