phan one shots

first love

Summary: Based on Suga's (Otherwise known as Yoongi of BTS) song First Love, oh my god it's so beautiful I want to cry. His voice is so soothing. I love him. It was actually about his love for the piano. Like seriously, listen to it, look up the English lyrics I just...he's amazing.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: depression

In the corner of his memory, he could remember the brown piano, settled and huddled in the corner of his small living room. In the corner of his childhood house, he could remember that constant, brown piano, the monochrome black and white keys ever so tempting and ever so cool under his nervous fingertips.

Once, he was just a little boy. Wide, doe like eyes, chocolate eyes not yet bitter or darkened by the circumstances of his life, or the lurking shadows behind each thought that crossed his shattered mind. He was just an innocent kid, a small kid, the world a vast sky of unexplored and unknown stars. And his mother, a tall woman with tumbling brown ringlets around her slender frame, the comforting smell of home, flour, and cookies, clinging to her clothes, she would sit at the brown piano in the corner of his home.

And she would play.

Her deft fingers brushing over those gorgeous keys, and the tinkling of music would fill that quiet house.

It was taller than him, above him, but he gazed at it with such a burning curiosity, with a yearning.

And when he touched it with his small finger, it felt so nice.

I feel so nice.

And something began to grow, a warmth fueled by the notes drifting across his consciousness and buried beneath his seamless skin.

He didn't know of its significance, he didn't know what it would mean to him, that he could ache for the music it made, he made.

He was content with just looking at it.

And then during his elementary school days, his height grew to be taller, his body towering so slightly over those jade like keys, piling on with dust as it was neglected.

As he moved on and found new interests, and forget that which he once craved.

Before the fall and after the times touched with shimmering golds of innocence, and before he needed a reassurance that he never received.

And he grew older as it grew older, as years passed, and his body stretched up, his light brown hair grew out, and words were thrown at his helpless form by selfish boys who occupied spaces in his life. He swallowed his voice, and straightened his hair, and attempted to hide himself, to make himself less noticeable in order to escape the unbearable pain, and the soured air now stinging in his lungs.

But even as he changed and his heart tore itself to pieces, sinking to his feet, and through the floorboards, it did not leave him, not like his friends who abandoned him, only came to him if he was the last resort, but forever there, and the one thing he could rely on.

And then, at around fourteen years old, he approached it again.

The awkwardness was only for a moment, he touched it again.

And the quiet that had been haunting him melted as the soft sounds filled the air, caressing his ears, breaths of swirling flowers and locked words spilling from his fingers as they moved.

Even though he had left it for so long, for years, it accepted him, before anything else.

And as he fell further and further into the darkness of his despair, of his destructive self loathing, it was there. It was all he had as the loneliness grew, and as hurt and pain tightened its grip around his delicate throat.