Four Hundred and Twenty | Yogscast Lewis (xReader)

T h i r t e e n

T h i r t e e n

A  M u s i c  P r o d i g y

Music was a part of me when I was growing up. There was never a moment where I wasn't humming the previous piece I was playing or gently tapping my fingers on any surface I lent my arm in support.

Even now, just waiting for the kettle to boil, I could hear the song forming into my head and slowly thumping on the tip if my toes. I looked down and smiled to myself, a little thought of sentiment at the times I'd accidentally trip over something due to the movement of my feet. So to stop myself, I pushed myself back and took a huff.

My smile faded instantly, I didn't exactly know: but the thoughts returned back to my head. Reality returned back to my head, and all I could think was everything that had happened a few weeks back. MCM Comic Con with the Yogscast did not turn as good as I expected.

Instead of waiting around, I bit my lip and walked over to other side of the open planned living room and kitchen. I had my cello tucked between the shelves but my flute and violin just by the television. Two cases had caught my eyes, wondering what I could pass the time with.

Eventually, I picked up the bigger case, leather and a little dusty from the scarce amount of time. Whenever I haven't played an instrument, there was pang in my heart that always made me crease my brows. It wasn't guilt nor any physical pain. It was just there.

So once I unlatched the lock, my face gazed down at the hundred-year-old instrument.

And once my fingers touched the fine wood, I took a breath.

____

Fingers gracefully moved along the neck of the instrument, pressing strongly onto the strings despite the small scale in proportion to the large wooden object. Her knees ached from stabling the fully body as she shook her wrist and pulled back the bow. A gently melodic scale echoed the small music room, and the cello bellowed a deep smooth sound as she pressed the bow once more.

[Y/N]'s eyelids were shut, concentrating on the vibrato as she slowed down to the fourth last bar of the piece. 

It was all in her head; there was not even a sheet that was visible for her. She remained her gentle decrease on pace until she finished with a two different pitches playing at the same time. It was what made her lips crease upwards; a thought of triumph. She had finally mastered it.

When both eyes opened wide, they both stared emotionless at the wall in front of her. Nothing but a painting - a painting of a particular place. He was the one who gave it to her. Her father. It was a simple picture, but it held a lot of sentimental value to her and her father. The painting was from a Dutch street painter, she assumed it by the cheap canvas painting and the viscosity of the oil paint popping out in vibrancy.

To her, the painting didn't make any sense of her. A narrative of two people - man and woman - walking on the bridge in Amsterdam. But as a seven year old, she ignored it all over on the context.

From then, she got up and trudged her cello back into the case, carelessly placing the bow onto the desk which was piled with books and sheets of music. The table creaked as she bumped her hip as she exited the room, and she frowned in annoyance at it.

'I need to fix that,' [Y/N] huffed in her head before she skipped along and hopped downstairs. Abruptly, her instincts could not help but stare outside. It was by mean already the evening, and she was almost desperate in her eyes to find something - or someone - down below in the road. A car perhaps, or a silhouette walking down onto the lamp post spotlight. She wanted to see him, see if he was coming home that night.