#rome opera house | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

notyour-valentine · 7 months

Text

Barbe Bleue (Tommy Shelby x Reader Angst)

[Masterlist] [Taglist]

Summary: Beware, beware...

Note: This is a very much belated contribution to @zablife and her celebration. Congratulations once more - I hope you enjoy nevertheless!

All my writing is produced by an adult and created with an adult audience in mind (18/21+). You are responsible for your own media consumption. I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: death, violence, dead bodies - also quite literally pardon my french

Wordcount: 4565 words

She remembered everything about the day of their first meeting, the sun turning the sea to shining aquamarine, the terracotta tiles of the roof taking on the shade of a precious wine.

It had been a beautiful day in a beautiful place, warm, but not too warm for the children to play outside. There had been boys playing at soldiers, or outlaws, or even cowboys, and some girls playing a skipping game.

“Méfie-toi, méfie-toi, méfie-toi.”, they had sung, as the rope picked up speed, before sending one of the girls in the middle. “Première épouse, Deuxième épouse,…”

They had added to the melody of the place just like the whispering of the wind in the trees, and the waves splashing against the cliffs.

That was the day she had first met Thomas Shelby.

He was a businessman, he had said, one of many that came to these parts, yet one of few that came alone, without wives or girlfriends or mistresses. It seemed almost like he had truly been here just for business.

He had never said if this particular endeavor had been a success, but theirs had.

They had driven up to the hills, in that shiny polished car of his that he had let her drive at the end of their few days together.

Then he had invited her to London, not just said it, but paid for her travel and accommodation for the five days she was there.

During the days she had been sightseeing or shopping, with him meeting her for lunch or tea and then always in the evenings. They went to the theatre, to the opera, the ballet.

And a few months after that, they had holidayed together in Rome, eight days just him and her and la dolce vita.

By the end he had asked her to marry him - and how could she say no?

She had met many people, many men, in her time. Some were generous, some were kind, some were affectionate, some were attentive. Few were all.

Mr Thomas Shelby was one of those few.

So it was no choice at all, was it?

There was only one time where she met his family ahead of the wedding, and perhaps it was why she was so keen on memorizing all she could about them.

They were an interesting lot.

There was Mrs Gray, an aunt, who was wearing more glitter and shine than a Christmas tree, from earrings, to bracelets, necklaces and brooches.

All, she noted, the most expensive Art Deco cuts money could buy.

There was the sister, Mrs Thorne, who favoured less flashy items both in jewelry and clothes, but no less pricey. She could tell from a mile away.

There were brothers too, to go with the sister. The elder with his narrowed eyes and scarred knuckles, seemed keen to avoid her gaze.

The younger made an effort to hold her gaze, to keep his soft hands in the pockets of his tailored jacket, and his jaw muscles’ clenched.

He was a boy, she could tell, who would have taken great offence to being called that.

They were kind enough, she had to admit, but there were gazes she did not like, whispers she could not catch and words she could not place.

“She’s got some shoes to fill.”

But she knew she would be happy with Thomas, she just knew she would.

Arrow House was their home, a large country home on a sprawling piece of land. And all theirs. It had been Thomas’s for nearly a decade now, but now it would be their home, for their future.

Thrice’s the charm. That was what one of the chauffeurs had said with a shrug.

There were rules of course, as in any house. He didn’t like her in the basement, fraternising with the servants he said. What an oddly harsh way of putting it. Nor did he want her climbing to the attic. There was nothing up there and the stairs were unsafe. And who would want to have a ladder snap out from under them?

Oh and his office was to be his alone. He didn’t want her meddling in his business, not that it was of interest of her anyway, he assured her.

Not the attic, not the office, not the basement.

With all the other rooms, she could do without them, would probably never have wondered what lay behind those doors if he hadn’t made such a point of it, but it wasn’t worth starting an argument over.

There was so much else to explore!

Not just the many rooms, and the paintings on the walls, the expensive furniture, the vast library, that had predated his ownership of the house for generations, she was sure, but other fineries.

The silverware was old, she recognized quickly, but it was placed in cupboards with new china, the industrial kind, but by no means cheap. She recognised the gold rims and gold paintings on one set from a catalog a few years back, done to replicate the Fabregé style just a few years after they lost most of their customers in tragedy.

Quite…flashy.

But there was another set, also new, but in shape and colour more reminiscent of the classical style in softer colours, like the late baroque, but in the style of the European Art Deco.

Both sets seemed barely used, with even and matching numbers of plates and cups, no chips, no scratches. Two brand new sets of china just a few years apart that, apart of time and pricing, couldn’t be more different.

A few days after her discovery, she had almost forgotten it, but Frances, the housemaid asked her if, as Mistress of the House, she wanted to purchase a new set of china. “No need to squeeze another one in the cupboards.”; she told her in the lightest tone she could muster, expecting a giggle or smile at least, since she was in charge of delegating the cleaning duties and wouldn’t welcome yet another dust collector.

Instead, the woman had grown pale.

The contents of the cupboards could only occupy her for so much, especially when compared to the gardens.

There was a traditional rose garden, with stone statues. Three looked as old as the house, but two were far less tormented by time and weather, only showing the earliest of marks.

The vegetable garden was carrying well, and as the gardeners told her, but two years from their first rotation, to keep in mind if she wanted to keep the vegetable garden.

She saw no reason to remove it.

Beyond it, just beyond the walls she could see dents in the grass where supporting pillars must’ve stood once, and up until not too long ago - but long enough for grass to regrow.

When she asked the gardeners what had stood there before that, he told her he didn’t remember, but that he would help her with any changes she wished.

Thomas had told her she could reshape the garden to whatever she desired.

“I shall take my time before making any rash decisions.”, she assured the gardener as they passed the flowerbeds with the yellow roses. “It takes time for ideas to take root, just like flowers.”

“Oh aye,”; he said without the smile she had been hoping for. “If they have enough time to get to spread them.”

How curious northern humor was!

Beyond the gardens were the stables, a large, renovated facility with extra rooms for the saddles, reins, crops and boots.

She saw men’s boots of all sizes, sturdy and worn, partly even mended.

Only in a dust covered box in the corner did she find women’s boots, a white pair and a brown one.

The white leather boots were delicately worked, yet seemed highly impractical to her. The brown pair, though made from soft leather, seemed more sturdy and reliable. They were also two thumb widths longer.

Neither shoe had been worn long enough to create true creases.

Upon spotting her discovery, the stable boy told her there was a shoemaker in London who she could seek out, but she declined.

The next time she visited the stables, with Thomas, the box had disappeared. What a shame, she had liked the azure-painted wood. It had always been her favourite colour.

And the time she went to retrieve the silver candelabra, she found the shelves below void of both baroque pastels and gold shimmer.

How strange.

What remained though were the outlines in the tapestry she could spot on her way up and down the stairs. There were two, where there was almost a pale shadow behind paintings of horses, peaking out behind the frames. One shadow had almost disappeared if the morning light didn’t betray it, but another was more noticeable.

Still, she didn’t like the case of the disappearing china. It wasn’t her taste, of course, but she had quite liked the way the pale blue looked against the white of the cup.

Of course, she could have asked Frances or the maids, but she was nothing if not a self-reliant woman. Where would one put old china? The basement? The office? The attic?

Certainly not the office, she thought, giggling at her own joke, so she opted to try the attic.

Careful as not to lose balance or break through the old wood, she crept upward, only to find it truly reliable.

The attic was as all attics were, with old furniture, forgotten trinkets and a few suitcases.

She wouldn’t have spared them a second glance if she had not noticed a peaking shimmer of silver from a fray that had snuck out from its leathery prison.

Her curiosity sparked, she opened them.

Each and every one of the suitcases were filled with clothes, suitcase upon suitcase of women’s clothes from stockings and underwear, to fur-lined winter coats. As always, the sparkling evening dresses captured her attention most of all - the shimmer and shine, the beads and glittery frays.

But not all the dresses were at similar lengths, in fact, about half the dresses would be too short for her to wear, while the other half would be too long.

How strange - especially since they were both in the fashion of the last decade, after the war and the stagnation that came after, created in the rush of the new world, with wider cuts, shorter skirts and blinding shimmer and shine.

It was a true shame to leave such pieces rotting in the attic but she didn’t know who they belonged to, Mrs Grey? Some were certainly flashy enough? Mrs Throne - some perhaps.

Either way, the gowns were all so very recognisable, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself by being seen wearing another woman’s clothes.

While Thomas’s office was forbidden to her, and perhaps in exchange too, she had an office of her own, looking over the gardens, with a plush sofa, a delicate writing desk, and freshly cropped flowers brought to her each day.

Next to the sofa was a small side table with two drawers. In the first was nothing, emptied out to be filled with her heart's desire.

In the second, she found anything to avert a spontaneous catastrophe, from handkerchiefs, to needle and thread, and a little envelope holding buttons in case one came loose.

What a thrifty choice, especially since she knew that Frances and the maids had sewing supplies downstairs.

Still, any well-educated girl should be able to sew her own cuff buttons back on, and inside. She found a collection of those.

Only upon folding it again, did she see the letterhead identifying the sender. Mrs T. Shelby it read, in dark red, almost maroon lettering.

She thought nothing of it, except that her predecessor must’ve been either a very serious woman, or a very professional one. It looked almost like the kind of font used for company writing rather than a private letterhead.

She knew, of course she knew, that there had been a Mrs Shelby before her.

Thomas had told her all about that - well, not all about it, but she knew of her and that their marriage did not end on good terms.

What more did she need to know? She certainly didn’t care for much else.

The previous Mrs Shelby didn’t seem to be missed much by his family as they never spoke a hint of her, nor the staff. Besides, she was Mrs Shelby now. What should she concern herself with the previous one?

Does spring wonder how winter’s tidings fared?

Most unfortunately for her, Thomas was frequently away on business, and she soon found herself forced to find use for her time. Eventually, even she relented and began to browse the bookshelves. Most were old classics that were better known than read, and dry books of law and higher learning.

Occasionally she spotted a book of poetry, or geography or history. One book did indeed catch her interest - a book about the unfortunate wives of the increasingly unshaped Henry VIII.

She remembered a sing-song game about the man, skipping back and forth on chalk-bordered lines: “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.”, all aiming of course for the last and most fortunate spot. As a child she had done so too. Of course now she knew that Anna of Cleeve had the greatest luck - and sense - of all of them.

Beside it was a book on yet another Queen who through no fault of her own came to miss her head, and as she pulled out the book she had selected in the hope of familiarising herself more with her new homeland, it caught in the binding and was thrown off the shelves.

As she picked it up, she noticed the folded letter paper someone had used as a bookmark between the pages.

On it was a list of names, three for boys, three for girls.

Charles - Alexander - John - Sophie - Marjorie - Jane

The names were of no concern to her, not compared to what she saw printed on top of the page.

Mrs T. Shelby.

In purple, looped writing.

Her thumb brushed over it, tracing the looped S, the hooped L, the way the letters were all strung together in a girlish way, like the first word of a fairy tale in a children’s book.

Not at all professional.

And a complete clash with maroon.

She did not mention the letter and envelope to Thomas, much like the dresses. But this time it wasn’t for lack of thought. In truth it was anything but - she thought in professional maroon writing, and breathed in looped purple lettering, the contrast, the mismatch, the utter dissonance making her temples throb.

It was the same temple Thomas caressed as he pushed hair out of her face, saying how much he would enjoy a portrait of hers to hang in his study.

It wasn’t an unreasonable request - many new paintings adorned his walls, of him and his brothers, standing, a horse, or even sitting in a group. Some included his sister and aunt, while others contained just the woman.

The only reason someone should own more than one painting of oneself is if one owned more than one house to show them in.

Her husband seemed to disagree.

In fact, he seemed very keen on it.

She could tell by the clothes the women wore and the hair they had when they had been immortalised when they had been painted.

It was more difficult with the ever-so-boring clothing choice of the men.

“Frances?”, she asked one afternoon, looking at the large family portrait in the dining room.

“Mrs Shelby?”

“Where is the painting of the previous Mrs Shelby?”, she wanted to know.

“Mrs Shelby?”, the older woman said, sounding almost frightened at her suggestion.

“I’d like to see it please.”

“Tha- there is no portrait here.”, she stammered, shifting uncomfortably.

“No?”, she asked. “Where is it?”

“Gone.”, Frances quickly said and rushed to leave.

Gone. Maybe so, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know where it was gone from, not when she so clearly saw the thin line of paler tapestry peeking out behind the painting of the horse, or the lining on top of the painting of the doe in the forest.

Two signs, two paintings.

It wouldn’t be unusual for a man who had not one but four paintings of himself in his house to have more than one of his wife.

But as she looked at the horse and the doe, she did wonder if one maybe showed a woman in purple and the other a woman in maroon.

From the window she could look out to where the gardener’s children were playing, a game of skipping rope.

It brought back the memories of that very first day, and the melody the girls had been chirping.

Méfie-toi, méfie-toi, méfie-toi.

The shoes disappeared, just like the china had done, and she was sure if she had told a soul of the suitcases in the attic they would suffer the same fate if they hadn’t already. The letter paper and envelope could burn, or be hidden easily, but not the outline on the walls, no matter how little of it was shown.

She knew because she passed them every single day, and every single day she would let her eyes confirm what could not be erased. Father time remained undefeated - flowers wilted, women aged, colours faded, some to light, some to dark, but they faded all the same and once the petals had dropped, once the wrinkle had formed, there was no smoothing it back out again.

But she wasn’t there yet, not quite, and she knew well how to play her part, and so she took great care in wearing the jewelry Thomas not only bought her, all his money did that, but picked them out himself.

They were neither the most exquisite nor the most tasteful of her collection, but wearing it was what a good wife did and would undoubtedly please him greatly and the last thing she wanted was for him to stop buying her jewelry.

So she wore the necklace, and the matching earrings and the matching bracelet she had gotten over the course of a year - birthday, wedding anniversary and Christmas respectively, but the pins she clasped in her delicately laid hair were her own.

Just a little touch of elegance wouldn’t hurt, not that many would understand. Tonight's extravagance was for business partners she had never heard of, as, like her aunt-in-law so generously put it, insight to family business only extended to blood.

On the way down, as the silks of her gown whispered against her thighs, she could see the outlines of the replaced paintings even in the flickering lights that illuminated the rooms for the night.

But while the electricity was fickle, her smile never failed, nor did the sharpness of her gaze.

Just because it was not hers to know, did not mean she had no interest in finding out.

After most were on the closing sips of their first glass of champagne, Thomas and Arthur and a few other men moved onto a more private discussion for which a change of scenery seemed necessary.

She saw them leave through the door to the library but when she went there for some much needed air, it was empty.

That only left a return to the hallway, which was filled with guests, or the servant’s staircase at the back.

Not up, she thought, someone who took such great care to remove themselves from a situation would not then choose the option that limited their movement further.

So down it was, to the kitchens and cellars and storage rooms.

All day there had been a hassle to rival the preparations for war, with everything being prepared only to the finest of standards, clattering of pots and pans, shouting of a handful of cooks over a dozen kitchen helpers, the murmur of honest work being completed.

Now there was anything but.

Granted, they had settled the menu for tonight to allow for maximum flexibility, but that did not mean the complete absence of work, nor of people.

A lady of the house snooping about in the kitchens, of course only to inquire after the selection of brandy Thomas ought to have made for after dinner, if asked, would not go unnoticed- if there was anyone left to notice.

But it was as if all birds had escaped the cage, all chickens fluttered out the den, all horses escaped the pasture. There was no sound, no sight, nothing but the buzzing of the event upstairs.

Until she smelled the smoke of the cigarettes coming from behind the kitchen.

Walking on her tiptoes to prevent her heels from giving herself away, she crept closer, until she could touch the cold wall, just below where the window was tilted open to let the kitchen smoke escape - and now let the cigarette smoke in.

“-....gotta change me shirt before we get back.”, she heard Thomas say, followed by a slight, strained cough. For a man so keen on appearances, he was so easy to slip back into his old speech patterns when with his brother. Such a mistake was so easily and obviously avoidable, but when in the company of Arthur, it was a certainty for him.

“Yeah, yeah, you do that Tom. I’ll just get some boys to clean up the mess in the meat room.”, she heard her brother-in-law mumble.

She removed herself quickly, if either one of them decided to use the kitchen door to get back in and held her breath until she knew it was clear.

How strange - that Arthur would want the meat room cleaned in the middle of a party, she thought, as she kept her company with the storage boxes of wine, both new and those predating her husband’s purchase of the house.

It was an easy guessing game of which was which, but not one she was interested in, and with Arthur’s promise to return quickly, she’d have to move quicker still.

Glancing left and right, before she reached for the door knob, she was surprised to find it locked. The easy thing would have been to ask Frances or the cook for a key, as they both had one or to retrieve the spare key in the butler’s office, the appropriate thing would have been to return to the celebration. The smart thing, the only thing that would satiate her more, was to pull one of her bejeweled hair pins out of the back of her updo and twirl it between her fingers.

Locks were so much like men, one just had to know which buttons to press and how to do it, but after a bit of fumbled wiggling, both inevitably gave in.

It opened with a slight click, making her heart flutter with excitement, as she pushed it open with her shoulder, gathering her skirts in anticipation of the unsavory stains of blood and worse that would stain the white tiled rooms.

But when she looked up, she was met with eyes, a pair of warm brown eyes ripped wide open as if surprised to see her - only they didn’t see her. They couldn’t see her.

The pin slipped from her hands as she clasped them tightly over her face to keep herself from screaming, disappearing in a scarlet puddle as she stared at the man, at his eyes, his parted lips, and the metal hook that had been driven through his throat, holding his lifeless body up at the place where he had met his end.

There was another, further back, his body slumped to the side like a forgotten sack of coal, with his face turned away from her, blood still seeping out from under him.

And there was a third, laying on the table where the butchers would prepare the game after a hunt, his hand but an inch from a cleaver, still reaching it seemed.

One. Two. Three.

All men she had seen just moments ago, with life in their eyes and strength in their limbs as they left the dining room for the library - left with Arthur and Thomas.

She did not even realise she was running until she reached the door to their bedroom, her mind remembering in the very last moment that Thomas had spoken about changing, so she turned in the opposite direction, all the way down the hall to one of the countless guest rooms.

They would house some guest or cousin for the night who had already unpacked, but she didn’t care as she slammed the door shut, her fingers slipping again and again as she turned the lock.

She wanted to scream, to hurl, to curl up in the corner and weep, for herself as much as the three she had seen. She wanted to fill her coat lining with jewels and run, run straight to the train station, on a ship - to the Americas, or Australia, or Africa - anywhere, anywhere but here.

But she couldn’t leave.

She couldn’t stay here either. Soon she would be missed, if she wasn’t already. No, she had to go down. She had to smile, to talk, to drink, to dance because if she didn’t the guests would know, and worse, Thomas would know.

Her whole body tensed as if the muscles wanted to burst forth, escaping the prison of her skin like rats scurrying away from a sinking ship as she pressed her palms against the wood of the door, forcing herself to breathe, to calm herself, to think - to think on everything that happened, to draw on everything she knew.

She’d survive this, she’d have to. If anyone could, it would be her.

When she turned she could see her reflection in the mirror glass, the abyss of nighttime beyond, painted lips, perfect hair, jewels given by her husband and a silk gown tailored to perfection.

She was the image of elegance and perfection, and when she smiled, no one would ever know. No one could ever know. She would not let them.

By the time she had descended down the stairs, not even her hand was shaking anymore, only her heart was thundering in her chest. It was the only part of her body she could not control, the only thing she could not subjugate to her will, not as she talked to the guests, not as she took her husband's arm, not as she beamed and clapped for his toast.

It thumped and thumped and thumped.

Only in the mingling after the drinks, between billiards and card games, in the haze of exotic cigars did she see Arthur and Thomas talking again, their backs turned.

As if feeling her gaze, Thomas turned.

She smiled at him, the perfect, perfect wife, before turning back to the guest she was talking to, an older woman who had been telling her about her granddaughters.

They would be of an age, she thought, with the girls she had watched that very first time she had met Tommy.

In that very moment the thumping of her heart seemed to match the rhythm of a skipping rope, being hurled through the air in a shadowed street on a distant shore, perfectly in sync with the bright laughter of girls and the song they sang.

“Méfie-toi, méfie-toi, méfie-toi de Barbe-Bleue.“

Taglist

Overall

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @chlorrox @watercolorskyy @books-livre @quarterpastmidnight @lilyevanswhore @polishcrazyone @zablife @just-a-harmless-patato @stevie75 @flyingjosephine-blog @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick @babayaga67 @butterfly-skinnylegend @shelbydelrey @mrkdvidal1989 @raincoffeeandfandoms @midnightmagpiemama @adaydreamaway08 @trixie23

Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy @geeksareunique @look-at-the-soul @lothbrokcore @rangerelik @elenavampire21 @evanore @dandelionprints

#valentineswritings #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby / reader #tommy shelby & reader #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby / reader #thomas shelby & reader #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader imagine #thomas shelby x reader imagine #peaky blinders imagine #barbe bleue

105 notes · View notes

princesssarisa · 7 months

Text

The Top 40 Most Popular Operas, Part 1 (#1 through #10)

A quick guide for newcomers to the genre, with links to online video recordings of complete performances with English subtitles.

Mozart's Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute) (Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart)

The most frequently performed opera worldwide: Mozart's fascinating, philosophical fairy tale opera, which appeals to both children and adults.

San Francisco Opera, 2010 (Piotr Beczala, Dina Kuznetsoca, Christopher Maltman, Erika Miklosa, Georg Zeppenfeld; conducted by Donald Runnicles)

Verdi's La Traviata

Tragic romance with social commentary, based on Alexandre Dumas fils' novel The Lady of the Camellias, which was also the basis for the classic 1936 Greta Garbo film Camille.

Los Angeles Opera, 2006 (Renée Fleming, Rolando Villazon, Renato Bruson; conducted by James Conlon)

Bizet's Carmen

The fiery tragedy of a seductive, free-spirited Spanish Romani woman and her loves, with some of opera's most iconic music.

Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, 2006 (Anna Caterina Antonacci, Jonas Kaufmann, Ildebrando d'Arcancelo, Norah Ansellem; conducted by Antonio Pappano)

Puccini's La Bohéme

Relatable slice-of-life romance that blends comedy and tragedy. The inspiration for the popular musical RENT.

Studio film, 1965 (Mirella Freni, Gianni Raimondi, Rolando Panerai, Adriana Martino; conducted by Herbert von Karajan)

Mozart's Le Nozze di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro)

The best loved of Mozart's Italian operas, a great comedy of class conflict and sexual intrigue.

Glyndebourne Festival Opera, 1994 (Gerald Finley, Alison Hagley, Renée Fleming, Andreas Schmidt, Marie-Ange Todorovich; conducted by Bernard Haitink)

Puccini's Tosca

Political intrigue, lust, and bloodshed amid the splendor of Rome – some call it a "shabby little shocker," others call it thrilling.

Vienna State Opera, 2019 (Sondra Radvanovsky, Piotr Beczala, Thomas Hampson; conducted by Marco Armiliato)

Mozart's Don Giovanni

Arguably the greatest retelling of the legend of Don Juan, with comedy, drama, and Mozart's glorious music.

Salzburg Festival, 1954 (Cesare Siepi, Otto Edelmann, Elisabeth Grümmer, Anton Dermota, Lisa della Casa, Erna Berger, Walter Berry Deszö Ernster; conducted by Wilhelm Furtwängler)

Puccini's Madama Butterfly

Puccini's iconic "Japanese tragedy." Controversial from a racial standpoint, but a tearjerker nonetheless, and the inspiration for the musical Miss Saigon.

Feature film, 1995 (Ying Huang, Richard Troxell, Ning Liang, Richard Cowan; conducted by James Conlon)

Rossini's Il Barbiere di Siviglia (The Barber of Seville)

The lighter and more madcap prequel to The Marriage of Figaro, known as the quintessential comic opera.

Vienna State Opera, 2019 (Rafael Fingerlos, Juan Diego Flórez, Margarita Gritskova, Paolo Rumetz, Sorin Coliban; conducted by Evelino Pidò)

Verdi's Rigoletto

A richly melodic tragedy of a hunchbacked jester, his daughter, a lecherous duke, and a self-fulfilling curse.

Studio film, 1982 (Ingvar Wixell, Luciano Pavarotti, Edita Gruberova; conducted by Riccardo Chailly)

108 notes · View notes

red-ropes-of-avalon · 5 months

Text

All I Wanted Was to Be Loved For Myself

Chapter 1- Angel of Music

Phantom of the Opera! Nanami x Christine!Reader

Author Notes: Nanami and Reader are around the same age, not the weird age gap in the actual Phantom of the Opera.

The auction in the abandoned opera house was solemn. The few bids caused little noise, while the most common noise was coughs from the settled dust. “Lot 665 then ladies and gentlemen.” A collector’s music box, it piqued Gojo’s interest at that moment. “A paper mache music box, in the shape of a barrel organ. Found in the catacombs of the opera house. In perfect working order.” The announcer had wound up the box letting it play its eerily beautiful song. “Shall we begin at 20?” The room had not a single bid, just a small cough. “Fine then fifteen?” The announcer said with an exaggerated sigh. Gojo raised his number for the bid. While 2 others bid against him, Gojo eventually won. “A fine piece Vicomte Gojo. Thank you, sir.” As Gojo looked over the music box his heart was filled with longing, a faint memory of the girl who had told him all about that very music box. “Lot 666- the broken chandelier. Now some of you may recall the strange affairs with the supposed ‘Phantom of the Opera’ the ghost of this very opera house. It was never known if this monster truly existed but this is the chandelier supposedly involved in that famous disaster. We have worked hard to restore it and add in new wiring for electrical lights. Perhaps we can shed some light and frighten out those ghosts from so many years ago.”

You were stood on the side with your fellow dancers dressed in flowy outfits for this scene of Hannibal. When Mei Mei hit the highest note of Rome, you all flowed out dancing in synch and singing beautifully. Shoko was on one side of you, a new girl on the other side. The scene was cut abruptly when Naoya the male lead sang Rome incorrectly, to which Gakujani the conductor stopped to yell. “No, no, no! You must enunciate Rome.” As Naoya and Gakujani argued Shoko simply rolled her eyes, rehearsal was long enough without Naoya being unable to pronounce Rome correctly. Mei Mei was the most annoyed and having him hold her hand for his higher notes, her face spoke entirely to her displeasure with Naoya. However, you had no time to watch her face as the ballet portion followed immediately and you were not getting yelled at by Yaga for being distracted. Following the big ballet, the pinnacle of the act was reached as the ensemble behind moved forward to begin singing. Of course, another fluke with Naoya occurred as the sword got stuck. You swore you heard him mumble something about cheap props and by the look on Shoko’s face, she did too. “Maybe if we didn’t have to pay you and Mei Mei an arm and a leg each we could have better props,” Shoko snarked.

“We are running that again from the top.” Gajukanji shooed everyone from their spots. You crossed the stage amongst the dancers though not without catching a nasty side-eye from Mei Mei simply from crossing her path. Still, it was better than passing Naoya who would push you and then delight in mocking you for falling.

“As you can see gentlemen our rehearsals for this season’s production, Hannibal are well underway,” Ijichi spoke as he led 2 men through the theater and to the stage. Trying to gather the cast’s attention was always hard for Ijichi. Yaga instead banged his foot, gathering the attention and causing silence for Ijichi. “I’m sure all of you have heard rumors that I’m retiring. I can put the rumors to rest today, I am in fact retiring.” Ijichi was always so timid despite being the owner of the opera house. “But these are the new owners, meet Monsieur Sukuna, and Monsieur Uraume.” The two men side by side couldn’t be more different. One looked like a bull of a man, and the other looked delicate enough he could be one of the dancers with you. “Monsieurs this is our prima donna Mei Mei. We’ve had the pleasure of having her as our leading soprano for 12 seasons now.” Mei Mei seemed to preen under the attention.

“I've heard you have an amazing voice, Miss Mei Mei. I know there is a wonderful aria in this production. Would you care to sing for us?”

“I don’t do any excess work for free Monsieurs.”

Sukuna barked a laugh motioning for Uraume to give the women some money to incentivize her.

“Ah, now Gakuganji would you do me the honors.”

“Is 2 bars sufficient Miss Mei Mei?” To which the woman gave a dismissive handwave. As the woman was singing she was clearly engaging the 2, strutting her stuff and proving just why she was the leading soprano for so long. As she reached the end, the backdrops for the other scenes fell from the rafters. It cut Mei Mei short, obviously startling the woman. Among the cast whispers of the phantom’s doing were spreading.

“Where is that stagehand? Haruta why would you drop the backdrops?’ Ijichi was clearly nervous, more than he usually was.

“I didn’t, I wasn’t even up there sir. If there was someone it would have to be a ghost.” The blonde’s response just spurred more phantom murmurings.

“It’s an accident. Things happen they probably weren’t tied well enough,” Sukuna dismissed.

“These aren’t just accidents! This has been my life for the last 3 years! I should not have to worry about my life whenever I rehearse. No amount of money makes this worth enduring! I am leaving, either sort that out or I will be finding a new contract.” Following her little tirade Mei Mei stormed out. Naoya sneered at the 2 men before storming out behind the woman.

“Sirs a note for you was found in the rafters,” Yaga handed the men an envelope with an ornate wax seal.

Dear New Owners of My Opera House,

I welcome you to my opera. I am sure Monsieur Ijichi has established with you the rules of how this opera house works I shall give you them in writing. You are to leave Box 7 empty for me and my salary is to be paid on time. I will not tolerate it being late. I hope the best for you in my opera house and look forward to our collaboration.

Best,

Opera Ghost

“A salary?” Sukuna almost wanted to laugh, a phantom demanded a salary.

“Ijichi used to pay him 20,000 a month, though with the Vicomte sponsoring you.”

“We can return to the matter of a ghost’s salary later. Who is the understudy for Mei Mei?” Uraume tried to soothe the situation by diverting.

“There is no understudy for Mei Mei.” Gakuganji balked at the insinuation.

Seeing no volunteers Shoko dragged you forward, “she can do it. She’s been taking lessons.”

“This little dancer girl? Tell me your name girl.” Sukuna intimidated you and Shoko wouldn’t let you disappear back into the cast.

“Y/N L/N.”

“L/N, tell me are you perhaps related to the famous cellist of the same name?” The way Sukuna’s voice was tinted with intrigue did you little comfort.

“Yes sir, he was my father.”

“Very well then, sing, show us if you are good enough.”

Very timidly you began to sing Think of Me, and while it seemed Uraume still held his doubts Sukuna was sold, despite your nervousness. Meeting Yaga’s eyes with his firm glare you began to open up more. Gaining a false confidence simply to avoid Yaga yelling at you. It seemed that was what sold Uraume on your ability, that or Sukuna’s insistence.

The performance was sold out and while you were nervous you were also excited. All eyes would be on you for the first time ever. Having the heavier costume on was an odd feeling, the weight of the skirt and how restricted you were compared to the ballet costumes. Wringing your hands deeply and taking a deep breath, you exited your dressing room to wait in the wings for your cue. By the end the packed opera house was applauding your every move and every note.

After bowing you exited offstage where the ballerinas quickly encircled you giving you praise. They were gossiping though just as quick after, something about the new owners with another man in their box. “You did well Y/N. I’m sure he will be impressed,” Yaga said placing a hand on your shoulder. You guess you had zoned out listening to them chatter and Yaga had pushed through the group of girls. “As for the rest of you, that was a pitiful performance. We must rehearse now, your feet were too flat and not enough bend in your knees. Y/N go get your costume off there’s nothing for you to fix.”

Seeing as you didn’t need to rehearse with them anymore, which was odd to say the least, you began the walk back to the dressing room you were given. In the hall an eerily familiar voice echoed, “bravo, bravo, bravissimo.” You felt yourself go pale at the words walking faster to the room.

Sitting yourself down in the room you let out a sigh. Seconds later Shoko enters the door, obviously having ditched rehearsal. “You were amazing out there. Where did you learn to sing like that?” Shoko quickly sat herself beside you and took your hands in hers. “Oh dear your hands are so cold, and you look pale.”

“I’m fine really. I was taught by a mysterious Angel of Music.”

“Who’s the Angel of Music though?”

“My dad he said when he passed he would send to me an Angel of Music, so that I will always know I am loved.”

“That’s weird but whatever you say. Don’t worry I’ll get all the gossip from the ballerinas and we can keep making fun of the rest of the cast during rehearsals.” Shoko was rambling again, she probably missed you in the wings.

“So this is where you snuck off to Shoko. You are still a dancer and therefore you still need to rehearse.” Yaga stormed through, obviously annoyed that Shoko had disappeared. Shoko shuffled off unhappy to have to part without talking to her best friend more. “As for you, I have a letter.” Yaga handed you a pristine letter swiftly before disappearing after Shoko to watch the ballerinas.

#nanami x reader #kento x reader #nanami kento x reader #jjk x reader

29 notes · View notes

d-criss-news · 5 months

Text

Review: A VERY DARREN CRISSMAS Tour Brings Music and Fun to Emerson Colonial Theatre

Making his way to the stage of the Emerson Colonial Theatre on the recent Boston stop on his “A Very Darren Crissmas!” tour – by going up, down, and around the sold-out venue – Darren Criss transported his eager audience from their seats to the palm of his hand.

And the popular performer, accompanied by a tight five-piece band, kept them there with a buoyant, tune-filled, nearly two-hour show, which featured everything from holiday favorites, from his 2021 debut CD that shares its name with the tour, to pop music covers and more.

The Emmy-winning actor and singer – famed for Fox-TV’s “Glee,” FX’s “The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story” and “Hollywood,” and Broadway shows including the 2011 revival of “How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying,” 2014’s “Hedwig and the Angry Inch,” and the 2022 revival of “American Buffalo” – opened with what he called “a winter love song,” John Mayer’s holiday-themed “St. Patrick’s Day.”

Criss’s voice was richly expressive on that and other songs, including jazz-infused renditions of “Winter Wonderland,” “(Everybody’s Waiting for) The Man with the Bag,” and a gorgeous “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire),” the Mel Tormé classic Criss calls his “very favorite Christmas song.”

He also offered up wonderful covers of Regina Spektor’s contemplative ballad “New Year,” and, in one of the evening’s most impressive vocal moments, the 2004 Keane hit, “Somewhere Only We Know,” performed without mic to showcase the superb acoustics of the spectacular Colonial.

The legendary try-out house also provided the perfect setting for Criss to sing “Welcome Home,” first performed by opera singer Enzio Pinza in the 1954 Broadway musical “Fanny,” with music and lyrics by Harold Rome.

The San Francisco native’s good humor was sprinkled throughout the show. Apparently, whenever John Rox’s novelty song “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas,” a hit for 10-year-old Gayla Peevey in 1953, played on the radio in Criss’s childhood home, everything came to a halt so his mother could sing along. In Boston, her now-adult son’s version of the song had him, and his rapt audience, bopping along.

Weaving in plenty of colorful patter between the songs – which also included a light and lovely “When You Wish Upon a Star” – Criss shared freeform musings on the mood of the day, defined the musical term “imperfect rhyme,” and humorously lamented the takeover of the Billboard charts at this time of year by Burl Ives, with “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” and now Brenda Lee, with her current number one, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” first recorded 62 years ago.

At the close, Criss strapped on a guitar for his hip-swiveling “Christmas Dance,” a rollicking tune he not only wrote but also customized with song requests shouted out by his swooning Boston audience. It was “A Very Darren Crissmas” indeed.

#darren criss #broadway world #avdc 2023 @ boston #avdc 2023 #press #dec 2023

20 notes · View notes

chopinski-official · 3 months

Text

‘Sardanapalo’ — Liszt’s Lost Opera.

youtube

How Liszt's Lost Opera was Rescued.

Sardanapalo (S.687) is an unfinished opera by Franz Liszt. Written between 1845 and 1852, it is based on the 1821 verse play Sardanapalus by Lord Byron. The first act is mostly complete but there is no evidence of any music being notated for Acts 2–3.

It was long believed that the manuscript was illegible until 2016 when British musicologist David Trippett managed to produce both a critical edition and an orchestral performing edition (after Liszt's own instrumental cues for orchestration). Sardanapalo received its world premiere in Weimar on 19 August 2018.

Delacroix, La Mort de Sardanapale. 1827.

Based on Byron's tragedy Sardanapalus (1821) and inspired by the works of his contemporaries — Delacroix’s painting, La Mort de Sardanapale (1827), and Berlioz’s cantata, Sardanapale (1830) — tells the story of Sardanapalus, the effeminate and self-indulgent king of Assyria. After being challenged for his debauched ways, Sardanapalus was forced to take up arms, and, following a prolonged resistance that ultimately failed, chose to avoid capture by suicide.

Manuscript of Berlioz’s Sardanapale.

Berlioz’s own work, Sardanapale, with which he won the 1830 Prix de Rome, now only survives in the form of an air and the Fire finale, as he destroyed the score. This was perhaps due to his composition being more conservative than his usual output in order to better his chances in winning the prize. This led Berlioz to deprecate the work, calling it his most “commonplace” cantata. Even so, Liszt, who was present at the second performance of the oratorio, felt there was potential for operatic treatment in the tale, particularly given that the performance had featured the dramatic scene of Sardanapalus burning himself and all his possessions (including slaves and concubines) on a funeral pyre.

youtube

Berlioz, Sardanapale, H.50. [fragments].

Liszt’s close associate, the Princess Belgiojoso, procured for him an unnamed Italian poet as a librettist who was under house arrest at the time for agitating towards Italian independence. Liszt received the libretto for the first act on New Year's Day 1847 and the remainder followed 18 months later. However, Liszt was uncertain about aspects of the text for Acts 2–3 and asked Belgiojoso to have them revised.

Manuscript of Act 1 of Liszt’s Sardanapalo.

Between April 1850 and December 1851 Liszt notated 110 pages of music. Despite this, Liszt abandoned his work on the opera soon after. It is possible that this was due to Liszt’s concern that anything he produced would pale in comparison to the pioneering operas of his friend Wagner. More likely, however, is that Liszt's abandonment resulted from the fact that he never received a revised libretto for Acts 2 and 3, so could not set these to music.

Below you can listen to the entirety of the first act:

youtube

Franz Liszt - Sardanapalo, S.687

#franz liszt #liszt #berlioz #byron #delacroix #classical music #classical composers

13 notes · View notes

top-500 · 9 months

Text

Your position in Shadow company made you the perfect candidate to go undercover in the Bolshoi Russian ballet, a supposed cover for an arms dealing hub and meeting spot for ultranationalist. It was simple enough. Look pretty on stage, talk sweet off stage, overhear details of weapons trades, give the intel to Laswell, stop the bad guys. Easy Peasy.

After years of posing as a young ballerina hoping to become principle in Amsterdam’s Opera House, two members of an elite task force are sent to bring you back home in one piece. However, when TF-141 member, Ghost see's you, he isn't sure Laswell sent him the correct coordinates.

______

“The fucking Opera house, MacTavish? Fancy yourself a bit of ballet? Or has a local tickled your fancy and distracted you from your job?” The lieutenant seethed lowly, almost ready to call the Captain to take his subordinate off the op. His nights cooped up really made him agitated.

“When in Rome, do-” Soap started, but he was cut off when the other man cursed and put him on speaker. Ghost reassembled the M4 that he was previously working on, slammed the mag in with more force then necessary, and tossed his laptop back in his duffle.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #call of duty fanfic #reader insert #simon riley smut #john soap mactavish #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x female reader

33 notes · View notes

justforbooks · 4 months

Text

14 January 1900: Tosca premieres in Rome

Puccini’s dramatic opera wows the audience – despite threats from anarchists

The genesis of Tosca, often seen as Giacomo Puccini’s masterpiece, was a saga in itself. His opera was based on the 1887 theatrical work La Tosca by the French playwright Victorien Sardou, who specialised in historical melodramas. Set in June 1800 in Rome, when that city was trapped between the armies of Napoleon and the kingdom of Naples, the original play was awash with murder, torture and surging passion. And since it starred Sarah Bernhardt, the most glamorous stage star of her day, it was a colossal international hit.

In May 1889, less than two years after the play’s original production, Puccini made his first bid for the operatic rights. He had already seen the play at least twice, and was convinced he could make it work. However, he did not obtain the rights, and Sardou instead struck a deal with a rival composer, Alberto Franchetti. Puccini never gave up, though, and in 1895 he convinced Franchetti to transfer the rights to him. By some accounts, he achieved this by persuading Franchetti that the story was too violent for an opera audience – and then proved that it certainly wasn’t.

With glorious timing, Tosca’s première at Teatro Costanzi (now the Rome Opera House) was scheduled for 13 January 1900 – at the peak of the Holy Year celebrations, when the city would be full of Catholic pilgrims. In the febrile climate of the day, Rome was simmering with rumours of anarchist and anti-clerical terrorist plots.

Learning that Italy’s queen consort Margherita of Savoy and other dignitaries had been invited to the première, one anarchist group threatened to bomb the theatre. The police arranged that the conductor would play the Royal March as a signal if there was an emergency; then, as a further precaution, the event was pushed back a day, to 14 January. They need not have worried. There was no attack and, though some critics complained about its brutality, the audience loved Tosca – and it has remained at the heart of the opera canon ever since.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #today in history

16 notes · View notes

tmblrfuckingsucksass · 3 months

Text

Antonio Salieri (18 August 1750 – 7 May 1825) was an Italian composer and teacher of the Classical period. He was born in Legnago, south of Verona, in the Republic of Venice, and spent his adult life and career as a subject of the Habsburg monarchy.

Salieri was a pivotal figure in the development of late 18th-century opera. As a student of Florian Leopold Gassmann, and a protégé of Christoph Willibald Gluck, Salieri was a cosmopolitan composer who wrote operas in three languages. Salieri helped to develop and shape many of the features of operatic compositional vocabulary, and his music was a powerful influence on contemporary composers.

Appointed the director of the Italian opera by the Habsburg court, a post he held from 1774 until 1792, Salieri dominated Italian-language opera in Vienna. During his career, he also spent time writing works for opera houses in Paris, Rome, and Venice, and his dramatic works were widely performed throughout Europe during his lifetime. As the Austrian imperial Kapellmeister from 1788 to 1824, he was responsible for music at the court chapel and attached school. Even as his works dropped from performance, and he wrote no new operas after 1804, he still remained one of the most important and sought-after teachers of his generation, and his influence was felt in every aspect of Vienna's musical life. Franz Liszt, Franz Schubert, Ludwig van Beethoven, Anton Eberl, Johann Nepomuk Hummel and Franz Xaver Wolfgang Mozart were among the most famous of his pupils.

Salieri's music slowly disappeared from the repertoire between 1800 and 1868 and was rarely heard after that period until the revival of his fame in the late 20th century. This revival was due to the fictionalized depiction of Salieri in Peter Shaffer's play Amadeus (1979) and its 1984 film version. The death of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in 1791 at the age of 35 was followed by rumors that he and Salieri had been bitter rivals, and that Salieri had poisoned the younger composer; however, this has been proven untrue because the symptoms displayed by Mozart's illness did not indicate poisoning and it is likely that they were, at least, mutually respectful peers. Despite denying the allegation, Salieri was greatly affected by the accusations and widespread public belief that he had contributed to Mozart's death, which led to his nervous breakdowns later in life. In November 1823 Salieri attempted suicide. He was committed to medical care and suffered dementia for the last year and a half of his life.

#antonio salieri #classical music #musical history #18th century #19th century

5 notes · View notes

appalamutte · 2 years

Text

it pains me this fandom hasn’t explored an orchestra/classical musician au :/ like y’all are really going to make me write it aren’t you? against my will? without any compensation besides my own personal fulfillment?

like just imagine:

bob zimmermann is the yo-yo ma of the violin. he’s internationally recognized. he’s performed in the greatest concert halls around the world -- carnegie hall, vienna musikverein, the sydney opera house, palais garnier, etc. -- and his playing style is so controlled yet so brash that he’s dubbed “Bad Bob” because you would expect he’s going to be bad from how harshly he plays. he has strong preference for dissonance in his playing and a firm disregard for the traditional playing styles of the baroque and romantic eras, making him controversial in the world of music and leading many to believe his fame is nothing more than accidental luck.

but it isn’t. he’s one of the best, and he helped revolutionize classical music into the modern style we know it as today.

he meets alicia at a gala in prague, and within two years they marry and have jack. jack, who as a baby would cry and cry and could only be soothed with his father’s playing. jack, who plays his first note on his father’s old violin before he says his first words. jack, who grows up with a bow in hand and the classical music world’s eyes on his back.

from early on, it’s clear jack’s taken on his father’s talent. bob starts giving jack lessons as early as five years old, and while he gets caught up in the prospect of his son following in his footsteps, alicia is determined to make sure jack knows he isn’t pressured to do so.

jack knows, mostly. he spends hours every week with a violin in hand because he wants to. it’s more than a hobby, more than following his father’s footsteps; playing the violin gives him this sense of purpose nothing else can. he learns from his father, he practices daily. he builds calluses. he performs his first concerto at eleven, he plays for the canadian prime minister at the place des arts in montreal at thirteen. he joins his father on bob’s last world tour at sixteen, playing alongside him in berlin, rome, moscow, tokyo, sao paulo.

he does it all, trying to make a name for himself, and it almost works. people recognize his playing. he’s stopped a few times on a trip to vienna by fans wanting pictures. different symphonies reach out to him--not his father--personally asking if he’d perform with them for a special event. but the world still sees zimmermann and asks him what it’s like to follow in his father’s footsteps, why is it that jack’s playing style is so different from his father’s, does he feel pressured because of the zimmermann shadow, is his father proud of him?

after a particularly intrusive interview where jack tries to keep the topic on his attempts at composing his own works, he takes a few months off and tries to not read the internet too much. he spends time with his grandparents in quebec city, he stays at his family’s vacation home in halifax, alicia and him fly off to san diego for a few days, just the two of them.

it’s in their san diego hotel that jack caves. he goes online and reads, reads, reads. there’s article after article with clips from that interview, headlines ranging from Jack Zimmermann: the Modern Day Mozart to Is Jack Zimmermann Living up to the Zimmermann Standard? to The Prodigy to Revolutionize Classical Music, Just Like His Father.

he lets it soak into his skin, staying up at night until sleep finally comes, only to dream of walking onto stage with a program showing his face and reading Bob Zimmermann. he comes back from his hiatus and ups his medications. he holds performances in vancouver, chicago, toronto, and he reads more and more articles about him every night before bed. he starts to pull away from his mother’s hugs quicker. he finds himself unable to look his father in the eye.

jack rehearses and reads and he breaks a string three minutes before he has to perform in ottawa at a fundraising event for his father’s new non-profit to uplift music in the schools and he can’t control his breathing in the bathroom fast enough to walk out on time.

then he disappears at eighteen, and all is quiet.

there’s speculation, rampant in the beginning until it dwindles over the years. some say he couldn’t handle the attention and ran off to some private boarding school in the middle of nowhere. others say he couldn’t handle the pressure and left music entirely. a few spitball conspiracies that he died, willingly or not, that being bad bob’s son was too much to bear, that jack’s fame wasn’t accidental but rather forced, nepotistic.

in 2008 a reddit post claimed to have seen jack leaving a hospital in montreal. in 2009 a random twitter user posted two grainy pictures of what appeared to be jack in an elementary school. in 2010 a tmz article said alicia and jack were spotted multiple times in boston, though bob was noticeably absent.

in 2011, jack zimmermann enrolls at the Samwell Conservatory, a small, undistinguished music school struggling to compete with the likes of Juilliard and Berklee.

it’s his first official public appearance in three years.

-- -- --

eric bittle didn’t pick up a violin until he was twelve years old.

originally, he didn’t even want to join his middle school’s orchestra. his family had just moved to an atlanta suburb thanks to his daddy’s new defensive line coach position at georgia tech, and his mama’s job at the doctor’s office had her working late in the evenings, so they made him pick an extracurricular activity to keep him occupied after school.

the gay-straight alliance was a no brainer. the co-ed hockey team dug up too many bad memories. the home ec club was tempting, but he knew what the other boys would say if he joined it.

so the school’s orchestra it was.

on his first day he was given all sorts of instruments to try: the cello was too big for his small body, the double bass was even bigger, the viola hurt to hold for too long. the violin was perfect, though, and soon enough eric found that he was rather okay at it. maybe more than okay. he caught on quickly with how to tune, how to hold the bow on the strings, how to read sheet music. vibrato was a bit hard to get used to, but the boy he shared a stand with was nice enough to help him, staying after rehearsals to show him how to wiggle his finger on the string and all.

(eric blushed bright as a tomato when the boy leaned close and grabbed his hand to put it in the right position. he couldn’t make eye contact the next day.)

it was fun, too, to eric’s surprise. he liked being able to hear songs come together, to be a part of something bigger than himself rather than be a solo act. it was easy to blend in while sitting in the middle of all the violins, and the end product of the music slowly grew from being just a bonus to being an accomplished reward.

he stuck with the violin throughout middle and high school, spending weekends rehearsing and weekdays with the other violins. he found that he could almost be himself with them, and being in the school orchestra was better than being a figure skater, even though it still wasn’t the football team. boys played the violin all the time. no one batted an eye when he carried his violin in every morning like they did when he’d have to bring his leotards because katya wanted him to rehearse his program with them on after school. his father even came to all of his concerts, and his mother has an entire home library of videos and pictures from throughout the years.

on a whim, and after talking rather extensively with his director, eric sends in a video audition to the Samwell Conservatory. he thinks that it’s just for fun, that he honestly has no shot of getting in. he loves the violin, and yeah, he’s been first chair for three years now, but he knows he’s not nearly good enough to pursue it as a livelihood. coach’s position at georgia tech paves a perfect path for eric to go there anyway. maybe a business degree is attainable--everyone always gets a business degree when they have no real life plan, right? that’d be useful if he follows his other dream of opening up a bakery one day.

then he gets a letter saying he’s advancing to the in-person auditions held in boston.

then he has a panic attack in his director’s office.

then his mama and he fly up to boston in the middle of march and somehow eric doesn’t fuck up his audition too terribly, but still just enough that he can’t eat the lunch his mama buys him afterward.

it’s not until the first seventy-degree day in april that eric gets the acceptance letter. he’s in the middle of baking a lemon meringue pie when his daddy drops the mail off on the counter, saying a letter’s there for him from Samwell. eric stops everything and rips open the envelope at the kitchen table and reads the letter three times over.

he cries. his mama cries. coach sniffles and gives him a hug with a pat on the back. a half dozen pies get made. his moomaw and aunts and uncles and cousins come over that weekend for a celebratory cookout. his tweet garners nearly fifty likes (a record), and his mama’s facebook post is shared over a hundred times by their friends and neighbors.

his school orchestra throws him a surprise party during their next rehearsal and it hits him, standing in the middle of all his fellow violins, that he’s done it. he’s going to boston.

he’s going to attend the Samwell Conservatory.

#TW: mentions of panic attacks #so many wips are sitting dormant on my drive and yet here i am twirling my hair thinking about starting a new one #omgcp #eric bittle #jack zimmermann #my writing #classical music au

72 notes · View notes