The Pianist

Frustration

You smashed your fingers down on the keys, grunting in irritation.

This was the twenty-seventh time you attempted to play this line, so why couldn't you get it right? You sighed and laid your head atop the piano.

It had been over a month since you started classes at the École des Beaux Arts de Paris, and things hadn't gotten any easier.

The second day of class with Min Yoongi was, if possible, worse than the first. You had made sure to get there early to choose a different seat, surreptitiously walking in and attempting to avoid the professor's gaze. You had sighed with relief as you settled into a seat at the back of the class.

But your relief was short-lived, as Professor Min walked straight up to your piano. His long, elegant fingers tapped out a rhythm on the frame. You kept your head down, refusing to meet his gaze, though your heart pounded at the closeness of his presence.

"May I ask why you are seated here?" Yoongi asked in a low, quiet murmur.

You glared up at him. "Because I wanted to. What, am I not allowed to choose my own seat?"

His lips curved up into a smile, but his eyes were dark. "Professor." He murmured warningly.

You twitched, sighing. "Am I not allowed to choose my own seat, professor?"

"As a matter of fact, no." Min Yoongi said. "Whatever seat you chose on the first day will be your seat for the remainder of the year. As I am sure I mentioned yesterday, darling."

"Don't call me darling." You gritted through your teeth before you could stop yourself this time. You tried to ignore the swooping sensation it caused in your stomach.

Professor Min raised an eyebrow, smiling wider now. "My my, quite the little rebel, aren't you?"

Your heart jumped into your throat, but you stared back at him, defiant.

The tense seconds stretched out between you two, until an interruption in the form of Professor Kim Namjoon materialized at the door.

"Min! Do you have a minute?"

Yoongi broke your gaze, walking to the door without another word.

You breathed a deep sigh of relief.

You didn't know what it was about him, but every time you spoke your feelings seemed stronger, more intense, whether they be anger, nerves, or something else bubbling below the surface you didn't want to name.

By the time Professor Min finished talking with Professor Kim, it was time for class to start. As he turned around and saw you meekly seated in your old seat at the front of the class, the corner of his lips curved up, almost imperceptibly. But you noticed.

The days passed with more of the same torture of the first class, as Professor Min put you all through the toughest piano regime you had ever been through.

You could swear your fingers even tapped in your sleep, running through the exercises Professor Min drilled into your mind, making you practice again and again.

Things weren't any easier outside his class, where despite your best efforts most of the other snooty Paris-born aristo students avoided you. Conversing with them always started pleasantly enough. They were lively and friendly, eager to talk about their passion for the arts or what their dreams were beyond the École.

But all too soon, the questions started.

What was your family name? they asked, where had you been born? Where did your family vacation? How many maids did you have? and a whole series of questions that seemed specifically designed to weed out the rich from the poor. As soon as they found out your humble origins, they shrank away from you, making up flimsy excuses and looking like they couldn't get away from you fast enough.

You sighed. Spoiled aristo brats, the lot of them. At least you had gotten in on pure talent, earning a scholarship to the École while all others had their schooling paid by their rich parents.

And at least you had your friends. As long as you had them, you didn't need anybody else.

But worst of all the things you had to put up with were Fridays, when Professor Min would make you all line up outside his class and call students in one by one, so they could show him how far they had progressed with their concert pieces.

Most students came out on the verge of tears.

For you, it was sweet, frustrating torture, to have to stumble through Chopin's horrifically difficult Faintaisie Impromptu, Op. 66, all while Min Yoongi watched you with dark, intense eyes from his perch on his desk, veiny arms on full display where he had rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows.

The sight just made you angrier, somehow, as you banged and butchered your way through Chopin's piece. Didn't he know how distracting he was? Did he have no consideration for his students, already struggling enough with the difficult pieces he assigned them?

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't even get past the first 30 seconds of the piece. Every time you stumbled over your notes, Professor Min would just shake his head disappointedly.

"Again."

He would order, and there you went, no doubt making Chopin turn in his grave with your playing.

You hated Chopin.

You hated Min Yoongi.

Now, it was nearing midnight in the apartment you shared with the girls, but you were still seated at the piano in your room, stubbornly trying again and again to master this piece.

So far, you weren't succeeding.

You jumped as someone started banging on your wall. "Y/N! I'm trying to sleep!" Jennie's muffled voice yelled from her bedroom.

You winced.

"Sorry! I'll stop." You yelled back.

Sighing, you got up from the piano and opened your windows to breathe in the fresh night air.

You inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to calm your anger. Anger at the piece, anger at Min Yoongi, anger at your snooty classmates, anger at yourself, for not being able to master this.

Today's end of the week session had been particularly frustrating, with Yoongi telling you that you were too tense, that you had to relax and not try so hard.

How in the world were you supposed to relax?? No less with his intense presence watching, merely a few feet away.

Now, you swept your gaze around your bedroom, eyes landing on the coat strewn haphazardly over your bed.

You decided in a split second.

You were taking a walk to clear your racing thoughts.

Pulling on your coat, you slowly opened your door and tiptoed down the length of the dark hallway. You didn't want to disturb the others.

Hopefully the midnight Paris air would be enough to make you forget, forget your failures with this piano piece, and forget the deep, unfathomable eyes of Min Yoongi that refused to leave your mind, dancing in front of you with taunting, tantalizing closeness.