Porncircuses, and a bit more of the long forgotten Musician AU
So here's the thing: I'm not a complete ditz. So why, when going in to try on some clothes, did the shop assistant completely patronize me? God, it must just be something about me that makes them think I'm incapable of performing basic tasks. And maybe I wasn't looking entirely...with it when I walked into the changing room, but maybe that is because I was thinking about porn. Ok? Ok. Yeah, my mind is a cross between a circus and a porn studio. You cannot judge me.
God, I'm reading through Walt Whitman. The man has a shiny, twisty brain, and reminds me so much of Dylan Thomas, and Alan Ginsberg and I am so damn happy I'm taking English lit, and if I start complaining about how I'll need to study for zillions of years before I have any sort of a degree I can do stuff with, kick me in the head. Because hi, I have no real idea of what I'm going to do. I only know that what I'm doing now is something I love. I guess I can't ask for much more than that.
And now, some more musician au. You can read more of this here, but basically, Ray Kowalski is a violinist, Benton Fraser is a 'cellist, and Ray Vecchio plays the piano. There is going to be a plot to all of this, I swear, and I am hammering out said plot, but am useless with things like plot arcs etc. So here is a snapshot, in which Fraser plays the cello, Ray accompanying, and we learn a little bit more about him. I've included an upload of the piece he's playing, and if you want any more explanation of the technical stuff etc, please shout out.
Fratres for cello and piano - this has been arranged in a number of different ways, this version's for cello, but there is a violin arrangement out there too. 570 words of Fraser celloporn.
He started on his own, fast string crossing, emphasis on the pedal note, the chords established even with the speeds of the notes. This bit was for the joy of watching his bow blur across the strings, the rise and fall of the music, the crescendo and then the pulling back, an advance and a retreat and through it all, freedom. Wild and pure, a meditation on repeated chords and rhythm.
Then the piano, a deep chord, authoritative. Ray would be frowning now, hands spanning the octaves, hunched over the rickety old upright he somehow managed to sound as sweet as Fraser’s cello. This was his shape, Ray was his guide through the music now. A dialogue, chords in the piano answered by the quieter plucking of the cello strings, the piano descending into notes that seemed to resonate through the floor, that seemed too low to be possible, adding darkness to it, a deep growling menace.
Higher chords then, up into the brighter register of the piano, purer notes that were answered with harmonics on the cello, Fraser’s fingers light on the strings, going unerringly to where the notes would sound, instinct guiding his hands. Up, up higher then down, changing notes as Ray changed chords and this was union, this was playing. He let himself wander, the patterns under his fingers guiding him as he played, held in place by Ray.
He played- he played her. She was in this music as surely as she was in Fraser’s heart. She was there with her quicksilver smile and the sad warmth in her eyes, the hair spread out on his pillow, the warmth she left in his bed even as she slipped out before dawn. The mad weeks of beginnings and ends, of coffee at midday and desperate groaned out climaxes in the dead of night. She was in this music the first time he had seen her, through the snow and driving wind. She was in this piece in the last time, too, in snapshots, moments, the whole too terrible to piece together, separated by the shutter of the camera.
Click. A crowded street, a bank, alarms going off, patrol cars screeching to a halt outside, officers running, clearing the street-
Click. Victoria, a gun, eyes cold, cold, too cold for him to meet without shivering. Wild as a caged animal-
Click. A police officer, mouth open, shouting, gun pointed at her, people around them frozen-
Click. Another officer, rushing forward-
Click. Her finger tightening-
Click. Falling. She was falling, falling, and would fall forever-
Click. Rushing forward, shoving past the bystanders, kneeling at her side, IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou-
Click. Her smile, sweet still, how was it sweet when her eyes were cloudy with pain-
Click. Her eyes fluttering shut. Click.
The piece was hers and playing it drove nails into his palms until he loved and hated with every note and Ray was the only thing holding him together, and every note was a sob, the piano the comforter, the sympathiser, rich dark notes of sorrow balancing it and maybe they were crying together. He was sweating by the end of it, leaned back in the chair and let his head fall back, storm passed, spell over. They were back in the room, he was himself, not sorrow, and Ray was a man at a piano stool covered with frayed velvet. It was a while before either of them moved or spoke, the spell of the piece still hanging there in the room.
God, I'm reading through Walt Whitman. The man has a shiny, twisty brain, and reminds me so much of Dylan Thomas, and Alan Ginsberg and I am so damn happy I'm taking English lit, and if I start complaining about how I'll need to study for zillions of years before I have any sort of a degree I can do stuff with, kick me in the head. Because hi, I have no real idea of what I'm going to do. I only know that what I'm doing now is something I love. I guess I can't ask for much more than that.
And now, some more musician au. You can read more of this here, but basically, Ray Kowalski is a violinist, Benton Fraser is a 'cellist, and Ray Vecchio plays the piano. There is going to be a plot to all of this, I swear, and I am hammering out said plot, but am useless with things like plot arcs etc. So here is a snapshot, in which Fraser plays the cello, Ray accompanying, and we learn a little bit more about him. I've included an upload of the piece he's playing, and if you want any more explanation of the technical stuff etc, please shout out.
Fratres for cello and piano - this has been arranged in a number of different ways, this version's for cello, but there is a violin arrangement out there too. 570 words of Fraser celloporn.
He started on his own, fast string crossing, emphasis on the pedal note, the chords established even with the speeds of the notes. This bit was for the joy of watching his bow blur across the strings, the rise and fall of the music, the crescendo and then the pulling back, an advance and a retreat and through it all, freedom. Wild and pure, a meditation on repeated chords and rhythm.
Then the piano, a deep chord, authoritative. Ray would be frowning now, hands spanning the octaves, hunched over the rickety old upright he somehow managed to sound as sweet as Fraser’s cello. This was his shape, Ray was his guide through the music now. A dialogue, chords in the piano answered by the quieter plucking of the cello strings, the piano descending into notes that seemed to resonate through the floor, that seemed too low to be possible, adding darkness to it, a deep growling menace.
Higher chords then, up into the brighter register of the piano, purer notes that were answered with harmonics on the cello, Fraser’s fingers light on the strings, going unerringly to where the notes would sound, instinct guiding his hands. Up, up higher then down, changing notes as Ray changed chords and this was union, this was playing. He let himself wander, the patterns under his fingers guiding him as he played, held in place by Ray.
He played- he played her. She was in this music as surely as she was in Fraser’s heart. She was there with her quicksilver smile and the sad warmth in her eyes, the hair spread out on his pillow, the warmth she left in his bed even as she slipped out before dawn. The mad weeks of beginnings and ends, of coffee at midday and desperate groaned out climaxes in the dead of night. She was in this music the first time he had seen her, through the snow and driving wind. She was in this piece in the last time, too, in snapshots, moments, the whole too terrible to piece together, separated by the shutter of the camera.
Click. A crowded street, a bank, alarms going off, patrol cars screeching to a halt outside, officers running, clearing the street-
Click. Victoria, a gun, eyes cold, cold, too cold for him to meet without shivering. Wild as a caged animal-
Click. A police officer, mouth open, shouting, gun pointed at her, people around them frozen-
Click. Another officer, rushing forward-
Click. Her finger tightening-
Click. Falling. She was falling, falling, and would fall forever-
Click. Rushing forward, shoving past the bystanders, kneeling at her side, IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou-
Click. Her smile, sweet still, how was it sweet when her eyes were cloudy with pain-
Click. Her eyes fluttering shut. Click.
The piece was hers and playing it drove nails into his palms until he loved and hated with every note and Ray was the only thing holding him together, and every note was a sob, the piano the comforter, the sympathiser, rich dark notes of sorrow balancing it and maybe they were crying together. He was sweating by the end of it, leaned back in the chair and let his head fall back, storm passed, spell over. They were back in the room, he was himself, not sorrow, and Ray was a man at a piano stool covered with frayed velvet. It was a while before either of them moved or spoke, the spell of the piece still hanging there in the room.