A piano is a beautiful instrument that can capture the spirit of any song if one is only courageous enough to play, and Taeyong approached it carefully. Before him now, was a beautiful Model AA from Mason & Hamlin – historic Boston design, just over 6ft long, with a gorgeous exotic Brazilian rosewood finish. The moment he laid his eyes on it, he knew how pure it can sing for him. He sat on the leather stool and hovered his hands over the delicate, pearly keys. It would have been a lovely moment, had silverware not obnoxiously clattered in the background.  On second thought, it would have been fine if the entire restaurant wasn’t ogling him; even better if his family wasn’t staring him down. It could have been bearable if he just cared less. How did this happen? Why him? Oh right, because it is him. He sighed. At the very least, he could let his fingers run for him. And so he played.

After uncle Garo impolitely excused himself, Taeyong’s family somehow managed to refocus their attention on him – as always. What had he been doing in school? How as the last ball? Did the president personally congratulate him? They tended to overvalue him, though Taeyong didn’t at all think himself special. He always had to try. Or maybe it was because he never stopped. At one point, someone drew attention to the piano at the centre of the room, and it didn’t take very long before the table started to prod Taeyong into playing.

“You’re quite the prodigy, aren’t you?” Aunt Hyemin exclaimed.

“That’s an understatement, auntie,” Daehyung readily interjected. “One of our libraries is so decorated with his achievements that we started to move the books around! Taeyong here has become one of South Meadows’ top students and if he chooses to pursue music, he will not be short of any opportunity. I can vouch for the numerous offers Taeyong continues to receive from schools all over the world to join them once he graduates.” The family, greatly satisfied, applauded their little gem. Daehyung winked at him, and all the attention made Taeyong blush very badly.

“Why don’t you play something, young one?” his grandfather gently suggested. Taeyong tried not to stutter.

“I couldn’t possibly. I mean, I’m quite out of practice… grandfather.”

“So you haven’t played since you got back from school,” Mikyung cried as she rolled her eyes. “How long has it been? 3 days? Big whop.”

“A week actually.”

“You’re kidding!” The sarcasm in her voice made Taeyong glare at her, but she only laughed. “You know I love you, lil bro. But you really undermine yourself too much.”

“They’re right, sweetie. Your talents are wonderful,” his mother said softly, poking his cheek. “And I’ve missed hearing your music around the house.”

And at that, Taeyong knew he could no longer refuse.

Now his hands danced across the keys, and a whirlwind of sound escaped through his fingers. He was playing Scriabin Sonata No. 3 in F sharp minor in a cruise ship restaurant and really he just wants to die because he’s already made two mistakes and his timing’s off and he can feel the pancakes jumping in his stomach and two of his relatives are world renowned musicians that can probably pick up the off-ness of his left nostril hair. Mistake number three. Once upon a time his music belonged only to him.

He couldn’t wait for the song to end, dizzily tripping between moments of intense focus and losing himself in his thoughts. He was only half present when he played the last note, and his heavy sigh was drowned out by a wave of applause. He thanked the audience as best he could and bowed in all directions. Across the room, to his incredible relief, he could see the gleaming approval of his family – some of them were on their feet (Mikyung was practically jumping). His grandfather nodded and made a motion with his hand, recommending that he play another song. So Taeyong positioned himself ready again.

“You’re playing again?” a voice asked. Taeyong turned his head and saw a boy his age seated at the table closest to him, carrying a curious expression. For a moment Taeyong panicked and thought that the boy was probably asking because of his bad performance, but remembering his expectant relatives, shook his head.

“Was it that bad?” he tried to laugh.

“No, no! You’re amazing...”

“But?”

“But I don’t know…” the boy said shrugging, “You look like you’d rather be somewhere else.” He stared at him blankly and for some reason, Taeyong felt . No one has ever really spoken like that to him before; mostly because they couldn’t tell. Mostly because he was just that good.

The boy’s mother nudged him.

“Sorry,” he apologized while ruffling his red hair, “None of my business. I didn’t mean anything by it. Honest.”

“It’s alright – you’re not wrong.” Taeyong couldn’t believe he just admitted to that.

“But you’re still playing?”

“Yeah,” Taeyong sighed, “I have to.” He dove into his next song, this time battling with himself and Tchaikovsky.

As the heir apparent of South Korea’s most powerful family, Taeyong was fully aware that every get-together was a test of character – a time to parade his achievements, to showcase his potential. Every step, every choice, every movement was for the family. All else was of lesser importance. He needed to be perfect and unstoppable at all times. At 14, he needed to demonstrate himself worthy of inheriting and leading the Lee family into their prosperous future.

You’re still playing, Lee Taeyong?