Beethoven's Birdwatching

It's early February when it first happens. The leafy shoots are not quite taking hold on the trees yet, the plum blossoms only just beginning to flower. The air is sharp and clear and the sunlight a gentle glow against the ground - everything looks crisp and fresh and inviting, and perhaps this is why Beethoven decides on the spur of the moment to go for a walk. Something about the idea of going outside and just wandering through the rural scenery appeals to him in a way he just can't put his finger on - perhaps it is something he needs to remember.

All the more reason to clear his head, then - he's been languishing indoors in one of his dark moods for too long anyway. He rises from his seat by the window, not bothering to call out where he is going - whether this is because he thinks nobody will care or because he is uncertain of where to go himself he does not know.

He has been walking for some time now, breathing in the winter air and letting it gnaw and worry at his lungs, turquoise eyes taking in his surroundings. He is briskly walking down a narrow lane with hedgerows on either side, not fast enough to bypass the enjoyment of the outing but not too slowly either - slowness is not something he will tolerate in large doses today. Today he is wind and sky and sunlight, high notes and crescendos and chiming melodies contributed to by his heartbeat and his breath and his footsteps all coming together in one symphony, that exciting, intense, intriguing symphony known as Life.

It is as he reaches this moment of clarity that it happens - that he hears it. His train of thought, so often unstoppable as it barrels on towards it's intended destination, is sharply diverted onto a new set of tracks as a new sound blossoms into place among the rustling of the leaves and the brushing of the wind against the hedgerows.

"CHWEE! Chwee Chwe-we-WE-we!"

Beethoven finally slows, one eyebrow raising in slight bewilderment as he searches for the source of the sound. No sooner does he approach the spot where he thinks he heard it than it sounds from a completely different direction, further up the lane.

"What is this madness?"

He chases the sound up and down the lane for a good twenty minutes before he finally thinks to question the subject of his fascination - what on earth had possessed him to pursue the wretched sound with such determination?

Secretly, he knows the answer. From the moment he heard the sound he has been able to feel the long forgotten memory he was previously pondering retreating from the darkest recesses of his mind into the blinding light of clarity. But now the sound has finally ceased, and it's slipping again. He has to get back, has do something to stop it from falling out of his grasp altogether...

When Beethoven returns home the house initially seems to be empty for the afternoon, until he hears a cry of "Beethoven-Senpai!" and Franz - Schubert, that's his name, he reprimands himself - rushes to his side holding a steaming black coffee. Beethoven still cannot fathom the reason behind the man's deep-rooted loyalty and admiration for him - he is great at what he does, yes, but surely he has done nothing truly good or noble to deserve the man's unrivalled attention to such a degree. He hardly classes his seemingly out-of-nowhere dark moods, (he wishes he could escape them, but it is not to be, it seems) his abrupt, borderline cold manner or his quick temper as being worthy of this devotion.

He has tried ignoring it in the hopes that it will discourage the man, but he is not easily deterred. It isn't good for Schubert to place such high esteem in him, placing the great Ludwig van Beethoven far above himself. The man undervalues himself - what he has seen of Schubert's music is incredibly impressive, and if he continues this way then his great potential shall continue to grow. He is not worth the trouble that the younger composer goes to for him.

However, they cannot continue in this endless circle of admiration and constant dismissal, and so he takes the coffee and thanks the man for his kindness. He feels something ache within him at how happy this seems to make Schubert, and wants nothing more than to yell at him to stop this nonsense, to stop pursuing his idol in this way when to see greatness he need not look any further than himself. But breaking the man's trust in him would hurt just as much as seeing it continue.

"You're most welcome, Beethoven-Senpai!"

"Enough of this, just Beethoven. We are all the same here, Schubert."

He walks past Franz into the sitting room so as to avoid his reaction, allowing the coffee mug to warm his chilled hands after his excursion. Sousuke must have rushed out for something, as Pad-Kun is lying face down on the sofa. He turns it over and it comes out of standby, appearing pleased to see him.

"Ah, Beethe-san! How nice to see you! I see Sousuke forgot me again, of course."

Beethoven wastes little time with pleasantries, describing the sound to the device and waiting as it churns out results. Finally he finds an audio file that looks promising, so he plays it...

And there it is. The sound is not quite so sharp and clear when recorded rather than in the open air, however it is unmistakeable all the same. As he hears it once more it seems that at least part of the memory returns, as now there is a jumble of sounds and notes in his mind. He quickly snatches up a pen and a handkerchief - the nearest things to him - and tries to make sense of the notes as they come, scribbling each one down. And indeed, as he writes the more they begin to make sense to him, until he can place each one in perfect order. He thinks the arrangement seems strikingly familiar - until he tries whistling the tune, over and over until he gets the rhythm just right. He ignores Schubert, who is peeking around the doorway and listening in silent appreciation, and indeed so lost in the tune is he that he almost misses Pad-Kun's next words.

"Ludwig van Beethoven's 2nd Symphony, the opening of the fourth movement!"

His gaze shotting back to the screen of the device, Beethoven goes back to the audio file and looks at the name and image alongisde it - a dark beige little bird with a stubby tuft for a tale, feathers the colour of the froth on a hot chocolate.

"Cetti's Warbler - Cettia Cetti."

And so he knows why this memory returned. He bends over in silent thought as Schubert collects the now-empty coffee mug, wondering how certain birds and certain people can give him such pause and fascination where no others can.