Six of Crows Oneshots

Piano (prt 2)

A/N: btw Matthias will be alive in this. Just a quick thing.

Wylan's POV
I saw Kaz glancing at the piano. It was in the middle of one office that was supposed to be my study. The shelves were lined with books, all untouched and collecting dust.

The young Barrel Boss stared at the piano like it was something to be feared. Yet I got a sense there was a yearning in his eyes.

I slowly made my way across the room, Jesper was in the kitchen helping the cooks for this evening dinner. He insisted to help them, even though I told him they didn't need it, he wanted to be useful and spend his energy somewhere. Kaz was zoned, in his own world and I watched as his finger moved across his cane. His gloved hand moved as if it was playing the keys, like in his mind he was playing a symphony. I'd picked up my own nervous habit of playing the flute keys on tables at dinner, playing whole pieces to take my mind away from stress and strife.

The idea that I shared a nervous habit with Dirtyhands made me shiver, yet look at Brekker in a bit of a new light.

"You can play if you want, I barely use it any more any ways." I told him quietly.

He seemed calm, and even surprised.

Dirtyhands simply nodded. He didn't acknowledge me much other than that.

Like it was a struggle to go near the large musical mechanism, he made his way to the piano bench. Leaning his cane on the side, he laid his coat and gloves next to it.

Maybe I expected demon's claws. Or hands of stone, hands of fire, or hideous burns. Instead, I was greeted with delicate fingers and off-white scars on pale hands. Kaz Brekker's hands were normal.

Hm. Imagine that.

And then he pressed the keys.

Kaz's POV
He said I could play.

For the first time in years, I let Kaz Rietveld make his first outing. I let that bruised and broken little boy surface above the stream.

And I let the raging rapids in my ribcage trickle, just a bit.

I started on the lighter end, an old song I remembered hearing in the back of my mangled mind.

I remember slender fingers taking the keys like a mustang. I remember a long waterfall of raven dark hair. I remember kind eyes that were like strong black tea. I remember a voice like honey and sugar in Lijan.

I remember Ma.
This was her song.

I don't remember moving across the bench, sliding into a comfortable position. I don't really even remember starting the beginning of the song.

The southern accent drawled off my tongue with ease. Words I hadn't spoken in oh so long, the Lijan dialect and language was woven into my mind just as much as Kerch. Da insisted I knew the old language, even if I'd never use it.

Ma knew the old language, and she knew it because of her song.

I kept playing, my rock salt voice sounded smoother when I sang. I refused to sing after the plague, I thought my throat was ravaged.

Maybe it had been tested just like my body. I was a steaming blade of rage and fury, quenched in the harbors, and now I was tempered metal.

My voice was smooth, drifting on the air like smoke, and sounded raw with emotion. Not solemn, not even sad.

Nostalgic.

When the song finished I let my hands hover above the keys. I heard somebody release a sigh as if they'd been holding their breath for hours. Immediately my mind went to Da and Jordie the day they found out I could play.

I whipped around.

Instead of Jordie, I found Jesper's kind eyes silvered with what looked like tears. His usual mischievous facade was dropped, replacing it was a demeanor of understanding.

Wylan was in awe, shock, and slight confusion.

I just looked down, half in shame and half in pride of my buried talent.

I'd missed this. I'd missed the music.

Jesper's POV
I didn't expect to hear the piano.

I was setting the table when I heard the large instrument chime.

Wylan wasn't playing, he didn't play much anymore. And Wylan's way of playing the piano was specific, he played methodically, like a rich merchant would. Wylan played exactly how he'd been taught. It was like the difference between school room language and native speakers.

I thought nothing of it really, but I did stop to listen a bit. Music was always an enjoyment of mine, I quite liked the fiddle. But when Da tried to teach me, I didn't have enough focus to continue.

Then I heard the voice.

Wylan's voice was trained and light. Like clouds on a bright spring morning.

But this voice was heavy with emotion. It was like thunderstorm clouds gathering, signaling a rainstorm.

I made my way to the source of the music, listening still I recognized the tune vaguely.

What was it? Where did I know that?

Finally I had to listen to the voice, it was speaking with such a southern accent that it could've been a foreign musician.

The voice was singing Lijan.

I nearly sprinted to the door, and couldn't believe my eyes.

Kaz Brekker was playing the piano.

Correction; Kaz Brekker was beautifully playing the piano and singing.

I finally took note of the words, this time focusing on where I'd heard them.

This was the song of mothers.

Every farmer's wife had a song. Farmer's passed down generation from generation a song, each mother it was passed to was supposed to make it their own. They were given the starting melody, and then they would write their own words.

My mother had her song, and her song was sung to the beat of a fiddle. The words were lost to time, Zemini and Kaelish accents thrown around my childhood memories.

Suddenly, my mind brought back snapshots of my mother twirling around, her skirts fanning around her and a fiddle snug against her chin. I never got to learn my mother's song. I had snippets of the quick paced strings and cheerful melody, but other than that I had no records.

Kaz Brekker was singing his mother's song.

Tears were building in my eyes before I could stop them.

Kaz Brekker was a farm boy.

And with his Lijan words, Kaz Brekker was a farm boy from Lij.

I never thought I'd know anything more about Kaz than that he was just Dirtyhands. He was just my boss.

But now I know just a little more.

And I could never have more pride that he trusted me for that.

I'd gotten his forgiveness, even if it was in the most unconventional way possible.