The Pianist || MYG || ✔

4

"Oh come on, Yoongz!" Hoseok begged, "You saw how she played, she needs your help!"

"She doesn't want my help, and I don't want to help her," Yoongi snapped in reply. He kicked his converse off after giving up trying to undo the laces, and walked into his tiny apartment. Hoseok followed close behind, snatching a bottle out of Yoongis hand as soon as he reached for it.

"She has so much potential," His friend whined, "She could even be better than you,"

Yoongi just tutted and yanked the bottle free from Hoseoks fingers. The girl clearly didn't want his help anyway, so even if he did try, it would be pointless.

"She'll never be better than me with that attitude," He muttered, "Stop trying to take away my life line, Hoseok,"

Once again, Hoseok took the bottle from Yoongis hand. He then stomped to the kitchen and picked up the remainder of the bottles, popped them open, and emptied them down the sink.

"What the fuck, Hoseok?!" Yoongi yelled, but Hoseoks bigger frame prevented him from getting close.

"You're giving up," Hoseok said angrily, "I'm sick of this! It's one in the afternoon, and you already want to get drunk! I forgave it at first, Yoongi, I did. But it's been two years since Isabella died, and you're still-"

"Shut up!" Yoongi screamed, "Stop it!"

"Min Yoongi!" Hoseok cried, dropping the empty bottles and turning to face his friend, "Your wife is dead! She died two years ago! You need to stop moping about and move on!"

"Shut up!" Yoongi repeated, tears in his eyes, "Shut up, Hoseok, don't make me-"

"What, you're going to hit me?" Hoseok taunted, "Go on, it might make you feel better!"

Yoongi curled his hands into fists, his chest heaving with the effort of controlling himself. He hated it when Hoseok spoke about his loves death. He knew she had passed; he was there when it happened. He was playing the fucking piano for her like she wanted, and he didn't even stop to go and hold her and tell her how much he loved her and how he didn't want her to go.

He had been without her for two years. He knew she was gone. He knew she was dead. But Hoseok just kept talking about it.

"You need to stop this," Hoseok said quietly, "Do you think this would make Izzy happy?" He gestured to Yoongi, who felt his heart break at the sound of the name he had given his wife.

"Stop it," He said weakly, "Stop it, Hoseok,"

"If she could see you right now, Yoongi," Hoseok said, "If she could see how you've become,"

"Well she can't!" Yoongi screamed, "She can't see me because she left me! She left me and I couldn't even stop her from going!"

"Yoongi..."

Yoongi snatched the last bottle of whiskey from the counter by the sink and lifted it to his lips, "Stop trying to tell me how to live my life, Hoseok," He said, taking a huge swig. 

Hoseok sighed and shook his head, "If you were actually living, I wouldn't have to say anything," He muttered. Yoongi ignored him, taking a seat at his little kitchen table and tapping a cigarette free from the box.

With another sigh, Hoseok began to clear up the mess around his friend. Once he had washed up and cleaned up the spilled whiskey in the living room, he sat down opposite Yoongi.

"You have to stop this," He said, "You can't keep living like this. I can't keep living like this,"

Yoongi ignored him, his eyes on the table as he took another gulp of whiskey from the glass.

Hoseok got back to his feet, staring down at his friend, "I expect you to be at the school by one tomorrow," He said, "Daisy will need some intensive lessons,"

He turned and left the room, putting his shoes on before leaving Yoongis flat and climbing into his car.

Yoongi let his head drop to the table, closing his eyes with a groan. He knew that Hoseok was right. Isabella would be so mad if she knew how pathetic he had come. But just the thought of her shot pain through his heart. She would never forgive him if he ended his life himself, so this was the next best thing. Drinking and smoking himself to death didn't count. And once he was with her again, he'd beg for her forgiveness.

---

Yoongi felt hands on his shoulders and lifted his face, waiting for the kiss he knew was coming. Isabella, as usual, obliged and he took one of his hands from the keys so she could slide in to sit on his lap.

She didn't say anything; she didn't have to. Yoongi knew how much his wife loved his playing, so once she was settled comfortably on his lap, he went back to playing the slow melody he was working on.

"That sounds beautiful," She said, leaning her head against his chest and watching his fingers dance across the ivory, "Your hands are magical. Who's piece is this?"

Yoongi smiled, "Yours. I wrote it about you," He was rewarded by the beautiful sound of his wifes laugh.

"I'm not that pretty," She said.

"Music reflects the artists heart," Yoongi said, his fingers still playing, "Can you tell how beautiful I find you? Is it obvious how much I love you, just from this music?"

Isabella snuggled into his chest, "It's obvious. But I haven't got a way of showing you how I feel. That's not fair,"

Yoongi laughed and ceased his playing in favour of kissing his beloved, "I know you love me, Izzy. You don't need to prove it to me,"

"Well," Isabella said, lifting her small hands to cup Yoongis face. She pulled him closer, so their lips were not quite touching, "I do know one way that shows how much I love you,"

---

Yoongis eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright. He furiously wiped the tears away from his face, angry that he had fallen asleep at the table; his neck was hurting from the funny angle.

He didn't get to dream of the past that often anymore, and this dream was particularly painful for him. He could still remember that piece of music he had composed, and he still had the score bundled up in a box in the spare bedroom.

Angry that he had allowed himself to remember that memory, Yoongi once again reached for his glass and downed it, before getting to his seat and heading to his living room. He put on some music, and sank slowly onto his sofa, ready to drown himself in alcohol again, and hopefully just black out, with no dreams.