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Fantasie Impromptu
Title: Fantasie Impromptu
Pairing: Kangteuk
Rating: R
Genre: AU, Romance
Summary: Sometimes our fantasies are what we need to pull us back into reality. Inspired by being woken from a nap by my sister playing the piano.
Kangin didn’t particularly consider himself a cold man. Nor did he think that he was lonely. He just was, and he was fine with it...fine with just being.
He didn’t mind his nine to five job, liked the Starbucks Americano he bought every morning (with a shot of toffee nut and a little soy milk), enjoyed the simplistic meals he made for himself, and the two days off he got every week. He couldn’t say that his life was perfect but...he liked it. It wasn’t bad as far as good lives go. Yet...he felt somewhere inside him that there was something that wasn’t quite right.
He spent his days off reading books about famous dead people, or talking long walks (not on the beach) and listening to any one of the piano CDs that were threatening to overtake his living room. There was something in the sound of the piano that resonated with Kangin’s soul. He had one, a beautiful grand piano, that sat in a room in his empty house, unused, un-played for years, just sitting there. Kangin would play a Chopin CD, close his eyes, and imagine the composer sitting on the black leather bench, his fingers trailing up and down creating sounds that melted anything within a two mile radius.
Honestly, he envied the piano, a little bit. There were so many parts to it, so many layers of depth; it could be so many things. Joyful. Melancholy. Triumphant. It was whatever it was told; no matter what it did, it did it beautifully.
He hadn’t heard a key pressed since his wife had died, three years ago. People had called the story tragic. “They were so in love! How terrible!” “Married for a year; I hope the driver is behind bars!” “Poor thing, I imagine he’s horribly lonely.” But he had accepted it as fate and moved on, changing his name to Kangin, burying his pain and forgetting about it, because really...what good did remembering ever do?
So when he was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of soft tinkering, he wasn’t exactly sure what to think.
Ghost.
Burglar.
Oh my god I’m going to die.
But it stopped and he decided that he hadn’t actually awoken and he was dreaming. The next morning he forgot about it.
Two days later he remembered when he heard Beethoven’s Fur Elise played softly, gently, more beautifully than he had ever heard it before. If he wasn’t scared out of his mind he would have cried. And then silence, nothing, only the sound of the ceiling fan making the wall hanging flutter in the moonlight.
The next time he heard it he got up and followed the sounds, a Tchaikovsky opus winding it’s way towards him. He was entranced. It stopped before he reached the music room and he broke into a run, taking two seconds to reach the piano. No one was there (he wasn’t surprised) and he sighed in frustration, only noting the open sliding glass door after sitting dejectedly on the piano bench for a half hour.
The following night he awoke to Debussey and this time he hurtled into the room, intent on discovering the source of the music (even though he didn’t know what he was going to do when he did work the puzzle out.) The music stopped just before he entered and his breath faltered in his lungs as he saw a figure standing hurriedly and rushing for the doors. He meant to say wait but as the person turned to squeeze through the opening and their eyes met, Kangin found that he couldn’t think. He really, really, had to be imagining things because no one could possibly be that beautiful.
He spent the whole day convincing himself that he was dreaming and devised a scheme that would allow him to be absolutely sure. He locked all his doors and windows that night, convinced that if indeed it was someone he would no longer be bothered by them and he could go back to his life that he liked and that caused him no trouble. He needed it. Needed the order. The calm. Something.
When no music interrupted his sleep he wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or not. He spent his entire day off glaring at the piano room whenever he walked by. It had been a long time since he had glared at anything. Arguing furiously with himself over his kimchi jjigae, he reasoned that it simply was not rational to want to allow a stranger to break into your home and play your piano. It’s wasn’t. He needed a psychologist.
He unlocked all of his doors and his windows that night, he even left the sliding glass doors open, gossamer curtains flitting in the breeze.
He almost started to hyperventilate when he was awoken with the soft sounds of Beethovhen’s moonlight sonata sneaking into his dreams about angels playing pianos, rays of light spraying from their fingertips, casting the shadows of diamonds on the walls.
This time he managed to breathe “wait” before his nocturnal visitor could stand. The man backed away slowly, his expression unreadable as he moved towards the doors.
“Please wait,” Kangin whispered, “What...why do you play my piano?”
“It’s beautiful,” the man responded, “And you don’t play it. Someone has to.”
Kangin swallowed. “But...you...you’re just walking in.”
“You chose to unlock your door,” the man responded, and he smiled, sending any sort of response scattering from Kangin’s lips.
Dear god.
It wasn’t until later that Kangin realized he had forgotten to ask the stranger’s name. He decided to make one up.
“What should I call you?” He asked one night, stopping the man from playing River Flows In You.
“You’re not going to ask my name?” the stranger asked. “It’s Jungsu. You’re Kangin. Nice to meet you.”
“I want to call you something else.”
“Why?”
So you fit into the life I’ve constructed for myself.
“Because you play my piano,” Kangin said.
“Okay,” the man replied. “What am I to be called?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
It hit over lunch at work. Somehow, and Kangin was still unsure of the details, the man had become special to him. Possibly one of the most special things in the whole entire world. There was something about the way he played, the way his fingers flowed over the keys, the way he would close his eyes and let the music take hold of him that left Kangin enraptured. Left him wondering what those fingers felt like.
When he played his CDs, he would sit across from the piano and imagine the man playing them, imagine the bare feet resting on the pedals, body swaying and sometimes he would cry. Because the man cracked holes into his soul, made him remember the things he hated, made him want to heal, want to live differently.
“You’re Leeteuk,” Kangin said, following a performance of a song he didn’t know (but that made his heart pop.)
“Leeteuk?” the man asked.
“Because you’re something special to me. Something special in the world.”
Leeteuk smiled and left as quietly as he’d come.
Leeteuk started to play every song in Kangin’s collection. Kangin found that he would lay awake at night and wait for the first notes to sound. He would play guessing games with himself, trying to predict what Leeteuk would play for him, how long he would stay. Kangin always guessed the wrong song, and always hoped Leeteuk would play more than one. He didn’t.
After Leeteuk finished an opus by Chopin, Kangin went to sit by him and laid a hand on his arm. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“You gave me a name,” Leeteuk whispered, “I am whoever you want me to be.”
Kangin stared at him, momentarily struck dumb. What did he want?
Leeteuk leaned in and kissed him, soft, gentle, tranquillio Kangin thought, as he slid his arms around the other man.
He thought maybe he could want this as he pulled Leeteuk into his bedroom, both of them gasping for air, pulling at clothes, trailing fingers on skin, lips on lips. He remembered his wife’s softness, her moans, the way she would wriggle underneath him as he touched her. He realized that maybe instead of burying it, he had to replace it.
So he did.
He put to memory the way Leeteuk hiccuped into his ear as Kangin pushed into him, the way Leeteuk moaned as Kangin moved, the way Leeteuk kissed him breathless after pleading for more, harder, touch, please. He knew he wouldn’t forget this. Knew that he couldn’t. Couldn’t pull from his mind the sight of the angelic body arching against his as it came, shuddering, grinding, Kangin, Kangin, Kangin spilling from Leeteuk’s lips like water bubbling out of a Zen fountain.
It was the sight of him that triggered Kangin’s own release. Their eyes met, just for a second, and Kangin didn’t know what he whispered, or yelled, or cried as he gripped Leeteuk hard, the walls of his constructed life crumbling down around him.
“Youngwoon,” Kangin whispered against Leeteuk’s hair when they had settled down. “My real name is Youngwoon.”
Leeteuk smiled and Kangin leaned in to kiss his dimple.
“I like Kangin.”
“Kangin doesn’t exist. He shouldn’t.”
“Yes he does,” Leeteuk laid a hand on Kangin’s heart, tracing designs on it. “For me, you are Kangin just like for you I am Leeteuk.”
“But...that makes us a lie,” Kangin whispered, tired of his falsities.
“That makes us in love,” Leeteuk corrected, “I played Kangin’s piano. It is Kangin that holds my heart, not Youngwoon.”
Kangin considered this.
“Do you love me, Kangin?”
“I think I might.”
Leeteuk giggled. “Do you love Jungsu: barista extraordinaire, or do you love Leeteuk: piano moonlighter?”
“I love Leeteuk,” Kangin responded. “But...I think I should maybe get to know Jungsu.”
“As I shall get to know Youngwoon,” Leeteuk responded.
They smiled at each other, caressing faces and hair, endless hours of sonatas and opus’ echoing in every touch. Kangin took a breath and then kissed Leeteuk softly. “Play for me,” he breathed, “Say you’ll always play for me; I think I’d die if I never heard you play again.”
“I will,” Leeteuk whispered. “For you, I’d play forever.”
~~~~~
I get inspiration at the oddest times. This has building in my brain for awhile now. Love to know what you think. I don't write stuff like this often.
Pairing: Kangteuk
Rating: R
Genre: AU, Romance
Summary: Sometimes our fantasies are what we need to pull us back into reality. Inspired by being woken from a nap by my sister playing the piano.
Kangin didn’t particularly consider himself a cold man. Nor did he think that he was lonely. He just was, and he was fine with it...fine with just being.
He didn’t mind his nine to five job, liked the Starbucks Americano he bought every morning (with a shot of toffee nut and a little soy milk), enjoyed the simplistic meals he made for himself, and the two days off he got every week. He couldn’t say that his life was perfect but...he liked it. It wasn’t bad as far as good lives go. Yet...he felt somewhere inside him that there was something that wasn’t quite right.
He spent his days off reading books about famous dead people, or talking long walks (not on the beach) and listening to any one of the piano CDs that were threatening to overtake his living room. There was something in the sound of the piano that resonated with Kangin’s soul. He had one, a beautiful grand piano, that sat in a room in his empty house, unused, un-played for years, just sitting there. Kangin would play a Chopin CD, close his eyes, and imagine the composer sitting on the black leather bench, his fingers trailing up and down creating sounds that melted anything within a two mile radius.
Honestly, he envied the piano, a little bit. There were so many parts to it, so many layers of depth; it could be so many things. Joyful. Melancholy. Triumphant. It was whatever it was told; no matter what it did, it did it beautifully.
He hadn’t heard a key pressed since his wife had died, three years ago. People had called the story tragic. “They were so in love! How terrible!” “Married for a year; I hope the driver is behind bars!” “Poor thing, I imagine he’s horribly lonely.” But he had accepted it as fate and moved on, changing his name to Kangin, burying his pain and forgetting about it, because really...what good did remembering ever do?
So when he was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of soft tinkering, he wasn’t exactly sure what to think.
Ghost.
Burglar.
Oh my god I’m going to die.
But it stopped and he decided that he hadn’t actually awoken and he was dreaming. The next morning he forgot about it.
Two days later he remembered when he heard Beethoven’s Fur Elise played softly, gently, more beautifully than he had ever heard it before. If he wasn’t scared out of his mind he would have cried. And then silence, nothing, only the sound of the ceiling fan making the wall hanging flutter in the moonlight.
The next time he heard it he got up and followed the sounds, a Tchaikovsky opus winding it’s way towards him. He was entranced. It stopped before he reached the music room and he broke into a run, taking two seconds to reach the piano. No one was there (he wasn’t surprised) and he sighed in frustration, only noting the open sliding glass door after sitting dejectedly on the piano bench for a half hour.
The following night he awoke to Debussey and this time he hurtled into the room, intent on discovering the source of the music (even though he didn’t know what he was going to do when he did work the puzzle out.) The music stopped just before he entered and his breath faltered in his lungs as he saw a figure standing hurriedly and rushing for the doors. He meant to say wait but as the person turned to squeeze through the opening and their eyes met, Kangin found that he couldn’t think. He really, really, had to be imagining things because no one could possibly be that beautiful.
He spent the whole day convincing himself that he was dreaming and devised a scheme that would allow him to be absolutely sure. He locked all his doors and windows that night, convinced that if indeed it was someone he would no longer be bothered by them and he could go back to his life that he liked and that caused him no trouble. He needed it. Needed the order. The calm. Something.
When no music interrupted his sleep he wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or not. He spent his entire day off glaring at the piano room whenever he walked by. It had been a long time since he had glared at anything. Arguing furiously with himself over his kimchi jjigae, he reasoned that it simply was not rational to want to allow a stranger to break into your home and play your piano. It’s wasn’t. He needed a psychologist.
He unlocked all of his doors and his windows that night, he even left the sliding glass doors open, gossamer curtains flitting in the breeze.
He almost started to hyperventilate when he was awoken with the soft sounds of Beethovhen’s moonlight sonata sneaking into his dreams about angels playing pianos, rays of light spraying from their fingertips, casting the shadows of diamonds on the walls.
This time he managed to breathe “wait” before his nocturnal visitor could stand. The man backed away slowly, his expression unreadable as he moved towards the doors.
“Please wait,” Kangin whispered, “What...why do you play my piano?”
“It’s beautiful,” the man responded, “And you don’t play it. Someone has to.”
Kangin swallowed. “But...you...you’re just walking in.”
“You chose to unlock your door,” the man responded, and he smiled, sending any sort of response scattering from Kangin’s lips.
Dear god.
It wasn’t until later that Kangin realized he had forgotten to ask the stranger’s name. He decided to make one up.
“What should I call you?” He asked one night, stopping the man from playing River Flows In You.
“You’re not going to ask my name?” the stranger asked. “It’s Jungsu. You’re Kangin. Nice to meet you.”
“I want to call you something else.”
“Why?”
So you fit into the life I’ve constructed for myself.
“Because you play my piano,” Kangin said.
“Okay,” the man replied. “What am I to be called?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
It hit over lunch at work. Somehow, and Kangin was still unsure of the details, the man had become special to him. Possibly one of the most special things in the whole entire world. There was something about the way he played, the way his fingers flowed over the keys, the way he would close his eyes and let the music take hold of him that left Kangin enraptured. Left him wondering what those fingers felt like.
When he played his CDs, he would sit across from the piano and imagine the man playing them, imagine the bare feet resting on the pedals, body swaying and sometimes he would cry. Because the man cracked holes into his soul, made him remember the things he hated, made him want to heal, want to live differently.
“You’re Leeteuk,” Kangin said, following a performance of a song he didn’t know (but that made his heart pop.)
“Leeteuk?” the man asked.
“Because you’re something special to me. Something special in the world.”
Leeteuk smiled and left as quietly as he’d come.
Leeteuk started to play every song in Kangin’s collection. Kangin found that he would lay awake at night and wait for the first notes to sound. He would play guessing games with himself, trying to predict what Leeteuk would play for him, how long he would stay. Kangin always guessed the wrong song, and always hoped Leeteuk would play more than one. He didn’t.
After Leeteuk finished an opus by Chopin, Kangin went to sit by him and laid a hand on his arm. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“You gave me a name,” Leeteuk whispered, “I am whoever you want me to be.”
Kangin stared at him, momentarily struck dumb. What did he want?
Leeteuk leaned in and kissed him, soft, gentle, tranquillio Kangin thought, as he slid his arms around the other man.
He thought maybe he could want this as he pulled Leeteuk into his bedroom, both of them gasping for air, pulling at clothes, trailing fingers on skin, lips on lips. He remembered his wife’s softness, her moans, the way she would wriggle underneath him as he touched her. He realized that maybe instead of burying it, he had to replace it.
So he did.
He put to memory the way Leeteuk hiccuped into his ear as Kangin pushed into him, the way Leeteuk moaned as Kangin moved, the way Leeteuk kissed him breathless after pleading for more, harder, touch, please. He knew he wouldn’t forget this. Knew that he couldn’t. Couldn’t pull from his mind the sight of the angelic body arching against his as it came, shuddering, grinding, Kangin, Kangin, Kangin spilling from Leeteuk’s lips like water bubbling out of a Zen fountain.
It was the sight of him that triggered Kangin’s own release. Their eyes met, just for a second, and Kangin didn’t know what he whispered, or yelled, or cried as he gripped Leeteuk hard, the walls of his constructed life crumbling down around him.
“Youngwoon,” Kangin whispered against Leeteuk’s hair when they had settled down. “My real name is Youngwoon.”
Leeteuk smiled and Kangin leaned in to kiss his dimple.
“I like Kangin.”
“Kangin doesn’t exist. He shouldn’t.”
“Yes he does,” Leeteuk laid a hand on Kangin’s heart, tracing designs on it. “For me, you are Kangin just like for you I am Leeteuk.”
“But...that makes us a lie,” Kangin whispered, tired of his falsities.
“That makes us in love,” Leeteuk corrected, “I played Kangin’s piano. It is Kangin that holds my heart, not Youngwoon.”
Kangin considered this.
“Do you love me, Kangin?”
“I think I might.”
Leeteuk giggled. “Do you love Jungsu: barista extraordinaire, or do you love Leeteuk: piano moonlighter?”
“I love Leeteuk,” Kangin responded. “But...I think I should maybe get to know Jungsu.”
“As I shall get to know Youngwoon,” Leeteuk responded.
They smiled at each other, caressing faces and hair, endless hours of sonatas and opus’ echoing in every touch. Kangin took a breath and then kissed Leeteuk softly. “Play for me,” he breathed, “Say you’ll always play for me; I think I’d die if I never heard you play again.”
“I will,” Leeteuk whispered. “For you, I’d play forever.”
~~~~~
I get inspiration at the oddest times. This has building in my brain for awhile now. Love to know what you think. I don't write stuff like this often.
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<3 glad you liked!