I'm not putting this under a cut.
This is theprerogative signing in for glockdown. She is alive, just sleeping on my floor and because I forced her, here, have a ficlet :DDDDDD
The boy is a talent. That much is unmistakable. Thin, with that pale hair; he first whips into the office clutching Rachmaninov; eyes bigger than his stomach and ambition as abundant as the sheaf of papers in his hands. The meister eases back into his chair as he recalls the moment, and what sits stiffly in front of him, which is like nothing so much as opening an umbrella to find only the skeleton.
"I can't say anything about your technique that you don't already know," he begins heavily, and pierces Gokudera with his gaze.
"You play like a stone."
Passionless at such a young age; Madara has never before seen Chopin rendered by an animated corpse.
Gokudera is undoubtedly a genius. Timing so tight that a scalpel couldn't cut through it, but as he pulls notes from the piano, it's obvious he feels nothing at all. Ability wasted on the damned, maybe, and Madara can't reconcile himself with it: a student who practices feverishly, throwing himself at scales with the concentration reserved for concertos, and yet his music is lifeless. In the end, it's a sole war hymn that coaxes some emotion, and even then he performs as a man possessed, as though the sound is wrung right out of him.
Madara is concerned for all his students; their state of mind, occasionally their home life and finances. Gokudera is less talkative than most, arguably more revealing, and if Madara were the type to have favourites, Gokudera may well be it. And so it is with this resting on his mind that he sends the letter; a request for a duet with one Sawada Tsunayoshi.
The boy is a talent. That much is unmistakable. Thin, with that pale hair; he first whips into the office clutching Rachmaninov; eyes bigger than his stomach and ambition as abundant as the sheaf of papers in his hands. The meister eases back into his chair as he recalls the moment, and what sits stiffly in front of him, which is like nothing so much as opening an umbrella to find only the skeleton.
"I can't say anything about your technique that you don't already know," he begins heavily, and pierces Gokudera with his gaze.
"You play like a stone."
Passionless at such a young age; Madara has never before seen Chopin rendered by an animated corpse.
Gokudera is undoubtedly a genius. Timing so tight that a scalpel couldn't cut through it, but as he pulls notes from the piano, it's obvious he feels nothing at all. Ability wasted on the damned, maybe, and Madara can't reconcile himself with it: a student who practices feverishly, throwing himself at scales with the concentration reserved for concertos, and yet his music is lifeless. In the end, it's a sole war hymn that coaxes some emotion, and even then he performs as a man possessed, as though the sound is wrung right out of him.
Madara is concerned for all his students; their state of mind, occasionally their home life and finances. Gokudera is less talkative than most, arguably more revealing, and if Madara were the type to have favourites, Gokudera may well be it. And so it is with this resting on his mind that he sends the letter; a request for a duet with one Sawada Tsunayoshi.