#batbfics

let me know 😊

OMG I actually had a headcanon that Adam was just bad at playing the violin, explored a little in this fic. This'll be really cute.

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Shifting

"Non--non, your highness, please, you hold it with your chin."

"I can't." Adam struggles to keep his frustration at bay. "I can hold it with my hands just fine."

"Oui, that is how we teach children," the tutor sighs. "They have no strength to hold something with anything but their hands. You, however, are no mere child--you have the strength to prove it."

But what difference does it make? he thinks mutinously. I held it that way during my last performance, and no one could tell the difference! It hurts when I try anyway.

Out loud, he only asks "But why is that important? I still don't understand."

The tutor's nearing his limit, Adam can tell. But he only shakes his head, the curls on his wig sagging over his forehead. "If you were to shift positions, or something shakes your concentration--"

Now Adam wants to throw the thing at the tutor's face. What sort of game is he playing, throwing out vague answers like that? Shifting positions sounds like something an idiot would do--who'd adjust his stance in the middle of a performance? Not Adam, he wouldn't. Unless something did shake his concentration, he supposes, but that wouldn't be his fault, it would be some ignoramus in the audience--

"Deep breaths, my dear, deep breaths."

His mother's voice drifts across Adam's mind like smoke, extinguishing his initial vitriol. It was true that he got riled up over certain things, especially things he didn't understand. They scared him.

But he never wanted to learn the violin! He can play fortepiano just fine, but his father insisted that an extra instrument would show how intelligent Adam was. He sent Cogsworth off to discuss it with his mother, and she eventually agreed. It still isn't fair; he is much more comfortable with the fortepiano. It's so much easier to see where the notes will spring. He overheard other nobles talking at a ball once about a marvel in Italy: a man who can place his hands on a harpsichord and play something off the top of his head. That's something Adam can understand--no way is he skilled enough, but it's easier to draw music from both hands in unison. And here, Adam wants his hands to do the same thing still. But that isn't how it works.

Deep breaths.

Just this lesson. He mustn't make a fuss, he must get through this lesson. His mother is waiting in the next room, and his father would hear of it sooner rather than later if he complained.

Not that Adam minds, but his father is not one for testing. Though it has been a while, Adam could recall his father's deep voice around him, something so strict that it leeched color from the sun.

Deep breaths.

It works, and Adam nods solemnly at his tutor, who looks less than the sum of his parts at this point. But he gestures again, and the prince raises his violin to his shoulder, resting his chin against the edge.

I won't hold it there, he rebels silently. Shifting my feet. Of all the stupid excuses.

The time slows to a crawl, with the tutor correcting Adam every other row: your fingers are too sticky, your vibrato isn't clean enough, the chin, my prince, hold it fast--

Then the clock strikes four, Adam's shoulders sag in relief, and the tutor is barely able to assign work to practice before he heads for the door, footsteps echoing across the stone.

No faith in me, Adam sulks. That much is obvious.

The door swings closed, but not before Adam hears the tutor's sharp "Non merci!" and a clatter of china.

What was that?

The young prince approaches the door to see one of the footmen at the door, clad in black, holding a tea set that is definitely the source of the clatter. Some sugar had spilled, but everything else looked intact. The tutor bumped into him, it seemed, and did not apologize.

Rude, his mother would say. She'd seek to make things right.

"I would like some tea," Adam says shortly. "Thank you for offering."

The footman nods and hands Adam a cup on a saucer, which he takes with a nod in return.

"I'm sorry he did that. I'm kind of hopeless at this." The words slip out before he can reel them in. His father never liked him admitting weakness, even in front of their staff.

But the footman only offers him what sugar is left in the bowl, and Adam accepts a heaping spoonful.

"Thank you," Adam murmurs, and the footman merely smiles, bows, and turns to leave.

But it's in those few seconds that the prince realizes he's seen this particular servant before. Black waistcoat, usually seen attending to Cogsworth, or sending messages to Mrs. Potts. Helping Lumiere with dinner service if they were short-handed, providing fresh sheets to the maids. Never spoke. Chapeau--that was his name. Adam didn't see him as much as the others--newer, most likely.

He's quick, too; gone in seconds. Adam sips his tea and heads towards the dining room.

 ◦🝰◦🝰◦🝰◦

A violin wakes Adam that night.

He blinks away the dream of a midnight ball, surprised when the music doesn't fade with the images. Moonlight streams through his open window, and his empty room shines with it, silver and gold designs gleaming white with the moon's eerie, ethereal light.

But the violin doesn't stop. It's a slow, melancholy tune that climbs and descends like a stream over stones. Adam almost wonders if he's woken to glimpse a faerie dance of sorts, so taken is he by the magic of the moonlight. Slowly, he rises from his bed to fetch his robe and slippers.

Chapeau stands, illuminated by a window in the hallway, and Adam nearly mistakes him for a ghost; he blends in so with the blues and greys of the night-lit castle.

Under his chin is the source of the music: a rich, brown-colored violin several sizes larger than his own, and a bow that moves along the strings with such care that Adam barely notices when he pulls it up and down.

Adam opens his mouth to say a number of things, from "why are you here" to "you scared me half to death" but whatever it is dies the moment Chapeau meets eyes with him. Instead, the footman dips his head and turns to walk away. Adam follows.

Chapeau leads him through various hallways, portraits shadowed and faceless in the night, and when the castle opens up, the violin fills the space. Several times Adam wants to ask where they're going, but he can't move his mouth; so transfixed is he.

As a prince, he was never instructed to watch after his staff--in fact, it was the other way around--but Adam watches as a moth does to flame. Chapeau's fingers climb up and down the neck of the instrument effortlessly, and there are moments when his hand shakes without troubling the instrument at all.

The violin doesn't shake, but the note does. How is that possible?

Chapeau plays one final note before gently lifting his bow from the string, and though the sound fades away to nothing, Adam can swear he still hears it ringing.

And it's as if a spell has been broken; Adam blinks and takes a few breaths before realizing they've traveled to the music room.

"H...how did you...?" There is nothing to interrupt, but Adam can still only manage a breathy whisper.

Chapeau says nothing, only waits for Adam to finish, letting both hands fall to his sides.

"The way you...the way you climbed up the strings like that," he stutters. "What is that?"

The footman smiles. "Shifting."

Something inside Adam deflates; his shoulders slump as he lets out the breath he doesn't realize he was holding. "Oh..."

Following that comes the overwhelming urge to bury his head in his hands, but Chapeau's gesturing to the prince's own little case with his bow. Adam's eyes widen.

"No--no, I can't, I--"

But something in Chapeau's stance makes Adam unclasp the case anyway, and it takes him a few moments to figure out what it is: the violin hasn't fallen from his shoulder.

"How are you doing that?"

The footman laughs and removes the instrument, before putting it back. Adam notices it this time: with a slight head tilt, Chapeau's using his jaw to hold the violin there. Adam hastens to mimic him, bringing his own violin to his shoulder.

Oh, thank God, it's much more comfortable. Adam still has to tense his shoulder a little, but once he hesitantly lets his hand fall, the violin stays where it is.

Chapeau moves to him, taking his hand and placing it on the violin's neck. He guides the prince's hands forward, and then back, and Adam practices the action a few times before he nods.

Bow in hand, Chapeau plays a quick scale, shifting to complete it on only two strings instead of three. Adam tries to mimic him.

They converse like that for a while, letting the music breathe, until Adam realizes he's gotten the hang of shifting. Then Chapeau adds that shaking into each note--"Vibrato," he defines it--and encourages him to use his forearm, not just his wrist. This clicks immediately, and they can both tell.

They incorporate it into the scales, and when Adam struggles with the bow movements, Chapeau sits him in front of his fortepiano and encourages him to play with his left hand only. Soon after, the prince can mime the bow movements by himself.

Back to the violin, and it works. Adam moves the bow in time with his fingers, following the sheet music, and the piece that the tutor bade he practice starts to sound like something.

Adam's just working around the chords near the end before Chapeau pulls out a pocket-watch to check the time, and from his expression, Adam knows he's been awake too long. Chapeau ushers him to put his violin away, and Adam obliges, but...

"But could you play the piece for me?" he asks. "Just so I know how it's supposed to sound."

Chapeau looks the sheet music over once before adjusting the stand to fit his height.

Though the sheet music says to start loud, Chapeau plays the first few notes in a hushed quiet, building slowly to the appropriate dynamic with light, flighty bow movements.

Adam closes his eyes this time, trying to remember different finger placements for the chords, the one time he'd shift placements, the switch in key. But it's hard, so hard not to drift back to that strange, ethereal world, only accessible though a violin in the small hours after midnight.

He must notice, because the music slows into silence against the written instructions, and he guides Adam back to his bedroom, tucks him in, and disappears. The moon's moved past the windows now, nestling behind wisps of leftover cloud. Nothing else in the sky.

The spell's broken now, Adam thinks. His final conscious thought before dawn.

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Tagging people who I think might appreciate this (it's also been a while and I don't know if any of you guys are still active but still):

Maurice will never know how he got to be in such a position as this, and he certainly wishes for a handkerchief—or something to wipe his paint-stained hands with—to be nearby.  He’s sitting next to the most powerful man in the land, after all, though at the moment, his looks did not match his title.

The regent—or is he the king? Maurice wonders—is dressed in a simple coat and trousers, both of which are an earthy brown. The absence of the wig reveals natural greying hair, and without any bracelets or jewels he looks quite…normal. Nothing at all like the paintings in the West Wing.

Even more of an interest, he muses, is the look in the man’s eyes.  They are a hard, rather miserable gray, a shade Maurice would only use when painting a thunderstorm or a cloudy night.  But his expression does not match such a sad color.  The man’s hands are folded politely in his lap, and on his face, there is a genuine look of interest.

He somehow looks skeptical even without the skepticism, Maurice thinks, and tries to compose himself before speaking.

“Forgive me, Sire, I believe I misheard you.”

“Please don’t,” the man replied, and for a second Maurice’s thoughts flew to the etiquette lists Cogsworth had so graciously made for him, wondering if he had said the wrong thing.

“I have been neglecting my duties for years now,” he continued.  “I am no more a royal than you are.”

Oh. Maurice opens his mouth, compelled to reassure him that it isn’t his fault, that magic is a fickle thing, but something stops him.  There’s a flicker in that gaze, hinting that he meant more than what was said.

The old artist did not know much about Adam’s father, only that he was absent the night the curse was cast, meaning he had forgotten about the inhabitants of the castle just like everyone in Villeneuve.  Maurice had arrived with Monsieur D’Arque, just as the sun rose above the highest turrets and towers.  In his search to locate his daughter, he had noticed this same man, haggard yet joyful in the presence of his son.  He had no idea he was staring at the true master of the castle until Lumiére—the candlestick, he still couldn’t believe that—had addressed him as such.

“Well, I…I wish I had an answer that would suffice, Monsieur,” Maurice finally says. “To tell the truth, I’m not much of an expert on the matter.”

“And yet your daughter is one of the most remarkable women I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” the king replies. “Most of the princesses I would have picked for my son would only have their titles going for them.  Shallow, easily influenced, lured here under the prospect of an alliance.  Your daughter is—”

“Perfect.” The word is out of Maurice’s mouth before he can think of what to say.  He stares hard at his hands.  One has a rather large smudge of yellow on it.

“Certainly,” the king admits.  “I’ve not found fault with her yet, and I usually have a knack for that sort of thing.  Strange how things dissipate over time.”

Maurice blinked, again struggling to speak properly, but now there was something like a cloud over them, and he wondered if the other man knew about the curse at all.

“Your—Monsieur,” Maurice begins again, “I—”

“Maurice, isn’t it?” he interrupts.

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“I am asking this genuinely, as someone who has no experience in the matter.”  He is silent for a moment, and stares out the window.  “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen my son, and I’m sure his memories of me are…few and far between.”

Maurice notices it then. There is something keeping this man back. The way he speaks of the prince is not as a son, but as an unapproachable. Something that he is hesitant to think of.  

Is this man really Adam’s father?

“You believe that you cannot father the prince because of your absence? Is there something you’re afraid of?”

Sacre…the yellow smear now seems alarmingly bright. Since when did such a color exist?

He had thought that his initial fear of speaking to a royal was enough to stay his tongue, but…

It’s almost as if he has not spoken at all. The king retreats into himself, eyes glazing over, head inclined, on the verge of remembering, but not quite there.

“I don’t know.  I’ve forgotten how.  But I’d like to try again.”

Maurice blinks, and the cloud dissipates.  This is something that the curse had very little to do with.  Something that could have very easily been Adam’s childhood, or lack thereof.  He had never let the lives of the noblemen grace his thoughts, but now he imagines that because of their upbringings and various duties to attend to, they never had time to enjoy.  

The man sitting across from him probably has no idea what rain smells like.

Maurice folds his hands and smiles.  

“The reason I happened upon this castle was because I was attacked by wolves, and I was seeking shelter from an oncoming storm. I let myself in, as the lamps were lit, but no one was inside.”

Maurice pauses, but there was no sign of anger from the other man, so he kept going.

“After I left, I noticed that the garden—your garden, I suppose—was filled to the brim with roses.  They were white, absolutely pristine despite the snow. Though I was in quite a state of distress when I left, I remembered the last thing my daughter asked of me was that I bring her back a rose.”  Maurice chuckles.  “In hindsight, that action could have cost me my life, but I still would have done it, thinking back on it now.”

“Pardon me,” the other man interrupts, “it could have cost you your life?”

“Ah—” Maurice halts, staring. He quickly shifts his attention to a paintbrush he left by the window. Perhaps this man does not know the entirety of it. Surely, he could explain, but this man is still a stranger. And Adam’s father. It’s not his place to tell. “In a way, yes. But there’s no need for concern. If there had been a threat before, it has long passed.”

In the window, Maurice can see the young boy, Christopher, and his mother, playing outside.  Maurice cannot see them smiling, but he can tell just by looking.

I suppose I have a knack for those kinds of things.

“I’m a lucky man,” he admits.  “I was able to use my passion to create a living for us. But I would burn every canvas if it led to her happiness.  I would give up anything and everything for the sake of my little girl.”

The king is quiet, and for a moment Maurice thinks he got through to him.  Then he said “And your wife? Where is she in this wonderful family?”

It is Maurice’s turn to be quiet.  He closes his eyes and her face swims before his, smiling and proud, tears in her eyes. He is able to smile back, and he thanks God for it.

“Her mother died of plague a few months after she was born.”

There is nothing from the king.  In the silence, Maurice turns his hands over in his lap, wondering if he should say more.  Instead, he glances up, and the king’s expression is one of a man trapped. He stares at Maurice with such sympathetic agony that Maurice wonders how long he should hold his gaze.

He’s caught in something, Maurice thinks, but does not look away.

In this moment, the answer forms.

“Sir, if I may,” he begins, “I think the answer you are searching for is just to be there.”

The other man snaps out of his reverie.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Be there.  Smile when Adam notices you watching him.  Answer any question he asks as honestly and as truthfully as you can. Support him in everything he does, even if you don’t like it.”

“But that seems too simple.”

“It’s the hardest thing in the world,” Maurice replies.  He goes to gesture to his studio—before cringing inwardly at how haphazard and disorganized it is.  “When I was a young man, I lived in Montmarte, in an old repurposed windmill that my wife was able to earn. When Belle was born, I—I wanted everything to be flawless. I felt like she would never experience any of life’s troubles, not as long as I was around. I never wanted her to stop smiling. Of course, life will never work out the way you want it to.”

The king nods. “I’ve no right to call my life treacherous. But wandering these halls again, it’s so different. Familiar.” He raises an eyebrow as his gaze travels upwards towards the chandelier. “But lost.”

“To be lost is to be blind to everything around you,” Maurice replies.  “In a way, I was cursed to be perceptive in everything I did. I saw everything in painstaking detail. So much so that the only way to be rid of it was to paint it.

“But in recent years,” he continues, “I’ve begun to forget small things. How many gears fit into a music box.  How many folds to draw in a frilly dress. And almost as if to correct my memory, my daughter will round the corner with the correct gear in her hand or twirl for me until I remember.”

The man tilts his head, but Maurice can tell that he’s getting it.

Good, he thinks inwardly, I fear I’ve started to ramble.

“Though our relationship needed no improvements before, I’m grateful for my weakening senses,” he finishes, “because now I am constantly reminded of how much she means to me.”

“You’ve made no mistakes, sir, it seems,” is the response. Maurice laughs.

“Oh, don’t say that; I’ve made plenty of mistakes. There was a time, after her mother died, when I refused to acknowledge it.” This sparks something in the king’s dark eyes, and Maurice pushes on, refusing to let him think of it. “It wasn’t until Belle decided to find her mother on her own that I knew I couldn’t hide from it any longer. And there have been moments like that as long as I’ve lived.”

“Sometimes those moments seem to last forever.”

Maurice grins then, at what the king probably thought was a morbid statement. But that is what makes life beautiful.

“You, sir, are not blind, so you are not lost,” he decides. “In fact, the very action of asking me for advice shows that you see your son, and you see the bond that you want with him. But pay no attention to my story; I’m a humble painter with no knowledge of the world inside these exquisite walls.”

He gestures to a painting in the far corner of his studio. His daughter stands there, mid-twirl, the sun on her smiling face and a few rose petals drifting in her wake. Her joy is his now, and he will experience it every time he looks at her.

“Maurice, I possess none of the detail-oriented capabilities of an artist like yourself—”

“No,” Maurice interrupts, and this time he’s not afraid. “It’s just smudges on a canvas. I don’t see every detail anymore. But I see the emotion, and that’s far more important than any scrutinizing on my part.”

Maurice leans forward, smiling. “Be there. And if you truly want it, the rest will come.”

The man nods then, and Maurice can see that his words have somewhat fallen through the other’s sadness. “Imagine finding such a profound man in a village somewhere. I’m very lucky, aren’t I.”

“I’m an old fool,” Maurice assures him. “The villagers used to call me crazy.”

“I imagine they stopped when you moved in,” the king murmured.

“No,” Maurice shakes his head, “they stopped when your son greeted them.”

The man’s lips part in surprise, and for a split-second Maurice can see a smile on his face. “I suppose that’s very like him.”

Then the moment melts away, the two rise, and he offers his hand. Maurice freezes. He’s not wearing gloves. The handkerchief is once again at the forefront of his mind. But he’s also not one to leave a hand unshaken, so he takes it.

“Merci. I would like to visit with you again, if my presence was not a bother to you.”

“O-of course,” Maurice responds. “But please, a word of warning. My study…is not a sight for sore eyes at the moment.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” is his reply, and he’s gone. Maurice can hear a second set of footsteps tailing him, and he wonders if the attendant heard the conversation or not.

But instead, he sits back down and stares out the window. Chapeau and Lumiére have joined the Potts in the courtyard now. The roses are in full bloom. It’s a lovely picture. He’ll have to remember it for when he buys a bigger canvas.

He raises his paintbrush. The smear of yellow is gone. He can feel tears coming.

“Be there,” he murmurs, and adds a stroke of carnation pink. “And the rest will come.”

He glances at one of the roses outside. Have I done enough, mon ange?

-

I’ve been meaning to do this anyway.  Developing their probably forever-someodd-year-old romance is a joy and a pleasure.

Tagging some people who I think might enjoy this: @lumiereswig @naturepointstheway @ginnyweatherby @tinydooms @sweetfayetanner 

-=-=-=-=-=-

A Rare Gift Indeed

“Il mio lungo dolore cadrà, vinto da te…”

Allegra beams as the curtains close on the first act.  Even as the actors flit about, preparing the next scene, she can still smell the spray of the sea and the olives in the air.  She has never been to Ancient Greece, but the stage is her world, and nowhere is out of reach.

“Well done.”  A stagehand lays a hand on her shoulder and ushers her back toward the wings.  “Now, make sure that the costume is wrapped.”

She pouts a little as her daydream wisps away but obediently trudges toward the curtains. She should be grateful, after all. Although she is not one of the main acts this time, she has become part of the chorus.  Perhaps the conductor thought to give her a chance, perhaps she was merely lucky.  Either way, her dream is closer now than it ever had been.

Allegra stops.  Her eyes shoot toward the edge of the stage. She had heard something in the midst of the orchestra, a whimsical trill of strings, a familiar feeling.  She saunters toward the curtain.

“What are you doing?” snaps the stagehand.  “The curtain is to remain closed during the intermission.”

“I know,” says Allegra, rolling her eyes.  “But I heard something.”

“Just the orchestra finishing.  Come, now.”

“You didn’t hear the strings?” Allegra asks.  “They sounded beautiful.”

“…Ah.” The grip on Allegra’s shoulder lessens.  “The harpsichord.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” she replies.  “It wasn’t part of the musical score—”

“Well, do you not expect an improvement from a prodigy?” The stagehand’s voice has changed now, from strictness into something like respect.  “He’s performed with us before, and we’re honored to have him back in the orchestra, though it doesn’t suit his style.”

Wait… Allegra grasps the curtain and shifts it to one side, creating an opening no sider than a sliver, and gasps in recognition.  There, seated just in her line of sight, was the same boy she met months ago.  He is still dressed in concert black, with a bow to hold back his brown hair.  One hand dances around the keys while the other flips through the scorebook.

But that is all she is able to see before the stagehand firmly pulls her back.

“A prodigy?” she asks. “I just thought he was skilled.”

“Away with you, now,” he frets; he isn’t listening.  “Only ten minutes ‘til curtain, and you must be in your place before then.”

Allegra scoffs, but he’s right.  The stage is calling her once again.

-=-=-=-=-=-

The curtains close a second time, and conversations fill the air as the audience filters out, one by one.  It’s only the beginning of summer, but the nights are still chilly enough for a third of the ladies to wear a shawl, Allegra included.  After all, organizing the costumes isn’t hard and only takes fifteen minutes if you’ve done it a million times before.

She usually uses the backstage exit, but this time she descends through the winding staircase and into the orchestra.  All around her, musicians are putting away their instruments and discussing tone, pitch, and slight errors that they managed to cover up.  

The boy is the farthest away, cleaning off the keys of his instrument with a black cloth.  The scorebook lies on the bench next to him and his eyes are dark and focused.  

She would have been nervous to approach him if he was a stranger, she admits.  But she remembers him.  Will he remember her?

“Me scusi…”

“Si?” He acknowledges but does not look up.

“I don’t know if you remember me.  We met a few months ago, at the performance of “L'incoronazione di Poppea.”

Now he looks up. Something within his gaze lights up in recognition.  “How are you?”

“Well enough,” Allegra responds.  “And you?”

He tilts his head, half a shrug.  “Not much to say.”

Allegra glances at the audience.  “They’ll be gone in ten minutes at most.  It’s getting colder.  At this hour, people are anxious to get home.”

His head tilts in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll wait,” Allegra says matter-of-factly.  “After all, you never told me you were a prodigy.”

“Prodigy?” A corner of his mouth tilts upward.  “Who told you that?”

Allegra looks back to the stage.  The curtains are closed, cutting her off from the organized chaos of an opera’s aftermath. “Just a stagehand.”

“If that’s what my family is telling people, then I suppose it must be true.”

He says that, but Allegra notices his averted eyes, his still hands.  She leans forward, placing a hand on the harpsichord for balance.  He catches the movement immediately, and for a second, she thinks he might react, but he says nothing.

“Ten minutes,” she repeats. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll wait.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

She meets him when most of the candles have been snuffed out; all of the important faces have gone home. He hasn’t moved from the bench, but the arpeggios he practices still hang in the air around him.  He stops when he sees her.

“Signora.”

She smiles.  “Signor Genio.”

He scoffs.  “I’m not, really.”

“Then why do people talk about you like you are?” Of course, she only has the word of one person, but from the sound of it, people must know who he is.  “I remember when you played for me. It was improvised and it was beautiful.”

He bows his head.  “Well. As a fellow musician, perhaps you would understand it.  I may perform well enough, and people enjoy me, but no matter what I play, I feel like there’s something missing.”

Allegra notices his eyes again; they’re staring at the keys.  “Is this the first time you’ve told someone that?”

“You are perceptive.”

“Why tell me of all people?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, why wouldn’t you tell someone else?  I bet you speak with tons of other instrumentalists.”

“I…. it’s different. Most instrumentalists would converse with each other, but they live elsewhere and are far older.  I told you I’m self-taught, so I don’t converse with others as much as I probably should.”

Allegra shrugs.  “I think I understand. About how something might be missing.  A lonely feeling.  Sometimes the stage does feel empty, but the other feelings are overpowering.  I keep coming back because it’s what makes me smile.”

He shakes his head.  “You do understand…you do and you don’t.”

“Every person is different,” she replies.  “The same feeling can be felt in so many ways because there are so many different people in the world.  I know there are people that come here to see a drama, but they leave thinking it was dramatic, or sad, or lonely.  It’s all the same emotion; people just experience it in various ways.”

“That’s…unexpectedly wise.” He nods.  “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Unexpected?” Allegra blinks, confused.  “Why?”

His eyes go wide.  “Well, ah…I’m surprised, is all.  You sing and dance on a stage; you are not in and among the people.”

“Neither are you,” she retorts.  “Aren’t you a soloist most of the time?”

“That’s—” He stops, probably not expecting that answer.  “That’s not what I mean.  Most of the performers I’ve seen only come for themselves.”

“Well… the stage is my home, but it’s my home because I climbed onto it myself. I used to be in the audience; I would sneak in here sometimes when I was little and watch the performances.  I understand the emotions the audiences go through more than anything, because I experience them myself.  Even when I’m performing, I’m one of them.  The story makes me laugh and cry, so I show them that I know and understand.”

His eyebrows crease and his expression is one Allegra cannot read. “That is a rare gift indeed.”

Allegra’s eyes leave his and travel upward. There is still one chandelier lit; someone has noticed that the hall is not yet empty and is waiting for them to leave. But still, the Ducal’s golden brilliance never fails to mesmerize her.  The epitome of luxury.

“I don’t have much.  I’m paid to help the seamstresses here, and that’s all.  Sometimes the directors hear what I can do, and they ask me to sing or play small roles.  Every time I’m drawn out of the people to stand on a stage and play my role, I am in luxury.  It doesn’t matter what I’m doing.”  She points to the stage.  Just a few days ago, a woman sang a solo there. Every night since, she has run the words over in her head, anxious to memorize it.  “I live there.  That’s the only place I can be alive.”

Nothing in his expression changes.  He still sits, one hand on his chin and the other on the keys.  She could have said nothing at all.

Allegra lets her eyes fall back to the floor.  What is she doing?  She knew the seamstress would slap her on the wrist for saying such things.  She didn’t know him.  One compliment from him might be all she’ll ever get.

“Sing.”

Her head snaps up.  “What?”

“You said you live there.” He points to the stage.  “Go, and sing.”

“I…” Try as she might, she cannot ignore the thrill of his request.  Before she can answer, she’s already climbing the steps.  If she stands at the edge, she can see him.  One musician amongst the empty chairs and ghosts of the orchestra. “Sing what?”

“Anything.”  His tone is encouraging, but his hands rest in his lap.  For once, he’s taken his attention off of his music.  He’s focused on her.

And her hands are suddenly far too clammy than before.  What to sing?  He’s probably been to countless operas, seen thousands of performances.  And here she is, a sewing girl in an apron.  What could she sing to impress him?

He said anything.  Sing anything.

A chorus of notes rise to her lips, but she surprises herself; this song is not from an opera or performance she had heard before.  This is a lullaby, something her mother used to sing to her when she was cold and afraid.  Perhaps her mother is here now, taking Allegra’s clammy hands in her cool, strong ones, and singing.

“Ninna nanna, ninna oh

Questo bimbo a chi lo do?

Se lo do alla befana

Se lo tiene una settimana

Se lo do al lupo nero

Se lo tiene un anno intero

Se lo do a lupo bianco

Se lo tiene tanto tanto

Ninna oh ninna oh

A nessuno lo daro'…”

The silence seems to swallow up the last note, so she stands there, waiting for any sign from the boy at the harpsichord.  For about a minute, there is nothing.  She looks at him, and throughout the entire performance, his expression has not changed.  He might have turned to stone.

She opens her mouth to retort, but the sound of a strong E cuts her off.  He holds the key, just to make sure she is listening, and then starts into an arpeggio of notes.

A tear slips from her cheek.  Surely, he had been holding back when he played for her the first time!  This—this music had such emotion behind it!  The notes were quick and riveting, just as he had already done, but there was movement, a person, behind the keys this time, and—oh!  The notes of her lullaby slip through here and there.  He has taken her performance and made it into something beyond what it was. A few simple minutes transformed into something being truly born, breath being drawn for the first time.  

A harpsichord is made of wood and metal strings.  But as he plays, it is a living thing, and they are having a conversation about her performance.

But then his hands are in the air and the harpsichord is silent.  His eyes are closed and his face is alight with quite possibly the biggest—and the only—smile she has ever seen from him.  His eyes rise to meet hers, and blink, startled. She must be a sobbing mess after what she’s just heard; she had no idea there could be any instrument held in higher regard than the voice itself.

“Signora?”  The smile is still frozen on his face, but his eyes betray his concern.

“Allegra,” she corrects.  Her voice cracks.

“Allegra,” he repeats, and she feels something glow inside her.  “All you alright?”

She shakes her head and furiously wipes her cheeks.  “That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?”

“No!  You were holding back the last time you played for me, and I wasn’t!  That’s not fair!”

He blinks.  “Holding…back?”

“What are you, an echo? Si, holding back!  This was…this was way more beautiful than what you played for me before!”

“It was?” His eyes flicker back and forth, glancing at memories before he settles on realization.  He shakes his head, and the look he gives her then makes her heart leap.  “It was.  If only there were people to see it.”

“I saw it.” Allegra straightens.  “More importantly, I heard it.  I’ve never heard anything like that in my entire life.  Maybe you are a genius.”

That stops him for a full five seconds.  He looks down, at the keys, then at his own hands, then back up at her. “You say that?”

“I do.  Completely.”

He covers the keys and stands up.  “I am performing here in one month’s time.  There will be a recital on this stage featuring many different kinds of musicians.  Even singers.”

Allegra knew what he was talking about; the masters of the Ducal had been particularly twitchy regarding it.  Apparently, a very famous violist from France was visiting, as was a flutist from China.

“Yes,” she confirms.  “I’ll probably assist backstage.”

“The last act will be a harpsichordist.  Not me, of course, I am not experienced enough.  Even so, there will be an empty instrument sitting on this stage well after the curtain closes.”

Her lips part in surprise; she can guess where this conversation is going. “I’ll stay behind to clean it,” she offers.  “If you’d like.”

“I would.”  He looks her straight in the eyes, and she can still see a flash of ecstasy from before. Whatever happened to him when he played for her, it wasn’t something that happened often.  “Have your songs ready, belladonna.  We’ll do this again.”

Heat rushes to her cheeks as whatever she was going to say sticks in her throat.  Belladonna?  Her?

She tries to say something, but he is already walking toward the exit.  Is it her imagination, or does he have a spring in his step?  “Wait! I told you my name, what am I supposed to call you? Maestro?”

That stops him, if only for a moment.  She can hear the smile in his voice as he says “I suppose that works.” Then the door moves and he’s gone.

-=-=-=-=-=-

He closes his eyes and for an instant, he can feel her.  She stands there, grinning, as the stagehands extinguish the final chandelier.  She can’t even see the hands in front of her, but she glows.

The carriage ride back is a blur, an hour, a day.  He doesn’t care.  He has so much to practice.  So much to think about.

Once he had discovered his talents, his parents had told him something about performing: when he’s on a stage, all that matters is himself and the instrument.  There is a barrier that forms around the two of them for every performance. No one else matters.  Nothing else matters.

Looking back on it, they had probably only said that to save him from the wills of stage fright, but it was a message that he held closer to his heart than any other lesson, even in his daily life.  Until today.

This girl…he has only met her twice and yet his conscience is screaming at him that his previous beliefs are wrong.  Even when he plays with orchestras, even when he accompanies the occasional family friend, he is always put on another pedestal, his name always mentioned with a more lavish script, an emphasis.  He was made to stand alone when the audience cheered. When his hands touched the keys, the world was wiped away.  The barrier held strong.  It reminded him he was better.

It had taken him every ounce of self-control not to play with her when she sang.

It’s such a simple tune, one he has heard a thousand times himself, and yet. Somehow, she’s made it unique. Ethereal.  

The only reason he had left in the first place was that he knew there were people waiting for him.  He could have stayed and played with her for hours.  He wanted his harpsichord to sing with her.  What a breathtaking realization it is.

The harpsichord is not a stand-alone instrument, nor is he a stand-alone musician. Not anymore.

The barrier is cracking.  Light is coming in.

Belle is the wind that teases a wagon’s wheels. She laughs when she runs, untethered from what was behind her and what is in front of her.  She’s the daughter of a traveler, so the wheels have always been next to her, guiding her to where she was to go next.  Even as they trip and shudder over rocks in the road or mud in the dirt, she laughs and pries them loose.  She’s fearless and free and runs alongside the wagon while her father watches the road. Gazing through the spokes at the greenery ahead.  Daring the grass to try slowing her down.

Adam is the flower that blooms in the winter. All the world seems white when he’s happy.  Every day is like another blanket of snow on the ground: fresh and clean and waiting to be explored.  The world he lives in is cold and unrelenting around him, but he has his mother as the sun, and his father to keep his roots from dying.  Everyone loves the happiness that he carries with him, close to his heart.  It’s true that, while he is the only flower that dares to peek above the white, he makes sure he has seen enough of the view to share it with everyone else.

Lumiere is the spirit that haunts the nighttime streets. He’s small, but people still glimpse his kind and eager smile as he flits from cobblestone to cobblestone.  Some vagrants whisper to themselves that they’ve seen a wil’o the wisp, a faerie, moving in the night and rousing people’s spirits.  It’s the candle-maker’s son, the smarter ones would say.  Hardly ever leaves his house in the day, but at night he’s alight with something warm and bright.  They don’t know about the night terrors he suffers, but then again, neither does he.  He just knows that the emotion he feels at night in bed is called fear; there are easy ways to vanquish it.  So he searches the moonlit streets of Paris for things that call smiles to the broken people’s faces.

Plumette is the smallest bird in the nest. She’s waited on day and night by her servants.  Her parents smile when the maids weave flowers into her hair and rouge on her lips.  She follows every movement, every direction, and memorizes it.  At night she stands on her windowsill in a flowing nightgown, arms spread wide, wishing she could fly away.  But she steps back onto her bed every time, thinking she cannot possibly let go of everything she has to take to the sky—though it beckons.  She does not know that the time will come sooner than she wishes.  So she smiles at the sun and waves at her friends in their pretty pastel gowns.  It’s tea time, and then embroidery, and so on.  Picturesque and perfect, forever and ever.

Cuisinier is the old soul that feels what he tastes. He’s scolded day in and day out about eating more than usual.  His schoolteachers tut and shake their heads at him, but his mother always makes an extra helping of minestrone soup.  She finishes before him, but she smiles as she watches him take another spoonful and mull it over.  Her cooking is the best thing to ever happen to the boy, and he must know the secret behind why the different flavors mingle in harmony with one another so well.  It spills into his sight, the color of flavor. He has to see the perfect picture, and that’s why his mother laughs when he goes to the cupboard to add an extra sprinkling of rosemary to the broth.

Chapeau is the echo that travels. Attention is drawn from him and toward his sisters with their frills and showy smiles.  He doesn’t mind; in fact, he encourages it by giving them new hats to show off in front of their mother’s store.  The villagers find him hovering over the altar in the chapel, methodically wiping the dust from the tomes of Scripture.  He smiles then, and leads them to a pew for the evening services.  And early in the morning, before the sun has fully shown herself, they can hear his violin echoing off the walls of the church.  Coaxing the day to life.

Beatrice is the kindness in a storm. She runs in the rain, caring not for her dress, which is spattered with mud.  Lightning flashes and thunder roars, but she laughs at it and continues.  Nothing scares her.  She can be as quick as lightning and as loud as thunder if she wishes.  After running through the London streets, she sees a small dog, its fur bedraggled and soaking, and she wraps it in her petticoat.  It sleeps in her backyard that night, and she turns up her nose at the boys that tease her the next day.

Henry is the order in a house that shakes. His father is a well-known clockmaker, but his fingers tremble too much now.  He’s watched him fit the gears together and craft beautiful, calming machines that called out to the shop every hour.  He knows how every clock works, and shudders when he can hear the calls cut short, the ticking off its rhythm, the ever so slight scratching that results from two cogs that don’t quite fit.  His father has unknowingly made him his protege.  So whenever his father is out buying new parts, Henry takes the clocks apart.  He carefully adjusts the cogs and sprockets, fits the music boxes into place, and tucks the contraption back into its spot in the shop.  If his father notices how differently the clocks talk to each other now, he doesn’t mention it.

Garderobe is the final note in a song. As much as she loves the beginning of a story, the ending is just as thrilling, because there is always a finale.  In the finale, she can add her own harmonies to the main actors’ voices without being noticed.  The directors will always note how perfect those particular performances are and praises the cast, skipping over the thin girl that smiles to herself in pride. She is the unspoken reason, and soon she will rise to the top.  One of these days, the people in charge will smile at her and hold up one of the lead role’s frilly costumes.  She can’t wait.  

Cadenza is the golden key to a perfect machine. When he is ten, his harpsichords are made for him.  He is groomed for success at eleven, a wunderkind in the world of symphonies.  People from all over Europe and Asia gather to hear him play, and some want to stay forever.  The sounds he makes cannot be called something as commonplace as “music.”  It has exceeded the word.  His mind is a secret garden of notes, and each bouquet he picks is different, unique, and beautiful.  He plays what has already been written, what he writes himself, and small fancies in between practices.  He does not tell anyone, but he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something missing.  He’s a genius, and a young child, he tells himself.  He shouldn’t worry.  He tries smiling at his audience.

Maurice is the color on an empty canvas. He can see brightness where no one else can.  He can see dancing rays that are a different shade than the ones caught in the sun.  At the maypole, he watches the sheen of the ribbons and the swish of the wind against the flowers.  He wants to capture it.  He wants to hold it in his hands.  When he stares at the mediocre painting of his parents’ wedding, he knows he can do better.  He paints all day and night, and then all over again.  His mother says an angel has touched her wedding, and he beams from the warmth of her embrace, his smooth hands stained with blue and white and green.

How sweet is the innocence of youth?  The voices so clear and mild, not yet ready to shoulder their hardships, too free to realize what nature will do.  Let all the children of the world raise their arms and shout

Thank you so much!  And honestly, I have headcanons about all of the staff as kids that I sort of teased here.  I have a solid backstory for the Italians and the English ones, and I wonder whether I should release a bunch of mini-fics or just one long headcanon list.  Regardless, I'll tell you a few of them (the ones mentioned in "The Innocence of Youth", anyway).

Belle's childhood was full of moving from house to house.  Maurice and Belle went to at least five villages before settling on Villeneuve, with all their belongings in a gigantic cart drawn by Phillipe.

I did drop the headcanon that young Lumiere is a Parisian urban legend about a year ago, but I thought I'd bring it back.

The headcanon that Plumette used to be noble until her parents died in the same plague that killed Belle's mom is not mine--it belongs to @lumiereswig, but it fits so well that I had to expand on it.

Cuisinier is a synesthete.  For those of you that don't know, that's a condition that blurs two or more of the senses together.  For him, he sees colors and shapes depending on what he tastes.  I think it fits, and it also develops his palette in a way that the others just can't comprehend.

It's been in my mind since a few months after the film's release that Chapeau was an altar boy when he was younger.  It would explain a few subtle things that I noticed near the end of the film.  Plus violin sounds + inside of a church = amazing acoustics no matter where you are.

I imagine that Beatrice was the kind of girl that came home with dirt on her face and bloody knuckles because she just beat up a bully or two in her Sunday best.  Also the kind that would dance barefoot in the British rain.

Cogsworth's childhood was a lot like Belle's in that he was ingenious and inventive and helped out his father just like she did.  Except he never got any new ideas; he only knew how to make other ideas better.

Garderobe's childhood was one I touched on in "Opera", but I can still say that she wasn't the richest of children and worked her way up the opera ladder until she became the star of every performance.  Explains why she's such a good seamstress.

As for Cadenza, I love the idea of him being rather cold and pragmatic in his youth because of how he was raised.  It makes his switch to the soulful and eccentric man we see all the more interesting.  

Maurice grew up in a pastoral village, so a lot of his first paintings were full of pastel and natural colors.