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It's the first time he's sat down at the piano, since.
He slides in and out of the times when he's playing often, and when he doesn't play at all. It'd been spotty the last year or so, but he'd felt even more averse to the thought of it after watching her playing his piano in Carlisle's thoughts. As though it hadn't been enough she'd blown in taking everything else, from every other member of their family to his bedroom.
She'd decided to take this, too.
Like nothing was sacred. Nothing was his.
She could plow through and just take everything.
It's been a few months. It shouldn't still bother him now.
They are a known, at least as much as anything is this early. He has little reasons to rely on her visions, to believe in the unknown quantity of her. And yet. It was her vision that flipped back and forth, back and forth, back and forth (especially once he could see the changing eventualities in her visions; stealing even his choices from him, giving him only options to chose from, to reject, to fight), when the urge struck him.
When he found his fingertips playing against his leg,
the couch while reading, more than once,
thoughts turning into notes
more than words and images.
He gives in. But it is that.
Giving in. Frustrated surrender.
To the pull. To her options. The cage.
He almost hates how easy it. His fingertips touch the keys, soft, reverent, and then it's gone, it's all gone, and him with it. Everything else leaving his mind except where his fingers moved, and the sound they produced. His eyes closing as he followed a familiar piece.
He slides in and out of the times when he's playing often, and when he doesn't play at all. It'd been spotty the last year or so, but he'd felt even more averse to the thought of it after watching her playing his piano in Carlisle's thoughts. As though it hadn't been enough she'd blown in taking everything else, from every other member of their family to his bedroom.
She'd decided to take this, too.
Like nothing was sacred. Nothing was his.
She could plow through and just take everything.
It's been a few months. It shouldn't still bother him now.
They are a known, at least as much as anything is this early. He has little reasons to rely on her visions, to believe in the unknown quantity of her. And yet. It was her vision that flipped back and forth, back and forth, back and forth (especially once he could see the changing eventualities in her visions; stealing even his choices from him, giving him only options to chose from, to reject, to fight), when the urge struck him.
When he found his fingertips playing against his leg,
the couch while reading, more than once,
thoughts turning into notes
more than words and images.
He gives in. But it is that.
Giving in. Frustrated surrender.
To the pull. To her options. The cage.
He almost hates how easy it. His fingertips touch the keys, soft, reverent, and then it's gone, it's all gone, and him with it. Everything else leaving his mind except where his fingers moved, and the sound they produced. His eyes closing as he followed a familiar piece.
