I Know Places (Taylor Swift Imagines) (GxG)

Pianist (Requested)

requested by anon on insta

You blow out a breath as you walk into Taylor's house---your new piano teacher. Your parents have finally found the time and money to get you a new teacher after two years.

You walk up the porch steps, trying to ignore the grandeur and opulence of it all---white stucco on natural stone accompanied by warm wooden accents. The large windows are surrounded by slats, and the door is intimidatingly ornate, complete with custom-looking carvings and a heart-shaped knocker.

Once you tap it against the rich mahogany, a voice calls out, "Just a minute!"

And seconds later you're standing face-to-face with a woman who looks every inch the person living in this house should be. Her blonde hair is loose and flowing elegantly down her back and shoulders, glasses perched atop her head keeping her bangs back. She's clad in a blouse and slacks, and you can see a blazer draped over the back of a chair in the lavish kitchen.

"Oh, come in, love," she says by way of greeting, quickly ushering you in.

You follow her into the kitchen, barely able to process your surroundings before she hands you a cup of tea.

"I'm Taylor, just Taylor, no need to call me Miss Swift or anything," she says, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear as she takes a sip of her own tea. You can't help but notice the five different earrings glittering in the warm kitchen light.

"So, um, I do charge around thirty dollars an hour," she explains, almost rambling now.

You wince inwardly at the price. You're supposed to be here for five hours at a time, everyday after school ends at three.

So . . . "A hundred and fifty dollars per day?"

Taylor looks at you like you're crazy. "No!" she exclaims. "No, fuck no, didn't you hear a single thing I said?"

Unfortunately, you were too busy computing the price of your passion to listen, and shake your head.

She chuckles, a little nervously. "I said I'm only charging on Sundays, and I'm taking the fifty off the bill."

Holy fucking shit.

"I-I'm sorry, what?"

Taylor waves a hand dismissively, as if brushing away your shock. "Just Sundays. A hundred bucks. That's it."

You stare at her, struggling to wrap your head around the sheer generosity of it. "But . . . why?"

She exhales through her nose, a wry smile playing at her lips as she leans against the marble countertop. "Because I want to. Because I can. Because---" She hesitates, her fingers tapping idly against her cup, before she shrugs. "Because I wish someone had done the same for me when I was your age."

There's something unspoken there, something almost wistful in the way her gaze flickers to the grand piano in the adjacent room. You follow her line of sight, and your breath catches.

It's beautiful---sleek black lacquer gleaming in the soft light, positioned just right so the sunset filters through the massive windows and casts a golden glow over the keys.

You don't even realise you've stepped closer until Taylor hums in approval behind you. "Go ahead," she murmurs, voice softer now.

Tentatively, you trail your fingers over the keys. The weight of them is perfect, the resonance rich and full. This is nothing like the old, battered upright at home. This is---

"She's a Steinway," Taylor supplies, coming up beside you. "Had her for years."

There's warmth in her voice, fondness. You glance at her, noting the way she watches the piano like an old friend.