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Long, pale fingers skidded over the piano keys with the lightness of a newborn butterfly in spring. Whites and blacks molded together to give life to a sweet, lulling melody. Yoongi’s eyes were closed, but he knew that if he opened them he would see him. Skin shining golden under the bar’s suffused lighting, his eyes challenging the dark ebony of his grand piano; lips so soft that Yoongi could only wish to touch them with the same gentleness he’d caress rose petals.
His fingers slowed their passionate dance, music gently coming to a stop. He exhaled, relaxing his too stiff shoulders. Only a handful of patrons applauded him, the vast majority too taken in their own conversations or drunken monologues to even care about the skinny guy sitting on the short stool, playing piano for a living.
But not him.
Yoongi lifted his head, sight catching that elegant figure dressed so impeccably, always sporting different Italian suits and golden necklaces and bracelets that embellished his slender neck and wrists. He was clapping so fondly, eyes trained on Yoongi with a big, rectangular smile on his face. The pianist bowed his head, cheeks slightly tinted pink – the bar was getting too hot, even if he had already discarded his jacket, only keeping on his slightly unbuttoned white shirt.
Many weeks had passed since Yoongi had first laid eyes on the beautiful man, seemingly so enthusiastic about his music. So much that when the pianist was playing, lids lowered and head bobbing, in his mind the two were alone and Yoongi was playing only for him, melodies trying to reach for the other’s soul. Yoongi certainly couldn’t hope to reach out for him in real life.
Because just like many things in his life, his dream was just that – a bundle of hope, right out of his reach.
A tall, well dressed middle aged man approached the wooden table at which the beautiful boy was sitting. And just like every other night he reached to skim his hand over his shoulders, then his neck, admiring the necklace he was wearing, curving his fingers to caress his cheek before lightly kissing it in a lingering moment. Yoongi stared on as the man sat down on the burgundy, padded seating, reaching out his hand on the table, palm up. The other man reached out to intertwine their fingers together, offering him a slow, soft smile.
Yoongi averted his eyes, heart thudding in his chest and throat closing up. He stretched his arms before resuming with another piece, this time more upbeat, high tones chiming loudly in the recesses of his brain. This time, he didn’t close his eyes, pupils closely following the movements of his knuckles.
Once the song ended on a flat, resounding note, Yoongi knew that if he lifted his head he’d see the two men leaving the table, hand in hand, the older one whispering hotly in the other’s ear. So he preoccupied himself with shuffling his scores, symbols mixing up in his distracted eyes. He settled for a tune he had loved since the very first years he’d been learning to play piano: Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven.
The hunting refrain accompanied him till the end of his shift, up his apartment’s stairs, into his bed, his dreams and right into the following day.
That evening the bar was less crowded than usual, lonely figures hunching over the bar’s counter and tables, resembling grass blades crushed under the merciless, cold hailstorm. Yoongi related to them, his own head bowing under the heavy press of his unrelenting thoughts.
He had been playing Chopin’s Nocturne, the slow, easy tempo of the tune lulling him in a timeless trance, when a soft humming caught his attention. At first he had dismissed the sound, attributing it to his ears playing games on him. However, when he raised his heavy eyes, his breath caught in his lungs, mouth going dry at the sight before him.
The man, the beautiful figure he had been admiring from afar for so long, was leaning so easily over the piano, skin a bronze contrast against the lacquered wood. His black orbs were framed by long eyelashes, fanning over his high cheekbones with the same ease as the rain fell on a summer field.
“I really like this. What song is it?”
Yoongi made the last note tremble under his quivering fingertips.
“… Nocturne. Chopin.” The pianist voice came out in a raspy tremor. The other man had a deep voice, its baritone contrasting with the sweet, young features of his face.
“Your music is beautiful. I’m always cheering you on!” I know, Yoongi thought.
“Thank you…” From up close he could smell the rich cologne he was wearing.
“You think you can play something for me?”
I’m always playing for you.
His name was Taehyung. After that first night, the man would always walk up to Yoongi, smiling at him with that smile that lit up his whole face; he’d compliment him and promptly request a song. Sometimes he asked for classics, like Bach or Mozart, other times he threw in these really strange requests, like Psy or Panic! At The Disco – Yoongi snorted whenever Taehyung asked him for those songs, but conceded him a minute or two of extravagance.
He loved music, Yoongi could tell that much. He could tell from the way his eyelids fluttered shut each time, his smile hiding muted satisfaction behind it. He could tell because he felt the same. He did the same – his hands playing invisible keys even while eating breakfast at his kitchen table, Namjoon eyeing him fondly from the couch.
Taehyung played the saxophone. He was studying at the conservatory, one of the most renowned ones in the city. His parents were apparently against his career choice, highly disapproving of their child’s dream.
“As long as I’m doing what makes me happy, I’m ok.” Taehyung had said one night. “But school fees and taxes are a bummer to pay off alone. Let’s say I manage though” He had added, a smile – it looked strained – on his face.
And suddenly Yoongi knew.
Whenever Taehyung would ask Yoongi to play him something he would wait for the song to finish, before thanking him and making his way towards the same wooden table with the burgundy padded seating. He’d sit down and wait for a couple of minutes before a middle aged man emerged from the entrance of the bar. That one had a well groomed beard on his prominent chin. The one Yoongi had spotted the night before had a mustache. And the one before seemed to like wearing velvet suits.
Despite the many differences between the men, they’d all approach Taehyung in the same way. They’d skid their hands along his arm, reaching out to touch the ever-different jewel tied around his wrist. They’d sit down, offer him expensive drinks and sweets, before heading out again, this time followed by Taehyung.
Yoongi knew, yet he wished he didn’t.
He had just ended his shift, his temples pounding and his back aching. That night Taehyung hadn’t come to the bar – nothing unusual though, something like that had happened other times, in particular around what Yoongi knew were exams periods. He was feeling unusually tired, his hands reaching out to massage his forehead.
“…Are you leaving?”
Yoongi snapped his head up. It was the same deep voice he had gotten to recognize, yet it sounded so broken. Taehyung was not his usual self. He was not wearing an expensive Italian suit, but a simple black button up and jeans. His normally accurately styled hair was shaggy, falling into his eyes and over his ears. And his eyes. They were red and puffy, his eyebrows knitted. Yoongi got up, hands tentatively reaching out to grab his arms. Taehyung seemed to melt against his touch.
“Taehyung…”
“Will you play me one more song?”
Yoongi gazed into his eyes, the pain in them so raw that he felt a surge of anger burning up his throat. Whoever had put such a look on Taehyung’s face deserved to be thrown into scorching lava.
He sat down, cracking his fingers before pressing down his fingers over the keys. Yoongi had no idea what he was playing, his muscle memory taking over and letting another part of his brain deal with what he’d just witnessed.
When he hit the last note, Taehyung had his head in his hands, silent tears plopping against the black surface of the grand piano. Yoongi grabbed him by the shoulders, leading him towards an empty table. They sat down, and the taller man suddenly reached out to twine his hands in Yoongi’s ones. He threw him an uncertain look, but squeezed back when he noticed how tears were still streaking his cheeks.
Taehyung had had enough.
He wanted something more.
Something different.
Something real.
“I am loved.” He explained, fingertips lightly ghosting over Yoongi’s knuckles. He felt a shiver run down his spine, sparking up his nerves. “I feel treasured but at the end of the day I just look at my reflection and I feel… Fake.” Taehyung bit his lips, a sigh escaping him.
He lifted his head up. Yoongi could see his eyes still shining with unshed tears, welling up at the corners.
“I just… I wish I could just – just drop everything. But I can’t. I really want to be happy, Yoongi-hyung.”
Yoongi didn’t know what to say, so he simply limited himself in scooting closer to Taehyung who nuzzled his face in his neck. The pianist never knew his heart could beat like that, dropping low and grave, before raising up, up until it reached his eyes, threatening to make him cry, too.
“You will be happy, Taehyung.” I wish I could make you happy.
The other man smiled against Yoongi’s neck, huffing out a laugh.
“I really hope so.”
Yoongi reached his hand up carefully, cupping the boy’s cheek in it. He raised his head, staring him in the eyes. He was feeling lightheaded.
“I’m sure you will.” He whispered. “I’m sure.”
Taehyung exhaled, his breath ghosting over Yoongi’s lips. He grazed his finger pads under Taehyung’s puffy eyes, drying the last tears, trying to stop them from spilling over in eternity. If only he could do that.
Time was flowing so slowly, sounds muted to Yoongi’s ears outside of the other man’s quiet sighs. Taehyung was still looking him in the eyes, pupils blown and mouth easily falling open. Yoongi inched his face closer, tilting it, when suddenly all he could feel were soft lips against his. He moved his head back then, scanning the other’s face. Taehyung bit his upper lip before passionately kissing Yoongi again, hands grasping at the short hair at the nape of his neck. Yoongi opened his mouth so eagerly for him, letting his tongue caress the insides of it. His fingers grasped at the other’s thighs, giving in to the light pressure.
And like a melody haunting him, Taehyung followed him, up his apartment’s stairs, into his bed, his dreams. But not into the following day. When Yoongi woke up he could still feel the supple skin under his fingers, the high-pitched whines and begged words, the sinuous ways in which he moved, how mellow his voice sounded in the afterglow. He reached out his hand towards the other side of the bed. Cold. Yoongi pressed his face into his pillow, light tones of a rich cologne lingering on it.
He felt cold.
Not even the hot air inside the bar could dispel the frost paving his stomach and his bowels. Taehyung hadn’t turned up that night.
Taehyung hadn’t turned up the following night either.
Yoongi had gotten used to the bitter feeling biting at him whenever the other man wouldn’t show up. After three months, he had to.
Days went by so slowly, melodies sounding so bleak to the pianist’s ears. His fingers didn’t dance anymore on the piano keys, but merely struggled to keep up to the breaking sounds of his soul.
Another night flew by in a whirl of underwhelmed claps and drunken patrons being thrown out because of their antics. As usual Yoongi was reaching the end of his choice song, before a familiar humming caught his attention. And like the shrill sound of enormous masses of ice breaking, he could hear his heart floating away in the sea.
He stopped playing abruptly.
“… Do you think the bar owner’s looking for another musician?”
Yoongi lifted his head up.
“Why would he, when he already has the best pianist in town?”
Taehyung hummed. Then he smiled. “Are you looking for more music in your life then?”
I was looking for you
Yoongi smiled.
“… I may be.”