Chapter Text
“What are you hearing?”
Charles smiled up at the dingy watermarks on the ceiling. “You, warming up. Scales. Arpeggios.”
“Not ‘what do you hear.’ I mean: what are you hearing in your head? I know you, Charles.”
The last arpeggio – C-sharp minor, first inversion – rumbled to a stop. A sigh, and fingers let go of the C-string. Charles heard the reverb; it gave the smallest hint of pitch to Erik's grumble.
“I know you, and I know that look.”
“You can’t see my face, dearest. Is the line of my chin so very transparent?”
“Fine. I know that silence, then.”
Charles hummed. “You should keep warming up.”
“The Mozart ended five minutes ago. They should damn well call me onstage.”
“Probably having trouble arranging for the percussion.”
“Your fault, then.”
“Isn’t it always?”
A few plucked notes. Charles recognized the gestures. Erik was nervous, even if he wasn’t going to admit it. Then the near-silent ripple of an arpeggio without the bow, and one passage, drummed onto the fingerboard, that he recognized instantly. A nasty one. Completely out of key, jumping across two strings at a time, and then a flip up into thumb position for a chord. He wished he could say it had been inspiration, but he had written it as a specific challenge … for one specific, stubborn cellist.
“Well done, you.”
A grunt. “Don’t patronize me.”
“It’s you patronizing me, Erik.” Charles stretched and heaved himself up from his sprawl on the ratty couch. “Who else would play my concerto so very consistently? And so very, very … passably.”
The cello squawked. “Passably?”
He was so easy to tease, even after so many years. Charles walked up behind Erik and gently laid his hands on his shoulders. He leaned forward, let his chin drop onto Erik’s hair. “More than passably.”
“That’s all?”
Charles pressed a kiss onto one of Erik’s temples. Easier to find, these days; his hair was thinning. Erik tipped his head in the direction of the kiss and sighed.
Perhaps another kiss, to sweeten his mood? Charles gave him one. “Stage fright?”
“Hardly.” The bow landing on the strings released a puff of rosin into the air. The arpeggios started again.
Charles kept his palms on Erik’s shoulders, fascinated at the movement of muscles beneath his fingers. Fascinated, until the cello’s neck rapped the knuckles of his left hand. “Oi.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“It’s just arpeggios, love.” Charles withdrew, nonetheless, and started ambling around the room. “And it’s just my concerto, which you’ve performed two dozen times. Each and every time to great acclaim. I’d have it no other way. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Charles decided to let it rest. Erik was notoriously touchy before his performances. Touchy and guarded. It had only been after a ten-year campaign that he had allowed Charles into the soloist’s dressing room at all. And this one, Charles thought, was quite middling. Everything in decent order, but that couch had seen better days, and the mirror was dingy in its frame.
Not that Erik would use it. Charles leaned back against a wall, wedged his hands into his pockets, and indulged himself in a long look. The years had been more than kind. Erik’s coppery hair was now shot through with white. Youth going to age had smoothed out the angles of his body and made more dramatic the jut of cheekbones and jaw. Erik staring into the distance, brow furrowed and lips set, could be found in black-and-white – or in glorious, brooding color – on any number of posters, websites …. Even CDs, for lovers of antiques.
Well. Erik and his one true love.
The one true love gave another low rumble as Erik flicked a trill on the C-string. Then he glanced up at Charles, lips thin. “What are you thinking?”
“What am I hearing; what am I thinking – I’ll tell you something, Erik. I’m looking at someone who’s worrying all too much, about one little benefit concert.” Charles raised one eyebrow. “That and I’m jealous.”
“God, of what? I’ve told you, with surgery being what it is these days – with Hendricks on call up in New York –”
“Oh no, not of that. No. I’m jealous …” Charles narrowed his eyes, “of her.”
There was a pause. Then Erik snorted. “That joke does get old, Charles.”
“You think I’m joking? I’m not. I watch her there, right between your legs and you with your hands all – over – her,” Charles pushed off the wall and paced forward, “and right in front of my eyes, Erik – the most wanton display of …”
It had worked. Erik was grinning up at him. “… Of?”
“Musicality.”
The grin turned sly as Erik started in on the Carmen Fantasy. At pitch, the lunatic, which would sound ridiculous if any other cellist were trying it. It would get messy rather quickly, though, so Charles interrupted.
“The absolute tramp. She’s in my spot.”
“We’ve discussed this before,” Erik replied. “Haven’t we?”
He played a few false harmonics. The fluting sounds warbled up to Charles, who sniffed.
“None of that. Thirty seconds to let him go, or I’m snapping your G-string.”
“She needs that for the concerto,” Erik said mildly. “Don’t you, dear?”
A low trill; almost a burp. Then another, and another, and Charles tried to get a word in edgewise. “Does my style disagree with you? Have you tried some Boccherini? That would settle any cello’s digestion, I’m sure.”
“She hates Boccherini.”
“I don’t see why. Charming, very pretty –”
“She doesn’t like pretty.”
“Hm, I suppose not. I suppose she likes rugged, and temperamental –”
Erik smiled as Charles closed the distance between them.
“ – and brilliant, and gorgeous, and very much like a certain person we both know. Can you guess, Erik? Whom she likes?”
As close as Charles had come, Erik hardly had room to bow. So he stopped playing.
“Victory is mine,” Charles said, and dropped a kiss on his brow.
“You can do better than that,” Erik breathed, and Charles hardly had time to think before Erik surged up out of his chair and caught his lips. Which just wasn’t done, not just before a concert, except that it was hot and slick and everything lovely, and Charles had to make up his mind whether or not to drop to his knees, shoulder the cello out of the way and give Erik a send-off he wouldn’t forget any time soon –
He heard a knock on the door. “Mr. Lehnsherr? They’re ready for you.”
Erik broke the kiss with a growl. “Damn.”
“Hold that thought.” Charles pressed his fingertips against stark cheekbones. “There’s more where that came from.”
“Is there?” Erik got to his feet.
Charles brushed the lapels of his tuxedo. “Of course there is. Go out there, and get through that little concerto and we’ll pick up where we left off. You could think of it as a musical intermission.” He smiled. “Between the main acts.”
“Charles, I –”
Charles blinked up at him. “What is it?”
There had been something about Erik’s voice … And something about his eyes, intent on Charles from beneath eyebrows drawn together. Was he biting his lip?
“What, Erik?” He laid his hands flat on the lapels. “Tell me.”
“Your piece – I.” Erik made an effort. “I want it to sound …”
Charles waited him out.
“I want it to sound the way you hear it.” He reached up and brushed a thumb against Charles’ lips. The bow left a streak of rosin on his suit jacket, but Charles didn’t care.
“It’s important to me, Charles. I want it to be – what you want. What you hear.” Erik tried to smile. “In that head of yours.”
“Oh, love.”
Charles brought his hands up to Erik’s face. He smoothed his palms over the weathered skin, tracing all the lines he knew. “The way you perform this … Erik. It’s already everything I wanted it to be.”
“Is it?”
“Of course. It’s yours. I wrote it for you.” Charles brushed this thumbs over Erik’s lips. “When I hear it, it’s you there. Playing.”
They were closer in height, now. Playing as much as he did had given Erik the slightest stoop; he would grump whenever Charles suggested better posture. Then again, as long as it didn’t hurt, Charles didn’t mind. It just made Erik easier to kiss.
So he did.
And he was the one who had to bring it to a close. “Go on, then.” He gave Erik a gentle push. “Break a leg.”
“ ‘Except not really –’ ” Erik said, opening the door.
“Except not really,” Charles nodded to the stagehand, poised to knock again, “because that would really, really hurt. Good evening.” Charles smiled at the conductor; let the effusive welcome tumble over him. Erik had told him his trick their first year together – the removal that would come moments before a performance, the words of others receding into gentle white noise. The conductor’s words, the mutters from the audience … the tinny sound of an announcement, asking for all electronic devices to be silenced.
Except that wouldn’t do. Were it not for the vagaries of electronic devices, Erik would never have …
Charles grinned at the memory. He gave Erik’s shoulder one last squeeze and stepped back into the shadow of the curtain. Erik lifted his chin and strode onstage without looking back.
Charles watched him go.
The conductor was following, but Charles had no eyes for him. He focused on Erik instead. Erik, sweeping down into a proud bow, turning to shake the concertmaster’s hand. Then the rituals of adjusting, tuning … and the silence.
In many ways, Charles thought, this was his favorite part. The silence before things began; when anything could happen. He knew what would happen, of course. The concerto would open with a cadenza – an odd choice, but one he had defied all critique to keep. He had wanted the first moments of his concerto to be all for Erik and himself.
He had wanted it that way from the beginning.