What if chapeau taught Adam to play violin?
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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"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.
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.
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.
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.
 âŚđ°âŚđ°âŚđ°âŚ
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.
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):
@lumiereswig @im-too-obssesed @forr-everrmorre @naturepointstheway @tinydooms @ginnyweatherby @sweetfayetanner @fadedelegance @trenzaloures @prince-adams-japris @morgaine2005 @greensearcher @emeraldcitynative
