Chapter Text
Jeremy remembered little of his childhood.
Dad had told him it was normal, this forgetfulness, because the minds of small children were still developing and were often unable to retain what was happening around them with clarity. Most of his earliest memories were tied to the five senses, an impression here and there, shifting images overlapping, sounds that triggered a feeling of deeply aching nostalgia. Mostly he couldn’t place them, these fragments of his youth, but some had remained.
He remembered the first piano he had ever seen. He had been terribly young, though he wasn’t sure what age, and the piano had seemed to him a huge monstrosity that towered over him so high he couldn’t reach the edge of it even standing on his tiptoes. It had seen better days, the shine of its dark mahogany dull and its keys yellowed from excessive use, but it had still been functional.
He had, naturally, asked his father what it was, and Papa had smiled at him and picked him up, placing him on his lap as he sat upon the cushioned chair next to the piano. He had lifted the case over the keys as he explained to Jeremy that it was a musical instrument that people played with their fingers and sometimes their feet, and asked Jeremy to listen carefully while he demonstrated.
Jeremy was immediately enraptured. He had sat very still while Papa played, swift fingers drawing enchanting notes from the keys, and Jeremy had watched his hands move like the legs of a spider, all fluidity and grace. There were pedals at the bottom of the instrument which Papa pressed at seemingly random intervals.
Jeremy’s small mind couldn’t fathom for the life of him how it worked, even after Papa finished and showed him the inner mechanism. He had begged Papa to teach him, who simply laughed and told him that it was quite complicated, but that he would certainly teach him once he was older.
They hadn’t stayed in the house with the piano for very long, and Jeremy had soon forgotten his father’s promise, as young children do. It had taken a few years for them to move into another house with a piano, and even though Papa tried to keep to his word, Jeremy had quickly found a new instrument to gush over.
Dad was no musical prodigy, but he could definitely wring notes from a violin like one. Jeremy had been lulled to sleep by his slow melodies more times than he could count—he had a way of sliding the bow over the strings, a certain dexterity in his steady fingers that allowed him to mould the music to his taste. The first time Jeremy heard him play he had been puzzled, then enchanted, and then fast asleep halfway through the song. He had, of course, begged Dad to teach him, and Dad had done so the very next day.
At least, he had tried. Jeremy’s grip was too strong, his handling of the bow too rough, and he had been afraid to practice lest he break his Dad’s very beautiful, very expensive violin. It was too heavy in his arms and kept slipping off his shoulder, and the few notes he managed to bring forth were so grating on his ears that he had been discouraged and soon gave it up.
He had attempted to go back to the piano after that, ignoring his father’s look of mock betrayal, but the results were roughly the same. He kept hitting the keys too hard, the pedal business was absurdly complicated, and the music sheets Papa used to teach him might as well have been gibberish. He could manage a few simple songs, but they were always so stilted in comparing to his father’s lovely work.
Both his parents had reassured him countless times that he was very clever and indubitably capable, if only he would practice patience and keep at it, but Jeremy had been young and stubborn, and had decided that he was content to listen instead.
To listen, and to dance.
Jeremy loved dancing. There was nothing quite like it, the freedom and pleasure of well-choreographed movement, and despite the fact that he had failed to learn the piano or the violin, dancing was something he could do, and he could do it well. His Papa had taught him, like he taught him most things.
One of his most treasured memories—and one of the few he could remember in startling detail—was of one of the rare nights when his whole family could be together. They had gathered at Jeremy’s house to celebrate something, perhaps a birthday or an anniversary, and Dad had brought along his violin, which he had whipped out after a few drinks to play an upbeat song he claimed was popular at the time.
Papa had sent him a soft look, like he usually did when Dad did something for them, and then after a few minutes he stood, seated himself behind the piano and began to play along, quickly matching the rhythm. Dad had been grinning, wide and unrestrained, and Papa had been smiling one of his love-struck smiles, and Jeremy had pouted, whishing he could join the moment.
Aunt Delilah had been his saviour. She had taken off her shoes and taken him by the hand, told him to place his feet over hers, and the moment he did so she began spinning them both around, bouncing with purpose every time the song swelled. Jeremy had been breathless with laughter, even after aunt Delilah started singing the song’s half-forgotten lyrics; she had a voice like an angel, and Jeremy never tired of hearing it.
He didn’t remember falling asleep, didn’t really remember anything beyond the end of the song safe for the applause and the cheers of his family and the warm arms that had picked him up, enveloping him in safety.
He had been happy then. He had been so happy, they had all been so happy.
How Jeremy missed being happy.