herr_bookman (
herr_bookman) wrote in
milliways_bar2018-03-29 09:35 am
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It's mocking him.
Autor is sure of it. The piano has been lurking in its corner, waiting, its teeth bared. He hasn't played in over two years, and, for some reason, he can't stop thinking about running his fingers over the white and black keys.
Not since the dream, anyway. Not since his nightmares were given a respite by a wonderful dream of his playing flawlessly in a packed concert hall.
Now that he's out of practice, he can't play Chopin's Fantasie-Impromptu, opus 66, the song he worked so hard to perfect. The cross-rhythms, with the right hand playing sixteenth notes against the left hand playing triplets--and the ceaselessly moving note figuration--are lost to him.
But not forever.
Today, he slinks over to the piano, skittish, as if afraid he'll be spotted. He settles on the bench, his knee jiggling, and draws three deep breaths. He has to look away from the ivories to place his hands on them, as if he's afraid the keys will bite him.
They're cold to the touch.
He starts with Erik Satie's Gymnopedie no. 1, his favorite from childhood. The melody of the piece uses deliberate, but mild, dissonances against the harmony, and once Autor hears the familiar chords, his hands relax into their movements.
He missed this.
Autor is sure of it. The piano has been lurking in its corner, waiting, its teeth bared. He hasn't played in over two years, and, for some reason, he can't stop thinking about running his fingers over the white and black keys.
Not since the dream, anyway. Not since his nightmares were given a respite by a wonderful dream of his playing flawlessly in a packed concert hall.
Now that he's out of practice, he can't play Chopin's Fantasie-Impromptu, opus 66, the song he worked so hard to perfect. The cross-rhythms, with the right hand playing sixteenth notes against the left hand playing triplets--and the ceaselessly moving note figuration--are lost to him.
But not forever.
Today, he slinks over to the piano, skittish, as if afraid he'll be spotted. He settles on the bench, his knee jiggling, and draws three deep breaths. He has to look away from the ivories to place his hands on them, as if he's afraid the keys will bite him.
They're cold to the touch.
He starts with Erik Satie's Gymnopedie no. 1, his favorite from childhood. The melody of the piece uses deliberate, but mild, dissonances against the harmony, and once Autor hears the familiar chords, his hands relax into their movements.
He missed this.

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Billie climbs up to the piano stool and mashes the keys.
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"Gently, Billie!" Bonnie says. "Let Autor guide you."
Billie complies a little better.
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He closes his eyes, letting the sound flow over him.
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Someone tall, dark, and handsome in an expensive suit and with a drink in hand.
But he is actually listening. He appreciates disharmony when it is well executed.
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"Hello."
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He slowly opens his eyes and gives the musician a slow smile.
“Hello. You’re good.”
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"Thank you," he says instead. "Do you play?"
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He is curled up in an armchair by the fire, idly flipping through a magazine, when the first notes of Autor's playing wafts through the room. He looks up and watches, and listens, and smiles faintly to himself.
He won't go up to him just yet. Not until Autor seems relaxed enough and confident enough. And when he is, Emcee slowly unfolds himself from his position like a stretching cat and wanders over to the piano, arriving just in time as Autor plays his last notes.
"You still play beautifully, darling," he says, leaning on the top of the piano on folded arms.
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Are those tears? No, of course not.
Autor offers Emcee a tentative smile. "Thank you. I... I thought playing was lost to me. But I seem to have held on to the basics. How are you?"
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"I don't think anything like this is ever really lost -- not if you truly want it back," he says with a warm smile, resting his chin on his hand. "I'm well, darling, and yourself? What inspired you to come out and play today?"
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A thought strikes him, and he tips his head to the side as if rolling that thought around in his brain.
"Would you like to come play for an audience at my nightclub? It's not a concert hall, but it is often packed."
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