Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters and elements from the Star Wars universe, created and trademarked by George Lucas and currently owned by Disney. I do not claim ownership over any Star Wars characters or elements from the Star Wars Universe. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and is not claiming to be any part of the Star Wars canon. Thank you to Disney for letting me play with the characters and not suing me for writing them into a new situation.
NOCTURNE IN THE KEY OF B SOLO
by MALOREIY
~ Chapter 3 ~
He woke up in the morning feeling disoriented.
The sunlight and the room seemed the same as always, making him wonder if the frantic composing of the night before had simply been a dream.
Throwing back the covers, he raced out into the living room, ridiculously reassured to see that it looked like a tornado had passed through. The piano, the bench, and the floor was covered with sheets of staff paper, and he'd forgotten to turn the light off.
He ran a hand through his hair and then down his face.
He was so tired.
He'd reached a breakthrough, but he was unnerved at the toll the emotional outburst had taken on him.
He rubbed at his eyes, trying to make sense of it all.
It just wasn't like him. He wasn't the type to yearn for things like love and family and moonlight. He was strong and independent, and, he had it on good authority, a right cold bastard.
He didn't know where all those feelings had come from. He didn't know how long they'd been growing there. . .how long he'd been ignoring them.
He didn't know if letting them out meant he wouldn't be able to put them back.
He couldn't unsee the vision of himself contentedly watching the woman he loved sleeping in their bed.
Her face was a blur, because she wasn't a person. She was just…a hope. A possibility.
It made him sick to his stomach. He didn't want that kind of complication in his life. He didn't need those kinds of human connections.
Except that there was a part of him that apparently did.
He shook his head and went to make some coffee. He ought to look at what he'd written, but there was a mounting fear that it wouldn't be as good as he remembered.
He needed it to be brilliant.
If it wasn't, he'd be stuck again, unable to meet Snoke's requirements.
But more than that…if it wasn't brilliant…did it mean that even when he pulled out emotions from the depth of his cold, black heart…that it would never be good enough?
He shuddered.
The fear and uncertainty made him so angry. He'd always responded with anger. It was what he knew best. When he felt most broken was when he was most likely to break something.
But there was no one to be mad at, and he didn't have time for the tantrum. So he reached for the iron-clad discipline that was the only thing he'd learned from his uncle, and he poured his morning caffeine.
The scalding hot coffee burned his mouth, but he didn't care. The sharp burst of pain only helped him to ground himself in reality.
When his nerves were sufficiently steeled, he went back into the living room to gather together the papers. Obviously it would need some refining, either way. He needed to put a lot of work into it if he was going to get it ready in just a couple of weeks. He told himself not to expect too much from the initial draft.
Then he stopped short.
There was a note under the door.
White, square, heavy stationery.
He snatched it up, absurdly anxious to see what it said.
It didn't even start with 'Dear Neighbor' this time. It just began.
'That was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. It made me cry. I'm surprised you didn't hear me bawling like a baby. I know you don't usually play my requests, but could you consider playing it again sometime?'
The pride and triumph streaked through him, and he was reminded again of that colt racing the storm. He'd written something. And it had made someone feel.
He didn't need the validation of his sappy neighbor with the poor musical taste…but having it tasted better than his coffee.
Strangely energized, his exhaustion abruptly forgotten, he gathered up all of the papers, thankful that he'd remembered to label them numerically.
It was good. It wasn't brilliant yet. But it would be.
He could see where he needed to rearrange some of the themes to build the proper tension. He'd need to pull back on some of the embellishments toward the beginning, add the elaborate runs in more sparingly. But the epic feel of it was there.
The notes on the paper brought the sound of it back into his head. It resonated inside of him, filling him up in a way that made him marvel he had ever been so empty.
It was magic. Music was magic.
Ben Solo had always known that, but he thought that perhaps for the first time, he truly believed it.
He reached over to the piano keys to tinker with a few sections when he remembered something.
If he practiced his movement, his neighbor would think he was playing it for them, since they made it a point to request it.
He didn't feel as adamant about rejecting this request as he had the others, for obvious reasons. But it still made him hesitate with his fingers above the keyboard.
Were they listening right now? Could he work on polishing all those tiny flaws with an audience?
He changed his mind and closed the keyboard, remembering to turn off his piano lamp this time.
He would go to the studio and work on it there. They had recording facilities that would give him a chance to listen to it and review it more objectively.
He tried to tell himself that it was just for practical reasons he was moving his work to the studio today, but he couldn't shake the vague sense of guilt as he snuck past the doors of his neighbors toward the elevator.
Snoke gave his grudging acceptance of the final movement.
Ben felt distinctly like he was being mocked, but pleasing his mentor was so rare that he considered it fortunate that he managed something that met his standards. Once it was polished, he was sure Snoke would not regret letting him play the original work.
They were still fighting about making it the last piece he performed, but Ben was adamant that it needed to be the finale.
Snoke, in return, insisted that he do all of his practicing at the studio where he could micromanage every aspect of his performance.
Normally Ben hated that, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make if he could get the program that he wanted.
It also solved one little problem for him. If all of his practicing was in the studio, his nosy neighbor wouldn't be getting their latest request, either.
He wanted to feel pleased, but the guilt still plagued him at odd times of the day.
It was ridiculous because he shouldn't care at all if a stranger who constantly invaded his privacy with their messages was getting their feelings hurt just because he couldn't be nagged into playing music for them.
But since he was spending several hours a day in the studio, he wasn't receiving any more notes. He was appalled to discover he kind of missed them.
It was the first thing he checked for when he arrived home, even though he knew it was silly.
One day, though, that white square of paper was waiting for him.
He pounced on it immediately, dropping his messenger bag on the floor in his haste to see what it said.
'Dear Neighbor, I haven't heard you playing lately. BB8 (that's my dog) and I have missed the sound of it. We like to sit on the sofa and listen in the evenings. I eat ice cream, and he chews on his antler bone. Sometimes he howls a tiny little bit. I think he's singing. I'm sorry if my requests seem demanding, I just really like to listen to your music, and you seem to enjoy it so much. Anyway, I was getting kind of worried. I hope you are okay. I thought about knocking and checking, but figured you didn't want to hear any more from me than you already did. But if you aren't okay, and need something, like chicken soup, or to borrow a cup of sugar, please let me know.'
It was signed with a smiley face. Next to it was another smiley face, smaller, with pointy ears, and a tongue hanging out. An arrow pointed at it, and it said, 'BB8.'
There was a real smile on his face this time, the first time one of the notes had done that.
He didn't crumple the note, and he didn't put it in the jar. He left it out on the counter.
That evening, when he sat to play at the piano he'd ignored for a couple of weeks, he told himself that since they hadn't requested anything, he wasn't playing for them.
He was just…relaxing. Relaxing by playing his favorites for fun, instead of practicing his performance pieces.
But he thought about the mystery neighbor, sitting in an unspecified apartment, eating ice cream and playing with their dog.
And the idea of it made him smile again.
A/N: Happy update day! And I know mostly people just say "antler," but my dogs don't KNOW what an antler is, so I tell them it's a bone. An antler bone. #SorryNotSorry
SR: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME (CRW), meaning feel free to leave constructive criticism if you are so inclined