Chapter One-Performances

Snow-white, dainty fingers danced upon the onyx keys of the harpsichord in a triumphant cadenza as the crowd watched on in awe. The performer drew up to an angelic ascent and ended with a trill, cueing the orchestra's return into the piece passionately. The harpsichordist, who was also the composer and conductor, had a proud grin on his refined countenance when he took a glance at the listeners. They were all transfixed by the perfect and pristine melody. The sharp, high notes and emotive, low keys conjured up feelings in them they'd never felt before. One such person, whose description was far more advanced than the rest, gazed on at, not the orchestra, but the harpsichord's master. Although the music was beautiful, its creator was clearly the conqueror. Many of the audience wouldn't have found him attractive, but to Sebastian Howle, he was a surprise of sanguinity.

The keyboard concerto had a fantastic flourish of a finale. It roused greatness in the audience. The sound of the violins, violas, cellos and oboes still seemed to echo off the walls, as if the theatre was pleading for an encore. But it was not to be; Edward Cullen had to move on swiftly; he was the most famous composer in all of Europe and this demanded hundreds of performances. Already at the age of twenty and he'd vanquished seventeen European tours. Maestro Edward adored playing music, yet his domineering father seemed to be forcing him to play with such saturation that he thought at any moment he'd rebel against it.

The maestro bowed to the crowd, receiving many cheers. He looked around at the smiling faces, caring not for those he saw. Except one, the one of his newest admirer; Sebastian. It wasn't a lengthy look, nor was it one of conspicuous expressions, but it beheld the swiftness of electricity endured in the interlude of a second. Edward straightened his powdered wig, shook hands with the lead violinist, and left the stage in this brilliant ornate structure in central Manchester. He was to move at speed to his carriage and then make his way to Leeds, York, Edinburgh, Glasgow and then race back down to London for the conclusion of his year long tour. In all honesty, he was glad it was ending, however, he knew his father would be arranging an eighteenth.
The year was 1778, in autumn, and times in the musical realm were hastily changing. Not only in those waters were they altering either; in the sphere of homosexuality, there seemed to be many gentlemen's clubs sprouting up in all of the major cities in Europe. Of course, they were all underground and unapproachable by a heterosexual.
Sebastian Howle was pleased when he overheard talk of these clubs, scanning through an apathetical tome in Manchester's inspiring, circular library. It had been a week after the sell-out performance of Edward's concerto, and still was it plaguing on his confused mind. This, in turn, led to the thoughts he imagined he'd suppressed; thoughts of homosexual lust! He was both repulsed and reputed by the fantasy of kissing Edward Cullen's peach-practising lips, the fantasy of the composer trailing his soothing kisses up from Sebastian's hand, to his elbow, along his shoulder and upon his vulnerable neck.
Thus, when news had invaded his ears of these gentlemen's clubs, he was intrigued. He had to find a way to get rid of this dire desire.
At nine in the afternoon, on a chilly Tuesday, Sebastian sneaked from his room in the university's campus and walked down Oxford Road, keeping his head down at all times. He'd heard that the gentlemen's' club was without a legitimate name, so as not to be a pinpoint to the authorities, though it did have a nickname: The Alley. Sebastian, being an innocent nineteen year old, raised to believe any conjuration of lustful thoughts was a sin, knew not the implication of this name, instead suggesting it was perhaps because it was down an alleyway. Made perfect sense.
When he discovered the club, to much difficulty, he found that it was a cesspool of promiscuous prats. The building was abysmal in both stench and structure; it was near the canal, literally overlooking the murky water. There were men having sex right there, men leading man into the back rooms and men, being in the same position as Sebastian, watching on warily.
Immediately, Sebastian turned around in a huff and fled for the university. He was outraged that such acts were committed so carelessly. Why do the homosexuals of today have no respect for themselves? he thought.

With stealth, he made it to his bedroom. He plopped his head on the pillow and sighed with such sorrow that the howling of the wind outside was a weak opponent to its misery. He knew he'd have to marry a woman, have children and die. He'd never have a happy life; he was compelled to condemnation. Was the bearer of his past life a fiend? Had he done something wrong? Why had fate bestowed this gift of gall upon him? It was clear to him now that there was no light at the end of this tunnel; the only true candle or flicker was music. He would submerge himself in music to drown out his thoughts.

Meanwhile, miles away, in London, Edward Cullen was accepting gifts from his fans after his keyboard concerto. "Thank you, friends, it means much to be the target of your arrow of kindness," His voice was hoarse, chained.
Edward had had no encounters like the one in Manchester, with the boy of brown hair and pale skin, sharp nose and rosy lips. He was harbouring sinful thoughts of homosexuality again. He'd always done it; ever since he was a child. When he played for kings and queens, he was always hopeful of a kiss from a prince. But a kiss never arrived.
Still, he stifled the relentless reveries, as always.
Two hours had past, and Edward was at his grand manor in west London. His father was charting up the money brought in by his genius son and his mother was sat at the window, gazing out plaintively. The house, though of happy furniture, was without the former description. It was depressing, controlled by Carlisle Cullen's firm hand. "Edward," He bellowed to his child who was improvising on the pianoforte.
"Yes, father?" He replied, retracting his fingers from the keys.
"In about two months you'll commence in another tour; we have made buckets of money from this one, so we need to reap more," Carlisle's tone was sour and greedy.
Edward's eyes had a melancholic glaze over them for a brief moment, but he wiped it away, "Of course, father. I shall do as you wish."
"It'll just be in Britain though; Europe takes too much time. I think you should spend a bit more time in Manchester; your performance sold out there faster than anywhere else. Right, dismissed."
And lo, Edward nodded, headed off to his room and began to compose another jolly, artificial piece for the upcoming tour. He named it the 'Eine Kleine Nachtmusik', in honour of his German fans...

This was written by 'fictionoffans'. Ant1gon3 shall write the next chapter. Hope you enjoyed it!