((ooc: first part in italics is non-interactive, the rest is free game! c:
))A grand piano sat under a lone spotlight and sitting on the bench was Soul. Only, it wasn't quite the same Soul people here knew, not really. This was Soul before the Academy. This was Soul age ten, sitting up straight with a perfect posture and holding himself with a poise no one he knew now would think was possible. His fingers were curved just as they were supposed to as they hung just above the keys, his face wiped of all emotion. This was a Soul no one knew, a Soul he'd never let anyone see.
It's difficult to see anything past of the circle of light around the piano, but every now and then he could see the diamonds his parents' friends wore glittering, the shine from the gold on their wrists and the elegant glasses they held oh so daintily in their hands. He could hear the whispers and soft chuckles and he knew it was about him.
He shifts just slightly, stretching his fingers and placing them lightly on the keys, his eyes close, he takes a breath and begins to play.
Rach 3, the first movement. A piece that was something of a labor of love, a piece he dedicated himself to learning, the most challenging piece he had yet to play. Incredible, someone would say, that a boy his age could play a piece like this so beautifully, so perfectly, but Soul would never agree to such praise.
But he did play it beautifully. His technique was flawless, the emotion he poured into it was astounding -- this was his heart, his soul, his very being. It wasn't a piece he wrote himself, but it almost felt like it was.
The piece came to an end and Soul’s fingers lifted from the keys, that last chord still ringing in his ears -- broken and dissonant and something he could never really place, only knew that it hurt.
“Wonderful! Just as expected from the son of the Evans family.” The crowd applauded. Of course they would applaud. They had to be polite, didn’t they?
The lights turned back on, revealing the smiling faces of over-dressed men and women, people he didn't really know or care to know, people who came over every time his parents threw one of these stupid fancy parties. He slid off the bench, nodding and thanking them all as they showered him with praise and compliments, but Soul never believed them. How could he believe them? They didn't know. They couldn't see it. Couldn't hear it. The difference between that which was perfection and him.
He needed to get away from this. All of this. The crowd, the people, the fake smiles, the forced compliments. But his parents wouldn't let him, he would stay here and be a good, polite, well-behaved son. His family had an image to keep up with, after all.