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The piano feels soft against Jumin’s fingertips. It moves fluidly, shaping the notes that encase the room and creep into his ears—leaving a sweet tone to ring. Yet, he’s out of practice. He pauses over some of the keys before deciding that yes, this is correct. He never lets out a sour note—he’s sure of that—but perhaps the pace is slower. It’s so rare he gets a moment to play these days, though. He’ll take slow if it means he gets it at all.
He lets a chord ring, feels it deep within the piano. Impressionist. A never resolving chord. An echo that is never returned.
Between the ringing, he hears soft footsteps against the cold tile. He knows the sound of her, knows the way she walks on the balls of her feet—he knows she tries to be quiet on her feet. And he knows she hates the tile, hates the chill it leaves in the morning. One day, he’ll change it to wood, he only needs her preference to put the decision through.
“It’s late,” She says, her voice carrying with the chord. He lifts his fingers off of the keys to hear the lilt of her voice better. “I have wine, if you’d like.”
He turns to see her standing in the doorway, two glasses of red wine in her hands. Silk loungewear drapes comfortably around her—a set that he’d bought her—and he watches as she moves closer to the piano, setting their glasses on the table that lays beside the grand. The glasses are surrounded by green plants that she’d put there, insisting that, for once, he could make his home feel a little more alive.
It should be as lively as you are, she’d said to him, placing a plant with draping vines onto the table. He’d thought to chuckle at her, thought to tell her no, I’d rather have your liveliness decorate my home, but he never did. He’s never been one to protest her wishes.
“What kind?” He asks, grabbing his glass off of the table to raise it to his nose.
“The 1982 Cabernet,” She answers, “I hope it’s alright with you?”
“It’s perfect,” He replies without another thought. He takes a sip of the wine and then places it back to the table next to hers. His fingers hover over the keys of the piano once more, but he stops, placing his hands into his lap instead and turning to look at her.
“No,” She says, “Please, keep playing. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you.”
He nods at her and lets his fingers settle onto the keys. He plays quietly, careful to never allow the chords to speak over her should she wish to talk once more. Instead, the familiar tune acts as score, only meant to be heard by the ears paying closest attention, but the feeling known by anyone who dare listen.
“I’ve missed hearing you play,” She begins. He glances away from the keys to see her holding her glass close to herself, raising it delicately to her lips. The wine stains the very inside of her lips, creating a fade into a rich ruby. It’s a familiar sight to him, but he always finds himself staring.
“I’ve missed playing,” He replies. He glances between her and the keys, careful to miss neither a note nor any piece of her. He wishes to play this perfectly for her, but he certainly wishes to not miss any aspect of her expression, either.
“I’ve always been a bit scared of playing the piano.”
His fingers still on the keys, a third still rings through the strings. He turns to her, fully this time.
“And why might that be?” He asks. A rosy blush dusts her cheeks and peeks at her ears. He tilts his head and smiles at the sight—or rather the art piece that stands in front of him. He can hardly reduce her to only a sight, who is he to call her that? A perfection in composition stands before him, he should only name her as such.
“Well, what if I create an awful noise or a foul chord? Or my hands aren’t fast enough for the piece?”
“That’s the fault of the teacher, my love, never the student.” A smile curls onto her face as the term of endearment escapes him. She doesn’t move nor speak, so he reaches a hand out to her. She quirks an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t waver, so she sets her glass back down and takes his hand, allowing him to guide her to the lower side of the piano.
She sits with him on the bench and he places her fingers onto the keys. He tells her which ones to play, and tells her when to play them. It’s awkward, the entirety of the song taking place in a higher key so she has to reach over near him, but he hardly minds.
He plays his part, the more complicated one, slowly. She’s never been one to not know music, enthralled by any piece from the moment she hears it, so she picks up on rhythms and patterns with ease—knowing them entirely by her own ear.
So he loses the need to tell her when to switch chords, and while they still play slowly, letting each note ring out for longer than the composer may have ever intended, it’s a lovely feeling. It’s a work of them together and it makes a smile break onto her face. Her head leans onto his shoulder as they play and it’s so natural, all of it.
He wishes to melt into the sound of her soul under her touch. He wishes to feel her fingers as the keys do—a soft and timid press into him until it consumes him. He wishes to become the sound she creates, be nothing more than the air that floats around her—to become her breath and her voice.
Jumin stops playing. He lifts his fingers from the keys, while her chord continues to flow about the room, vibrating through the piano and into his bones and blood. He doesn’t dare say a word, afraid to break the delicacy of the room, of the sound, of her.
Instead, he reaches out, taking timid fingers into timid hands. Her skin is soft against his, her hands cold.
“Did I play a wrong note?” She asks, her voice sweet as it travels through a now music-less room. She is the only sound that exists in this moment now, and he still wants to become nothing more than a product of her. Whatever she may wish him to be.
“No,” He answers, “No, you were perfect.” His eyes climb from her hands to her eyes. She’s watching him carefully, curiosity written onto her face as he holds her. She still has the stain on her lips, though her blush has long since disappeared.
In his life, there will perhaps never be another day where he does not wish to see her, lips faded into rubies, silk loungewear hanging off of her. There will never be another day in which he does not think of her as the only evidence of true life, love, and inspiration he has ever seen. She is the beginning and the end, she is the rain and the winter sun and the sound of piano keys in a room of cold tile on a late night in autumn.
He doesn’t have to consider it, he doesn’t have to think on it at all. He knows that this is what he wants. What he’ll forever want. He raises her hand, he twines her fingers and his, untwines them, lets himself feel the give and pull of her.
With one motion, he bows his head to her and presses his lips to the base of her ring finger.
A promise.
Any wish she could ask for, any item she could need, he would give to her. He will be the home for her rain, for her life, for her oceans, for her love. He will kiss ruby stained lips and taste vintage reds that have drenched her skin.
A joyous laugh falls past her lips. Effortless, breathy.
“What was that for?” She asks.
“Nothing, my love,” He answers, “You’ll know in due time.”
Then, without knowing its meaning, without knowing his thoughts, she takes his hand to her lips. There, she presses them to his own ring finger—right at the base, his left hand coated in the tingling euphoria of her touch.
Then she turns, letting go of his hand to return to her chords. When he doesn’t place his hands onto his keys, she turns to him.
“Well?” She prompts, “Do you plan to join me? It’s hardly Clair de Lune without the melody.”
He laughs then, shaking and bowing his head to her.
“No, it isn’t.” He hums then, “Good to feel needed.” She knocks her shoulder into his before he settles his hands onto the keys. With laughter, he presses the pads of his fingers into the chord.
And slowly, their score begins to form again. Yet the scene is still the same. An illustration of love, unwavering, not threatened by moonlight nor time. A shoulder pressed into a shoulder, fingers that know the touch of the other.
A promise for the future that lays in the sound of impressionism and the scent of wine.