Ontwikkeling

He had always admired his cousin... idolized him, obsessed over him, even. He had been a constant presence in his life, as much as his mother and more than his father. He knew the elder was in a band--had heard his music. But he always liked the piano more than the synthesizer. The synth took the beautiful, beautiful music it was given and transformed it into songs that seemed mangled when compared to the original. Hating songs produced by a synthesizer meant he disliked most of the music industry's creations, even when he was young--but not his. His remained pure and whole, no matter what instrument had produced the sounds; the soul couldn't be stolen from them, ever, and they tempted him with offers of music that was immortal.

Small wonder, then, when he began to try to recreate the notes he'd hear the keyboardist play. He'd let no one listen, at first, kept accepting help from his idol on trivial things like homework, but he practiced. On his own, he would sit at the old, well-used piano and attempt to become good enough to prove to his cousin he could play. But he could not. Hit these keys, as he would have seen the other do, and hear a most horrible noise come out. He could never have created such a sound, and the young boy didn't want him to hear such a one either.

But one day, he was caught. Hands on the piano, and the one he most wanted to impress in the world saw him, heard him--and the boy was nearly embarrassed enough to cry. What would such a brilliant player think of such horrible playing? But there was no indication of revulsion; there may have been a hint of... pride? The other could not have hated the younger for it--one does not offer to teach one whom is hated.

And so the lessons began. His instructor was patient, as he'd already known, but also cruel. Such an angelic person did not look to be the type who could torture someone so, but the student who was to be his victim learned quickly. When he liked something, did it well, he would be forced to move on; when he wasn't capable he would be left alone for a week or more until somehow--he suspected his mother was keeping watch over his progress-- the teacher would be informed he had passed certain standards, whatever they were. Then, as always, he would be moved on. Not to be misunderstood--he loved the lessons, as he loved the instructor; that both were demanding didn't faze him, young as he was. The lack of praise or encouragement also had no effect--from the genius teacher, the acknowledgment of lessons was more than enough. He couldn't ask for anything more than what he already had. He was the only pupil, and therefore had the full attention of a player who did not teach anyone.

He valued this time more than anything, expected to be shown through the years how to become him, how to play as he did. Thinking such, his mind, so bright, so quick, could not comprehend the words from the elder's mouth, telling him they'd separate, that, short as their lesson time had been, the young one knew as much as could be taught; he would have to learn the rest himself, develop himself into his own player. The shock of comprehension left him blank for several moments even after his mind caught up with him, and he barely managed to run to the prized companion before he climbed into his car. Begging, pleading, all his tears and shouts did nothing to persuade the other to stay, and he felt paralyzed from the loss of the support he had always assumed would be available. The car was gone before he thought to ask if it was only piano instruction he was being denied; surely, surely the other would not abandon him in his everyday life as well. The thought little comfort, the additional pain was very minor when weeks, then months passed, and he did not see him again.

Now, years later, the little boy who was no longer so little pulled himself out of his reverie as he caught his thoughts, caught himself wondering, as he so often had since receiving the first call in years from the man he'd decided never to think of. The call had pulled him back, but also forward. He was dependent again, dependent on business support and money, but the connection was no longer one to be treasured. He was a different person from the little boy who had been taught to play--had that been what he had meant, then, when he'd said they would part and he would develop on his own? If he had not felt so abandoned, so useless at that moment, would he be trying so hard right now to surpass his cousin? Would he have felt the pull of rivalry so strongly? And following on the heels of the last thought was a haunting question. Was their only bond through the piano-- and if so, why did the thought pain him so?

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AN:
Okay, second chapter of my supposed oneshot :P

The first chapter never felt finished to me, but this does help. I think one felt like it needed a sequel because it was one side of the story; now that the other is written, maybe this will leave me alone. Here's to hoping ^_^

Next chapter in Drievuldigheid will be up tomorrow, and thanks for reading! Tell me what you thought, and always feel free to email me!