Did It Yearn Enough?

I stepped down to the side door of the old music hall’s basement at 8:58pm and sucked in a deep breath, inwardly reciting the mantra I’d been repeating all day.

It’s just music. Listen to him play. Give him his jacket and the record. You don’t owe him anything else.

It had been easier to make that decision with time and distance from Misha, when the heat of being near him had faded and his impossibly blue eyes only stared from the rearview mirror of my mind.

It wasn’t that I had a problem with no-strings-attached arrangements; they were all I’d had in college, actually. They were easier than toning myself down on uncomfortable dates. Plus, I had an ambitious course schedule and a job, but I needed my own relief.

But no-strings-attached doesn’t necessarily mean one-night-stands, which I avoided. I didn’t think I could sleep with someone and not at least want a friendly connection. Meanwhile, Misha was famous for one and done. It felt risky. It felt like…something for someone else, not me.

We didn’t match. My friends knew it. His friends knew it, or at least Elliott did.

This is a terrible idea. You’re just going to scare him off eventually. And embarrass yourself. You should leave.

…But he’d promised to play me Tchaikovsky.

I stared at the basement side door as my phone ticked up to 8:59pm, and I texted him.

The door opened within moments, and there he was, all six feet whatever of him, banishing the anxious thoughts. I watched those blue eyes light up for a moment in—relief, maybe? Eagerness? I don’t know, because it dimmed into a performative smirk almost immediately as he swept his eyes over me from head to toe. I’d resisted Chloe’s efforts to dress up, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t agonized before landing on jeans, a crop top, and a denim jacket over it.

“Koroleva! The queen arrives,” he bellowed, holding the door open for me with a dramatic bow as I stepped into the basement.

It’s just music, I reminded myself.

The basement was cold and dimly lit, with an unforgiving concrete floor and a smell that suggested the janitorial staff should check for mold. But Misha guided me down a narrow, even darker hall, before opening another door for me on the other side of which stood a grand piano.

Not the grandest grand piano one might imagine. It was chipped at every edge, scuffed on every side, and had some kind of pink paint at the bottom of one leg, like someone had started to paint it before being stopped. There was hardly room for anything else in the dimly lit space, which was too large to be a closet but not by much.

Still, the instrument must have been magnificent once. I stepped into the room and ran my hand along the side of it gently as I moved towards the keys. “I don’t know much about pianos, but even I think it’s a crime to lock this down here, neglected like some kind of unwanted pet,” I remarked. I set my backpack down on the floor next to it, careful not to stress the vinyl sitting inside. The piano lid had already been lifted for playing, like a mouth open and ready to sing.

Misha chuckled. “It is a crime against music, therefore a crime against Misha.” He gestured for me to sit next to him as he slid onto the bench. “She’s a Steinway. Nineteen twenties, thirties maybe. Replaced with something newer, probably,” he said. “She is a grumpy old lady, but she still sings if you know how to coax her right.”

I smiled at him anthropomorphizing her the same way I’d been doing in my head, then glanced down at the bench. “Won’t I get in the way of you playing?” I asked.

“Nyet,” Misha waved his hand and sat, patting the seat beside him. “Besides, the folding chairs are all locked up, and I could not focus on playing if the little queen were to sit on the cold floor.”

Just music.

I sat down, and Misha spread his arms out wide, stopping just short of brushing against me. “See? Is fine. You are petite. We fit.” He shook his hands out in one crisp, professional motion that contrasted so sharply with his usual studied laziness that I almost laughed. He pressed down, playing a little warm-up of scales into chords into an arpeggio up and then back down the keys. “Ah, good news,” he declared with a satisfied grin. “Mistress Steinway is in a good mood today. Eager to sing for the queen.”

“And what exactly will she be singing, Maestro Misha?” I asked, falling into his playful rhythm in spite of myself. He felt so different from before when he’d been all heat and prowling energy. Sitting at the piano, he seemed almost giddy.

“Oh, she usually hums a few bars of something random to start,” he said, waving his hand before returning it to the keys. “But then, Queen Emma gets her Tchaikovsky. A little Piano Concerto One, then some of Pathétique, then a special treat if she behaves.” He winked at me. “Are you ready for the yearning?”

I settled myself on the bench. “I live to yearn,” I said, watching his hands instead of his eyes.

And then he started playing.

I’ve watched people play piano before, choir instructors trying to keep children on key, professionals on a distant stage. I had never sat up close while someone played something of significance. And with Misha, every note seemed significant.

The concerto began with four dramatic notes in a downward scale, repeated: sharp, dramatic. Then the song immediately swept them away into something sweet and romantic, but with a heavy sadness that weighed it down. I wanted to stare at his fingers, long and elegant on the keys, but they began to move faster, so I closed my eyes to listen instead. Soon the sweetness melted into something eerie, notes that slid down the scale like weeping—I assumed this was the transition to Pathétique—and I felt it tug at my heart.

I opened my eyes again, but this time I didn’t look at his hands. I looked at his face, turning my head slowly so as not to distract him.

His blue eyes were closed like mine had been, playing this part without looking. His head swayed and his shoulders rolled along with the music like he was pouring himself directly out onto the keys. His brows would furrow as he carried us into dour notes, then clear as soon as the music began to soar.

Misha was effortlessly good-looking at any given moment. But he was exquisite while he played.

‘Just music.’ Ha.

Then, his eyes opened and the music changed to something light and exuberant, just like he’d been acting earlier. Something I recognized. The opening bars that precede the waltz from Sleeping Beauty.

My eyes flew back to his hands, producing the notes I loved so much. The opening pomp gave way to the garland theme, the part Disney had turned into “Once Upon A Dream.” I couldn’t help swaying along, letting the music lead me every bit like a princess in a waltz.

In the second half I glanced back at him, just for a moment. His eyes stayed open, focused on the keys. He clearly knew this less well than what had come before, but his lips curved into a soft smile that looked nothing like the cocky smirk he’d worn when I first saw him. That’s when I realized my cheeks were on fire while he, blissfully unaware, began ramping up the energy and power of his playing for the song’s climax. Each chord, written for a princess’ sixteenth birthday, was insisting at the top of its lungs: this is something wonderful. This is the start of something wonderful. It drowned out my inner voices’ insistence that this was nothing, meant nothing.

I lifted my hands to cover my face and they were shaking. I tried to suck in a breath and gasped for it. If it weren’t for the volume of his playing, he surely would have heard it. Then, I felt my whole body quivering and tears were pricking my eyes. I buried my face against my palms because I couldn’t just listen to him play anymore, because he was playing something beautiful just for me because he thought I’d like it and it was so lovely, I was melting down right next to him and he didn’t even know it yet but soon he would, and—

He played the final, triumphant notes with his eyes closed once more, and then he took a deep breath, letting everything come to a stillness for a few seconds. Even my inner voices were silent.

Then he asked, “Did it yearn enough?”

I tried to breathe again, but couldn’t.

Author’s Note

B-Side Track: Rihanna & Mikky Ekko – Stay

Oh, Emma. I wouldn’t know how to react, either.

FUN FACT:

I probably owe any pianists reading this an apology. Both of the tracks I shared at the start of the chapter, Reuel’s take on “Piano Concerto 1” and Karen Kornienko’s “The Sleeping Beauty Waltz,” are solo piano arrangements Misha could hypothetically have played…but as I understand it they’re complicated and difficult so he’d have to be in the top 5% most talented professional pianists in the world. So it’s more “technically possible” than “realistic” per se.

No bonus content on this chapter. It just feels weird to disrupt what’s happening. You’ll get some after next chapter, though.

So, what do you think Misha’s going to do? 👀