Pianissimo (soft & gentle)
Charles wonders, sometimes, that Erik does not play a different instrument; flute, perhaps, or trumpet, saxophone. There are many instruments he might play, and yet Erik plays the piano.
There is metal in a piano, of course, but it is not made of metal. The body of the instrument is wood; the keys, ebony and ivory. Or wood, nowadays. Plastic, even, depending on how cheap it is. Metal does not sing to Charles the way it does to Erik, but nevertheless, he imagines that his mutation does not assist him in playing the piano. It may even distract, bits of metal pulling his attention from the wooden whole.
“Why would I want to play something metal?” Erik asks suddenly, hands stilling on the keys, and Charles blinks, looks up, startled out of his reverie.
“Hm?” he says vaguely. “Sorry, what?”
“You’re projecting,” Erik says dryly. “Why didn’t you do your doctorate in mutant abilities or human psychology? You seem fascinated enough by them.”
“I’m fascinated by musical theory, too,” Charles points out. “I’m fascinated by many things, Erik. I am an easily fascinated man.”
“But are you easily impressed?” Erik murmurs, fingers once more running up and down the scales.
“I suppose I might be,” Charles says, because he’s certainly always impressed by Erik. “Why wouldn’t you want to play something metal, anyway?”
“For a start,” Erik says, emphasising his pause with a chord, “it wouldn’t feel like an instrument then, simply a tool.”
This distinction is lost on Charles. “I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate, my friend.”
“When you conduct an orchestra,” Erik says, idle, still absorbed by his playing, “do you listen to their music, or their minds?”
Charles hesitates, thoughtful. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “Both, really.”
“And that is why you don’t understand,” Erik tells him, hands coming to a stop. “Because for you, music and mutation are intertwined. For me, it is the one thing I have outside of my ability. It is beautiful because it is separate.”
Charles is silent, processing.
“You’ve spoken to me before of rage and serenity, and a place in-between,” Erik continues, and starts to play again. Mozart. “Perhaps it would be true to say that if I utilise rage for my power, my playings draws from serenity.”
He says: “My mother taught me to play, you know. When I was young.”
He says: “Would you like to see for yourself?”
And Charles says yes, because there is one thing that fascinates him more than musical theory, more than human psychology and mutant genetics combined, and that is the man seated in front of the piano.