jeon jΟ
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lovestrippedbare) wrote2021-04-07 07:01 pm
lovestrippedbare) wrote2021-04-07 07:01 pm
Entry tags:
ππ ππ¦πππ₯ππ π
The last time Jungkook had touched the keys of a piano was well over a year ago. Pianos were temperamental instruments, in a way. Even if the strings were perfectly tuned, the music would not come without the right touch; a piano would easily reject anyone who abused its keys, rough and tinny to the ear.
For months, Jungkook had pleaded with the little piano in the back of their classroom, stumbling over chords and measures that were once so familiar. He knew he was pressing all of the correct keys in the right time, in the right order, but there was a certain dissonance to the sound, vibration cutting deep into the jaw. But never once did Jungkook lose patience with the instrument; it wasn't the piano's fault, after all. Day after day, he carefully shut the lid. Week after week, he would wipe away the dust which had settled over the weekend.
In many ways, the piano and Yoongi were one. Inseparable. And so Jungkook felt that he could not leave it, not over the summer, not even when his absences became obvious to the teacher, and the classroom the first place they would search.
He had come on his birthday, the bench creaking slightly under his weight, though he could not bring himself to touch the keys that day. Instead, he waited until the last stream of light failed to stream through the dirty panes of glass.
But the last time was after that, when Jungkook had worn his teacher's patience too thin. The first hit knocked him to the ground. And finally, the second hit landed, as it should have all those months ago. A third, a fourth — just as Jungkook had always suspected, not a single one hurt.
I was right. You shouldn't have protected me. And where are you now?
The last time was over a year ago, and now Jungkook stands in front of a small music store, staring at the silhouette of a piano tucked away in the back. Years ago, they had talked about visiting a shop. Talked about making the rounds to hear each piano's unique tone, talked about finally getting a chance to feel what it was like to press the keys of a grand. How they would be dressed up, but only a touch more than usual — showing their aspirations without getting ahead of themselves.
They never made it.
It's been years, long enough that there are days when Jungkook almost forgets. Days when he wakes up, and all that lies in wait is the monotony of his alarm's buzzing, the ache of his shoulders as he hefts his backpack. But then, his thumb brushes against the band still worn around his pinky finger.
There are days when Jungkook almost forgets, but most days are more of a mix between fear and anger, different shades of grief that all leave Jungkook struggling to breathe. What drove him away from the piano was guilt, but what keeps him from coming back is the growing sense of futility.
He can't visit his father's grave for fear that Yoongi might be waiting there too.
Anger wins today's tug of war when Jungkook's gaze drops, finding a rock by the sidewalk — or maybe it's a piece of concrete from all the construction in the area, Jungkook isn't sure and he doesn't care. All he knows is that the surface is rough, digging against his palm as he picks it up, tossing it a couple of times in the air before throwing all his force into a throw.
The glass cracks, and then it shatters, spilling across the pavement and glittering under the streetlights. (Jungkook remembers — splintered glass, bright green; Taehyung wasn't aiming at the street, not really.)
Eventually, when the tinny alarm doesn't draw any flashing lights or police sirens, Jungkook climbs over the window's ledge. Walks towards the back of the store and lets his hands act for him — gripping the familiar edge of a piano bench, the legs shuddering as they drag against the carpet. Even now, he lifts the lid carefully, exposing polished lengths of black and white; his fingers stop trembling the moment the tips rest against the keys.
This time, when Jungkook pleads with the piano, it answers. Soft and solemn, Jungkook leans in, eyes sliding to a close as he seeks out the melody, plaintive treble keys bright against the reassurance of the bass' rolling chords. PathΓ©tique leads Jungkook with its steady rhythm, serene until it's suddenly not — until it chases after bright optimism, and Jungkook's fingers stumble.
And he can't continue.
It's the first time that he strikes the piano without precision, standing suddenly from the bench as his palm slams down, fingers stretching over the octave, notes clashing into noise.
Regret spills forth immediately, breath punched from Jungkook's lungs as he sits back down, the bench letting out a low groan under his weight.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, sniffing and letting out a slow exhale. "You didn't deserve..."
He tries again from the top, but this playthrough lacks any of the calm from the first, fingers getting ahead of Jungkook's mind, falling into muscle memory. But muscle memory captures so much more than the perfect performances — it also takes every repeated mistake and etches it into the brain, taking it from misstep to flaw.
Jungkook flinches when he hits the wrong key, chord still pressed in his left hand.
For months, Jungkook had pleaded with the little piano in the back of their classroom, stumbling over chords and measures that were once so familiar. He knew he was pressing all of the correct keys in the right time, in the right order, but there was a certain dissonance to the sound, vibration cutting deep into the jaw. But never once did Jungkook lose patience with the instrument; it wasn't the piano's fault, after all. Day after day, he carefully shut the lid. Week after week, he would wipe away the dust which had settled over the weekend.
In many ways, the piano and Yoongi were one. Inseparable. And so Jungkook felt that he could not leave it, not over the summer, not even when his absences became obvious to the teacher, and the classroom the first place they would search.
He had come on his birthday, the bench creaking slightly under his weight, though he could not bring himself to touch the keys that day. Instead, he waited until the last stream of light failed to stream through the dirty panes of glass.
But the last time was after that, when Jungkook had worn his teacher's patience too thin. The first hit knocked him to the ground. And finally, the second hit landed, as it should have all those months ago. A third, a fourth — just as Jungkook had always suspected, not a single one hurt.
I was right. You shouldn't have protected me. And where are you now?
The last time was over a year ago, and now Jungkook stands in front of a small music store, staring at the silhouette of a piano tucked away in the back. Years ago, they had talked about visiting a shop. Talked about making the rounds to hear each piano's unique tone, talked about finally getting a chance to feel what it was like to press the keys of a grand. How they would be dressed up, but only a touch more than usual — showing their aspirations without getting ahead of themselves.
They never made it.
It's been years, long enough that there are days when Jungkook almost forgets. Days when he wakes up, and all that lies in wait is the monotony of his alarm's buzzing, the ache of his shoulders as he hefts his backpack. But then, his thumb brushes against the band still worn around his pinky finger.
There are days when Jungkook almost forgets, but most days are more of a mix between fear and anger, different shades of grief that all leave Jungkook struggling to breathe. What drove him away from the piano was guilt, but what keeps him from coming back is the growing sense of futility.
He can't visit his father's grave for fear that Yoongi might be waiting there too.
Anger wins today's tug of war when Jungkook's gaze drops, finding a rock by the sidewalk — or maybe it's a piece of concrete from all the construction in the area, Jungkook isn't sure and he doesn't care. All he knows is that the surface is rough, digging against his palm as he picks it up, tossing it a couple of times in the air before throwing all his force into a throw.
The glass cracks, and then it shatters, spilling across the pavement and glittering under the streetlights. (Jungkook remembers — splintered glass, bright green; Taehyung wasn't aiming at the street, not really.)
Eventually, when the tinny alarm doesn't draw any flashing lights or police sirens, Jungkook climbs over the window's ledge. Walks towards the back of the store and lets his hands act for him — gripping the familiar edge of a piano bench, the legs shuddering as they drag against the carpet. Even now, he lifts the lid carefully, exposing polished lengths of black and white; his fingers stop trembling the moment the tips rest against the keys.
This time, when Jungkook pleads with the piano, it answers. Soft and solemn, Jungkook leans in, eyes sliding to a close as he seeks out the melody, plaintive treble keys bright against the reassurance of the bass' rolling chords. PathΓ©tique leads Jungkook with its steady rhythm, serene until it's suddenly not — until it chases after bright optimism, and Jungkook's fingers stumble.
And he can't continue.
It's the first time that he strikes the piano without precision, standing suddenly from the bench as his palm slams down, fingers stretching over the octave, notes clashing into noise.
Regret spills forth immediately, breath punched from Jungkook's lungs as he sits back down, the bench letting out a low groan under his weight.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, sniffing and letting out a slow exhale. "You didn't deserve..."
He tries again from the top, but this playthrough lacks any of the calm from the first, fingers getting ahead of Jungkook's mind, falling into muscle memory. But muscle memory captures so much more than the perfect performances — it also takes every repeated mistake and etches it into the brain, taking it from misstep to flaw.
Jungkook flinches when he hits the wrong key, chord still pressed in his left hand.