A soft melody echoes throughout as deep brown eyes flutter closed, melancholic whispers gently speaking to the man as he leans back in his chair, allowing the melodies to overtake him, take him away to his own world, a kingdom of wonder and imagination in which he is the ruler, the god, the sole inhabitant. He feels every note within him, reaching into his very soul, the remnants of his grandeur, speaking to every fibre of his being. Every sound calls for him, beckons him, pulls him a little closer to an understanding of himself, of the world which turned such an oddity of an existence towards him, such skills and genius overshadowed by such plagues of hatred and uncertainty. His hands trace each movement of the piece, slender fingers moving as though he were playing it himself, feeling each beat as fury and melancholy float away from him, each worry slipping through his unwilling grasp with each tender press of the key. Soft hums waft through the air as his voice, too, follows each sound. Alone in the chair, the only sound him and his musical treasures, he seems at peace, mind laying in eternal bliss as his soul is lost to the sound, yet, as the piece draws to a close and his mind is lured back to silence, he is nudged into his wordless despair once again.

The soft sounds of his pieces float away from him, replaced by the distant traffic of Monday morning’s Paris, and his own deep breaths as he clings to the remnants of his composure as it melts into the silence.

He needs a smoke. With the absence of inspiration, the loneliness of his sprawling dwelling, he feels his mind swallowed by craving as he eyes the pack of cigarettes lying dormant upon the coffee table. Shaking hands reach for them, grasping the lighter along with the pack, before he lights a lone cigarette, dragging it to his lips with long, laboured breaths as smoke billows from his mouth.

Moments elapse, fading away into the past as the distant din of the Parisian streets slips from his conscious mind, dwindling to a faint hum as his woes melt into the clouds of tobacco.

“How classy,” he muses, twirling the death stick in his hand. “Park Chanyeol, child genius and internationally renowned pianist, smokes his troubles away like a teenage misfit.”

A deep chuckle escapes him, laced with bitter amusement as the smooth sounds fade into the distant hum of his surroundings, disintegrating until nothing remains but the smoke of his cigarette and his small smirk as he regards the cigarette with humoured disgust.

His deep brown eyes catch the pristine wood of his grand piano. He feels his gaze rest upon the instrument by the window, sun casting shimmering rays of sunlight upon the polished wood, mind raging internal war from the safehouse of his seat as he debates whether or not to approach it.

In times long elapsed, lost beneath waves of inspiration, the man and his instrument, christened Bertie as a near overdose of whiskey seized all rational thought, were inseparable. Hours, days would elapse, distant lives, untold tales passing by beneath his window, as he sat at his piano, stuck in a permanent cycle of playing, writing, playing, writing, mind never straying from his music, which would overtake him, swallow him whole, whenever her stepped foot near the piano. Yet today, as smoke wafts through the morning's air, the bitter remnants of his woes, the sorrows which cling to his heart with such relentless desperation as his troubles slip away from him with each drag of the cigarette, the piano fades, fragmenting what was once his pride, his life source, into nothing more than a decoration. 

A deep chuckle rings through the air, tone laced with raspiness as the toxic fumes invade his laden lungs. As the billowing smoke fades, clearing the air of its blissful ignorance to foregoing as the cigarette falls from his shaking grasp, the fumes which filled his soul of emptiness for a moment of glory and bliss ing his heart back into the prison of nothingness which swallowed him whole, he feels himself falling, his soul of peace and nonchalance slipping from his desperate grasp. And so, as the distant hum of morning’s Paris returns to the forefront of his mind, coughing engines and snippets of conversation clouding him, he slumps back in his armchair, closing his eyes as he waits for a new song to begin, to gently nudge him into the peace he so craves.

Until it doesn’t. Until the only sound wafting through the air, his only comfort, only consolation, is silence, in all its bitter glory.

“If Fantasie Impromptu does not begin in the next ten seconds, someone will die,” he decides, words laced with a hint of humour and not-so-empty threat.

As seconds elapse, moments passing by him, melting into minutes spent in silence, he stares at the moody CD Player, his mind somewhere between willing and threatening the machine into cooperating with the grumpy virtuoso.

A raspy sigh of disappointment elicits from between his chapped lips as silence takes a hold of his dwelling of lonely nights, windows pierced by sunlight as days elapse within the cruel confines of nothingness as people come and go among the cobbled streets beneath his window. A sudden wind hounds the space, bitter gusts swallowing the cool morning’s air with its violent calls as Chanyeol sits in indignant silence, slight blowing of his dark hair the only effect of the wind’s spell. He runs a veiny hand through the hairs, glowering eyes casting a glare as the gentle browns morph into pools of rage.

The breaths of winds cease as the clock strikes midday, melodic chimes of the nearby church echoing within his sullen mind. A shaking hand reaches for the coffee table, where a book lays dormant upon the polished wood, weeks spent gathering dust evident in the murky cover and fading spine. Another sigh escapes him as he draws open the book at the marked page, to discover the charming dalliance of an English peasant working in Southern France among times long elapsed. He seems to have abandoned the hurried reading upon the end of her relationship with a young prince, who, Chanyeol is entirely unashamed to admit, seems, based on the somewhat lacking description offered by the author, the finest man ever to have paid his sour mind a visit. He scoffs as the peasant breaks down, mind stuck in the between two realms, that of disgust and of disbelief, at the thought of himself reading romance novels.

Shoving the book to the back of the shelf, eyes rife with hatred for the damned thing, he returns to his chair, slumping back in disappointment as the realisation dawns on him that the player is well and truly broken. His eyes catch the piano once again, eyebrows furrowed as his mind draws the bitter conclusion that, should the fallen virtuoso wish to hear Fantasie Impromptu, he shall have to play it himself.

“Who the am I, Arthur Rubinstein?” He mutters.

Evidently, it’s been a while since he dared attempt a Chopin piece; despite his renowned technique, skilled as passion burns within his beating heart with each note, he doubts his ability to play Chopin with the musicality required to tackle such a great; in fact, he doubts anyone’s ability to do such a thing. Except, perhaps, for Arthur Rubinstein, and the composer himself.

He forgot how uncomfortable the piano stool was. Despite the padding, which he believes could barely be called padding, as he takes a seat, memories of hours riddled with pain spent hunched over polished keys come back to him in sudden waves as he feels something within him awake, come alive after years of hibernation. Slender fingers reach for keys coated in dust, a sudden melody pumping through his veins, fingers pressing each key with forgotten skill as his mind melts into the sound. His eyes close, mind adrift with the achingly familiar feeling of playing, of losing himself in the feeling, the sound of each key being woven together like a puzzle of greatness. Moments elapse before the tune even dawns on him and he realizes what he’s playing. Fantasie Impromptu, the subject of his rage and of his greatest desires. As the tune of chaos fades into something softer, gentle, like the passing of an eternal storm, he feels a forgotten smile wash over him, peace blossoming within his mind, the tranquility he once knew so well returning to him as the melody reigns over the looming silence. As the tune rises once again, the dawn of a new storm, he feels himself caught in it, entangled in each hurried note, trapped in a cage of song as revived passions burns within his beating heart.

As the song concludes, the pianist collapsing into himself, he feels yet another smile dancing across his lips as his melodies echo within him. The sounds of Paris, which had been washed away with the song, return to him, yet the tangled chatter, distant music and soft chirping of birds don’t seem so far away. For once, he feels a sense of belonging, the looming gate between himself and his surroundings torn down with his feat. A chuckle escapes him, strange world seeming so familiar as he feels his soul reborn among scattered song.

Park Chanyeol, child prodigy, the legend that never was, returns above cobbled streets, on a chilly Monday morning in Paris. As new melodies drift into his mind, his fingers grasp papers and a pen, melodies pouring from the pen as the word “Sonata” is scratched into the top.

A genius reborn, as the morning fades into inspiration