okay, so rumi plays guitar, zoey plays piano and produces, and mira...
well, taking her parents into account, she probably was forced did learn piano as a kid. but due to the nature of it, she strays away from it as soon as she's away from her parents, tells celine she cannot do batshit on any instrument, and celine says that they'll work on that eventually, aka, after making sure mira won't die from a demon attack.
anyway, celine gets really caught up in the demon stuff (destiny comes first!) and maybe, sort of neglects to teach mira directly or sign her up for classes, and mira is by all means perfectly satisfied with that. no piano = no bad memories.
she still remembers the burns on the backs of her hands at every wrong note. she still remembers the red skin tightening around her knuckles, the blinding tears she had to blinkawayblinkawayblink—
so you have mira, the designated dancer, happy as is. she watches zoey and rumi play their respective instruments, notices how it calms them, how looser and more chuffed they feel after. but she could not experience that, no. and that's fine, it's fine. she is good at dancing, so it doesn't matter.
but, it doesn't have to matter. part of her wants to touch the keys again, slide her palm across the whole length of the piano. the other part remembers.
Mira looks up, her trance broken, "What?"
"You're staring," Zoey now turned fully to her, patting the corner of the bench, "You want to learn?"
Tchach, learn. As if the rhapsodies aren't burned into the nerves of her fingers, as if the etudes do not shrill in her nightmares.
"Oh, no, no—I'm good, yeah. Thanks." Mira stood up abruptly, scratching the back of her neck as she looked away from the piano. A blush dusted across her cheek, a small scowling voice echoing from somewhere deep within.
there's a day when zoey and rumi are both occupied by something else. rumi is in the garden, frolicking and watering plants. zoey is hours deep into a book she recently bought.
a force she cannot explain pulls mira to the studio. to the bench. to the piano whose keys are now not teeth ready to bite, just plain plastic, smeared with fingertips. she places her palms on them, slowly, as if waiting for the burn to appear.
she presses the first key, a C#, a note she fell in love with before the pain replaced delight. and it rings in her ears as she holds it, testing its patience, testing her own patience.
her left hand slides farther, pressing down on a chord. it is an anvil pressing on her chest, but she pushes through. she closes her eyes, promising herself she will not look, not peek, that it doesn't matter if she misses a note, if she misses—
the honmoon jitters as she continues to play a slow, but not dragging melody. she's uncertain at first, taking her time to find the notes, getting used to the weight of the keys. on instinct, her foot reaches to push on the pedal, but finds empty space.
a brief look down reminds her that this piano does not have pedals. still, a distant memory comes through and replicates the reverb in her mind and it echoes as if real.
her hands do not burn anymore.
