The sound of the piano filled the house. The sound reverberated in the nearly empty Sanctum—reaching crevices and corners that had long been neglected by its sole surviving inhabitants. All it had taken was one mention of the song being your favorite for Stephen to play it over and over again. At first, he claimed that the reason the song played over and over again was so that you could feel more at home. But the way each note made the wood floors vibrate before they crawled into your chest and sent shivers down your spine, you could tell he was playing it out of love.
You closed your eyes, and leaned your head back against the sofa, putting the book you had been reading to rest in your lap.
Even though he rarely said it, you knew it was a burning, intense love that sent ripples throughout the ancient house. You could tell from the first time he played it—he guided you into the music room one day and sat you down before he began to play. Your eyes lit up as the first familiar cords met your ears. It may have only been a few days before that you mentioned the song being your favorite, but you were still surprised that he remembered. That he was paying genuine attention to you.
His eyes met yours—a smirk playing on his lips as his hands were guided by memory, rather than the control of the sheet music. He could easily play the song with magic, it was probably playing because of a spell he cast right now, but he had admitted that it felt cathartic to use his hands.
The feeling of something cold against your neck lurched you from your trance. Your eyes flew open and quickly landed on the perpetrator. Your expression shifted from one of surprise to a glare.
“Who else do you think is here?” He cackled.
“It’s my favorite song.” You defended. In reality, it wasn’t the first time you had zoned out while listening to the piano playing—you had had this conversation before.
“I know.” He replied, smiling widely.
He flicked his wrist towards the fireplace, making a purple light illuminate the room. You watched the purple flame flicker, hypnotized by its movement. The bright color danced in his eyes, giving them a certain glint.
You were hardly pulled from your trance when his pale hand reached down and picked up the book you had been reading from your lap. You made no effort to stop him—you knew he wouldn’t make you lose your place.
As abrasive as his movements could be, you became used to them. You knew it was likely due to him not being around other people. Besides, he had never moved with the intent to harm you—never raised his hand to strike you, or grabbed you harshly. He would sometimes guide you where he wanted you to be, but he never pushed or pulled.
You couldn’t quite read his emotion as he returned the book to your lap.
“Tea?” He asks.
“Yes, please.” You looked up at him and saw a glint in his eyes. There was always some new blend of herbs he wanted to try on you. Much of it he didn't want to try himself until he got your seal of approval.
He kept the fire blazing purple, and the piano playing in the other room. He usually played in that room so that he could look out the window—by the time the sun would set, he would be entranced by the music and his movements. He would take merit in the little things again.
Despite being able to conjure the tea out of midair, he went through the theatrics of going to the kitchen. Perhaps it was a newfound motivation in you being here that made him appreciate going through the motions, or perhaps it was that he wanted to give you some sense of being in your normal world. He let the water boil on the stove like he had to rely on the flame. He hand-picked the herbs he was going to be using in defiance of letting magic mix them. He carried the tea out and handed it to you like he couldn’t create a portal or a spell.
In some way, it helped him. It helped him feel like he was alive. It helped him feel like you were real.
“Stephen?” You murmured, your voice pulling him from his thoughts.
“Hmm?” He hummed, looking down at you.
“It’s Christmas.” You stated.
“Really? Is that so?”
You nodded, taking a small sip of your tea.
He stared at you for a moment. “And how do you know that for certain?”
“I remember when I came here. Recently I wanted to keep track of how many days have passed…and now it would be Christmas.”
“Ah, I see…I take it you used to celebrate?”
“You didn’t?”
“I was a surgeon. But I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst thing to start now.” He mused, gesturing to the corner where a Christmas tree sprung out of nowhere, donned with ornaments and lights. Garland lined the walls, pinned there by nothing by Stephen’s sheer will.
“Is that better?” He asked, a smirk playing on his face in place of a genuine smile.
“I suppose.” You murmured, taking another sip of your tea.
He frowned. “What more do you want?”
You looked down. “The tea is good.”
He said your name sternly. You knew he wouldn’t like you bringing it up. He never wanted you to bring it up, yet you also knew he didn’t want you to lie to him. He didn’t lie to you—so you shouldn’t lie to him.
A sigh escaped your lips, and you set your tea down.
“I want you to stop pretending, Stephen.” You said. It came out more harshly than you intended, but if he noticed, he didn’t mention it.
He stared at you blankly—you saw a flash of sadness in his eyes before it turned to anger. It was a frequent emotion these days.
“I’m sick, Stephen.” You reminded him. The music stopped abruptly. “You forgot again?”
Something in his eyes changed. “I don’t forget.”
“Come sit.”
He watched you, hesitantly, uncertain.
“It’s just us here now, Stephen. Come sit.” You said, unsure of why you were trying to persuade him
You saw his hands tremble slightly before he laced them behind his back.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, my dear.”
“Why not? You won’t hurt me. We’ve shared a bed. You kiss me, touch me…”
“You don’t know that for certain.”
“I do. You won’t.” You insisted, reaching out your hand.
He placed his hand in yours hesitantly, allowing you to guide him down toward you.
As soon as he sat down, you leaned up against him, nuzzling your head into the crook of his neck.
“See?" You hummed. “What makes you think you’ll hurt me?”
Stephen inhaled sharply, his gaze trained on something in the distance. “I don’t want to do any more damage. I’m the reason you’re dying in the first place.”
You shook your head, looking up at him. Something tugged at your heartstrings when you saw the look in his eyes change to one of sorrow.
“I tried to fix it, you know.” He whispered, an arm wrapping around you, pulling you closer. “I have tried so many spells…but it always ends with you being gone.”
“I’m not leaving, Stephen.”
“You have tried…in the past. You succeeded a few times.”
You reached up to kiss his cheek, wrapping your arms around his torso.
“Why did you stay?”
Your fingers found his peppered hair.
“Because I love you, Stephen.”
He closed his eyes, his grip on you slightly tightening. His chest rose and fell steadily, though you were close enough to tell that his breath was shaky.
“I—I can’t lose you.”
“You will be okay.” The phrase sounded more like a lie than a reassurance. You know that neither of you believed them for a second. You had seen what this world had done to him—he had seen what he had done to himself in the absence of someone to love—and yet all you could offer was a lie.
Silence hung in the air between you two. You couldn't help but imagine him addressing the lie.
But he didn't. Instead, he asked, “How are you feeling?”
A strained smile played on your lips. “I’m feeling better than most days.”
He nodded. He knew that right now that was the best he could hope for.
It happened a few weeks later. You had grown sicker, weaker as the days went on. Until eventually you couldn’t even get out of bed.
It was hard to see you like this, but it was even harder to leave your side. It was hard to watch you refusing to eat. Refusing to drink. It was hard to listen to your breaths become strained, and your heartbeat slow down. He used magic to keep your pain at bay.
He would’ve given you something to put you out of your misery in a heartbeat. As much as it hurt him, he would have. Right now, your wish was his command, and the last command he ever wished to know.
It happened in his bed, with your head in his lap and his fingers running through your hair. He listened to your heartbeat slow more than it had before, and your breath hitch. As much as it hurt him, he kept his voice steady as he read aloud to you.
Even when you weren't listening anymore, he kept reading to you. He read until the words caught on the back of his throat, and he couldn't pretend anymore. Silently, he let the tears sting his face, refusing to move even though he could be as loud and abrasive as he desired to be now.
No matter what he did, you wouldn't wake up.
You would never wake up again.
The sound of the piano made the decaying house feel emptier than before. The notes flooded into every crevice, every dark space, every unoccupied room. It disrupted the dust settling on unused beds and forgotten books, rotting tables and abandoned relics. Its master commanded it to please the ears of someone who wasn’t listening—it shook the wood in protest, and echoed throughout the Sanctum aimlessly. It searched desperately for its purpose; for a reason to pick up its tempo, only for its master to slow it down—breaking down the tune until it was near impossible to recognize.
There was no sheet music on the piano’s stand—its commander had long memorized the piece, as well as many others. The sound mournfully filled his ears, and he could feel the vibrations against the soles of his feet while his fingers slowly wandered across the keys. The sheet music was in a box somewhere, long forgotten—the cardboard box slowly being eaten away by time while the ink faded. The man playing was playing for the ears of someone who was not listening. Someone who would never listen ever again.