fic: It Will Be a Ballade, I Think (Liszt/Chopin, G)
omg yaye it's finished
Title: It Will Be a Ballade, I Think
Author: V.M. Bell
Disclaimer: I own neither Liszt nor Chopin. Though they would be fun to have, wouldn't they?
Summary: It is not the thundering piano virtuoso that they want, or his stretching-to-the-ceiling chords. They want Frederic Chopin.
Rating: G
Pairing: Liszt/Chopin
Word Count: 516
Author's Notes: Written as a very belated birthday ficlet for easilyabused, my One True Soulmate, Fellow Francophile, and Co-Mother of Our Illegitimate Child. Emily, I hope you enjoy this! Not *overtly* slashy, but lots of undertones, hmm?
If anyone cares to know, Chopin's Ballade No. 2 in F major, Op. 38 was the inspiring musical work here. I say download it because (1) it's fucking amazing and (2) you can finally hear what I butcher everyday when I practise piano.
--
His hands are far too small, Franz thinks to himself as the diminutive pianist reaches for the clutter of parchment atop his Pleyel upright. So small, almost like a child’s. They should be a child’s - but, no, they belong to one of the most sought-after musicians in all of Paris, clothed in dainty white gloves more at place at a woman’s picnic than to be encasing the hands of a fully grown man. But Frederic has always cared about appearances.
“What was so important,” Franz asks, yawning, “that you had to call me over at this hour of the night? Shouldn’t you be entertaining guests? Giving lessons to all the fine noblewomen of the city?”
Frederic shakes his head dismissively. “Lessons were earlier. I wanted you to hear a piece that I wrote not two days ago. I - ” He sits down on the piano bench, pushing back his waistcoat (always those damned fashionable waistcoats, Franz mumbles to himself) “ - I have yet to show it to anyone else and…and I would be so honored if I could play it for you and you could perhaps share your thoughts on it. I have yet to finish it - only the first part is completed, but I would value your opinion greatly. Does that sound agreeable to you?”
Franz walks so that he is directly behind the seated man, his tall shadow obscuring the dim glow of candlelight in the room as Frederic arranges his sheet music. Franz almost smirks - splotches of ink and crossed out crescendo signs litter the paper. The man was by no means perfect, and yet another example of how Frederic is not the little Polish prodigy every damned musical sophisticate thinks he is.
But then Frederic sheds and folds his gloves before placing them next to the piano. He arches his hands over the keyboard, the tips of his fingers barely touching the dull ivory. The world sighs when he lifts his arms, straining to hear the torrent of composing brilliance pouring from the man’s fingers - but there is no such deluge and only the lightest of notes, the most diaphanous of legato phrasing stroked from the keys. This, Franz realizes, is the sound that has taken Paris by storm. It is not the thundering piano virtuoso that they want, or his stretching-to-the-ceiling chords. They want Frederic Chopin. They want Frederic Chopin and his understated melodies, his subtle harmonies. They want the world laid out bare before them, not embellished with octaves and tenths and trills.
Franz kneels on the floor and covers the younger man’s hands with his own. Frederic gasps and stops. “Do you not like it?” he asks.
Franz looks at Frederic’s face, his soft mouth wavering. “I think it is beautiful. What will it be? Nocturne?”
The lines on Frederic’s face relax. “No, not a nocturne. I can’t see it being a nocturne; it does not strike me as one. It will be a ballade, I think.”
“A ballade?”
“Yes, a ballade. Do you like that?”
Franz smiles. “Yes, I like that.”
--
Signing off, V.M. Bell
Title: It Will Be a Ballade, I Think
Author: V.M. Bell
Disclaimer: I own neither Liszt nor Chopin. Though they would be fun to have, wouldn't they?
Summary: It is not the thundering piano virtuoso that they want, or his stretching-to-the-ceiling chords. They want Frederic Chopin.
Rating: G
Pairing: Liszt/Chopin
Word Count: 516
Author's Notes: Written as a very belated birthday ficlet for easilyabused, my One True Soulmate, Fellow Francophile, and Co-Mother of Our Illegitimate Child. Emily, I hope you enjoy this! Not *overtly* slashy, but lots of undertones, hmm?
If anyone cares to know, Chopin's Ballade No. 2 in F major, Op. 38 was the inspiring musical work here. I say download it because (1) it's fucking amazing and (2) you can finally hear what I butcher everyday when I practise piano.
--
His hands are far too small, Franz thinks to himself as the diminutive pianist reaches for the clutter of parchment atop his Pleyel upright. So small, almost like a child’s. They should be a child’s - but, no, they belong to one of the most sought-after musicians in all of Paris, clothed in dainty white gloves more at place at a woman’s picnic than to be encasing the hands of a fully grown man. But Frederic has always cared about appearances.
“What was so important,” Franz asks, yawning, “that you had to call me over at this hour of the night? Shouldn’t you be entertaining guests? Giving lessons to all the fine noblewomen of the city?”
Frederic shakes his head dismissively. “Lessons were earlier. I wanted you to hear a piece that I wrote not two days ago. I - ” He sits down on the piano bench, pushing back his waistcoat (always those damned fashionable waistcoats, Franz mumbles to himself) “ - I have yet to show it to anyone else and…and I would be so honored if I could play it for you and you could perhaps share your thoughts on it. I have yet to finish it - only the first part is completed, but I would value your opinion greatly. Does that sound agreeable to you?”
Franz walks so that he is directly behind the seated man, his tall shadow obscuring the dim glow of candlelight in the room as Frederic arranges his sheet music. Franz almost smirks - splotches of ink and crossed out crescendo signs litter the paper. The man was by no means perfect, and yet another example of how Frederic is not the little Polish prodigy every damned musical sophisticate thinks he is.
But then Frederic sheds and folds his gloves before placing them next to the piano. He arches his hands over the keyboard, the tips of his fingers barely touching the dull ivory. The world sighs when he lifts his arms, straining to hear the torrent of composing brilliance pouring from the man’s fingers - but there is no such deluge and only the lightest of notes, the most diaphanous of legato phrasing stroked from the keys. This, Franz realizes, is the sound that has taken Paris by storm. It is not the thundering piano virtuoso that they want, or his stretching-to-the-ceiling chords. They want Frederic Chopin. They want Frederic Chopin and his understated melodies, his subtle harmonies. They want the world laid out bare before them, not embellished with octaves and tenths and trills.
Franz kneels on the floor and covers the younger man’s hands with his own. Frederic gasps and stops. “Do you not like it?” he asks.
Franz looks at Frederic’s face, his soft mouth wavering. “I think it is beautiful. What will it be? Nocturne?”
The lines on Frederic’s face relax. “No, not a nocturne. I can’t see it being a nocturne; it does not strike me as one. It will be a ballade, I think.”
“A ballade?”
“Yes, a ballade. Do you like that?”
Franz smiles. “Yes, I like that.”
--
Signing off, V.M. Bell