#ndiwfama

Here goes.

Chapter 2: First Impressions

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The orchestra adapts easily to the piece he throws at them. He carries you through a waltz, swaying between high and low strings as the melody is traded back and forth. His tempo-keeping fades to make way for emphasis on loud chords, cues for the timpani or the flutes, and reminding the band to drop to a whisper for gentle sections.

He keeps this authority running for all nine minutes of the piece. It’s long, and he doesn’t take one moment to pause throughout it. This sort of rigor is expected, although the additional burden of sight-reading the entire piece leaves you a little mentally fatigued by the time you trudge through the last few measures.

“Excellent,” Erwin says as everyone slumps in exhaustion. “Those were good, sharp notes, my violins. Cellos, you added staccatos in measures that didn’t need them—but, to your credit, your bowing was synchronized.”

“Are you mocking us?” you ask through a laugh.

“Just issuing praise where it is due,” he responds with that same sprig of amusement. “Let’s take it from measure one-oh-five. Trombones, more power in the quarters. You’re the foundation for the bassoons and the clarinets. Here we are. Ready, and—”

Time flies as he works through the piece with his group, hopping from passage to passage and testing how different sections handle particular measures. He’s quick with his commentary and fluent in the realm of musical education, painting pictures of the scene that is meant to be conveyed through this music and showing his players how to paint with him. Only briefly will he make a quip or answer a question, nearly all of his attention focused on the score in front of him.

And there are moments where he truly comes alive, when a chord is struck perfectly or when the melody flows through the sections just right. His hands dance with the music and his expression lights up, emboldened with the power of his orchestra. No matter what else, you cannot deny that he loves his work. Music is giving him a pleasure that few humans get to experience.

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The Program:

Dmitri Shostakovich - Symphony No. 9, Mvt. 3 One of the first pieces I found in my research, and the first reminder of how insane orchestra music is. This piece is fun to listen to, although following along with the score gives me a headache. Props to musicians everywhere, seriously. This artform cannot be underestimated.

Franz Schubert - Symphony No. 9, Mvt. 3 This piece is the score Erwin hands out mid-rehearsal. Easier than other pieces I found (in my opinion as an amateur pianist), although it seemed fitting that Erwin would select from a symphony specifically titled "The Great".

Ernest Bloch - Suite No. 2 For Violoncello Solo Naturally, this is the piece Reader selects when asked to play something from her repertoire. Our protagonist is rather talented, isn't she? (i hope so, anyway. i can barely read string music. i have no idea what is "hard" on a string instrument. i am undoubtedly winging it.)

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I would like to make comments on the composers themselves, although I feel I haven't done sufficient research to do them justice. I may come back and explore historical composers in future chapters.

from No Duet Is Written For A Man Alone

“Erwin.” You open the door with a strip of silk in one hand and a defeated expression on your face. “This set is fitting well, but I can’t get this stupid tie on.”

“Oh.” He suppresses a laugh once he sees your warning glare. “That’s alright. Let me see.”

He steps in and takes the tie from you, then delicately laces it around your neck. His fingers knead against your collarbone as they fit the fabric under your collar, and you’re embarrassed at how perfectly still you’ve gone for his sake. Knuckles rest against your sternum as he finds the appropriate slack on either end, his focus wholly on the knot he’s attempting atop your chest.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do it from this angle. I’ve only ever put them on myself.” As a solution to his conundrum, he steps behind you and wreathes arms around your body.

Now you’re seriously motionless. He’s made way for the body mirror across the room, and in it you see his frame cloak yours as he weaves a knot near your neck. His height is once again starkly obvious, and the breath of warm light on his head and shoulders gives him an ethereal quality.

And that divinity is inches away, nearly nestled against your back with you in its embrace. He’s putting a tie on, and that’s all he’s doing—but your mind has already devised a dozen actions he could be doing instead.

“That’s it.” His voice has softened in the stillness of this private room, producing a seductive quality that you’d welcome another serving of. He tightens the knot up to the base of your neck, and you actually feel your heart jump when the loop constricts ever so slightly.

The heat in your cheeks would give you away if the low light didn’t obscure it. When he comes back to your front, he makes another adjustment to the tie as he examines how it rests against your chest. For a brief, dangerous moment, he has the length of the tie in his fist, and you both know that motion is serving no evaluative purpose. You emit a tiny, indiscernible grunt, the barest noise that expresses some form of surprise.

Surprise, yes, and appeal. No part of these past few seconds has been unappealing, and now with your arousal peaked and your thoughts running amok, you have to expel just one iota of those urges. Whether or not he hears it, he deftly releases the makeshift leash and reels his hand back into his own personal space.

“Anyway, with that kind introduction, I’d like you to welcome Erwin Smith, our pianist turned vocalist. And bless him for his sacrifice, because he’ll carry this crooner’s piece with more elegance than I would. This is our lovely Maestro Erwin, with If by Tolchard Evans.”

In the few seconds between the applause and the beat given by Petra, Erwin finds how he can function as a singer on stage, holding the microphone and wandering the small space as he observes his band and his audience. He’s not trembling, but it’s clear he’s out of his element.

A short trumpet solo precedes his entrance, giving him hints as to the notes he needs to hold. The measure before he starts is nothing but a sluggish, shuffling drum beat.

Both you and Hange light up when his first note is clean and sustained, satisfied to see their shared pupil take his beginning step successfully. He can’t vibrato, but he has a full chest that gives every low note a rich, warm sound.

“If they made me a king,” he sings, his eyes pointed past his audience. “I’d be but a slave to you.”

“I knew it,” Hange murmurs, analyzing how he breathes and moves. “He’s really got potential. Oh, just listen to that low register. Some of my people would kill for a voice like that.”

You don’t answer, mentally recording every second of the beautiful performance. His voice is wonderful, and the words it spills are important. Authentic, even, to your needy heart. Maybe he would put aside his power to kneel before you, or maybe he’d stay unfulfilled until you were at his side. Maybe this entire piece was chosen to express what he hasn’t been able to articulate.

“If the world to me bowed,” he croons, “yet humbly I’d flee to you.”

Maybe that’s your desperation talking. Nevertheless, this sound won’t be forgotten, and you’d hate to think you could never hear it again. One way or another, you know you must have him sing in the future, if only to hear precious words like these.

He’s more relaxed when the horn takes a solo, finally given a break from what he experienced as a hectic first half. Listening to the instruments reminds him of his roots, lulling him into a calmer state of mind to begin his second verse.

He actually eyes the audience this time around, spotting his prized musicians just beyond the stage lighting. Their faces aren’t scaring him, although he’s had several days in Liberio to forget about his reputation. These people are good acquaintances to him now, and spending time with them is no longer a sin in his mind.

When he reaches the last few lines, he finally finds your face and shamelessly remains on it while he sings. He’s found his footing by now, and he’s giving you the full performance you asked for.

“If I ruled the earth,” he sings, and you imagine he already does, “what would life be worth if I hadn’t the right to you?”

You want to ask if that’s true. Could he, the ruler of the earth, find no purpose without you?

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The Program:

Jimmy Van Heusen - Come Fly With Me The first piece Onyankopon sings in the jazz set. A timeless classic, right? The rendition by Frank Sinatra is the one I know the most (also, niche opinion, but James Darren does a damn good job too. that's my star trek fandom speaking)

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy - Maddest Kind of Love Hey guys I LOVE this piece. LOVE IT. This is the piece Erwin does his piano solo on. I heavily encourage listening to the piano solo in this, it's INCREDIBLY sexy. The singing is pretty swell too ><

George Gershwin & Ira Gershwin - Let's Call The Whole Thing Off Here's the piece that Onyankopon and Nambia sing. I think primarily of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong singing this piece :)

Dean Kay & Kelly Gordon - That's Life The piece in the background while Reader is grilling Erwin about singing. And of course I prefer the version by Frank Sinatra.

Tolchard Evans - If (They Made Me A King) HERE WE GO. Yeah this piece is absolutely my favorite. It's so perfect for Erwin. I won't deny that a majority of this fic was based around pairing him with this song. I imagine Erwin has a tone similar to Dean Martin's deep baritone. The backing instrumentation is closer to the band with Louis Armstrong, though. And I can't go without mentioning Perry Como's rendition, of course. I love this piece so much. It's slow and heartfelt and just so precious to me.

You wait until you’re at your cello case before addressing him. “I’m amazed I never noticed that before,” you laugh while opening the coffin.

Erwin is careful not to attract the ears of the busy musicians around you. “Noticed what, exactly?”

You’re conscious of them too, although there’s enough commotion in the room to muffle your words. “You already know, sir. That stare. I’d have never dared to look in the direction of another man if I knew those eyes were watching me!”

He withers against your mocking surrender, finding no dignity in having his vulnerability exposed. “That isn’t true. I have no vicious intent—and no possession over you. It’s nothing as malicious as you make it sound.”

“Maybe not, but you were glaring pretty hard. You weren’t even listening to the music anymore.”

In his scramble out of the pit of shame, he finds caustic rebuttal to be an effective tool. “Neither were you, it seems.”

That was meant to be witty and fierce, but it inadvertently reinforces what he has been trying to disprove.

“I knew it,” you sing, fitting your cello case inside its bed. “As jealous as they come.”

“Oh, should we compare records, dear cellist? I won’t be vilified by a hypocrite.”

That small loss has to be taken proudly. You do have more instances of bitter discomfort, or he is better at hiding his moments. With a shrug, you pick up your case. “Fair enough. I digress.”

“A wise choice.”

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The Program:

Felix Mendelssohn - String Quartet No. 2 in A minor, Op. 13 y'all...string quartets are so cool. why did i never learn a string instrument guys. shout out to all string instrument players you guys are SO cool.

Eugène Ysaÿe - Sonata for Solo Cello in C minor, Op. 28 Here's the piece Reader plays in the lobby! Coincidentally in the same key as the sonata Erwin is writing, hmhmhhmmmmmm (genuinely a coincidence but can we pretend like i planned that)

You reset your expression and cross the lobby floor, nearing the pianist and his lonesome melody. He’s noticed you, but his playing doesn’t stop. Instead, he curtly nods at the intentional spot available on the bench.

“Please.”

You accept, sitting close but allowing room for his arms to maneuver across the keys. This is a step forward for him—though slim, there is a chance someone could see the two of you together here. The fact that he allows the closeness anyway is proof of something changing in him.

“Thank you,” you say softly. He deserves gratitude for his choice.

“It’s nothing.” He slows his tempo, prioritizing his words over his music. “I’m glad you’re joining me. I’m always happy to have you with me.”

“Of course.” Already at his car, you realize your warm-up must be cut short. You have a few fleeting seconds to offer an invitation. “And, Erwin?”

By his car door, he rummages in the pocket of his coat. “Hm?”

“We’re going out again. The orchestra. There’s a late-night gelato place—Pieck and I go all the time.” You hope the question doesn’t even need to be asked. You hope he’s reached the point of enthusiastically agreeing to join.

“I see.” Having found his keys, he pointedly unlocks his car.

“And, again, I want to see if you’d like to come.” That hope was too unfounded. Being blunt is the only tactic that works against him. “The orchestra would like you to come. I would like you to come.”

That does pause him for a moment, his patterns disrupted by thoughts of your personal interest in his attendance. It’s a strong weapon, but his defenses have been meticulously crafted for years. One happy advocate can’t put so much as a scratch in them.

“I’m afraid I can’t. Please go on and enjoy your evening.”

The heartbreak doesn’t hurt as much this time. Perhaps you were already braced for rejection.

The hollow sensation is slowly filled with a query. Why can’t he? Why, after all your time together, is he still resistant to these outings? They’re far more innocent than finding a private practice room or trying on dresses. It’s time with the other musicians and nothing more.

“Oh,” you say aloud, the pieces at last clicking into place. “It’s the others.”

He reflexively reacts with a muted, “What?”

You return the eye contact you hadn’t realized you’d broken. “The—the other musicians. I mean, at first I thought you just had to keep looking professional, but—”

But he gave an unprofessional version of himself to you in private. Only you could see the softer side of him, and now it’s clear that he wants that privilege of yours to be a secret.

“You can spend time with me, but…you can’t be seen spending time with me.” The truth is so obvious it deserves to be spoken. “Or with anyone. God, I didn’t know…”

Without a word, Erwin is freezing into a statue, his cold face waiting for you to finish your calculations. You’re nearly there, scrounging up more and more of the damned thread that’s unraveling his motivations. The blizzard of conclusions brings you to a precipice, a sheer drop into woeful revelations that will twist this relationship into ugly knots.

“I didn’t know our time is so shameful to you.”

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No program this week! Unless we want to include the world's smallest violin that's playing for our poor Erwin.

“May I ask a favor?”

“And that is?”

“Would you mind showing me how to play the cello?”

Although your grip reflexively tightens around your precious instrument, you find the request endearing. “Is this an attempt to show me how amazing I am compared to a rookie?”

“Something like that,” he admits. “And I would like to try out a new instrument. I shouldn’t be an orchestra conductor if I remain so averse to learning a string instrument.”

Somewhat intrigued to see how the grand conductor handles a new experience, you gingerly hand over your beloved companion. “Alright, but be delicate. You’re going to want to hold it by the neck at all times—put it against your left shoulder. Yeah, like that.”

He has his legs spread, poorly imitating what he’s seen and testing how the new instrument rests against his lower ribcage. “I do need a bow, don’t I?”

“I’ll give you the bow once we fix…this.” His posture is a miserable wreck, at least in your eyes. He is a child’s drawing of a cello player, and you begin strategizing the politest way to adjust his rookie clumsiness. “Let’s lengthen the endpin a bit. This is sitting too short for you.”

Without much thought put into the action, you drop to the floor and cup hands under the curve of the cello. On your knees, you feel for the endpin screw as you look up the length of the cello to assess your sculpture. “Lift the cello for me. Get that lowest tuning peg beside your ear.”

For you, he heaves up the cello an inch while you lengthen the pin connecting it to the floor. This angle of you is eradicating his words and blurring his mind, leaving him bare for indoctrination and acquiescent to your instruction. He has forgotten himself, and he makes a noticeable effort to keep the cello firmly plastered against his body as if something hides beneath.

You notice that diffidence as you rise and pick up your bow. In a moment of clarity, you deduce what stole his tongue and—even though it injects you with a smidge of seductive pride—you choose to say nothing about it.

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The Program:

Frédéric Chopin - Waltz in F minor Op 70. no.2 The piece that Erwin plays while Reader is setting up. Just something nice and pleasant :)

(i half considered putting a d major scale in the program since that was the only other music played this chapter. but i shan't)

Thank you!! I'm super happy with how that chapter turned out and I'm so glad you liked it! Our little lovers are getting so wiry hehe