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[edle_gestalt]

Fanfiction: Appassionato
Rating: PG...13? 15? It's mature, but it's definitely not R-rated. Just stupidly suggestive.
Characters: Austria, Hungary, some fangirl music critic
Summary: Austria reads a review for a concert he performed. Gets mortified for revealing more than he'd like of his innermost thoughts. Takes place in the early 1990s. Spinoff of an RP with hagyjbeken from like over a year ago. IDEK.

Austria wasn’t yet dressed. Wearing only his nightshirt, his hair flat against his scalp, he picked lazily at a croissant between weak sips of much-needed strong coffee. It had been a week since his concert, and with something so incredibly taxing, he felt he was still recovering. His fingers practically still tingled. He shuddered, remembering that such a feat would have left any normal human with tendonitis, or worse, and he quietly thanked God (at least in this instance) for his own durability and capacity to heal quickly.

 

“Are you done with the newspaper, yet?” He called out groggily into the next room.

 

“Just a minute. I’m reading something...” There was a bizarre sort of mischief in Hungary’s reply; a mischief for which it was much, much too early in the morning.

 

Three minutes passed, coffee cooling steadily. He hated finishing his coffee before he finished the newspaper, so he waited. “...Still reading?”

 

Hungary walked into the room slowly, completely aglow. With what, Austria didn’t quite want to know. Three minutes passing did not change the fact that it was still too early in the morning for this. She sashayed her way towards him and handed him the newspaper, kissing his temple. “Hey there, Stud.”

 

Austria grimaced. “Liza, I’m not even awake yet—” He paused, noticing finally that the paper was opened to the Arts and Entertainment page. “O-oh. A review.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

The realization was more effective than ten cups of the coffee he was drinking. He snatched the paper from her greedily, eyes hovering over each and every detail as he began reading, prepared to nitpick and overanalyze every word to the point of paranoia, having completely forgotten about her tone.

 

 

I don’t believe I am exaggerating when I say that no other person on earth could perform such a feat as did our great nation, the most honorable Roderich Edelstein, this past Friday evening at Schloss Esterházy. I am quite sure no mortal is capable of something so relentless as preparing and performing all nineteen of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsodies without severe injury to the hands and wrists, but for one who has lived over a millennium and counting, endured brutal battles and all-out war, I imagine this, at least physically speaking, is but small stuff.

 

Artistically, however, it was far more than that.

 

I am a long-time fan of Mr. Edelstein’s interpretations; I have heard recordings from as early as 1907 and it is always a pleasure to hear what might be the closest glimpse we have of how things were performed at the time they were written. I am sure many of us have heard his 1913 recording of the finale of the Hungarian Rhapsody no. 2, but as much as I like to believe everything can be preserved, the recording technology of that era simply doesn’t capture the core. Only a hint. And as he quite understandably had not performed any of those particular pieces publicly since that year, this concert was a treat I had been waiting and hoping for, for quite some time. And for someone as notoriously reserved as Mr. Edelstein is, I was not expecting so raw and uninhibited of a performance. 

 

That is not to say that it was all bombastic fireworks – it would be ridiculous to insinuate that our great nation does not know the art of subtlety! The slow movements were executed with exquisite phrasing, intensity coming in flashes and clutching the moment in time before letting go to allow softness to return. They were not overdone caricatures of the essence of Hungarian folk music, but incarnations. One could hear not only which instruments were being portrayed through the limitations of the keyboard, but the scratches of the bow against the violin, which staccato passages were meant to be left-handed pizzicato and which were meant to be the tinkling of the xylophone. A true veteran of performance through the ages, he did not overuse the damper pedal in such sections – so often they are blazed through in a whirlwind that has a different sort of appeal, but in this case they were executed with an almost Baroque-like precision. Hej, Zigeuner! Can you hear the Gypsy band playing, yet? It truly felt as if one were not just listening to one from afar, but standing in the middle of one, surrounded by all of the sounds in perfect detail. Such detail and musicianship is rare indeed, but can one expect any less from someone who began keyboard studies long before the pianoforte was even introduced? I daresay that the piano is Mr. Edelstein’s greatest strength, and as much as I adore his performances on the violin, I heard more of the violin in this piano-only concert than I heard in his famed recording of Praeludium and Allegro. And please know, dear reader, that that is not an insult to his skill on the violin, but if one knows his skill on the violin at all, one knows how much of a compliment it is to him as a pianist.

 

The lassús were intense, but as stated before they were not overblown. Little flickers of fire through the tenderness, but what little flickers they were! He pulled the music from the keys, clutching it just tightly enough to be firm but gently enough to leave the listener begging for more. Let’s face it – such a concert could easily have turned boring, with nineteen pieces in the same style and format all played on the same instrument. Boring it was not – and that, I believe, is his greatest strength as a performer: the ability to bring enough subtlety and variety to the stage that a display of such unbelievable endurance and enviable stamina never lost its charm. The music danced when it needed to, and was even flirtatious – quite flirtatious – in the playful sections. The friskas began in delicate treble laughter and dance before being seduced by the bass and middle voices into a frenzy of passion – perhaps most notably in the second, fourth, twelfth, and thirteenth pieces in the program. I found myself drunk from the festivities in the ninth and sixteenth, and I felt the patriotism in the fifteenth. If I had to pick a favorite, though, it would be tied between the fifth and sixth. The contrast between the solemnity, the true pathos and empathy he presented in the fifth and the playfulness and ravishing allure of the sixth was a fully enjoyable transition. By the time he reached the lively parts of the sixth, lips curled in enthralled jocularity and an almost fanatic ardor, just watching him was an utter delight. At the risk of sounding far-fetched, I felt as if I could sense my own heart rate increasing along with his, needing to catch my breath between pieces from an exertion that I was not even physically subjected to. It is a rare, somewhat vicarious pleasure to feel so present within a musical performance, rather than feeling like a simple onlooker. Could I have used a cigarette after the performance? Conceivably.

 

What a true insight, not only into the span of the thirty-nine year span over which the pieces were written and the history and essence surrounding them, but into his personality as well. Mr. Edelstein had a certain closeness and intimacy with each and every piece which could be heard well if one were to only listen to the sounds coming from those keys, eyes closed. But to be there, to see his expression – the fire and affection in his eyes, and the perfectly channeled force with which he pounded out his fortissimi – left very little to the imagination as to his source of inspiration. And if the most honorable Ms. Héderváry’s adoring post-performance applause was any indication, it would seem that these are not lingering, one-sided sentiments, and that present-day Austro-Hungarian relations are more than agreeable.

 

The tiny fraction of Hungarian blood in my veins was undoubtedly awakened, suffice it to say. Could anyone else have done it better, or more authentically, other than Liszt himself? Does anyone else possess a more intimate, vivid, heartfelt and thorough knowledge of the Hungarian spirit than Mr. Edelstein? Perhaps if Ms. Héderváry decides to take up the piano, we might know. Until then, we have what we have – and I’ll be first in line when the recording is released next month.

 

 

He froze.

 

“...Something wrong, dear?”

 

Slowly, Austria turned towards her as he placed the newspaper on the table with careful, trembling hands. Any semblance of color that was once in his complexion was long gone, and he could feel himself breaking out into a cold sweat.

 

He stared at her frightfully. “...Oh my God.”

 

She smiled widely. “What? That just might be the best review you’ve ever gotten, don’t you think?”

 

His eyes were still pleading. “W-was I that obvious??”

 

“You did dedicate the program to me, you know. I didn’t think you were trying to hide anything.”

 

“Yes but – there’s a difference between proudly and tastefully declaring your affections and – for the love of God by the way she’s put it I might as well have just... stripped down and made love to the piano—!”

 

“Mhm...” she sighed, unfazed. “You were wonderful.”

 

“D...du lieber Himmel...!!” He was practically cowering in his seat by now, mortified. “Liza, I’m not looking for encouragement here. That is the last thing I – s...she. She’s. Music is certainly an outlet, but I don’t like feeling so... exposed – well that’s not entirely true, it’s a catharsis to communicate what I can’t with words, but – th-this is practically p...pornographic...”

 

Hungary chuckled. “Obviously I’d noticed some things because I know you, but on further thought, it really doesn’t take an idiot to know what was on your mind.”

 

“I know it was obvious it was about you but if there was supposed to be any sort of indication of... physical passion it was meant to be subtle.” He paused. His cheeks had gone pink after he’d begun to speak, but he went pale again, and his breath was shallow. “...What things. What did you notice.”

 

Hungary was beginning to blush, herself, her toes curling as she bit back a grin. “No, just... you know. The look on your face during the... what’s it called when there’s a break in the music but it’s not resolved yet?”

 

“Half cadence? Caesura?”

 

“You know, the big pause...”

 

“...Gran pausa?” He glared at her flatly. “Get on with it; what are you getting at?”

 

“Whatever, it – you had the same look on your face as when you need to catch your breath and collect yourself... you know. Before continuing. I’m not talking about the piano.”

 

He curled away abruptly. “Oh my God.”

 

“What? Don’t tell me you’re ashamed.”

 

“No, I’m – God damn it I just feel like my thoughts have been completely violated and it’s my own damn fault for putting them on such... apparently explicit display. Shameless. I’ve cheapened the music by making it about...” He couldn’t finish the sentence. “I-I’m not even supposed to show favoritism, I’m going to get in trouble for this – people are going to start talking, they’ll start thinking I’m back where I was a century ago and that I’m going to lead everyone to another war–”

 

“You’re over-thinking this, Roderich...” She scooted her chair closer to him, having abandoned any flirtatiousness after realizing how deeply bothered he was by the situation. “First of all, did you even read the whole review? She said you were subtle, it wasn’t overblown. Even if you... might have perhaps painted an incredibly clear picture through it, it wasn’t shameless. At all. And she even said the fifth was solemn, another one was patriotic. You’ve seen her reviews, and how picky she is about gimmicks and cheapening a piece of music. You remember her review of La Traviata last year.”

 

He snorted weakly. “I do. Deserved it. Violetta isn’t meant to be so provocative. She’s demure. She’s supposed to be believable, not an exaggeration of some girl off the street...”

 

“But she’s still a courtesan. You still know what she’s all about, and how desirable she is.”

 

“When the opera is directed correctly, yes.”

 

“Don’t you think you would have been called out if you’d reduced your performance to a cheap exaggeration?”

 

There was a long hesitation before he answered, blushing. “Are you likening me to a courtesan as opposed to a common trollop?”

 

She giggled teasingly, nudging his shin with her foot. “Maybe. Is that such a bad thing? Don’t you like Violetta?”

 

“I love her,” he mumbled through his teeth, looking away. “...How did we get on this topic?”

 

“The fact that you pulled it off with class, that’s how. Think of all of the classic works of art you like – think of Venus, Roderich, and then try and tell me it’s impossible to pull off tasteful erotica.”

 

“I didn’t want to present erotica in the first place.”

 

“Would you have... changed it, then? Would you go back, change all the nuances and make it less convincing of a performance? Changing what it meant to you... don’t you think that would have been worse?”

 

“...No, you’re right.” He still looked away. “I’m just... embarrassed to admit that that is what it meant to me, largely. I mean, yes, of course it’s about you, I dedicated it to you but there’s... more to us than that.”

 

“I didn’t say there wasn’t.”

 

“You’re my best friend, and I didn’t want it to be so focused on... that aspect. I don’t want to give the impression that’s all I care about.” He lowered his voice. “A-and I don’t want everyone knowing what I look like i...in the boudoir.”

 

She poked him lightly. “Look – it’s Liszt. You remember him. If you don’t have half the audience peeing themselves out of lust, you’re doing it wrong.”

 

He groaned, planting his face in his palms, but started to laugh quietly. “Don’t.”

 

She stroked his knee. “Why? It’s not my fault I’ve got such a stud on my hands.”

 

He squirmed. “Stop calling me that.”

 

“Making everyone jealous of me. I like showing you off. I missed being able to do that, you know.”

 

“I said stop it.” The command was meant to come out more firmly than it did.

 

Her hand slid up his thigh, just slightly. “Why are we still talking?”

 

He looked down at her hand, then up at her, only his eyes moving, head remaining still. His cheeks betrayed him as he felt them go warm. “I don’t believe you. It’s not even ten o’clock.” The corner of his mouth curled up, though his frown remained.

 

“I’ve been up longer than you have, and I read that review thoroughly a few times already...” She straddled his lap, pushing his buttoned nightshirt out of the way shamelessly. “Shall we write number twenty, then, Maestro?”

 

His default faux-reluctant scowl melted away instantly at that comment and he grinned, sliding her hips closer to him before standing up without warning, clutching her close and eliciting a tiny squeal from her as he brought her into the living room. The half-eaten croissant and the now-cold coffee lay patiently on the table.

 

He closed the blinds, surveying the room briefly before placing her on the couch, crawling on top of her to follow, still grinning.

 

“Incorrigible.”

 

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