Opus
Disclaimer: I do not know Leverage, please don’t sue, I just got done with my college orientation and realizing I am going to have NO money for a LONG time.
Rain drummed in a steady 4/4 time against his window. Nate sat at the piano, fingers resting lightly on the ivory keys, slightly yellowed and very worn. This piano made his music, this piano held his memories.
The first of which being the ideal scene in which he ‘met’ music. He’d been two. He knew the image he had was not an actual memory, just a story he told himself and yet the worn out picture his mother had led him to believe it wasn’t all fiction. In the photo he sits in a romper on his father’s knee, one hand raised, poised over his first note. His father had been a great musician in his time, before the booze took that from him. So excited, he had been to teach his son about love - about music.
At a very young age Nate asked for piano lessons, he wanted to be just like his Dad. And then he wanted to make his dad proud, so proud he’d stop drinking. And then he just wanted out of the house. Away from his Dad. Piano lessons had been a constant, music had been a savior. Nate began to play.
His escapist desires led him to excel. First the basics and then the classics. Even today, years after the first lesson, he played his scales, then he played the hard stuff. Chopin’s Raindrops flowing from his fingers. Raindrops flowed to his own compositions as he began to drown in his emotions.
His fingers struck the key his child - hand was aiming for long ago.
This was Sam’s song.
It started out slow, and easy - perfect to teach a young child. And then it got more complicated.
The pitter patter of the dissonant C - the first steps he missed. Sam’s first words, ‘bye bye’ immortalized. And then the sickness. The song went from novice to expert in an instant as it became less about teaching and more about expressing. The sorrow, the hope, his impotence and eventually the death.
Nate closed his eyes, it was a painful song, but for the longest time the only way he had to express himself. Until the drinking nearly took the music from him. Nearly took all the good in the world left after Sam’s death.
The song changed. It was another original opus, parts parallel in chronology to Sam’s melody. Except this song was nothing like the other. It was nothing like any other, just as she was unlike any other. His eyelids a canvas he viewed each moment in the melody, each moment with her that brought out the music in him.
He felt her before she spoke; he could see her though he did not look. She stood in the doorway, his song a siren to his siren, an irony of song.
She crossed the room and sat beside him, watching as his fingers told their story. He hit the bridge and the melody changed, this newest moment depicted in music. For a moment there was no words between them, just their song. And then she spoke.
“It’s lovely, who’s it by?” He did not look up; he did not drop a note.
“No one.” He replied softly.
“It must be by someone, what’s it called?”
“Sophie.”
Rain drummed in a steady 4/4 time against his window. Nate sat at the piano, fingers resting lightly on the ivory keys, slightly yellowed and very worn. This piano made his music, this piano held his memories.
The first of which being the ideal scene in which he ‘met’ music. He’d been two. He knew the image he had was not an actual memory, just a story he told himself and yet the worn out picture his mother had led him to believe it wasn’t all fiction. In the photo he sits in a romper on his father’s knee, one hand raised, poised over his first note. His father had been a great musician in his time, before the booze took that from him. So excited, he had been to teach his son about love - about music.
At a very young age Nate asked for piano lessons, he wanted to be just like his Dad. And then he wanted to make his dad proud, so proud he’d stop drinking. And then he just wanted out of the house. Away from his Dad. Piano lessons had been a constant, music had been a savior. Nate began to play.
His escapist desires led him to excel. First the basics and then the classics. Even today, years after the first lesson, he played his scales, then he played the hard stuff. Chopin’s Raindrops flowing from his fingers. Raindrops flowed to his own compositions as he began to drown in his emotions.
His fingers struck the key his child - hand was aiming for long ago.
This was Sam’s song.
It started out slow, and easy - perfect to teach a young child. And then it got more complicated.
The pitter patter of the dissonant C - the first steps he missed. Sam’s first words, ‘bye bye’ immortalized. And then the sickness. The song went from novice to expert in an instant as it became less about teaching and more about expressing. The sorrow, the hope, his impotence and eventually the death.
Nate closed his eyes, it was a painful song, but for the longest time the only way he had to express himself. Until the drinking nearly took the music from him. Nearly took all the good in the world left after Sam’s death.
The song changed. It was another original opus, parts parallel in chronology to Sam’s melody. Except this song was nothing like the other. It was nothing like any other, just as she was unlike any other. His eyelids a canvas he viewed each moment in the melody, each moment with her that brought out the music in him.
He felt her before she spoke; he could see her though he did not look. She stood in the doorway, his song a siren to his siren, an irony of song.
She crossed the room and sat beside him, watching as his fingers told their story. He hit the bridge and the melody changed, this newest moment depicted in music. For a moment there was no words between them, just their song. And then she spoke.
“It’s lovely, who’s it by?” He did not look up; he did not drop a note.
“No one.” He replied softly.
“It must be by someone, what’s it called?”
“Sophie.”