Homestuck belongs, rightfully, to Andrew Hussie, and I don't own any of the characters mentioned (even vaguely) in this story, save the old man and a pretty, wine colored dress.
The concert, thus far, was a hit. The claps were no where near mundane, as his friend had feared. She played a mean flute, and was horribly nervous. Her first sight of the concert hall had been one of exasperation. He'd seen the way her green eyes grew wide, grip tightening on the handle of her flute case.
But that had been weeks ago. One week? Maybe two. And as he listened to the first year program participants play, their pieces unusually exuberant for classical music, he was delighted.
When his time came.
The tails of his deep navy coat draped and fell over the edge of his piano bench, fingers resting lightly over ebony keys. The piano was old, a vertical - much like the one in his home - but more grand, with a smooth black finish that he recognized as Professional, to his Spinnet. He could feel its great age in the scuffed golden pedals, the wares that had been refinished. It was a lovely thing. But his attention was drawn suddenly elsewhere.
A man in plain clothes, tall and strong, walked onto the stage, pulling the two first violin's seats to the back row. The players' transition one row back was seamless, obviously practiced. The plain clothed man exited the stage and returned with a wooden platform in one hand.
Those who hadn't paid him any mind looked curiously his way.
He set it down with the quietest thunk beside the conductor, setting a sturdy black chair against one of the platform's raised walls and departing. He took a stand with him.
The crowd shuffled, the orchestra still. He fiddled with his music sheets, and finally, a girl walked swiftly onto the stage.
Her strapless gown was a sight, silk in the deepest wine. Gems collected at her chest, spilling down between her breasts and scattering in the rippling waves of her spilt liquor dress. It swept lightly over the ground, and she smiled. In delicate hands, she held a cello. He was somewhat surprised.
He knew her to play the violin.
As she bowed, the audience broke into subdued applause, watching as the girl took her seat. She smiled softly at the conductor, who was aged, with kind wrinkles edging his eyes and lips when he smiled. He tapped his batton lightly on his raised stand, made of either plastic or glass (he couldn't tell from his seat beneath the stage), raised somewhat to accommodate the conductor's position on the maestro platform.
He raised both hands, cueing the players to raise their instruments. Shrinking down, drawing raised arms closer, he began to conduct; light little flicks of his fingers, the wand, and the gentle, almost whisper of the melody from the orchestra.
Try as the pianist might, he couldn't look away from the lovely girl with the cello, resting between her knees - just beneath cascading fabric, shimmering softly in the warm stage lights. She had her head bent, one hand resting on her knee, the other holding the cello bow. His eyes drifted towards the concertmaster (a first violin with cleanly cut black hair and pale skin), or the maestro, but never for more than a second, in fear that he might miss the first pull of her bow against metal strung strings.
Her expression shifted with the tone of the music, which had long begun. Yet she waited, her lips twitching, brows raising, with the slightest shift in upheaval. The song was happy, and reminded him faintly of flowers, but nothing else.
He was her accompaniment. His part was simple, repetitive background noise, pleasant, filling the silence, cutting it. He could play the part in his sleep.
Her expression suddenly shifted. He began to play, quite loudly, before growing quieter and quieter, the subtle sound of heavy, undaunted piano diminishing to nothing with the wave of the conductor's hand, fingers coming closed.
Finally, the girl, in a dress so beautiful it was like she'd been poured into it, raised her hand in a small sweeping motion, and began to play.
If he wasn't so well practiced, his fingers might have slipped, faltering and hitting two keys, or missing a note entirely.
Her hair whisked against her rosy cheeks like a golden halo, bobbing with the vigor in which she played. It was mesmerizing, and he couldn't even glance at the music sheets, which may as well have been blank. She, on the other hand, truly had no paper to read. Every stroke, press of her finger, was well known and memorized. She played in quick confidence, building tempo until the song was ridiculously quick, and her string shifts impossible.
She hushed. Long, languid strokes of her bow. Her arm, bending and uncurling as she played, followed. The entire orchestra faded back once more.
Her fingers slid down the neck of her instrument, and its sound made every heart in the concert hall crumble.
The cello began to weep.
The pianist's breath came in bursts. The noise was so profoundly sad, so long and solemn, he could hardly remember how joyful it had been only moments ago.
A family. A young girl, standing in a field of flowers with her mother. Sudden rain. Wind. A girl whose youth had been broken, standing in a burning house alone.
His deep, almost consuming accompaniment was broken, and she concluded the dreadful song. For a moment, there was the remnants of her playing, echoing through the air, and silence. Then, with several sobs, everyone broke into applause, into uproarious clapping, like the sound of thunder bursting forth.
She graced the crowd with another smile, standing tall, proud, cheeks flushed from the effort. Her bow was deep, meaningful.
The conductor wiped his eyes, smiling a wrinkly smile before taking her hand in both of his and shaking them.
A woman with pretty green eyes and a blouse of deep jade walked up towards the girl and handed her a bouquet of red roses. A man in the front row handed her another, and more and more until the woman with the deep jade blouse had to help the cellist carry them all.
She exited stage left, and still the claps persisted. They went on and on. The pianist had even ceased, turning attention to the crowd, whose smiles wouldn't fade.
She appeared once more, arms empty, and shrugged, an amused look on her face. She bowed once more, until the claps had stopped, and the tears had dried.
How the pianist wanted to wander backstage. He wanted to ask when she'd learned to play, and how she felt. Wanted to see her. Talk to her.
She hadn't even looked at him.
Alas, he played along with the next piece as well, and he knew this would run for at least ten minutes, maybe eleven. Who knew where she would go, and if he'd even have a chance to stop and speak with her.
He sighed inwardly, exhaling as he began to play.
It would be a long performance.
It had been a long performance.
His suit was beginning to itch. Or maybe it was just his skin, crawling with want and a subtle undertone of anxiety. Would she be gone? Or would she be there, sitting? Would she be wearing her wine spilled gown, or would she have stripped and dressed in plain clothes?
No matter what the circumstances, he realized as he shook hands with the conductor, he would be nervous. It would be a win-lose kind of situation, either way.
He laughed under his breath, ducking his head and escaping the stage lights. He rounded a corner and made his way towards a dressing room. He was already loosening his bow tie when he turned the doorknob and made for the dark space.
"Hello, John," a voice called.
He hesitated, retracting his advance and closing the door instead of going inside.
A smile split across his face and he turned.
"Rose," he said, on the verge of laughing at his glee. "I was just about to go looking for you!"
"Were you now?"
She had changed out of her pretty dress into a big cream-colored cotton sweater with gray tights and long boots. She had a bouquet in her hands. Just a single white rose with fringes of pink along the the edges of the petals, wrapping towards the center.
Instead of answering her, he beckoned her closer, his smile dwindling until it was nothing more than a slight upward turn of his lips. His eyes darkened. He waited. "You were amazing. Everyone was so impressed," he whispered as she drew near.
"That means alot coming from you," her words were earnest.
Pulling her to him, he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. "I didn't know you could play."
"The cello?"
"The cello,"
Her laugh was airy. "Then you might not know as much about me as you let on,"
Looking deep into her eyes, he pondered that. They had known each other years. Years and years and years and he did. He knew her. But not knowing what she played made him a little anxious. "It just means..." he began, leaning down to kiss her, "We'll have to spend more time together."
She laughed another breathless laugh, leaning into his arms, tipping her head to meet his lips.
"I'm looking forward to it."
fin
Hi again UuU It's been a long, long while since I've last uploaded anything! This one has been sitting in my folders for sometime and I just keep forgetting to upload it. I finally sat down, remembered, and DID IT. Yes, good job myself!
Anyways. My friend is in a youth symphony and invited me to one of her concerts. The solo cellist did such a fantastic job, I had to write about it ouo
I thought the fact that she got an endless amount of claps was endearing UuU
I have lots of stories waiting in the wings! We'll see if I ever get them in, hahhaa (I'm so freaking bad at finishing them)