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Levi doesn’t find the inconspicuous piece of folded up post-it until he’s on his way out the door. He steps on it, and it sticks to the bottom of his shoe, something he notes with distaste as he carefully peels it off. He scowls at it, wondering where the offending object could have possibly come from, and then crumples it up in his hand. His fist is hovering over the trash can when he finally pauses, heaving out a sigh before carefully smoothing out the crinkles in the note and unfolding it.
to the pianist—
do you know any top 40?
Levi glares at the piece of paper, rips it in half, and then drops it unceremoniously into the trash. Most of his neighbors have been, well, understanding of his hobby and profession, but sometimes people are still fucking assholes about it.
He doesn’t think about the note until the next time he’s sitting down at his piano, and he stares at the keys for a few moments, mouth set in a grim line. Before he can think too hard about what he’s doing, he stands and opens the doors that lead out onto his balcony—it’s the middle of the day, Levi’s favorite time to practice because most of his neighbors are at their day jobs. There’s no telling if the dick who left the note will even be home.
Levi tells himself he’s doing this to make a point, and no other reason. He starts to play , mouthing along to the words that aren’t there—he’s not a singer, after all. It’s… Fun. More often than not, Levi only practices the most complicated pieces in his repertoire, keeping his fingers nimble and familiar with the chord progressions, tamping down the fear of stumbling over a note in front of a crowd.
This song came from Hanji—well, from knowing Hanji, who is usually the one who bullies him to a piano whenever Levi is in the room with one, no matter where they happen to be. They’ll request song after song, sometimes waiting and heckling as Levi has to google whatever modern cover they’re after. Levi isn’t incredibly familiar with what plays on the radio these days.
There’s a small smile on his face when the final note resonates in the air, and he stares ahead of himself for a moment before he hears something he’s not familiar with during his practice—applause. It’s coming from somewhere outside, and Levi’s body locks up. He’s curious, but in no way curious enough to step out onto his balcony and see where exactly it’s coming from.
He clears his throat, feeling silly, and immediately launches into Liszt. It’s routine, this particular song, the movement muscle memory at this point, but it helps settle the sudden unease that had rolled through him. Levi is a performer, of course, so he’s not unfamiliar with applause and praise for his performances. But it’s one thing entirely when he’s on a stage, or surrounded by a crowd, dressed and mentally prepared for such an occasion.
It’s another entirely in the small box of his apartment, surrounded by his plants and his empty teacup, dressed for comfort rather than keeping up appearances. There is something so foreignly intimate about it that makes him roll from Liszt into Chopin without letting one song end properly, strangely fearful of silence. Will the next one be filled with applause or nothing at all? He’s not used to this particular brand of anxiety lingering in his private, personal space.
But his time is dwindling—he has places to be, a large performance to ready for—and when the final note lingers, Levi waits for it to fade into oblivion, fingers still but poised over the keys, and—
He hears it again. Applause. His eyes widen, because surely he’s been playing for nearly an hour (as he usually does). Had his neighbor really been listening the whole time?
Levi looks towards his balcony, the curiosity compelling him to once again look for his admirer. But he gives a jerky shake of his head instead, closing the doors and securing the lock with finality, before rolling his shoulders and walking away, hoping the shower will wash away the memory of his strange afternoon.
Once more, there’s a note waiting just inside his door as Levi prepares to leave. This time, it’s written on a cocktail napkin, and he picks it up between the tips of his fingers and regards it with a hint of trepidation.
This time, it only says one word.
queen?
He makes a tch sound in the back of his throat, and then deposits that note in the trash as well.
*
Levi practices piano every afternoon like clockwork, but this particular afternoon he hesitates. He keeps glancing at the waste basket in the entryway, even though he’d emptied it, fingers clenching into fists before he shakes them out.
“Stupid,” he mutters to himself, and has taken two steps toward his piano when he makes a detour for the bathroom instead. It’s been two days since he’s cleaned it thoroughly. He might as well do it now.
His fingers itch as he scrubs vigorously along the grout lines, as he scrubs the toilet, as he shines the chrome finishings on the shower and sink until they shine almost unnaturally. No amount of cleaning seems to calm them, although by the time the bathroom is spotless, Levi himself feels more settled, if a little ridiculous. Nothing has kept him from playing the piano since it had become his passion. Not family, not school, not money (although almost that one—almost). Why is he letting some nosy neighbor who leaves unconventional requests under his door get under his skin so fucking much?
Ripping the gloves from his hands, Levi strides to his piano, still in his cleaning apron with his hair pushed back out of his face. He throws open the balcony doors again, letting the mild spring heat settle in, and then sits at his piano with such determination that the keys rattle discordantly at first before he smooths them into music.
He knows exactly two Queen piano covers, and since he hadn’t been entertaining the thought of his mystery requester, he hadn’t bothered trying to learn any others. He only knows them from the time he played at a bar, and the setlist the owner had given him had been a little… Unorthodox. Levi had thought at the time that the job he had been given would have been more aptly done by a jukebox, but he’d been hard up for money and it had been hourly pay and tips. A lot of tips, actually. Levi had expanded his own songbook in the few months he had worked there just because it paid well to be able to turn out whatever song the bar patrons prattled at him.
Levi indulges one cover for his audience, whether or not they are listening, and then finds himself drifting into a few other covers from his bar days. He plays Bon Jovi and Journey and Michael Jackson, and actually mumbles along to Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” with a wry smirk at the corner of his mouth. He’s halfway through it when he hears someone outside singing along, loudly but not awfully, and if he hadn’t been playing piano professionally for years now, his hands would have stumbled. As it were, he finishes the song, and then sits at his piano, staring blankly before him as the applause, once again, trickles in through his window.
He’s not sure how long it’s been since he’s indulged himself on the piano so freely. The only reason he practices daily is to keep his skills finely tuned—some days, he even hates it. Even though he hadn’t started out playing for himself, it had turned into that, despite the fact that the song choices he’d unconsciously made weren’t exactly to his taste. But it had been… Fun. Relaxing. Things that his personal practices haven’t been since the days he scraped by living paycheck to paycheck, playing dives that had him scrubbing himself raw at the end of the night from how filthy they were. Back then, playing piano had been his passion, his livelihood, the thing that kept him playing under the worst of circumstances so long as it meant he was playing.
But now, he’s sought out for performances. Now, there are albums baring his name, and younger, striving pianists posting covers of Levi’s own original songs on YouTube. Now, he plays the piano more because he’s a pianist and that is what’s expected of him.
When had the one thing in the world he loved become such a chore for him?
He’s out on the balcony before the motion fully registers, and he looks around as if his one-person audience might be on one of the neighboring terraces. They’re not, and when Levi leans over the railing and looks up and down, he sees no one.
“Hello?” He calls—boldly, brashly—but the only living creature around is a cat a few stories down, who grooms its paw and pays him no attention.
Annoyed, Levi stalks back into his living room, slamming his balcony doors behind him and scowling, eyes flicking about his apartment when they land on a neon pink post-it folded up by his front door.
How long has it been there?
how about a challenge then — nicki minaj.
The name sounds vaguely familiar to Levi, and he’s pulling out his phone to google before he thinks about it. He’s never been one to turn down a challenge, after all.
*
It goes on that way. Suddenly Levi’s hands know songs by not only Nicki Minaj, but Bruno Mars, Ariana Grande, Taylor Swift, Wiz Khalifa. The next time he’s in some hotel lobby with Hanji and they make one of their requests, he stuns them by knowing the song without having to look it up. Which, of course, leads to them worming the entire story out of him.
Hanji insists the whole situation is romantic. That they haven’t seen Levi this vitalized by playing for years. That Levi’s professional performances have been outstanding as a result, have felt freer and more like the young prodigy who took the classical world by storm nearly a decade ago now. That people have noticed the change, and like it.
So why has Levi never spoken to this neighbor of his? Why has he never tried to get to know the person who has set off the “Renaissance period” of his career?
Levi waves dismissively with his hand, because he has no other answer, but that doesn’t stop him from pondering Hanji’s million-and-one questions.
That night, he sits at his piano bench with no intention of playing, and thinks of the most recent note his, well, muse, Levi supposes, had left him.
play something special to you.
It’s not the first time Levi’s gotten such a request from them. Play something that reminds you of summer, play your favorite song from the 80s, play a piece from your favorite movie.
But this one feels… Bigger. Grips something in his chest and makes his fingers tremble at the thought of playing.
He clasps his hands between his knees, and then stares at his balcony doors. It’s late, but something about the darkness makes him feel bolder. Quietly and carefully, he opens his balcony doors, the night beyond silent, and then sits at his piano. He’ll have a noise complaint waiting for him in the morning, but he doesn’t exactly give a fuck—not then, not ever.
The only thing that makes him pause is the chance that a certain, particular neighbor might not be around to hear, but Levi knows that if he doesn’t do it now, he never will.
He doesn’t play any of his own songs, mostly because he’s not a fan of his own work. Levi started playing the piano because he likes the sound of it, because he likes the way he feels when he plays, but he’s never been a creator. He’s never been a songwriter, or a composer. He’s written his own compositions because there has been the pressure for him to do so, not out of any desire to make something.
His first exposure to classical music hadn’t been until he was 9, and even then, it hadn’t been the piano, but the harp. His mother had a Ludovico Einaudi record that she played until it skipped, and to this day, it is the sound of the last few years of his childhood before she died. When he was 14, he saw another Ludovico Einaudi album in a music store—a different one. He had just run away from his most recent foster home, and he’d stolen it, listening to it in a similarly lifted walkman under the dirty cover of a bridge. It was piano then, not a harp, but it still made Levi think of his mother. It still made him feel ways that modern music never really did.
After that, it had been luck. A final chance, a home with a piano, the songs coming to Levi’s fingers without sheet music. They called it a good ear. They called it a gift. They lamented what Levi could be doing if it hadn’t gone unnoticed for so long, if his “gift” had been harvested and nurtured at a younger age. It was the first home Levi was placed in that he didn’t run away from, if only because the piano kept calling him back.
When he performed his first major concert at 22, he played a Ludovico Einaudi song. It had been a defining moment in his life, and to Levi, it felt like Einaudi’s music had been the marker at every major turning point in his life. That night had been another one. The beginning of what Levi’s life is now.
He remembers the stage, and the nerves, and the way the music had felt flowing through his fingers, and he lets out a shaky breath and starts to play. It’s more emotional than any of the other songs he’s played for his muse, but it’s dark save the one table lamp he left on. No one can see him, least of all the person he’s playing for, and he let’s that darkness shelter him as he plays.
It hurts at the same time that it brings him relief. His heart feels heavy in his chest, growing and pushing out and overall causing him more discomfort than he ever lets it. Hanji is right—they usually are—that his playing has been different. That he’s been different. That it’s been so long since playing has made him feel this way, that he has let it feel this way.
Maybe it’s the pain it causes. Maybe it’s the way it makes him feel so much that he becomes terrified he’s losing control of everything—his life, his dreams, himself. His breathing comes out through gritted teeth, but his hands hold steady as he plays and plays and plays until it feels like he’s ripping himself apart.
But he doesn’t stop.
Levi’s eyes sting as he finishes, but he blinks away the pressure. As moved as he feels by particular piano pieces, he’s never shed tears, and he holds them in now, letting everything out with a few deep breaths instead.
There is no applause in the silence that follows, and the hollow ache Levi feels as a result makes him realize that he was waiting for it. Expecting it, even. He stares into the darkness for a few more seconds, and then a thought strikes him that has him standing so quickly he knocks his piano bench over. He nearly trips over it in the dark as he stumbles towards his front door, wrenching it open just in time to see a man he’s never seen before leaning close to the floor with a folded piece of paper in his hand.
The silence then is the fullest one that Levi has ever known.
“Uh—” the stranger starts, ever eloquent, staring up at Levi with bright eyes and an awkward smile. “Hi.”
Levi’s mouth parts to say something in return, but nothing comes out. What does he say after… Everything? He’s never been good in situations like this. This guy in front of him is a stranger, but isn’t all at the same time. Levi’s muse, neighbor, fan, admirer—he feels like anything but a stranger. After months of this unconventional back and forth they’ve had, it’s hard to feel like Levi doesn’t know him somehow.
He stands, scratching at his neck—it’s pink—and ducking his head, holding out the folded piece of paper.
“I guess I should just give this right to you this time,” he says. He’s young, Levi realizes, eyes brushing over him. Young and open, because Levi can tell how uncomfortable and awkward he is just by looking at the way he holds himself. “Or, er—” he crumples the note up, looking up and catching Levi’s eyes, biting down on his lip. “The note seems a little silly now that we’re talking. Face to face. For the first time.”
It does seem a little silly.
“I-I meant to knock, that first time. The first time I heard you playing, that is. It’s—you’re really talented. I’m sure people tell you that all the time, and I’m not really a piano person myself, but I’ve got to say you’ve convinced me over the last few weeks, and the best part of my day started being those hours I could listen to you play from my balcony and—“
He’s rambling. He’s looking everywhere but at Levi and he’s rambling, and he is so young.
And adorable.
He’s unbelievably adorable.
Levi doesn’t have to say anything to make him realize he’s rambling. He stops on his own, like some sort of mechanism has kicked into gear and reminded him to shut his mouth.
“I’m Eren.” He holds out his hand, the one still holding the note. Thinks better of it, and switches. “I live on the fourth floor.”
Three floors below Levi. He can’t help but wonder how Eren ever heard him play to begin with.
It occurs to Levi, as Eren holds out his hand and waits for Levi to introduce himself, that he doesn’t know who Levi is already. That he wasn’t someone who realized who it was playing piano on the seventh floor, who knew the whole time what they were doing and who they were asking to play for them. Levi could have been a stay-at-home mom with a keyboard, and this kid wouldn’t have known.
Maybe wouldn’t have cared.
Even now, looking right at Levi, there’s no hint of recognition in Eren’s eyes. He’s not a part of the classical music world—which, really, Levi could have guessed, considering his first request had been something top 40—and he doesn’t know who Levi is.
It’s all a little… Refreshing, at the same time that it’s disheartening. It’s a difficult feeling to describe.
“Levi,” he finally replies, studying Eren’s extended hand before giving it a firm, but brief, shake. Eren opens his mouth, to say what, Levi’s not sure, but he’s speaking before his neighbor gets the chance. “Would you like to come in for tea, Eren?”
He has no idea where the invitation comes from.
Maybe from the urge to know this boy who made Levi fall in love with piano all over again.
“Tea?” Eren asks, like he’s not quite sure he heard right.
“Do you not like tea?” His voice is flat, accusing. He can’t help it. Eren seems to realize he’s made some sort of faux pas, and he quickly shakes his head, holding his hands up placatingly.
“No, no, I—tea is good. Tea is great. I would love some tea.” He stares at Levi like he’s not sure what to make of him, and it makes Levi want to snort and say, That makes two of us. Instead, he steps back and holds the door open for Eren. His first step across the threshold is hesitant, and then he pauses to remove his shoes after seeing the rack by the door.
For some reason, it makes Levi breathe a quiet sigh of relief.
He follows Eren in, embarrassingly flicking on some lights before Eren can come to the conclusion that Levi was playing in the dark, and then, to avoid facing his rash decision, he makes a beeline for the kitchen and quietly starts to prepare tea.
“Wow, is this your piano? It’s gorgeous!” Eren gushes from the living room. “I knew you couldn’t be playing on a keyboard, but I didn’t expect—oh my god, do you not use sheet music? Really? What the fuck, man, that’s crazy.” Eren laughs, and the sound is strange in Levi’s apartment. Not in a bad way, but in a decidedly unfamiliar way. “With that last one, I for sure thought—well, I was wrong. I should have known. It was just so—“ a choked off noise that Levi can’t decipher, and he cracks a smile at the tea leaves.
He wonders if he’s unknowingly highlighted another moment in his life with Einaudi, but, as the kettle starts to whistle and Eren pokes his head in the kitchen and asks if he can help, Levi decides it’s a bit too soon to tell.