The music moved through him, breathed through him, ached inside of him, was him. Notes; sharps, flats, neutrals, crescendos, eighths, halves, whichever way they came, they came of their own accord, willingly, wanting. He knew what they wanted, his job was to interpret the flow as it muddled around in his brain, make it clear, readable. And it wanted to be listened to. The music wanted to be presented in its best possible way in any form imaginable.
He worked long, hard, almost a slave, a slave of love, love for the notes, the music that presented itself to him, at all and any time. His hands were strong and lean. Muscular. From all the work he did, the markings and musings, do overs. Playing it all out to his hearing impaired ears, tuning it.
Stretching his arms above his head, Beethoven looked at the newly inked white ages in front of him, and gave what could be passed as a smile. The candle was almost to the end of its wick, looking as tired as he felt. Carrying it with him he opened the door softly (piano, soft) to his nephew's room.
The lad was fast asleep, worn out from emotional tug of wars, and the whirl and blue of what was going on around him. Beethoven smiled fondly at the young boy. Now he had something to live for, apart from himself, and his music. To get him up (crescendo, louder) and about, breathe the air around him as if it were a new wonder.
Smiling he left the room and made his way to his own room. Thoughtfully, he changed from his ink soaked shirt into his nightwear, blowing the almost dead candle out.
Pulling the freezing blankets up to his chin, his thoughts turned (somewhat sleepily) to his life, as it was, at the moment.
His music, what has been presented, was liked. His nephew adored him (as much as he could tell), and liked to watch him work. And a lady (what was her name? No matter), she would be at the party the next night, clutching at her husband's arm, fanning her face, touching his arm (though not sexually, of course not) as she congratulated him on his latest piece.
Her, who would later join him on a deserted floor, her cries (forte, loud) muffled into his shoulder as he bit his own back.
Then back to the group downstairs (separately, or course), smiling calmly and happily to the guests ("Oh, I have no idea how that button came undone!" "The lace is torn, but how? But how? This is just you know. Special order from France.")
He fell asleep as the sun peeked tiredly over the rooftops, turning everything a happy, dreamy pink, a smile playing more openly upon his face.