and with the power of all his citizens combined... (closed to Hungary)
What a long night.
Roderich had just finished a rather impossibly difficult recital. Many pianists had done complete sets of pieces, but he'd decided to push the envelope and perform Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies.
All. Nineteen. Hungarian Rhapsodies.
The performance was nearly two and a half hours long, and required an incredible amount of energy and stamina. And, of course, the display of skill was a bit like a peacock showing off his plumage - he had picked that program intentionally for Elizaveta. And it was no secret that she was on his mind for the entire duration of the program - anyone in the audience with half a brain could have figured that out. He made no effort whatsoever to constrain the fervor behind it, long wiry fingers dancing gracefully across the keys, his eyes glassy and sincere as the soft, tender tones escaped the instrument; hands firm and forceful with pure energy radiating from his core to his fingertips as he played the wild Frischkas, his teeth clenched and breathing heavily, his face contorted with fire. Well before he'd finished the concert, it was clear by the looks of him just how much exertion these pieces required; his brow glistened and every so often he needed to run his fingers back through his hair to keep it from falling in front of his eyes, or clinging to his temples.
And he'd gone out for a few drinks with Ludwig, Feliciano, Antonio and Francis afterwards to wind down - France insisted upon telling him just how beautiful it was to see how he made love to his wife.
His face flushed at the comment and he promptly suggested that the man have more tact, but there was a small, very repressed part of him that was proud.
Elizaveta, on the other hand, had opted out of the post-performance festivities, going straight home and giving him a wink as she told him not to keep her waiting. He (and everyone else present) got the hint clearly.
And so he kept it a fairly short night - less than an hour at the bar with the boys (after all, he was just exhausted) and he finally returned home.
"Lizchen," he called in a sing-song voice that was unusual for him, but was understandable after a bit of schnapps and leftover euphoria from the performance. "You upstairs?"
He tossed his tuxedo jacket on the couch and undid his bowtie, leaving it hanging around his neck with the top few buttons of his shirt undone, and ran upstairs to open the bedroom door.
Roderich had just finished a rather impossibly difficult recital. Many pianists had done complete sets of pieces, but he'd decided to push the envelope and perform Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies.
All. Nineteen. Hungarian Rhapsodies.
The performance was nearly two and a half hours long, and required an incredible amount of energy and stamina. And, of course, the display of skill was a bit like a peacock showing off his plumage - he had picked that program intentionally for Elizaveta. And it was no secret that she was on his mind for the entire duration of the program - anyone in the audience with half a brain could have figured that out. He made no effort whatsoever to constrain the fervor behind it, long wiry fingers dancing gracefully across the keys, his eyes glassy and sincere as the soft, tender tones escaped the instrument; hands firm and forceful with pure energy radiating from his core to his fingertips as he played the wild Frischkas, his teeth clenched and breathing heavily, his face contorted with fire. Well before he'd finished the concert, it was clear by the looks of him just how much exertion these pieces required; his brow glistened and every so often he needed to run his fingers back through his hair to keep it from falling in front of his eyes, or clinging to his temples.
And he'd gone out for a few drinks with Ludwig, Feliciano, Antonio and Francis afterwards to wind down - France insisted upon telling him just how beautiful it was to see how he made love to his wife.
His face flushed at the comment and he promptly suggested that the man have more tact, but there was a small, very repressed part of him that was proud.
Elizaveta, on the other hand, had opted out of the post-performance festivities, going straight home and giving him a wink as she told him not to keep her waiting. He (and everyone else present) got the hint clearly.
And so he kept it a fairly short night - less than an hour at the bar with the boys (after all, he was just exhausted) and he finally returned home.
"Lizchen," he called in a sing-song voice that was unusual for him, but was understandable after a bit of schnapps and leftover euphoria from the performance. "You upstairs?"
He tossed his tuxedo jacket on the couch and undid his bowtie, leaving it hanging around his neck with the top few buttons of his shirt undone, and ran upstairs to open the bedroom door.