#singhaway

“Do that again.”

“Do what again?” Sat at the piano bench, Hartley had been rustling through his sheet music. Now he was looking at him with a cocked eyebrow.

David gestured to the piano. “What you were playing.”

He liked to listen when Hartley was in the mood to just play which differed from when he was practicing or composing. Both which included scales, warmups, slow and fast alike, starting, stopping, the constant clicking of the metronome, tuning, frustrated noises, repeating the same few notes over and over for what seemed like hours at a time, and more frustration.

Hartley gave him an impressed look. “A request, David?” He teased.

He wasn't one to make requests out of him. Never had been. Still…

“Please,” he signed.

Hartley smirked, fixed his sheet music and laid his fingers over the keys. “Which piece?”

“They were different ones?” He hadn't realized.

He nodded. “A few.” A couple soft notes and chords came from the piano. “Which one was it, my love?”

He couldn't sing it or hum it for him, not that he had a good voice for it anyways. He lacked the knowledge of terms that he knew would be easier to describe it to his husband too. He couldn't hear it and sound off the period and composer in a heartbeat like Hartley could either; didn't even know where to start in that regard.

He shrugged.

Hartley hummed, thinking. “Was it… the Bach?” The little tune he was casually playing changed into something chipper and up-beat. He smiled at him through octaves and mordents.

David snorted. “Not so… happy.”

“The Shostakovich then?” He reoriented himself on the keys. 

Something slow—dragging even, haunting, if verging on unsettling came from the piano.

“Faster.” David quickly informed him when he looked his way.

Hartley clicked his tongue. Hesitated for a second. “Prokofiev?” He said with something mischievous in his eye.

And it seemed that all at once, every key on the piano was played in a few seconds at full volume; chaotically, masterfully, and still utterly graceful. 

“Now you're just showing off.”

He laughed. His fingers hit lighter on the keys as he played a quieter—slower section, looking to him on his feedback. “Well?”

“Much slower.”

“Ah.” He stopped playing. “The Schubert then.” He laid his left hand down playing a single chord, then a progression. “I have to warn you though. If you don't fall in love with me, I won't have done my job well with it.”

He waved his hand. “Way ahead of you.”

So he played. Not something happy, not something quite so sad either. It wasn't fast, or even slow, but steady; pulling and pushing itself from being tugged in opposite directions of going faster and slowing down.

Hartley looked at him.

“That one.” He confirmed.

The music swelled, building up, then softening, as if letting it rest. Hartley dropped his right hand, still playing the left hand. “Ständchen.” He started. “Serenade. One of his Schwanengesang. Swan Songs. He wrote these right before he died.” He slowed his playing. “It's longing, calling, anxiously watching and waiting for a lover.” He held the notes in suspense and spoke as if the notes had feelings and knew what they were made to convey.

“Why?” He let the sign linger.

“Someone doesn't approve,” Hartley replied gently.

“What happens?”

He shrugged with a soft smile, then winked. “It’s a secret.”

The song returned to normal volume and pace again with no further interruptions. He watched as Hartley moved, swaying more with the music as it got busier and louder; then idling gently, as if holding the notes as they became softer and delicate.