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arboretum (the artist formerly known as ametatsu). She asked for Tamaki but as often happens I didn't so much write him as write around him - literally, it's a camerawork exercise in prose. Or maybe a pictoral representation of the music, variation by variation (in lieu of red roses, white roses, blue roses, pink roses, etc.), at the given tempo.
If you don't know the piece... you know the piece, trust me. XD;
Andante Grazioso (Portrait of a Pianist #1)
forarboretum
A girl says, "Ah—"
Haruhi looks. Tamaki is at the grand piano; he is flanked by girls who lean against the instrument, raptly attentive, like matching caryatids. He has just begun to play. As his hands move he bows a little over the keys and sways, as if to cradle the emanating sound within his arms. It's a graceful gesture.
The tune is recognizable, surprisingly so, but its name eludes Haruhi. Like many of Tamaki's selections it conjures to mind images of a deprecated elegance – powder and fans and embroidered gowns, gentlemen and ladies making slow patterns on a ballroom floor – on which she once had no opinion, and now considers part and parcel with dodgy after-school activities. For a few moments she listens, then turns back to the guests sitting beside her and smiles.
Hikaru listens too. He's trying to identify the key. It occurred to him a few days ago that neither he nor Kaoru has perfect pitch, and a natural advantage unpossessed by the brothers Hitachiin seems an unfair thing, to be remedied. After five seconds he decides the sonata is in A.
He knows it's in A, of course. But what good is foreknowledge left unexploited?
He thinks at Kaoru, Milord's working up to the Turkish March, and delivers the message by catching Kaoru's eye. Kaoru leans against the frame of the window and stretches. The gesture lifts his vest, displaying smooth, golden skin above the navel, and his turban slips rakishly over one brow. The girls titter.
Kyouya doesn't look up. He thinks: Only he could get away with K331 in a tea salon. Debussy, or even Liszt—but Tamaki would have to focus on a display of virtuosity, and it wouldn't do for him to be seen making an effort. Worse: Liszt would compel the audience's attention. Conversations would die, tea be allowed to grow tepid. Liszt is detrimental to business.
A passage of minor octaves – cantabile legato – a sweet sadness tugs at a disused region of his chest. More than virtuosity this. Then his email program pings, informing him that the printer has shipped the club calendars for the upcoming year (sold out in pre-orders), and the nonsensical thought is lost.
Mori takes a spoonful of trifle, taking care to scoop up both cream and summer fruit, and glances over at the source of the music. From the vantage point of the table he shares with Honey he sees only golden hair on a head bent over its task, and behind it the window: a hazy gilding of afternoon sun caught in glass. On an intake of breath one variation ends, the tempo shifts, another begins.
He feeds the trifle to Honey, who licks cream from his bottom lip and beams at him in contentment. In Mori's peripheral vision girls swoon and clutch at each other for support as they sink bodily into the plush sofas.
"Tamaki-kun plays wonderfully," Honey observes.
"Aa," Mori agrees, and almost-smiles.
arboretum (the artist formerly known as ametatsu). She asked for Tamaki but as often happens I didn't so much write him as write around him - literally, it's a camerawork exercise in prose. Or maybe a pictoral representation of the music, variation by variation (in lieu of red roses, white roses, blue roses, pink roses, etc.), at the given tempo.If you don't know the piece... you know the piece, trust me. XD;
Andante Grazioso (Portrait of a Pianist #1)
for
arboretumA girl says, "Ah—"
Haruhi looks. Tamaki is at the grand piano; he is flanked by girls who lean against the instrument, raptly attentive, like matching caryatids. He has just begun to play. As his hands move he bows a little over the keys and sways, as if to cradle the emanating sound within his arms. It's a graceful gesture.
The tune is recognizable, surprisingly so, but its name eludes Haruhi. Like many of Tamaki's selections it conjures to mind images of a deprecated elegance – powder and fans and embroidered gowns, gentlemen and ladies making slow patterns on a ballroom floor – on which she once had no opinion, and now considers part and parcel with dodgy after-school activities. For a few moments she listens, then turns back to the guests sitting beside her and smiles.
Hikaru listens too. He's trying to identify the key. It occurred to him a few days ago that neither he nor Kaoru has perfect pitch, and a natural advantage unpossessed by the brothers Hitachiin seems an unfair thing, to be remedied. After five seconds he decides the sonata is in A.
He knows it's in A, of course. But what good is foreknowledge left unexploited?
He thinks at Kaoru, Milord's working up to the Turkish March, and delivers the message by catching Kaoru's eye. Kaoru leans against the frame of the window and stretches. The gesture lifts his vest, displaying smooth, golden skin above the navel, and his turban slips rakishly over one brow. The girls titter.
Kyouya doesn't look up. He thinks: Only he could get away with K331 in a tea salon. Debussy, or even Liszt—but Tamaki would have to focus on a display of virtuosity, and it wouldn't do for him to be seen making an effort. Worse: Liszt would compel the audience's attention. Conversations would die, tea be allowed to grow tepid. Liszt is detrimental to business.
A passage of minor octaves – cantabile legato – a sweet sadness tugs at a disused region of his chest. More than virtuosity this. Then his email program pings, informing him that the printer has shipped the club calendars for the upcoming year (sold out in pre-orders), and the nonsensical thought is lost.
Mori takes a spoonful of trifle, taking care to scoop up both cream and summer fruit, and glances over at the source of the music. From the vantage point of the table he shares with Honey he sees only golden hair on a head bent over its task, and behind it the window: a hazy gilding of afternoon sun caught in glass. On an intake of breath one variation ends, the tempo shifts, another begins.
He feeds the trifle to Honey, who licks cream from his bottom lip and beams at him in contentment. In Mori's peripheral vision girls swoon and clutch at each other for support as they sink bodily into the plush sofas.
"Tamaki-kun plays wonderfully," Honey observes.
"Aa," Mori agrees, and almost-smiles.
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no subject
Date: 2006-12-16 06:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-16 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-16 09:00 pm (UTC)Liszt is detrimental to business.
probably the best. Kyouyaaaa!
I went and looked up the song, and you're right, I totally do know it. Oh, Tamaki. ♥
no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 11:24 pm (UTC)(psst your SSBB illo - should I credit it like last issue? :))
no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 11:51 pm (UTC)(re: SSBB - Oh, yes please! I forgot about that. Thanks. ♥)
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Date: 2006-12-16 11:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 07:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 04:31 pm (UTC)♥
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Date: 2006-12-19 07:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-26 03:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-21 09:28 am (UTC)Memming! ♥
no subject
Date: 2007-03-22 03:16 am (UTC)(I´ll listen to the song know. You got me curious ^_^)
no subject
Date: 2007-04-02 05:18 pm (UTC)