Work Text:
It was a lovely morning. The sun was passing through the dusty curtains, giving this room a particular charm. The old wooden floor was covered with old sheets, the green sofa was dull, blending into the dried-up brown of the walls.
The plants, once well alive and bright green, were crying for a bit of water. Formerly, there was a chimney welcoming wood, giving heat and warmth. Now, it was just a cold stone covered in ash. The sink, in what appeared to be the kitchen, was throwing up dirty dishes which once served to be a magnificent porcelain table service.
Beyond the abandoned aspect of this unique room that this hut makes up, it was not so dead. At least, not entirely. A cup of tea in his left hand, the other hand along his body, he peered through one of the hut’s only two windows.
His gaze was far away, beyond the flowerbeds bordering the house, beyond the trees planted a few yards away, beyond the river flowing below, beyond what we could comprehend.
A ritual, shall we call this, which has lasted for several weeks, months, years. He does not remember. The notion of time here differs from what we could call normal. A day, a night, a second, an hour, it was all superfluous.
The only thing that let it appear that it was morning was the way the sun’s rays entered the home. The rest, he did not care.
Everything had started well, the installation, the furnishings, the joy, the smiles, the laughs, the good humor, the peaceful times. They were happy.
Happiness, why does it have to be so fleeting?
Happiness was too good to be true.
Disease. Sadness. Despair. The cries. The screams. Denial. The silence. The end.
In the meantime, the piano had become a sort of escape and relief. Music, despite what some say, has always been a means of communication, connection and appeasement between communities. For him, the piano represents the beginning, the continuity, the end, and beyond.
The numerous teacup marks on the top of the piano reflect its frequency of use. It was one of the only things that was still alive in this house.
Sitting on the bench in front of the instrument, he began to gently caress the white keys, then the black ones. With his closed eyes, he reproduced these gestures several times. Time flies, memories come back, tears slip.
The melody began to rise. Light, slowly carrying waves, floating. The weight on his shoulders began to loosen as his fingers played on the keys. Tears continued to flow, spilling out onto the corner of his mouth. Smiling, his eyes closed, playing, he recalled those distant times, when the only least of his worries was knowing the evening meal.
His fingers were playing a melody he had started to compose when the flood hit their lives. He had never managed to finish it since. Perhaps, he wondered, that if he succeeded, it would also mean the end of his memories, the end of his feelings. So he continued to play, to write, to think.
For hours he played. More than usual, more than ever. The sun’s rays were entering the room from a different angle than when he had last looked at the window. He continued to play, not knowing where he was going.
However, after some time, his fever rose. He felt the end near. The end of the day, the end of its composition, the end of its life, he could not say.
Smiling, he was still playing but no more tears fell. He felt at ease.
And then came the silence.
His fingers stopped as he lowered his head, still that same smile hanging on him. This time, he had succeeded. Finally, he was not afraid. On the contrary, he was feeling good. Very good, even.
He finally untied his hands from the piano, letting them rest on his thighs.
Knowing that he was alone at home, he nevertheless felt a look on him. A shiver ran through the back of his neck. Not one of those scary shivers, no, on the contrary. He knew that look. He knew that sensation.He knew that feeling.
He waited a bit before raising his head. Seconds, minutes, hours maybe. Then as he did so, he heard applause.
Finally turning his head to this sound, he saw him.
“Hello, Castiel.”
A last tear left his right eye upon hearing this phrase.
He had succeeded. They were finally reunited.