I had 95% of this finished by Wednesday, and it was going to be up by Thursday, but then I sort of, uh, lost my muse. I found it though! Annoying little bugger, he was hiding under my couch with the plot bunnies I swept under there a while ago.
Really guys, if Anti-Cosmo plays any instrument, it is the piano. Luckily for me, I'm an expert on pianos. Gee, writing for AC just gets easier and easier, don't it? No, but seriously, this just makes it so much simpler than if, say, he played the timpani.
Disclaimer: Is it too early to start asking for Christmas presents? No? Okay, then. Well, if you see Butch Hartman around anywhere, tell him I'd like the rights to The Fairly OddParents for Christmas.
17. Melody (Prompt 047)
Lean fingers drum on white and black keys, creating an erratic melody that fills the room with sound. A posh-looking anti-fairy sits at the piano, eyes narrowed in concentration as his fingers fly across the keys. The song is more of a warm-up exercise than anything, but the speed and ranging dynamics create a more complex tune.
"Anti-Cozzie?"
One finger slips, hitting an E, and the figure sitting on the piano bench stills his hands. Slightly peeved, he turns around, doing his best not to scowl. "Yes?"
Another anti-fairy, this one with a southern drawl and crooked teeth, floats into the room looking curiously at her husband. She plops down beside him, and tilts her head slightly to the side. "Teach me," she says simply.
"Teach you?" He asks, perplexed. "Teach you how to play the piano?"
"Yeah!" She nods enthusiastically.
For a moment, his mouth hangs agape, but he collects himself a second later. "Against my better judgement, alright." Anti-Cosmo pauses for a second, trying to think about what he should start with.
But Anti-Wanda, impatient as ever, uses her two pointer fingers and begins to strike random keys, an odd combination of sounds emerging from the piano.
"No, no, no, no, no," Anti-Cosmo sighs, grabbing her hands and adjusting them so each finger is resting on a white key. "Like this, my dimwitted damsel. You're going to need all ten digits for this."
She frowns, pressing each key with a different finger and then shifting so only her pointer fingers touch the keys. "But this's easier!" She whines.
"It shall be easier my way when you actually start playing!" He insists, and she reluctantly moves the rest of her fingers up to the white keys.
He moves her hands again, this time so that her left pinkie it sitting on a C, and that the rest of the fingers on that hand form a C chord. He does the same with the other hand, and then places his own hands an octave above.
"Firstly, I want you to attempt to play only every odd note." He instructs, showing her how to press down on her pinkie, then middle finger, and thumb all at once. She tries to copy his actions, but ends up playing all five notes instead.
He sighs, but cannot help the small smile that finds its way onto his lips. "I'll help you," he says, placing his own nimble hands on top of hers, and gently playing the C, E, and G. "See?" He says after doing this a few times. "Now, you try."
In deep concentration, she hesitantly plays the first note, then the second, and finally, the third. "Did I do it?"
He nods. "Perfectly, my dear. Now try the same thing with your right hand."
"Uh . . ."
Anti-Cosmo places his hands on top of hers again, demonstrating the proper notes. "Just like this," he tells her, and removes his hands. "Give it a go."
The notes waver slightly, and aren't as confident as Anti-Cosmo's elegant display, but he supposes they'll suffice for now.
"Very good. Now, trying playing both at the same time."
Anti-Wanda presses down with both hands, and two C chords can be clearly heard. Anti-Cosmo grins; his wife isn't unteachable after all.
He settles his hands back on the piano, and plays the same notes Anti-Wanda just had. "Can you play them detached?" He asks, executing one note at a time, the pitch raising with each step. He plays each note twice over, slowly so that Anti-Wanda's eyes can follow.
She frowns, but looks back at her own hands and slowly plays each note separately. "I did it!" She grins, wriggling happily in her seat.
For some reason, his wife's girlish elation never fails to evoke a small smile from Anti-Cosmo. "So you did. Now, try this . . ."
After many minutes, and a boatload of patience on Anti-Cosmo's part, Anti-Wanda is able to play part of a simple exercise, one Anti-Cosmo often uses to warm up his fingers for all of the jumping around this instrument seems to require.
"See, and once you reach the top, you continue by moving back down, but on different keys," he explains, showing her how he moves down to a G chord once his digits are nearing the end of the keys. "You move down to here," he instructs, taking her hands and going through the motions. "And do what you what just doing, except in the opposite direction!"
He demonstrates again, this time putting the entire thing together.
Anti-Wanda's lips come together to form a small "o" and she nods, placing her hands back onto the keyboard.
"Not there," her husband scolds gently, moving her hands up by three notes. "You're starting on C, remember?"
"Mhmm," Anti-Wanda hums, not really paying attention. She starts to play, using her left hand, then her right hand, and then her right hand has to cross over, and . . . oh! Then her right hand has to cross too!
When she finishes the four broken chords, she glances up at Anti-Cosmo. "Now whadda I do?"
In response, he nudges her hands down a few keys. "Now play it again, except move down. Which means you're going to want to start with your right pinkie," he adds before she can make a mistake.
Her rose-coloured eyes narrow in concentration as she tries to remember all this information. After a few mishaps, she's finally capable of heading down the keyboard as well as up it.
Anti-Cosmo smiles wearily once she's completed the trip down successfully. "There," he sighs. "One quarter down, three more to go."
Finally, after what seems like a millenium (and he isn't exaggerating: he's lived through several of them) he's finally taught Anti-Wanda the rest of the short tune, and she is able to play it almost masterfully. He's also looked out the window for indications of an apocalypse numerous times, but thankfully, there's no sign of one.
Anti-Wanda plays through the warm-up over and over again, and each time is a little better.
After a while of this, Anti-Cosmo stops her. Placing a foot on the right pedal, he tells her to continue. She does, only to jump when the notes suddenly begin to meld together, creating a smoother melody that seems to flow better.
"What'dja do?" She asks, mystified and a little intrigued.
He gestures to one of the pedals beneath the keys. "I pressed the damper pedal. It takes the dampers off of the strings and allows them to vibrate as they wish, creating a longer and often louder sound. It was first invented by Gottfried Silbermann, a German human, but was later perfected by the late Johann Andreas Stein." He realises too late that he was beginning to ramble, and his cheeks darken by a shade. "Er, anyway, it holds the notes that you play, allowing you to play legato more easily."
Anti-Wanda opens her mouth to say something, but Anti-Comso cuts her off. "Legato is musical-talk for smooth, or connected." He explains, and she nods in understanding. "Now, let's try this again, except I will pedal for you."
And so the teaching resumes, a single set of hands sliding somewhat gracefully over the ivory keys, and a solitary foot holding down the pedal, lifting every so often like a swimming child coming up for air. After a few minutes of this, Anti-Wanda sits back. "You play something," she says.
He quirks an eyebrow at her. "Oh? Like what?"
"Do the one y'all was playin' before I started askin' ya tah teach me!"
"If you insist." He slides over to the centre of the piano bench, setting his hands up and taking a deep breath.
His fingers are off like a shot, the sounds of various chords pouring out from the piano like water from a pitcher. This song is made up primarily of chords, all of them played staccato and loudly, the left hand slightly louder than the right.
Anti-Wanda is mesmerized by Anti-Cosmo's flawless playing. How can anyone play the right keys that quickly, that perfectly? Just as she's sure his hands can't fly any faster, they move up in symmetry, the right one beginning a scale that makes Anti-Wanda dizzy simply from listening to it. He finishes with a flourish, hands moving up by two octaves to complete the song.
Even though she's heard her husband play the piano many a time, Anti-Wanda's never quite seen anything like this. The way his hands move across the smooth ivory; it's as if they have minds of their own! They way they leap from key to key, the way they know just which key to press, the way they know just how soft or loud that particular key needs to be, it's simply fascinating to her. How they heck does somebody memorize all of that?
"Practice," Anti-Cosmo responds, launching into another song, and it's then that Anti-Wanda realises she's been thinking aloud again. "After a while," Anti-Cosmo says, leaning closer to her to reach for a low note, "it becomes second nature."
This new song is less erratic than the first, switching unpredictability for dramatics, bounces for fluidity. Anti-Wanda can see her husband's leg twitch every so often, and notices that he's using that pedal agin. "How does ya do all that stuff at tha same time?" She asks. His hands are moving separately, his foot lifting the pedal at what seems to be random intervals.
She can see him shrug his shoulders, never taking his eyes off of the pattern of white-and-black keys for a moment. "I don't know. I suppose after a hundred or so times,you just get used to it."
"It's so pretty," she blurts suddenly, and this time, his hands still.
"Which part?" He asks curiously.
She places her own hands on the keys, suddenly wishing she could play that elegantly. "All ah' it. The music-y part is really nice, but teh way yur hands move and stuff looks so neat, and than it's all pretty when yah puts it together. It's just really intahrestin' tah watch." She pauses. "Makes meh wish I could do it."
"I've got an idea." He says, and positions his own hands on the keys. "Set your hands over mine," he tells her, and she obediently does as she's asked. "Now, I'm going to play something, and I want you to just keep your hands above mine, okay?"
"Okay . . ." She trails off uncertainly.
He begins, this time with a soft bounce in the right hand and a rapid sequence of notes in the left. His right hand shifts slightly to press a black key, and suddenly his left hand shifts as well, springing off of a small charcoal note and onto a higher snow-white one.
As he plays, Anti-Wanda marvels at the feel of his hands as the fingers connected to them twitch, the muscles inside contracting only to separate a second later. His hands are not dainty, really, but there's an air of gracefulness and elegance about them as they leap from key to key.
She glances at his face. His oddly-coloured eyes are fixated on the piano, and are squinted ever so slightly in concentration. His eyebrows are close to being knitted together, small wrinkles forming in their inner corners. Anti-Wanda loves this look, and for some reason, he always looks the most relaxed when he's concentrating. If she had the vocabulary for it, Anti-Wanda would probably dub it the best paradox this side of Texas.
She begins to ponder this, his face, and its complexities, but doesn't notice Anti-Cosmo's song slow and come to a stop.
He had felt her stare on him throughout the melody, and though it hadn't bothered him, it did piqué his curiosity. He turns to her now, that same curiosity lighting his gaze, and sees that she's lost in thought, her rose eyes unfocused.
Anti-Cosmo figures she'll be awhile; after all, thought is unfamiliar territory for his dimwitted damsel.
He looks back at her, analysing her features. He starts with her hair, her soft, fluffy hair that he so loves to run his fingers through—not, that anyone, uh, knows about that, of course. It's strange to him how she can barely remember the difference between a knife and fork, yet still manage to keep her hair delectably fluffy, sort of like cotton candy. He glances at her eyes, another feature of hers that reminds him of cotton candy; this time because of their colour. For the record, her eyes are probably his favourite aspect of her physical appearance. Her teeth, crooked as they may be, are unique, and he really wouldn't prefer them any other way.
"Cozzie?" Her voice brings him out of his musings.
"Yes?"
"Whatcha lookin' at?"
A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "You, my dear."
"Oh."
They're both silent for a moment. "Do you want to learn another song? I'm sure I can muster up the patience for it," Anti-Cosmo says.
His wife grins. "Shore!"
And so they begin, Anti-Cosmo explaining the basics of the new song, demonstrating the same line once, twice, three times over. Anti-Wanda does her best to copy his seemingly effortless actions, she really does, but it's a tough song to play! Anti-Fairy World's resident genius sighs, but he isn't actually as exasperated as one might be lead to believe.
From this day forward, Anti-Wanda will never leave him alone while he is sitting at the piano. Most likely, she'll sit beside him and try to replicate his fanciful playing, only to mess up and have him spend the entire time teaching her. Not that either of them know this right now, obviously. Later, it'll become tradition for the two of them to play the piano, but for now, they simply sit and enjoy each other's company.
The sounds of the piano, the sweet, regal sounds, flood the room as the two of them play, creating odd little tunes that ricochet off walls and onto other walls, little blips of sound that fill the otherwise silent air. It's rare that either of them plays something sensical, but really, where's the fun in that?
2484 words, so yes, a little shorter than the more recent 'shots. Really though, you should all know I'm too lazy to keep up with the 3000+ word streak I've been on. Lots of description in here, compaired to the "usual" stuff. I sort of like it, now that I look at it. Huh.
It's late, and I shouldn't be up, but whatever.
Not-So-Fun Fun Fact: all four (or five, depending on what song he teaches Anti-Wanda at the end) songs Anti-Cosmo plays are real, and I've played them before. My personal favourite's the one he plays at the very beginning.
Care to play a game? Review this chapter, and we'll see how many reviews we can get before I wake up tomorrow, er, later today. Feel free to take your time; I enjoy sleeping in. XD