FicWad

We are musicians; we are students, amateurs, or masters of our instrument, be it stringed, woodwind, brass, percussion, or whichever. We use our bodies and our instruments to channel emotions, to express ideas, and, ultimately, we become the vessel through which the music flows, because although we are the ones who live and bring the music to life, beyond learning the techniques and notes, there is little that which we can do besides become a physical, living being for the music to pass through us entirely of its own accord. For while to others it seems we are the ones who control our art, it is the music which controls us, the music which we must follow, the music to which we must bend to its every whim.
To be a musician is to give yourself up to the music, to allow it to use you and do with you as it pleases, to come and go as it wishes, for you to cry when it leaves you, to dance with it when it demands so, to feel its anger, its sadness, its exaltations and joy, and to enjoy every damn moment of it.

siciliano: a musical form often included as a movement within larger pieces of music starting in the baroque period. It is in a slow 6/8 or 12/8 times with lilting rhythms, making it somewhat resemble a slow jig and is usually in a minor key.
Source: thefreedictionary.com



Stark, straight lines of wood ran in parallel races, drawing horizontal layers across the outer walls of the immense performance hall. Where they intersected were formed sharp angles, contrasting with the smooth inner curvatures of the acoustically engineered structure. Soft, tiny spotlights dotted the curves, tracing wood grain patterns with long fingertips. This was the main hall, sitting austere and imposing on a gently sloping stone-paved floor.
In the shadow of the wooden hall stood a smaller one, shaped in a perfect circle where the other was all angular. Bricks of polished ash-grey stone stacked up to reach only half the height of its neighboring structure. Accent lighting crawled up its sides and along the top, projecting images of tall, dancing figures as the shadows of people walking along the upper balconies played along white plaster walls.
Both of these halls were enclosed in one building, all brick walls with a glass ceiling to allow for a rooftop garden. The main lobby consisted of the space between the halls, designed with a reminiscence of street cafes in mind. Long wooden bars stretched the length of space while sharply dressed, professional drink mixers served everything from coffee to scotch to potato chips. High tables and chairs scattered the area, constantly being shuffled around as visitors saw fit to move them. An expansive information desk sat at the end, the large, circular brochure rack with secretaries sitting at computers in the center. They could instantly look up the booking status of every event months in advance. It screamed prestige like only one of the greatest halls in the world could. Only internationally renowned musicians and orchestras would even set foot on stage. All around the lobby area, young men in the cut red and black usher's uniforms held doors, took tickets, kept the floors immaculately swept and the glass stairways free of fingerprints. The scents of new leather, expensive cologne, and fine wines wafted about when one of them hurried from one side of the lobby to another as he was paged for some new duty.
Nearly all of the visitors and patrons were of the elderly generation, old couples who came to appreciate real classical music and would spend the wealth they've acquired for retirement on this very institution. They came in cars driven by personal chauffeurs from the high end of town, or from out-of-town estates in their own luxury sedans navigated carefully through the downtown city traffic and handed over to valet parking. Their clothes were rich, custom tailored suits and fur and silk and such; their hair professionally cut and styled, dyed at times to hide streaks of grey and patches of white. In their old age, they enjoyed it, wishing they have their youthful looks and bodies back.
Occasionally, a young college student would slip into the public lobby, a studying musician, perhaps, and he would stroll about in quick, hopeful steps, marveling at its architectural beauty before even thinking about what it would be like to perform inside it. His heavy sneakers thudded over the ground, soft rubber muffling his footsteps amongst the hard clacking of dress shoes and pointed heels. Through the zig-zagging glass walls, tiny prisms of light, rainbows, reflections were casually thrown about, and as he passed through them he let his hands linger, fingers twirling deftly to catch glass patterns dancing over his knuckles. He listened with rapt attention to the soft murmuring of conversations echoing across this building engineered for acoustics, not really paying attention to the words being said as much as just hearing the musical rise and fall of voices, laughter, tones.
A plump, middle-aged woman standing before a plush curtain in a red and black uniform proved an easy target. He flashed her a quick, charming smile, imploring her for just a quick peek inside that wonderful wooden hall. She eyed him thoroughly, this boy who couldn't be older than twenty, his clothes and demeanor putting him completely out of place from the rest of the crowd here. But although his clothes didn't proclaim wealth, he still managed to make himself look presentable in this high-class, formal crowd. An argyle sweater, warm colored and clean, fitted his slender build well, low collar showing a neat, white dress shirt buttoned to the throat underneath; hand-ironed dress pants fell straight to his ankles, never mind that he wore black sneakers rather than dress shoes. His hair, which would have been wild and unruly any other day was carefully combed back and tied with a tiny black ribbon, the shorter pieces tucked firmly behind his ears. And she would have resisted the earnest request his eyes made, would have denied this boy entrance, but seeing his poorly concealed disappointment as he took her hesitation for a rejection, she pulled aside the rich velvet curtain and motioned along the curving hallway leading into the concert hall, eliciting from him a solemn promise that he would only be but a few moments.
The inside of the hall seemed deceptively small when compared with the grandiose external structures. Less than a thousand would have been given floor seats, and maybe a couple hundred combined across the balconies. The show scheduled for the night was still over half an hour from starting, so while there was no rush to find seats, groups of friends, co-workers maybe stood around and clogged up the aisles as they socialized. Ushers milled about, helping individuals find their seats and passing out playbills, all giving the lone student a suspicious eye as he leafed through the program, leaning casually against the dark wood paneling on the walls meant to maximize sound projection. He had given up trying to find a seat after being removed by the third person whose seat he 'mistakenly' occupied.
By the time the lights started to flicker in warning of the imminent opening of the show, most of the seats seemed already filled up. Scanning the dim hall for any empty seats, he spotted an unoccupied place next to the aisle, only a few rows away from where he was loafing about. This seat he saw fit to slip quietly into, casually, as if he belonged. Next to him, the seat was occupied by, surprisingly, a boy younger than himself. Round cheeks with a pointed chin, wide lavender eyes peering around and adjusting to the slowly dimming lights, closely cropped chestnut curls tightly wound like little springs sprouting from his scalp, he couldn't be much past his mid teens. Further down the row sat a couple he must be here with; whether they were older parents or younger grandparents, it was hard to tell.
It was always amusing to this college student to find younger appreciators of classical music. That boy didn't look unwilling to be sitting stiffly in a starched dress shirt and unbroken patent leather shoes, or like he was dragged by the ambiguously aged couple against his will to watch the city orchestra perform Rachmaninoff.
Just then, the younger boy turned and noticed him, and they were about to engage in some sort of meet and greet conversation when the usher from before, the one who let him sneak in, had finally caught up to him. After not ever seeing him leave when he promised to only take a quick look, she had gone in after him. She grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him into the aisle, directing him forcefully towards a glowing red exit sign with low, muttered expletives referring to the general untrustworthiness and dishonestly of the younger generation. He winked to the younger boy as he was being escorted away, a gesture that brought a giggle from him and left him the promise of a future confrontation. Then he was pushed through those heavy, rich curtains and bid farewell by means of a rush of air as the hall doors slammed shut behind him.

*
Mercutio Landa paced anxiously, impatiently, frustratedly back and forth in front of the closed doors, access to the concert denied to him. But that wasn't what bothered him; he had managed to sneak in and sit through countless concerts before, and this night was nothing special. It was just that boy in there who had intrigued him, maybe fascinating him far too much, but he didn't care, he wanted to know who that kid is. Raking fingers through his hair, he freed those deep auburn waves from the little strip of black silk holding them captive, then undid the top few buttons of his shirt collar. Playing nice and sweet didn't get him far enough tonight, and there was no need to keep up the charade. Damn that bitch for going through the trouble of remembering him and throwing him out like that.
He'd wait. That's all he had to do, just putz around in the lobby for a few hours until the concert was over, then pick the kid out of the crowd and talk to him then. It was a public place, so as long as he quietly minded his own business, they really couldn't kick him out.
The bar was open, but devoid of business as everyone was inside the hall. He strode up to it, laying an arm over the polished wooden top with enough confidence to show that he was indeed of age to be ordering drinks.
"I'll just have a Heineken," he proclaimed, quickly, so the bartender would have enough time to react and card him.
But to no avail. The bartender was old and well experience with all the tricks kids pull to try and get themselves booze. "Can I see some ID, then?"
Mercutio gritted his teeth in frustration and shook his head, his eyes low.
"I'll be twenty-one in a month, what difference does that make? You can't give me that much slack?"
"Sorry, buddy, it's the law. Not my fault." He sure didn't look sorry, rather smug that he just shot down another kid trying to get a drink underage.
"Fine, then. Just give me a Coke," he ordered. Hopefully, he watched him pop open a can, the drink foaming up in a tall, rosy glass. "You won't even goose it a bit for me?"
"Nope. But if it'll make you feel better, I'll let you have a bar cherry!" The bartender mockingly handed Mercutio a cherry from a bowl under the counter, dripping with juice as he counted out change.
It was going to be a long wait. Being so annoyed with the bartender that he refused to finish his drink in front of him, Mercutio staked out a table with a direct view of the performance hall doors. With plenty of time to kill, he sipped his soda slowly and sucked the sour flesh off the cherry, chewing on the pit until it lost all flavor. He got up and bought himself another soda, drank it while pacing restlessly from one side of the lobby to the other.
Several drinks and hours later, Mercutio could hardly stand to be still anymore. Surely the concert was over by now (there wasn't even an intermission?!), and the anticipation coupled with an overload of sugary caffeine goodness flowing through his veins twisted his stomach around.
And his kidneys seemed to have gone into overdrive, too. There must have been a gallon of Coke floating inside of him by now. No, this couldn't be good for a first meeting, with him standing with his knees pressed firmly together, groin muscles clenched as his bladder threatened to pop and expel urine all over those nice clean floors, or with him afraid to laugh too hard or even move from his spot, twisting around and fidgeting like a kindergartener on his first day of school.
The restrooms were downstairs. He could make a bolt for them quickly and get back to his post without missing much.
The elevator was closest; sure, Mercutio felt really stupid using an elevator to go down a single floor, but the stairs tended to twist an turn and waste time, and he really didn't want to have to move his legs any more than necessary for fear of disturbing those floodgates. Dashing out into the lower level before the doors had finished opening, he navigated through the needlessly complicated and overdecorated waiting area outside the restrooms, dashing past potted plants and oil paintings and plush couches, wall-length mirrors and an obnoxiously long line of motion-sensing sings, each one running for the fraction of a second he spent in front of it as he made a beeline for that wonderful porcelain bowl for him to relieve himself into.
After washing up, Mercutio took his time getting back to the elevator. When you've held it in for that long, you just have to spend a few moments relishing that intense feeling of liberation.
He pushed the call button for the elevator and waited for the bell to chime. It really seemed to take its time getting to his floor, especially considering that it only went between the ground level, where the lobby was located, to the lower level with the bathrooms. He was about ready to give up and take the stairs when the doors finally slid open. Somehow, he managed to dash through them at the same time someone else was dashing out, and the resulting collision and cry of pain drew the scornful stares of the other occupants of the elevator.
"Hey...it's you!" Mercutio scrambled to his feet and yanked the boy from the concert hall out of the way of the slow-moving throng of people trying to casually step over the pair tangled on the floor. He pushed the kid off to the side so as to not obstruct the flow of traffic from the elevators to the bathrooms, brushing imaginary dust off himself while keeping one hand firmly around the kid's wrist, as if afraid he'd run off or something.
"Listen, I wanted to talk to you earlier, but then they figured out I never paid seventy bucks for orchestra seats..." he started, and the other boy laughed again. "I didn't hurt you or anything, did I?" Mercutio ran his hands up and down the boy's arms, poking for bruises.
"No, I'm fine..." the boy started to shake his head until Mercutio cut him off, catching that pointed chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting his face upwards.
"Good." And kissed him forcefully.
Mercutio was met with only brief resistance, momentary surprise or something from the other boy before he felt his extremely affectionate way of introducing himself returned.
But the kiss was rather short-lived, as the other boy broke away and self-consciously eyed the conservative, old-fashioned group of annoying old people who did nothing to conceal their gaping at such outward and public displays of passion.
"People are watching us!"
"So let them watch. They've lived long enough, this can't be anything they haven't seen before." Mercutio moved closer again, this time angling his body to block the boy's view of their audience so he wouldn't keep getting shy.
"...but I have to go to the bathroom!"
"You see that line? You'll be waiting all day!" Such stupid excuses. It was almost cute watching the younger boy trying to fend Mercutio off, when all he would have to do is push those skinny arms to the side and swoop in for another quick kiss.
"I don't even know your name yet!" he stalled, holding his ground against Mercutio's advances. It wasn't that they were unwelcome, they were just rather surprising, that's all.
"It's Mercutio."
"...like from Romeo and Juliet?"
"My mother used to be a Shakespeare fanatic, okay?" He managed to steal another kiss to wipe that incredulous look from the boy's face.
"But you still don't know my name."
"So tell me and get it over with!" This was almost starting to get old. Almost.
"Alexander Hamilton."
"Alexander...Hamilton??" This time it was Mercutio who got to puzzle over the retardity of the other's name.
"My friends call me Hammie!" He flashed Mercutio a cheesy grin, obviously really liking that nickname.
"...Hammie. Wow, that's real gay. I'm not calling you Hammie." With the introductions over with, Mercutio say no further reason to stall. In a swift motion, he had Hammie pinned against the wall next to a large, obviously fake plant. His entire body pressed the younger boy up against solid, cool stone, his mouth exploring Hammie's face while his hands amused themselves by pushing through his tightly curly hair.
Hammie pulled away again, rolling to the side so that Mercutio's next move missed flesh completely and brought him a little too close to lip lock with a brick. He ducked underneath Mercutio's groping hands and ran to catch the tail end of the line snaking into the mens' restroom.
"Wait for me out here, I'll be back!"
Trying to look casual, Mercutio propped himself against the wall and ran his hands repeatedly through his own hair. His face must have been flushed red, as he could feel his skin burning. The caffeine buzz had worn off, only giving way to much stronger sources of stimulation.
He waited for Hammie to finish his business, trying to be patient for once, but he was getting painfully close to running into the restrooms and conducting a stall-to-stall search by the time it seemed that everyone in the building had walked in and out through those doors.
Mercutio almost missed it when Hammie finally came out of the restroom. He took several takes, then tried to convince himself that the kid standing in front of him was not the same Alexander Hamilton whose mouth he just had his tongue in only a few moments ago.
The kid was actually wearing a colonial-style powdered wig.
"Alex," started Mercutio, still refusing to address him with that stupid nickname, "can I ask why you're wearing a wig?"
"Oh, um," Hammie articulated, a faint tinge of red blooming across his cheeks. It was almost like he didn't expect Mercutio to notice, or at least that he wouldn't be so condescending about it. "I was in a play about colonial times...and I really liked the wigs..."
"That's...kind of strange. You wear that everywhere?"
"Well, most of the time. I didn't have it on earlier because my grandparents only agreed to take me to see the show tonight if I didn't wear it, but now that the concert is over, they can't do anything about it." Hammie peered sheepishly up at Mercutio, hoping he wouldn't be suddenly rejected for his strange taste for powdered wigs.
"Okay. Whatever you say." The elevator was conveniently empty when Mercutio pushed the call button. As the doors quietly slid open, he led Hammie into it with his lips and his hands, pressing the younger boy up into the corner against the panel of buttons. Fumbling hands between the wall and Hammie's small body jabbed around until they found the "close door" button, allowing the two of them privacy from anyone who happened to walk by. Those hands then moved to stroke up and down Hammie's sides, movements so thorough that Mercutio could probably have been able to report the number of ribs that made up Hammie's ribcage. Meanwhile, Hammie only managed to wrap his arms around Mercutio's neck, his skinny fingers twisting into that sweater, stretching the collar out as he just hung on for the ride.
"So, how old are you, anyway?" Mercutio breathed into Hammie's ear before taking the cartilage between his teeth and gently gnashing at it. One hand dipped between them, deftly undoing several of the lower buttons on Hammie's shirt before pressing a warm palm against his flat lower abdomen, fingers stretching downward, thumb tracing circles around that belly button.
"Sixteen...!" gasped Hammie, his hand falling to grab Mercutio's. He felt the other hand snake down to support him, firm against his lower back as his knees almost gave out.
Mercutio stopped abruptly and spent several moments contemplating the legality of what he was doing here. So even though he knew Hammie couldn't possibly be out of high school yet, having a tangible age up in the air seemed to make it seem so much worse.
Then again, did he really care that this kid he was about to violate was still a minor? Besides, it's not nice to just stop and leave people hanging like that.
"Come home with me," he demanded of Hammie, picking up right where he left off less than a moment ago, his hands inching their ways lower with every breath he sucked out of him.
"I can't, my grandparents are waiting for me upstairs." It was rather impossible to tell whether Hammie was disappointed that he couldn't follow this complete stranger home and get thoroughly molested, or if he was relieved to have and excuse to get out of that hot, enclosed space of an elevator car.
Mercutio, on the other hand, seemed quite annoyed, but he backed off his advances and pushed the button which would bring the elevator up to ground level. "Fine, then, go home," he ordered, though he still couldn't keep his hands off Hammie, still stroked his arms constantly, or brushed his fingers against that young face. "But I'll have to find you later. Where do you go to school, Central High?"
"No, Angus Prep." The school Hammie named was a snobbish private school far away from the downtown action, the kind full of the offspring of rich parents who didn't want their darling little babies exposed to and involved with the corrupt and dirty delinquents who went to the public schools. This school also had an amazing music study department, for which reason Mercutio had once upon a time wanted to attend there. Pity the tuition was ridiculously high.
"Wow, that's...so not only are you a total fag, but you're a pansy Angus Prep kid, too?" So says the one still stealing kisses from a sixteen year old boy. "Alright, then, go back to grandmommy and granddaddy. This is where we part ways; I parked by the lower level."
As the elevator doors slid open, Mercutio pressed his lips into Hammie's one last time, then gave that wig a yank so it fell crooked over his eyes and sent him out of the elevator with a sound smack on the ass.
When the elevator dropped Mercutio off at the lower level, he idly wondered if Hammie had a chance to straighten himself up, or if he ran into his grandparents as he was, wig askew, face bright red and rather wet, shirt crumpled beyond repair and unbuttoned partway from the bottom up. That would probably take some explaining, and it would have been hilarious to watch.
Ah, well. For now, he'd go home. And take a cold shower.