the piano knows
title the piano knows
rating pg
word count 1,339
pairing federico garcia lorca/salvador dali
the play mentioned is El maleficio de la mariposa (The Butterfly's Evil Spell), performed for the first time in 1920. Encarnación López Júlvez was the ballet dancer who starred in it. manuel de falla is a spanish composer who was friends with lorca when they were at school. this is dedicated to sunlight_dust for providing many youtube links of salvador dali talking/giving interviews etc. this isn't the fic i initially started working on, although i did take elements from it. i think i will write these two again, sometime, possibly after i finish my request list and my big bang entry, because they deserve so much more than this little ditty- i don't even know if i like it, but i want to do them justice. at the moment, i'm thinking of this as a prequel of sorts.
yo tengo sed de aromas y de risas.
sed de cantares nuevos
sin lunas y sin lirios,
y sin amores muertos.
Three years ago, Federico’s piano teacher died.
Except that he wasn’t just a teacher, the way music isn’t just notes. He was- Federico still isn’t sure how to describe Antonio. It’s too delicate, still too fresh. He was like a second father, or grandfather, perhaps, in his gentle prodding, pushing Federico to be better, showing him how to make his fingers fly like angels across the keyboard. But more importantly (most importantly, Federico thinks), Antonio taught him how to love.
Not the artful postures of love, but the soul-wrenching quality of love was what Antonio pulled out of Federico during the long hours he spent hunched over the piano, trying to smooth over his mistakes and tell a story without words.
Odd, then, Federico thinks, that he never actually loved Antonio.
But he did love those afternoons spent sweating and playing Chopin, and three years later, he still misses them.
---
Going to Madrid, Federico tells himself, isn’t forgetting music. It isn’t abandoning telling stories without words. It’s just- learning how to tell stories with words, too. They complement each other, music and poetry, Federico knows, and while going to Madrid isn’t the most well-thought out decision he’s ever made, he knows it’s the right one.
---
Federico still spends most of his time at the piano, just playing chords until something sounds right. It’s not that he doesn’t have friends- it’s just that his friends are all more like characters than actual human beings, and he just can’t keep up with them all the time. He doesn’t mind- sometimes, on quiet afternoons, Federico closes his eyes and pretends he’s back in Andalucia.
Things are simpler there, Federico knows.
And then there’s Salvador. Salvador, who is the most human and the most character at the same time, and Federico can’t quite get his head around it. He doesn’t understand how one man can be so infuriatingly presumptuous and at the same time humble and scared and naïve. But Federico’s seen Salvador’s sketches, so he knows-
Knows there’s something there, something of substance floating around inside Salvador’s head. All things considered, Federico sometimes thinks he’s more human than character.
---
“Do you think,” Federico slurs, “Love can transcend postures?”
He doesn’t know what prompts him to ask. The midday sun his hot and bright and they, he and Salvador, are sprawled out on the balcony attached to Salvador’s room. Federico’s shoulders are propped up against the glass panes of the door and a half-finished cigarette dangles from his mouth. The paper sticks to the inside of his lower lip, pulling his features into a slight pout, and he alternates between staring up at the sky, the beautiful blue sky that he knows is the same as his sky, his lovely Andalucian sky, and stealing sips from Salvador’s bottle of stolen wine.
Salvador stares at him for a moment. “I don’t understand,” he says. His words bubble slowly to the surface, almost like he tastes each one before he pronounces it. Federico doesn’t know if he’s asking for clarification or if he just doesn’t know the answer.
Federico blows out a puff of smoke and watches it spiral into the air and disintegrate, and he thinks to himself that it will be in the air forever, just like the words they’re speaking. Absorbed into the wind and blown and buffeted around Spain, maybe even reaching home, he thinks, but they will be there forever, immortal in everything but memory.
“I think it can,” he tells Salvador, who does nothing to respond except take a sip of wine.
---
“Use a triplet, there,” Manuel says, pointing to the manuscript. Federico stills his fingers over the keys and looks. “It makes it more real, authentic.”
Federico plays the passage again, with the triplet, and Manuel is right, it is more authentic, more Spanish, more real. He thinks of Manuel’s light caramel skin and his full lower lip and knows how easy things would be with Manuel de Falla, how they would spend afternoons like this, with the window open, sharing the piano bench. But then, in his daydream, Manuel’s skin becomes slightly darker, his features sharper, and Federico knows that he would never have an afternoon like this with Salvador, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to.
---
They kiss in August.
On the balcony, under the winking stars, they share a bottle of wine and it makes Federico bold, so he leans forward and their lips touch awkwardly for the space of a few seconds before he pulls back, the blush in his cheeks as red as the wine in his glass. The strangled noise that escapes Salvador raises goosebumps on Federico’s forearms and for an instant, he is hopeful, little bubbles of happiness rising up in his chest, but then Salvador staggers to his feet and stumbles inside, closing the door behind him.
Federico sleeps on the balcony and waits for Salvador to leave for his class before tiptoeing through the painter’s room and into his own.
The next time they see each other, they don’t talk about it.
---
In March, Federico stages a play.
Encarnacion makes a beautiful butterfly, dancing around the stage and Federico longingly things of how easy it would be even with her, how they would go for coffee at outdoor cafes and how he would go to see her at the ballet every night, bringing her flowers. It is purely a fantasy- she would never have him, nor would he have her, but he is jealous of himself in fantasy.
Salvador breaks his reverie by sitting down heavily beside him and waving the script in his face.
“It’s pretty cowardly, don’t you think?”
He’s in full character mode, and Federico feels a headache coming on.
“I think it is, to write this about me and not say anything,” Salvador continues. Federico throws his hands up.
“You arrogant son of a bitch,” he snaps, and gets up to leave.
For the sake of his own moral victory, he ignores that Salvador is right.
---
It’s four years ago now that Antonio died, and Federico still misses him, but he blames the old man, too, for teaching him how to love without loving. It’s like speaking without words, which is what Federico does when he sits at the piano for long afternoons and plays a little bit of everything. If he didn’t know how to do it, he wouldn’t feel a stab in the gut every time he looks at Salvador.
“Can I paint you?” Salvador asks one afternoon. Federico is slumped over the piano, most of the way to asleep.
“Like this?” He mumbles.
Salvador reaches out and cards his fingers through Federico’s hair, pushing it off of his face. Federico blinks and turns his head, letting Salvador cup his cheek.
So often he forgets about these moments, in the wake of Salvador’s arrogance and masks and cryptic words. He knows now that the only time Salvador is real, human, is when he’s painting. Federico was wrong when he first met Salvador. He is more character than human. Federico fears that one day, he will be all character and not even the slightest bit human- fear, because Federico has seen Salvador being human and it is a beautiful thing.
“Like this,” Salvador confirms, running his fingers along Federico’s jaw. Federico murmurs his assent.
He lies still for hours while Salvador paints, and he doesn’t know how he does it. He drifts off a few times towards the end, and the third time he wakes up, Salvador is gone but the painting is there. Federico pushes himself off of the piano bench and studies it for a moment. It is beautiful, and it is the closest thing to an apology he will get, Federico knows.
It’s okay that it is. Against his better judgment, Federico has already forgiven.
rating pg
word count 1,339
pairing federico garcia lorca/salvador dali
the play mentioned is El maleficio de la mariposa (The Butterfly's Evil Spell), performed for the first time in 1920. Encarnación López Júlvez was the ballet dancer who starred in it. manuel de falla is a spanish composer who was friends with lorca when they were at school. this is dedicated to sunlight_dust for providing many youtube links of salvador dali talking/giving interviews etc. this isn't the fic i initially started working on, although i did take elements from it. i think i will write these two again, sometime, possibly after i finish my request list and my big bang entry, because they deserve so much more than this little ditty- i don't even know if i like it, but i want to do them justice. at the moment, i'm thinking of this as a prequel of sorts.
yo tengo sed de aromas y de risas.
sed de cantares nuevos
sin lunas y sin lirios,
y sin amores muertos.
Three years ago, Federico’s piano teacher died.
Except that he wasn’t just a teacher, the way music isn’t just notes. He was- Federico still isn’t sure how to describe Antonio. It’s too delicate, still too fresh. He was like a second father, or grandfather, perhaps, in his gentle prodding, pushing Federico to be better, showing him how to make his fingers fly like angels across the keyboard. But more importantly (most importantly, Federico thinks), Antonio taught him how to love.
Not the artful postures of love, but the soul-wrenching quality of love was what Antonio pulled out of Federico during the long hours he spent hunched over the piano, trying to smooth over his mistakes and tell a story without words.
Odd, then, Federico thinks, that he never actually loved Antonio.
But he did love those afternoons spent sweating and playing Chopin, and three years later, he still misses them.
---
Going to Madrid, Federico tells himself, isn’t forgetting music. It isn’t abandoning telling stories without words. It’s just- learning how to tell stories with words, too. They complement each other, music and poetry, Federico knows, and while going to Madrid isn’t the most well-thought out decision he’s ever made, he knows it’s the right one.
---
Federico still spends most of his time at the piano, just playing chords until something sounds right. It’s not that he doesn’t have friends- it’s just that his friends are all more like characters than actual human beings, and he just can’t keep up with them all the time. He doesn’t mind- sometimes, on quiet afternoons, Federico closes his eyes and pretends he’s back in Andalucia.
Things are simpler there, Federico knows.
And then there’s Salvador. Salvador, who is the most human and the most character at the same time, and Federico can’t quite get his head around it. He doesn’t understand how one man can be so infuriatingly presumptuous and at the same time humble and scared and naïve. But Federico’s seen Salvador’s sketches, so he knows-
Knows there’s something there, something of substance floating around inside Salvador’s head. All things considered, Federico sometimes thinks he’s more human than character.
---
“Do you think,” Federico slurs, “Love can transcend postures?”
He doesn’t know what prompts him to ask. The midday sun his hot and bright and they, he and Salvador, are sprawled out on the balcony attached to Salvador’s room. Federico’s shoulders are propped up against the glass panes of the door and a half-finished cigarette dangles from his mouth. The paper sticks to the inside of his lower lip, pulling his features into a slight pout, and he alternates between staring up at the sky, the beautiful blue sky that he knows is the same as his sky, his lovely Andalucian sky, and stealing sips from Salvador’s bottle of stolen wine.
Salvador stares at him for a moment. “I don’t understand,” he says. His words bubble slowly to the surface, almost like he tastes each one before he pronounces it. Federico doesn’t know if he’s asking for clarification or if he just doesn’t know the answer.
Federico blows out a puff of smoke and watches it spiral into the air and disintegrate, and he thinks to himself that it will be in the air forever, just like the words they’re speaking. Absorbed into the wind and blown and buffeted around Spain, maybe even reaching home, he thinks, but they will be there forever, immortal in everything but memory.
“I think it can,” he tells Salvador, who does nothing to respond except take a sip of wine.
---
“Use a triplet, there,” Manuel says, pointing to the manuscript. Federico stills his fingers over the keys and looks. “It makes it more real, authentic.”
Federico plays the passage again, with the triplet, and Manuel is right, it is more authentic, more Spanish, more real. He thinks of Manuel’s light caramel skin and his full lower lip and knows how easy things would be with Manuel de Falla, how they would spend afternoons like this, with the window open, sharing the piano bench. But then, in his daydream, Manuel’s skin becomes slightly darker, his features sharper, and Federico knows that he would never have an afternoon like this with Salvador, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to.
---
They kiss in August.
On the balcony, under the winking stars, they share a bottle of wine and it makes Federico bold, so he leans forward and their lips touch awkwardly for the space of a few seconds before he pulls back, the blush in his cheeks as red as the wine in his glass. The strangled noise that escapes Salvador raises goosebumps on Federico’s forearms and for an instant, he is hopeful, little bubbles of happiness rising up in his chest, but then Salvador staggers to his feet and stumbles inside, closing the door behind him.
Federico sleeps on the balcony and waits for Salvador to leave for his class before tiptoeing through the painter’s room and into his own.
The next time they see each other, they don’t talk about it.
---
In March, Federico stages a play.
Encarnacion makes a beautiful butterfly, dancing around the stage and Federico longingly things of how easy it would be even with her, how they would go for coffee at outdoor cafes and how he would go to see her at the ballet every night, bringing her flowers. It is purely a fantasy- she would never have him, nor would he have her, but he is jealous of himself in fantasy.
Salvador breaks his reverie by sitting down heavily beside him and waving the script in his face.
“It’s pretty cowardly, don’t you think?”
He’s in full character mode, and Federico feels a headache coming on.
“I think it is, to write this about me and not say anything,” Salvador continues. Federico throws his hands up.
“You arrogant son of a bitch,” he snaps, and gets up to leave.
For the sake of his own moral victory, he ignores that Salvador is right.
---
It’s four years ago now that Antonio died, and Federico still misses him, but he blames the old man, too, for teaching him how to love without loving. It’s like speaking without words, which is what Federico does when he sits at the piano for long afternoons and plays a little bit of everything. If he didn’t know how to do it, he wouldn’t feel a stab in the gut every time he looks at Salvador.
“Can I paint you?” Salvador asks one afternoon. Federico is slumped over the piano, most of the way to asleep.
“Like this?” He mumbles.
Salvador reaches out and cards his fingers through Federico’s hair, pushing it off of his face. Federico blinks and turns his head, letting Salvador cup his cheek.
So often he forgets about these moments, in the wake of Salvador’s arrogance and masks and cryptic words. He knows now that the only time Salvador is real, human, is when he’s painting. Federico was wrong when he first met Salvador. He is more character than human. Federico fears that one day, he will be all character and not even the slightest bit human- fear, because Federico has seen Salvador being human and it is a beautiful thing.
“Like this,” Salvador confirms, running his fingers along Federico’s jaw. Federico murmurs his assent.
He lies still for hours while Salvador paints, and he doesn’t know how he does it. He drifts off a few times towards the end, and the third time he wakes up, Salvador is gone but the painting is there. Federico pushes himself off of the piano bench and studies it for a moment. It is beautiful, and it is the closest thing to an apology he will get, Federico knows.
It’s okay that it is. Against his better judgment, Federico has already forgiven.