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He, Sean Doherty, because that is his name, is playing the piano. An aimless tune only his body knows to pass the time. He believes that he comes here often as a relaxation method but from where he doesn't know. He doesn't recognize this as a Roblox instance, but he didn't know he could teleport around Nilspace. The melody takes a lower tone to accompany his train of thought.
In the blank sea, he thinks back.
—
The first time he came here he did not play the massive instrument in front of him. He knows—atleast vaguely—how to play it but he doesn't have the energy for it. Can you blame the man? The labyrinth of torture he's been forced into drained all of his energy.
He turns around just enough to see what the new presence behind him his, and he bristles just as the other is doing.
This man (why can't he say his name? he should know this, him who has been by his side nearly since his birth, even after all this time still sticking to him like the biggest thorn—) is standing still just a few feet behind him. He should know who this is, knows that he is someone Sean used to cherish, but all memories slip off like water when he tries grabbing at them.
Towards this man he feels disgust. Anger as even in his state he knows it's all his fault. Laced with something like a childish pang of hurt underneath. His hands, previously sitting on his lap, shift to the piano’s keys.
The other tenses entirely for a moment before turning away. He faces the piano again, knowing that if he looks back he will not be there anymore. Sean presses the key furthest to the right. A little practice never hurt anybody.
—
The next few times he visits the endless room there is nobody but himself. His movements are robotic—chasing that nostalgia from his teens.
The next visitor is different. A woman of his age if he were still alive, made up of warm memories and desperately needed hugs and shared food and everything in between. He wishes he could say her name. He would speak it to her like a mantra. I'm here, I'm here. I'm with you. It's me.
She stays near him like they're opposite sides of a magnet. They do not make contact with eachother.
She follows every hesitant press of his fingers against the keys, the tip of her foot touching the stool he's settled on. She hums along even if a little off-tune and he briefly wonders if he used to play a similar melody often for her. How much would he had been able to remember about her and tell her if he could just snap out of his stupor?
If only they had more time. If only he hadn't taken that deal. If only.
She presses her hip against his back, her bright pink curls coming into his vision every so often when he turns his head. He continues playing until she leaves.
—
She comes and goes—as so does he—but she has become a constant up until that one fateful day.
Her appearance shifts and with it his head clears. She sits at the side of the piano, seemingly leaning heavily against it and the bright flame coming from her head coats everything in pink. If he had a mouth, he'd be closing and opening it looking for anything to say.
It's not like Sean’s any better—hunched over that same backless stool with his arms by his side like a puppet finally released from its’ strings. He is one, isn't he?
He's always been.
Neither of them say a word or make a move until he does; picking back up the pieces of his body and rearranging them until they work. His fingers lay on those same keys as they have since he's gotten here and he plays.
He likes to think he's gotten better at it, even after years of lack of use. It was just a hobby to him and now it's one of the few things he can really do. How weird.
Rebecca only shifts to look at him, the vague outline of her curls the single denominator to show it.
Rebecca, he mouths, or atleast thinks about the shape of his lips moving to call her. Rebecca, he thinks. Rebecca, the melody responds.
—
She hasn't visited since, and his memories fade away like always. All that's left is that he knows he once knew her like nobody else ever will. He knew every detail of her and the shape of her name and now he doesn't.
He doesn't play anymore, not like he used to before. All he does is touch the keys enough for them to make noise, and even if that could be considered music, it is not to him and it is not his to anybody who knows him.
Aimless.
You should've never come back after all, whispers the piano when he presses his head (the right side atleast because anything and everything will make that damned icon of thorns tighten on his head and it'll leave him screaming again and—) against the hardwood.
Somebody appears on one of his spirals—his head buried in his arms, and it's a bit of a stretch on top of the frame but all he can feel nowadays is pain so it shouldn't even make a difference should it?—but it is none of the previous two, and not the third he's aware of but it is somebody familiar. Someone else he should know and when he closes his eyes and thinks on their presence they are of soft fur and that sound of a pencil scratching a paper and the sound of harsh metal striking against eachother all at the same time.
Sean straightens himself again, watching them—her—out of the corner of his eye stumble toward him like she didn’t expect to see him here. His fingers dance along the keys but never hold down enough to make a noise. Neither of them speak, but he suspects she can’t either.
The woman (yes, he’s sure of this) behind him presses the rightmost key (C8, he thinks.) and he responds with the leftmost. (A1, was it? Wait, no. A0, right? It’s been too long since he’s taken those lessons. He doesn’t care enough to remember all the names, only guided by instinct.) It’s a pretty small stool but he leaves enough room for her to sit by him.
It’s a little awkward having to reach around her to press some of the keys as she seems hesitant on following along, only pressing certain notes after squinting for a good long while after following his rhythm then shrinking back to her seat.
He slows down once he runs out of fuel, finally glancing at the one beside him. She’s clearly blinking tears out of her eyes; arms hugged around her midriff. During their (mostly one-sided) duet, she refused to take her eyes off of him, instead watching him through her periphery. Now, she leans her body weight against him.
Her tin pot clinks against his head before he blinks awake.
—
Sean’s recollection of the past is cut off by ragged breathing. He didn’t realize up until now his hands had stopped, idling on top of the stool.
He probably should’ve known he had a pair of eyes on him; his head is clear enough to remember. What else would it be?
The man behind him with the endless cold and late gamenights and red plaid and feelings left unsaid isn’t paying attention to him yet, though. It takes him another minute of blankly staring upwards to realize he isn’t alone.
He grows on the defense the moment he does while he had expected the outwardly aggresive personality they’ve taken towards eachother, he grows closer—only to back down from something at the last minute and instead stand by him, looking down at the piano.
Now that he’s looking closely, Sean realizes he’s shaking.
Not having anything else to do, he guides himself to the usual positioning of his hands on the piano—only to get interrupted by the other gathering them in both of his. Come back home with me, he begs. He holds their intertwined hands close to his throat, I—We need you back.
They both know that he can’t, but the man keeps on pleading. Releasing himself from the hold, Sean presses a kiss to the back of the other’s hand and pushes him onwards.
While he presses the piano’s keys in a pattern unknown to even himself, the other grips his hair with the untouched hand. The Eclipse is nigh and they’re both well aware. He's clearly reluctant—staying as long as he possibly can, but with a final, violent shiver he lets go.
Looking at Jake one last time with a cheeky squint of his eye, he continues playing until his end. His last piece sounds oddly like that man’s fading footsteps.