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31_days2008-02-21 09:28 am
swollenfoot.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2008-02-21 09:28 am
[February 21] Euphemisms
Title: Euphemisms
Day/Theme: February 21/love me little, love me long
Series: Nodame Cantabile
Characters: Nodame, Chiaki
Rating: PG -- because of things implied when you squint hard
Words: 1500
And yet again, I wonder about the characterizations. Hm.
Day/Theme: February 21/love me little, love me long
Series: Nodame Cantabile
Characters: Nodame, Chiaki
Rating: PG -- because of things implied when you squint hard
Words: 1500
Slowly but surely, he recovered from the prudent draft he took from Morpheus's sweet dredges. Exhausted by recent exertions (more by the heady anxiety than by any physical demand per se) he had dropped off the odd conversation with his. . . lover now, he realized. It was too profound a realization for one still mired in that half-somnolent state, but it was undeniably consummated now. The fourth or fifth of such consummations, but it was still chaotically and frighteningly new. (And that 'it,' what did that 'it' connote? He was still too stubborn, too proud to verbalize it, but he felt his very chest could burst with fullness---indigestion, she had once compared it to. As it was, he couldn't deny its existence.)
In light of such developments, we must understand why Chiaki Shinichi found the absence, the emptiness on his bed alarmingly, perversely amiss. Fear gripped at his throat as he threw off his blankets and swung swiftly upright. He froze, sitting at the bedside, quickly detecting the distant strains of strings, the piano. He relaxed, but only slightly.
Hastily, he dressed with the first things he found at hand. The wifebeater was an old one, with a conspicuous tear at a flank, while the pajama bottom was apparently hers, as it was too snug for him. He conveniently ignored its overpowering cerulean blue, as well as the multi-colored sheep prancing about the woolly fabric. He scrambled out of the room, nearly tripping in the process on an abandoned formal dress. With difficulty, he managed not think on how its owner looked in its elegant lines only a few nights ago, even as the pajamas ripped at the crotch in his struggle to right himself.
The vague trickle of notes was taking form in his mind; this was what served as his bastion of sanity. First, they took the form of cascading chords, and from there into a forceful, beguiling narrative. Full-toned, rapturously delivered, it was but a soliloquy and was unabashedly lonesome.
Of course. His mind's ear had merely added the wraith-like presence of the entire strings section and the distant rumble of the winds. Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2: the first movement rendered by a lone pianist. A favorite piece, it was also one that held together a cacophony of memories, a tumultuous beginning to a number of things, one they had both had to desperately study, not just for the sake of learning the piece, but for learning something more profound, something intrinsic to life itself.
He lingered at their bedroom doorway and listened, the torn, mismatched clothes he wore forgotten. They were like spattering drops, the weird sort of rain that was unique to her realm--her dexterous hands would be chasing each other up and down the ivory keys of the baby grand. In spite of himself, his conductor's mind took over. A little too allegro, as she was still wont to lapse to, especially when practicing, he thought with a slight frown. Where was she rushing off to? And then, ah, she caught herself; she slowed, a near-palpable restraint. Against what force, he wondered, even as he matched the tone and tempo of the imaginary orchestra accompanying her in his mind. Curious, he walked silently, till she was half-visible in the low lighting, a sensuous swaying silhouette against the odd mixture of moonlight and incandescence, an alien sight. Is this the showmanship Maestro Stressman had demanded from him oh-so-long ago? It was certainly gripping, certainly spurred his heart to a racing gallop in a sad attempt to pursue its mercurial quarry.
She was still hard to predict, but knew her habits. His orchestra remained deliberate and steadfast against the increasing intensity of the piano's jangling, an auditory world that contained her force. Even as she rambled, scampered ever-so-closer towards the climax, the instruments in his head crested majestically to invaginate her sound. . .
There.
Ponderous and passionate, her music conveyed less of the signature dark despair than an aching yearning stretch for some desirable thing, state, that was only, only a hairsbreadth away, barely reachable, but... then. . . ah, it dissolved, sauntered into the caressing waves of the long, dreamy denouement. (And he wondered, couldn't help but wonder, whether she reached that desired pinnacle or not, whether it was an expression of some latent frustration, discontent.)
She stopped, suddenly, then looked at him, as if waking from a dream.
"Senpai," she said hoarsely, then cleared her throat. "I mean, Shinichi."
"You stopped playing," he remarked neutrally.
"Yes."
"Not quite what you wanted?"
"Ah, no. I haven't played it in a while so. . ."
He frowned. "I don't remember you playing it in any of your performances, or even studying it while you were in school."
"Of course, I played it! How could senpai have forgotten?"
"How could I forget that?" he retorted. "Of course, I remember you obsessing over it back in Momogaoka. Still, that was almost ten years ago. You still remember?"
"How could I forget that?" she echoed. Smiling impishly, she then added, "It helps that Nodame knows how to sightread now."
"You still don't sightread that well," he pointed out.
"Well, I remember most of it. It's not difficult to clear up the bits that are a little foggy."
"I didn't think it foggy in the least. It was an interesting rendition, actually. You just need some more practice."
"I suppose so."
She sat before the piano, silent and motionless, remembering. He came to stand beside her, at his usual spot looking over her shoulder.
"Again?" he prompted.
She nodded her head vaguely, then straightened up. She even ran her hands through her unruly hair, smoothening away the locks sticking out place from her usual bob. Chiaki noted the uncharacteristic self-consciousness but did not comment on it. He supposed, even his hentai had reservations. . . and it was both exhilarating and nerve-racking to know he, she, they had breached new territory, and that it wasn't some dream, that there were hints, slight changes everywhere.
Lips pursed, she began.
It was technically superb, perfect, a rendition he had heard before, though not from her, and definitely different from her first attempt. Again, Chiaki listened without comment, slightly puzzled. He wasn't displeased exactly, but it wasn't what he expected. There was a certain minimalism even in the most intense of the passages. It was brisk and flowing, mature almost, steadfast. It didn't sound like Noda Megumi at all.
Just when he realized it sounded like his old recording of Sergei Rachimaninov's rendition of his own composition, she had stopped once again.
"What's wrong Nodame?"
She didn't answer.
"It wasn't really bad, you know," he struggled. "It was--- It didn't seem like what you were originally going for, and it's not the way I'd conduct it. But we, we can practice for it a lot. Enough for me to-- to know what it is you want and adjust accordingly to still get my vision of the piece." He paused. "Or you can tell me what your vision is and we'll compromise. But first, let's try again."
By the end of his awkward speech, apprehension was evident in his voice. She had her face buried in her hands the entire time, hiding. Chiaki was inclined to think he was somehow directly or indirectly responsible for her state of mind.
"Nodame," he said, his voice now tinged with an underlying defensiveness. But when he touched her on a bare shoulder, it wasn't fraught with the same brusqueness. Finally, his eccentric love raised her head to reveal glimpses of her flushed face in between splayed fingers.
"Jabon, shenpai," she grumbled. "Nodame ish no exhibishionisht."
"What?" he finally erupted, throughly bewildered.
She peered up at him. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what?"
"What we were talking about? Earlier?"
He squirmed. "No."
"My, somebody needs to work on his stamina."
"Oi!"
"I'm kidding, Shinichi." She dropped her hands to reveal an silly grin. "Anyway, I can't finish it. I'm too embarrassed."
Embarrassed? Chiaki goggled. Since when was this woman ever embarrassed in front of him? He hadn't thought she had the capacity for it.
"This has something to do with the conversation you were referring to earlier?" he pursued manfully.
"Yes."
"The topic of which you don't want to tell me either?"
"M-mukya!" She hid behind her hands again. "Senpai was so pompous and scientific about it, talking about excitement and plateaus and resolution and stuff. Of all things, senpai chose Rachmaninov as analogy! Nodame can't get it out of her head. And. . ."
He was sure his face mirrored hers, but to his credit, he didn't balk. "And?" he urged.
"And Megumi wants to show off, too, but in practice, not theories." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You remember, Shinichi?"
He said neither yea or nay. Instead, he took a hand and raised it to his lips.
She smiled, her usual mischief streaking the euphoria she emanated.
"Come, Megumi."
She followed him.
~16:35 021908
In light of such developments, we must understand why Chiaki Shinichi found the absence, the emptiness on his bed alarmingly, perversely amiss. Fear gripped at his throat as he threw off his blankets and swung swiftly upright. He froze, sitting at the bedside, quickly detecting the distant strains of strings, the piano. He relaxed, but only slightly.
Hastily, he dressed with the first things he found at hand. The wifebeater was an old one, with a conspicuous tear at a flank, while the pajama bottom was apparently hers, as it was too snug for him. He conveniently ignored its overpowering cerulean blue, as well as the multi-colored sheep prancing about the woolly fabric. He scrambled out of the room, nearly tripping in the process on an abandoned formal dress. With difficulty, he managed not think on how its owner looked in its elegant lines only a few nights ago, even as the pajamas ripped at the crotch in his struggle to right himself.
The vague trickle of notes was taking form in his mind; this was what served as his bastion of sanity. First, they took the form of cascading chords, and from there into a forceful, beguiling narrative. Full-toned, rapturously delivered, it was but a soliloquy and was unabashedly lonesome.
Of course. His mind's ear had merely added the wraith-like presence of the entire strings section and the distant rumble of the winds. Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2: the first movement rendered by a lone pianist. A favorite piece, it was also one that held together a cacophony of memories, a tumultuous beginning to a number of things, one they had both had to desperately study, not just for the sake of learning the piece, but for learning something more profound, something intrinsic to life itself.
He lingered at their bedroom doorway and listened, the torn, mismatched clothes he wore forgotten. They were like spattering drops, the weird sort of rain that was unique to her realm--her dexterous hands would be chasing each other up and down the ivory keys of the baby grand. In spite of himself, his conductor's mind took over. A little too allegro, as she was still wont to lapse to, especially when practicing, he thought with a slight frown. Where was she rushing off to? And then, ah, she caught herself; she slowed, a near-palpable restraint. Against what force, he wondered, even as he matched the tone and tempo of the imaginary orchestra accompanying her in his mind. Curious, he walked silently, till she was half-visible in the low lighting, a sensuous swaying silhouette against the odd mixture of moonlight and incandescence, an alien sight. Is this the showmanship Maestro Stressman had demanded from him oh-so-long ago? It was certainly gripping, certainly spurred his heart to a racing gallop in a sad attempt to pursue its mercurial quarry.
She was still hard to predict, but knew her habits. His orchestra remained deliberate and steadfast against the increasing intensity of the piano's jangling, an auditory world that contained her force. Even as she rambled, scampered ever-so-closer towards the climax, the instruments in his head crested majestically to invaginate her sound. . .
There.
Ponderous and passionate, her music conveyed less of the signature dark despair than an aching yearning stretch for some desirable thing, state, that was only, only a hairsbreadth away, barely reachable, but... then. . . ah, it dissolved, sauntered into the caressing waves of the long, dreamy denouement. (And he wondered, couldn't help but wonder, whether she reached that desired pinnacle or not, whether it was an expression of some latent frustration, discontent.)
She stopped, suddenly, then looked at him, as if waking from a dream.
"Senpai," she said hoarsely, then cleared her throat. "I mean, Shinichi."
"You stopped playing," he remarked neutrally.
"Yes."
"Not quite what you wanted?"
"Ah, no. I haven't played it in a while so. . ."
He frowned. "I don't remember you playing it in any of your performances, or even studying it while you were in school."
"Of course, I played it! How could senpai have forgotten?"
"How could I forget that?" he retorted. "Of course, I remember you obsessing over it back in Momogaoka. Still, that was almost ten years ago. You still remember?"
"How could I forget that?" she echoed. Smiling impishly, she then added, "It helps that Nodame knows how to sightread now."
"You still don't sightread that well," he pointed out.
"Well, I remember most of it. It's not difficult to clear up the bits that are a little foggy."
"I didn't think it foggy in the least. It was an interesting rendition, actually. You just need some more practice."
"I suppose so."
She sat before the piano, silent and motionless, remembering. He came to stand beside her, at his usual spot looking over her shoulder.
"Again?" he prompted.
She nodded her head vaguely, then straightened up. She even ran her hands through her unruly hair, smoothening away the locks sticking out place from her usual bob. Chiaki noted the uncharacteristic self-consciousness but did not comment on it. He supposed, even his hentai had reservations. . . and it was both exhilarating and nerve-racking to know he, she, they had breached new territory, and that it wasn't some dream, that there were hints, slight changes everywhere.
Lips pursed, she began.
It was technically superb, perfect, a rendition he had heard before, though not from her, and definitely different from her first attempt. Again, Chiaki listened without comment, slightly puzzled. He wasn't displeased exactly, but it wasn't what he expected. There was a certain minimalism even in the most intense of the passages. It was brisk and flowing, mature almost, steadfast. It didn't sound like Noda Megumi at all.
Just when he realized it sounded like his old recording of Sergei Rachimaninov's rendition of his own composition, she had stopped once again.
"What's wrong Nodame?"
She didn't answer.
"It wasn't really bad, you know," he struggled. "It was--- It didn't seem like what you were originally going for, and it's not the way I'd conduct it. But we, we can practice for it a lot. Enough for me to-- to know what it is you want and adjust accordingly to still get my vision of the piece." He paused. "Or you can tell me what your vision is and we'll compromise. But first, let's try again."
By the end of his awkward speech, apprehension was evident in his voice. She had her face buried in her hands the entire time, hiding. Chiaki was inclined to think he was somehow directly or indirectly responsible for her state of mind.
"Nodame," he said, his voice now tinged with an underlying defensiveness. But when he touched her on a bare shoulder, it wasn't fraught with the same brusqueness. Finally, his eccentric love raised her head to reveal glimpses of her flushed face in between splayed fingers.
"Jabon, shenpai," she grumbled. "Nodame ish no exhibishionisht."
"What?" he finally erupted, throughly bewildered.
She peered up at him. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what?"
"What we were talking about? Earlier?"
He squirmed. "No."
"My, somebody needs to work on his stamina."
"Oi!"
"I'm kidding, Shinichi." She dropped her hands to reveal an silly grin. "Anyway, I can't finish it. I'm too embarrassed."
Embarrassed? Chiaki goggled. Since when was this woman ever embarrassed in front of him? He hadn't thought she had the capacity for it.
"This has something to do with the conversation you were referring to earlier?" he pursued manfully.
"Yes."
"The topic of which you don't want to tell me either?"
"M-mukya!" She hid behind her hands again. "Senpai was so pompous and scientific about it, talking about excitement and plateaus and resolution and stuff. Of all things, senpai chose Rachmaninov as analogy! Nodame can't get it out of her head. And. . ."
He was sure his face mirrored hers, but to his credit, he didn't balk. "And?" he urged.
"And Megumi wants to show off, too, but in practice, not theories." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You remember, Shinichi?"
He said neither yea or nay. Instead, he took a hand and raised it to his lips.
She smiled, her usual mischief streaking the euphoria she emanated.
"Come, Megumi."
She followed him.
~16:35 021908
And yet again, I wonder about the characterizations. Hm.