Once again author!anon quietly fails - by the end of the weekend, not by the weekend itself, of course. Silly LJ, why won't you let me edit my own anonymous comments? Anyway, thank you all for your patience, and thank you all doubly and triply for the lovely comments! I squeal endlessly over the fact that all over you are enjoying this. I would gladly reply to each of you, but I fear I would de-anon myself in about two seconds flat. I am not a clever anon when it comes to ... well, anonymity. I'll stop rambling and post now, how about that?
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The first scene played out beautifully. The casting was, frankly, the best Austria had seen since he had watched this very same opera debut years and years prior. The lead female singer had nothing less than the voice of an angel, every note carrying a delicate, tremulous quality while being loud enough to carry all the way to the back walls of the Staatsoper. Her male counterpart complemented her perfectly, his voice rumbling remarkably low but never enough to eclipse her. Together, they wove a feast for the ears, enough to make even Austria’s veteran senses come to life with the performance. He listened eagerly for every last detail of their voices, each enunciation a fresh joy and lingering delight.
When they came to the second scene, after a marvelous final note, he picked up a distinct cough from next to him. He glanced over to find Hungary giving him a look, one of her eyebrows raised. There was a tacit question in her eyes as to whether he’d forgotten that she was there, accompanied by a nearly certain knowledge that he likely had.
But he had not forgotten her.
…at least not completely.
He nodded to signify that he had understood. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he tapped a single finger to his lips. “Patience,” he whispered, so softly that he was scarcely more than mouthing it. With his other hand, he held hers more tightly, brushing along the back with his thumb.
It would be difficult, resisting the allure of the music; he knew that he could easily watch this entire opera without his mind wandering from the performance even once. But to have his ears thus delighted while bringing such great pleasure to the one he loved… that was a prospect strong enough to make him turn from even the most perfect performance he could ever dream to witness.
Hungary calmed down as the scene continued, lulled by the gentle stroking of his finger. Her hand rested in his, seemingly relaxed. But he knew this was not entirely true. That tension still strummed in her blood, its rhythm whispered against Austria’s skin with every beat of her heart. It was a beautifully minuscule, simple on the surface and yet so intricate upon examination, almost undetectable – his favorite type of cadence to study. A sudden desire filled him – no, a need, a need to bring that rhythm out, to make it pound louder and louder until he could hear nothing but that pulse against his skin and in his ears and echoed in his own chest.
He looked to the remote in his palm, now coated with a thin layer of sweat. He pressed the up arrow once, and the screen came to life. 90 beats per minute… normally a bit fast for his tastes, and so too was it a little fast for his tastes now. He clicked it down, to 80, to 65, to 50…
Yes, 50 seemed about right.
Austria envisioned that tempo in his mind, a gentle pace: largo. Having established that, he shut his eyes for a moment and summoned a memory, an old one, replayed a thousand times...
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Sweet Music (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2012-02-20 04:24 am (UTC)(link)------
The first scene played out beautifully. The casting was, frankly, the best Austria had seen since he had watched this very same opera debut years and years prior. The lead female singer had nothing less than the voice of an angel, every note carrying a delicate, tremulous quality while being loud enough to carry all the way to the back walls of the Staatsoper. Her male counterpart complemented her perfectly, his voice rumbling remarkably low but never enough to eclipse her. Together, they wove a feast for the ears, enough to make even Austria’s veteran senses come to life with the performance. He listened eagerly for every last detail of their voices, each enunciation a fresh joy and lingering delight.
When they came to the second scene, after a marvelous final note, he picked up a distinct cough from next to him. He glanced over to find Hungary giving him a look, one of her eyebrows raised. There was a tacit question in her eyes as to whether he’d forgotten that she was there, accompanied by a nearly certain knowledge that he likely had.
But he had not forgotten her.
…at least not completely.
He nodded to signify that he had understood. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he tapped a single finger to his lips. “Patience,” he whispered, so softly that he was scarcely more than mouthing it. With his other hand, he held hers more tightly, brushing along the back with his thumb.
It would be difficult, resisting the allure of the music; he knew that he could easily watch this entire opera without his mind wandering from the performance even once. But to have his ears thus delighted while bringing such great pleasure to the one he loved… that was a prospect strong enough to make him turn from even the most perfect performance he could ever dream to witness.
Hungary calmed down as the scene continued, lulled by the gentle stroking of his finger. Her hand rested in his, seemingly relaxed. But he knew this was not entirely true. That tension still strummed in her blood, its rhythm whispered against Austria’s skin with every beat of her heart. It was a beautifully minuscule, simple on the surface and yet so intricate upon examination, almost undetectable – his favorite type of cadence to study. A sudden desire filled him – no, a need, a need to bring that rhythm out, to make it pound louder and louder until he could hear nothing but that pulse against his skin and in his ears and echoed in his own chest.
He looked to the remote in his palm, now coated with a thin layer of sweat. He pressed the up arrow once, and the screen came to life. 90 beats per minute… normally a bit fast for his tastes, and so too was it a little fast for his tastes now. He clicked it down, to 80, to 65, to 50…
Yes, 50 seemed about right.
Austria envisioned that tempo in his mind, a gentle pace: largo. Having established that, he shut his eyes for a moment and summoned a memory, an old one, replayed a thousand times...