(A/N)
I actually typed this chapter as an english assignment and got away with it! HAH.
Also, if you see any typos, or sentences that you think would sound better another way, feel free to tell me. Actually, I'd like to make you obligated to tell me, but I really can't force you guys to do anything... ^-^
I sometimes see typos in other fics, and I feel like the author will be mad or take it the wrong way if I tell them, so I never do. I just wanted to say that I'm not like that. Even if there's one part of a sentence that is hard to understand, please tell me!
Roderich took a deep breath and steadied his nerves at the sound of applause. His apprehension for this very moment climaxed. His hands trembled but he willed them to still, his heart fluttering nervously as he walked out on to the stage. Immediately, bright light assaulted him. The piano stood in the centre of the spotlight, gleaming majestically. Its ivory keys entranced him, and he became oblivious to his surroundings in that moment. All that mattered was that masterpiece of uniform black and white. He approached the piano, finally, and the crowd drew a breath. They were watching the young virtuoso Roderich Edelstein at his largest performance yet. At the tender age of seven, and already such a master, he was dubbed the next Mozart. People attributed his skills to diligent practice, to natural born talent, or to supernatural means, but no one disputed his skill on the piano. Those that regarded him jealously or with contempt hoped he would have no skill with the crowd.
Roderich settled gently on the bench. Someone in the crowd coughed. He looked up at the music sheets in front of him; a piece he had worked on tirelessly for this performance for the last few months. He wished for more time to improve it, because it seemed too stiff, but the performance dawned, and this was it: he was here.
He stared at the notes, little blots on the stark white paper. Somehow, the scripted quality of the piece didn't seem right to him. He tried to placate himself with little success. The crowd was growing impatient. Suddenly, he grabbed the piece and threw it aside. The audience gasped as the pieces of paper fluttered to the ground. What was this? Simply drama, an act of rebellion, what?
Then Roderich began to play. He started out slowly at first, as though testing the keys. His fingertips caressed the keys lovingly. Then, he began to play. He pounded on the keys with a sudden fury and passion that made him seem almost intimidating. The furious piece was coloured with the occasional somber tone, peppered with pieces of calm, lilting melodies that were harshly but seamlessly interrupted by low, dark notes in abundance, and not an erroneous note to be heard. It was flawless and passionate, and it seemed to go on forever.
When he finally ended his extemporaneous piece, panting and sweating, he was met with uproarious applause. The entire crowd stood almost simultaneously and the outburst was so deafening it almost startled Roderich off his seat. He shakily got up and faced the crowd through the light. They were all cheering his name, and whistling and clapping, and his small body became filled with the joy of being so appreciated by so many. This was it! This was his moment of glory. He basked in the light, he bowed low, he smiled more than he had in his entire life, and he woke up.
Feliciano's eyes snapped open and he sat up and gasped like someone who had almost been drowned. Pungent sweat poured down his face and his clammy hands shook, smelling of human fear. His heart pounded in his chest and he felt himself being dragged across the divide over and over again. His innocent brain was assaulted with grisly images and wonderful images, intense love that was not his, vice that was not his, images of things that never happened, things that could have been, and dreams long forgotten. He grasped on to the sheets and wrung them in his hands, willing himself to breathe but finding he couldn't. He realized it was because he was screaming. He sat there for what felt like hours, pushing the unwanted memories away. He knew it was a consequence of being exposed to the shift in continuity; or, a consequence of being the shift. He had been receiving these in small amounts ever since his fiasco years ago, but it was never this strong.
He finally moved, to look at the time. 6:15. It was almost morning anyway. He sighed and plopped back down on the sheets, throwing his phone aside. He looked to the side at his window. Almost translucent curtains softly filtered the strange light of mattina, the dark time just before dawn. He stared at the blank sky and thought to himself. I gotta find a way to cross Roddy over... he's so sad nowadays. Gil has been a bit better but he's still a secluded mess... Feliciano shifted onto his back. There's no way to kill him. He's already dead, just a wandering soul... and persuading him hasn't worked at all! Besides, it's not like there's a real body that both of the wanderers could inhabit permanently... ugh! Unless...
Then it dawned on him. Soft pink light embraced his still form. He lay there with his mouth gaping and his eyes wide, shocked by his own revelation. ...Could it work? Was his connection with the continuity that versatile?
It would, and he knew it, but was he really ready to make that choice? Could his altruism extend that far? He would have to plan very carefully. It was the type of scheme that required prudence that he did not have, but he didn't give that much thought.
(A/N)
Feliciano what the heckles are you trying to do? Find out next time, whenever that may be.