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linndechirTitle: Five Senses - Part two: Hear
Author:linndechir
Fandom: Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Hellstrom/Landa
Rating: PG
Warning: top!Hellstrom, sub!Landa, music geekery
Words: 1572
Author’s note: This isn’t really Landa/Hellstrom, it’s Beethoven/Hellstrom with Landa watching. Metaphorically, of course. Warning for shameless music geekery. I couldn’t decide which Beethoven sonata I’d let Hellstrom play; I went for the Appassionata because it’s maybe the one people are most likely to know. If you don’t, listen to it RIGHT NOW. And to all his other piano sonatas. FYI, Bösendorfer is a piano manufacturer, or rather THE piano manufacturer. ;)
Links to part one, part three, part four, part five.
2) HEAR
Even Paris came to silence sometimes. It was long past midnight, and the expensive restaurant was almost empty, with the exception of a few lingering guests, most of them German officers who had a free day coming up, often accompanied by young French women. The conversations were muted and calm, the waiters had hardly anything to do and would have closed if they had dared to tell the officers to leave. It was pleasantly quiet, but not too silent. The pianist who had provided the background music for the evening had already left an hour ago, but the grand piano - a glorious Bösendorfer, directly imported from Vienna - was not yet to be deserted.
Hans Landa had spent half of the evening listening to Hellstrom’s comments on the pianist’s play - his technique, his interpretation, his choice of music … Landa had known that Hellstrom, like many sons of wealthy bourgeois families, had learnt to play the piano in his childhood, but he hadn’t expected him to be still so well-versed and interested in the subject. More in joke Landa had suggested that Hellstrom should just play himself if he had so much to criticise about the pianist, and the major had agreed. Jokingly, Landa had thought.
But now, just as another officer left with his girl, and the quiet in the huge restaurant was about to become oppressing, Hellstrom suddenly seemed to remember his plans, got up from the table and walked over to the piano.
Long hands touched the instrument almost lovingly when he opened it. After he had sat down one booted foot caressed the right pedal, while his fingers slid over the keyboard, playing a few chords to get a feeling for the instrument.
The last remaining guests fell silent, stretching their necks to see what was happening, but for once Landa was oblivious to his surroundings. From where he was sitting he couldn’t see Hellstrom’s hands; most of his body was hidden by the piano, but Landa got a good look at Hellstrom’s face, as calm and controlled as ever.
For a minute there was silence, hands simply resting on the keyboard, and there was something almost reverent about Hellstrom’s expression, close to that of a worshipper in church.
The first notes were played in the finest, gentlest pianissimo, but the Bösendorfer carried them to the last corner of the quiet room. Landa’s eyebrows rose in surprise - the Appassionata, Beethoven’s 23rd piano sonata, one of the greatest and, as the name suggests, most passionate in the work of a composer known for his passion. Not the music he would have expected from Hellstrom.
The first bars were enough to make him realise that he had underestimated his young colleague, once again. He wasn’t surprised by Hellstrom’s flawless technique, by the effortless elegance of his trills - Hellstrom was a perfectionist in everything he did. But what did surprise him was the depth of emotion behind every note, the gentle care in every movement, precise, but never mechanical.
Landa had always preferred Mozart to Beethoven; he was more a man for light-hearted playfulness than for Beethoven’s dark, sometimes over-emotional fire. But it would take a deaf man not to be drawn into this music, the quiet beginning followed by thunderous chords, the constant change in volume and tempo that was so typical for Beethoven, but which sounded different in every single one of his sonatas.
Landa’s eyes closed soon enough and he let the music flow over him, imagining Hellstrom’s fingers flying over the ivory. He knew enough about music to realise that Hellstrom had mastered a skill that many amateur pianists lacked - they tried to play on the piano, while a good musician played with it, talked with it, touched it like he would touch a lover, attentive to every answering sound, moved by the beauty he created and yet always in complete concentration.
The first movement ended in rapid sixteenth notes, which slowly died down, disappearing in the same whispered pianissimo of the beginning. Landa smiled in anticipation of the next movement, and when one of the other officers started to clap, Landa shot him such a threatening glare that the man turned pale and stopped immediately. Landa looked back to the piano, afraid that Hellstrom would be insulted by the interruption and stop.
Seconds passed in complete silence, drawing out into half a minute before the first chords of the second movement reached Landa’s ears. Landa had heard so many boring renditions of this movement that looked so easy, so simple that it took not technique, but feeling to master it.
And as surprised as Landa had been to hear so much passion in Hellstrom’s earlier play, he was even more astonished to hear the light, thoughtful gentleness he put into the second movement, never rushing, taking his time for every note, savouring each chord like a romantic poet would savour his tears. Each repetition was a joy to hear, graced with the tiniest variations that Landa could hardly pinpoint, and yet he simply felt that they were there.
No pause between the second and the third movement, the Andante giving way almost seamlessly to the beginning of the Allegro, which was still deceptively calm, gradually building up to the infernal finale, again and again interrupted by moments of quiet. Landa’s eyes had opened for a split second to look into Hellstrom’s face, still concentrated, but by now twisted in something that almost looked like pain, no trace of the relaxation one saw on the faces of some pianists, but rather the tenseness of someone who put his whole soul into every single note.
Landa realised that, for once, what he heard would tell him so much more than what he saw, and his eyes fell shut again. If there was but half as much feeling in Hellstrom’s heart as in his music - and there had to be - he was indeed nothing like Landa had imagined. And it did not take light, loving feelings to play Beethoven like this, but anger, desperation, pain, a constant yearning for the unreachable.
Landa’s hands, already tense the whole time, grabbed the edge of the table almost convulsively when the tempo picked up. He had once heard a pianist say that the finale of the Appassionata had to sound like the pianist had lost control over his own play - not over the precise notes, of course, but over the feelings he conveyed.
Hellstrom’s rendition was not the most perfect he had ever heard, the technical difficulties being a challenge even for a skilled amateur, but the strength behind it was a joy to hear. The final fortissimo, a last smashing thunder before the room fell back into a silence that was almost eerie now.
Hellstrom’s hands slowly left the keyboard, shivering with tenseness. One of the officers, after a quick glance at Landa, started to applaud, and soon the others and the waiters joined in. The sound seemed to yank Hellstrom out of his dream-like state, and his eyes were wide when they met Landa’s again. Landa could see a sheen of sweat on the pale forehead, feverish almost, while usually hard eyes were alive with fire. One hand rose, fingers running through somehow slightly dishevelled hair.
The clapping hardly reached Landa’s ears, as if a layer of wadding separated him from the rest of the world. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he was sure he could hear Hellstrom’s slightly accelerated breathing. The younger man looked dishevelled, sweaty, passionate. The expression on his face resembled the one Landa had fantasised about for weeks. He chided himself for the blunt, vulgar thought, but Hellstrom looked simply well fucked.
His musings were interrupted when Hellstrom stood up. The clicking of his boot heels in the gradually abating applause brought Landa back to reality. He looked up at Hellstrom when the major reached him, forcing a smile on his face. The compliments he had wanted to pay him, though, stuck in his throat when Hellstrom patted him on the shoulder, a short touch before his hands went for his cigarettes.
“Shall we leave?” he asked before Landa could say a single word. Landa easily picked up that Hellstrom’s voice sounded a bit deeper, richer than usual. It was as if his ears had been sensitised by the music the way his skin would be by a spanking. Preferably a spanking delivered by these long fingers.
Their eyes met again, and Landa swallowed hard when he saw the knowing look in Hellstrom’s eyes. He tried to reassure himself - pretending to know what other people were thinking was a necessary bluff in Hellstrom’s line of work; there was no way that Hellstrom knew about Landa’s thoughts.
Hellstrom only chuckled a little, a sound that had always excited Landa a little bit too much for his own good. The chuckle turned into a mute grin when he lit a cigarette, and even the clicking of the lighter made Landa shiver, simply because it was a sound he immediately associated with Hellstrom.
Landa nodded in a belated reply to his colleague’s question. He rose slowly, glimpsing once more at the Bösendorfer. He knew it was pathetic, but he felt a wave of envy towards something that had been worshiped and caressed by Hellstrom’s hands for half an hour. It was more than he could ever hope for.
ON TO PART THREE
Author:
linndechir Fandom: Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Hellstrom/Landa
Rating: PG
Warning: top!Hellstrom, sub!Landa, music geekery
Words: 1572
Author’s note: This isn’t really Landa/Hellstrom, it’s Beethoven/Hellstrom with Landa watching. Metaphorically, of course. Warning for shameless music geekery. I couldn’t decide which Beethoven sonata I’d let Hellstrom play; I went for the Appassionata because it’s maybe the one people are most likely to know. If you don’t, listen to it RIGHT NOW. And to all his other piano sonatas. FYI, Bösendorfer is a piano manufacturer, or rather THE piano manufacturer. ;)
Links to part one, part three, part four, part five.
2) HEAR
Even Paris came to silence sometimes. It was long past midnight, and the expensive restaurant was almost empty, with the exception of a few lingering guests, most of them German officers who had a free day coming up, often accompanied by young French women. The conversations were muted and calm, the waiters had hardly anything to do and would have closed if they had dared to tell the officers to leave. It was pleasantly quiet, but not too silent. The pianist who had provided the background music for the evening had already left an hour ago, but the grand piano - a glorious Bösendorfer, directly imported from Vienna - was not yet to be deserted.
Hans Landa had spent half of the evening listening to Hellstrom’s comments on the pianist’s play - his technique, his interpretation, his choice of music … Landa had known that Hellstrom, like many sons of wealthy bourgeois families, had learnt to play the piano in his childhood, but he hadn’t expected him to be still so well-versed and interested in the subject. More in joke Landa had suggested that Hellstrom should just play himself if he had so much to criticise about the pianist, and the major had agreed. Jokingly, Landa had thought.
But now, just as another officer left with his girl, and the quiet in the huge restaurant was about to become oppressing, Hellstrom suddenly seemed to remember his plans, got up from the table and walked over to the piano.
Long hands touched the instrument almost lovingly when he opened it. After he had sat down one booted foot caressed the right pedal, while his fingers slid over the keyboard, playing a few chords to get a feeling for the instrument.
The last remaining guests fell silent, stretching their necks to see what was happening, but for once Landa was oblivious to his surroundings. From where he was sitting he couldn’t see Hellstrom’s hands; most of his body was hidden by the piano, but Landa got a good look at Hellstrom’s face, as calm and controlled as ever.
For a minute there was silence, hands simply resting on the keyboard, and there was something almost reverent about Hellstrom’s expression, close to that of a worshipper in church.
The first notes were played in the finest, gentlest pianissimo, but the Bösendorfer carried them to the last corner of the quiet room. Landa’s eyebrows rose in surprise - the Appassionata, Beethoven’s 23rd piano sonata, one of the greatest and, as the name suggests, most passionate in the work of a composer known for his passion. Not the music he would have expected from Hellstrom.
The first bars were enough to make him realise that he had underestimated his young colleague, once again. He wasn’t surprised by Hellstrom’s flawless technique, by the effortless elegance of his trills - Hellstrom was a perfectionist in everything he did. But what did surprise him was the depth of emotion behind every note, the gentle care in every movement, precise, but never mechanical.
Landa had always preferred Mozart to Beethoven; he was more a man for light-hearted playfulness than for Beethoven’s dark, sometimes over-emotional fire. But it would take a deaf man not to be drawn into this music, the quiet beginning followed by thunderous chords, the constant change in volume and tempo that was so typical for Beethoven, but which sounded different in every single one of his sonatas.
Landa’s eyes closed soon enough and he let the music flow over him, imagining Hellstrom’s fingers flying over the ivory. He knew enough about music to realise that Hellstrom had mastered a skill that many amateur pianists lacked - they tried to play on the piano, while a good musician played with it, talked with it, touched it like he would touch a lover, attentive to every answering sound, moved by the beauty he created and yet always in complete concentration.
The first movement ended in rapid sixteenth notes, which slowly died down, disappearing in the same whispered pianissimo of the beginning. Landa smiled in anticipation of the next movement, and when one of the other officers started to clap, Landa shot him such a threatening glare that the man turned pale and stopped immediately. Landa looked back to the piano, afraid that Hellstrom would be insulted by the interruption and stop.
Seconds passed in complete silence, drawing out into half a minute before the first chords of the second movement reached Landa’s ears. Landa had heard so many boring renditions of this movement that looked so easy, so simple that it took not technique, but feeling to master it.
And as surprised as Landa had been to hear so much passion in Hellstrom’s earlier play, he was even more astonished to hear the light, thoughtful gentleness he put into the second movement, never rushing, taking his time for every note, savouring each chord like a romantic poet would savour his tears. Each repetition was a joy to hear, graced with the tiniest variations that Landa could hardly pinpoint, and yet he simply felt that they were there.
No pause between the second and the third movement, the Andante giving way almost seamlessly to the beginning of the Allegro, which was still deceptively calm, gradually building up to the infernal finale, again and again interrupted by moments of quiet. Landa’s eyes had opened for a split second to look into Hellstrom’s face, still concentrated, but by now twisted in something that almost looked like pain, no trace of the relaxation one saw on the faces of some pianists, but rather the tenseness of someone who put his whole soul into every single note.
Landa realised that, for once, what he heard would tell him so much more than what he saw, and his eyes fell shut again. If there was but half as much feeling in Hellstrom’s heart as in his music - and there had to be - he was indeed nothing like Landa had imagined. And it did not take light, loving feelings to play Beethoven like this, but anger, desperation, pain, a constant yearning for the unreachable.
Landa’s hands, already tense the whole time, grabbed the edge of the table almost convulsively when the tempo picked up. He had once heard a pianist say that the finale of the Appassionata had to sound like the pianist had lost control over his own play - not over the precise notes, of course, but over the feelings he conveyed.
Hellstrom’s rendition was not the most perfect he had ever heard, the technical difficulties being a challenge even for a skilled amateur, but the strength behind it was a joy to hear. The final fortissimo, a last smashing thunder before the room fell back into a silence that was almost eerie now.
Hellstrom’s hands slowly left the keyboard, shivering with tenseness. One of the officers, after a quick glance at Landa, started to applaud, and soon the others and the waiters joined in. The sound seemed to yank Hellstrom out of his dream-like state, and his eyes were wide when they met Landa’s again. Landa could see a sheen of sweat on the pale forehead, feverish almost, while usually hard eyes were alive with fire. One hand rose, fingers running through somehow slightly dishevelled hair.
The clapping hardly reached Landa’s ears, as if a layer of wadding separated him from the rest of the world. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he was sure he could hear Hellstrom’s slightly accelerated breathing. The younger man looked dishevelled, sweaty, passionate. The expression on his face resembled the one Landa had fantasised about for weeks. He chided himself for the blunt, vulgar thought, but Hellstrom looked simply well fucked.
His musings were interrupted when Hellstrom stood up. The clicking of his boot heels in the gradually abating applause brought Landa back to reality. He looked up at Hellstrom when the major reached him, forcing a smile on his face. The compliments he had wanted to pay him, though, stuck in his throat when Hellstrom patted him on the shoulder, a short touch before his hands went for his cigarettes.
“Shall we leave?” he asked before Landa could say a single word. Landa easily picked up that Hellstrom’s voice sounded a bit deeper, richer than usual. It was as if his ears had been sensitised by the music the way his skin would be by a spanking. Preferably a spanking delivered by these long fingers.
Their eyes met again, and Landa swallowed hard when he saw the knowing look in Hellstrom’s eyes. He tried to reassure himself - pretending to know what other people were thinking was a necessary bluff in Hellstrom’s line of work; there was no way that Hellstrom knew about Landa’s thoughts.
Hellstrom only chuckled a little, a sound that had always excited Landa a little bit too much for his own good. The chuckle turned into a mute grin when he lit a cigarette, and even the clicking of the lighter made Landa shiver, simply because it was a sound he immediately associated with Hellstrom.
Landa nodded in a belated reply to his colleague’s question. He rose slowly, glimpsing once more at the Bösendorfer. He knew it was pathetic, but he felt a wave of envy towards something that had been worshiped and caressed by Hellstrom’s hands for half an hour. It was more than he could ever hope for.
ON TO PART THREE
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no subject
Date: 2009-11-09 05:53 am (UTC)I love that he looks well fucked from playing. That's awesome. Sight was lovely, but this is really a piece of art, very passionate like the music, and a very interesting and unique idea for a fic.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-09 06:08 am (UTC)Anyway. Thank you so much for commenting. :) I was afraid this was way too geeky to be liked by anyone but myself. I simply couldn't resist the idea of Hellstrom playing the piano, and after a friend made me realise that this is really Beethoven/Hellstrom, I just had to write the "well fucked"-line. ;) Thanks again. ^^
no subject
Date: 2009-11-10 07:07 am (UTC)...I suppose someone could write Aldo/ukelele. :D
I absolutely love how the tables have turned compared to La Musica della Parole: it's very interesting seeing the same power dynamics in the opposite situation. Considering the choice of the Appassionata, Hellstrom seems to want the inevitable situation as much as Landa. Is this an illusion designed to trap his prey, or is top!Hellstrom as sexually repressed as sub!Hellstrom, or does he just enjoy the mindfuckery?
no subject
Date: 2009-11-10 09:33 am (UTC)(also, historical slash? Nariel showed the entry to me, and now I'm converted to Himmler/Heydrich. See what you've done! Worse, I read up a little on Heydrich, and now I ship Heydrich/Schellenberg. The really bad thing? I don't find Heydrich even remotely attractive.)
Ever since I started writing Landa/Hellstrom I've been wanting to turn the tables. A friend of mine said that, while sub!Hellstrom is fun, we did fall in love with Major Creeper. And I think reversing the power dynamics in their relationship works very well.
I do think Hellstrom enjoys the mindfuckery. I also think that he wants this just as much as Landa, not because he's really repressed, but because a gay Gestapo officer certainly doesn't get laid all that often. And he probably just likes the Appassionata.
To be honest, my choice was less motivated by the question "which sonata would he most likely play?" than by the hope that readers might know the Appassionata, rather than any other of Beethoven's sonatas. And since I've played it myself, I am quite familiar with it. As an alternative I considered the 32rd, but I wasn't sure if that wasn't too difficult even for Hellstrom. ;)
Thanks for reviewing! :D
no subject
Date: 2009-11-10 12:06 pm (UTC)Ahahaha, see what a little bit of manipulation can do? ;) I should read more about Schellenberg: all the high-ranking SS officers were so bizarre that they are interesting even without reading all sorts of subtext into their actions. I don't find Heydrich attractive - frankly I can't see what all those women were drooling over - but there are elements of him that I find attractive on other people (for example, the awesome fingers, or the height). Unfortunately there is THE GIANT NOSE that dominates his appearance and everything else just comes along for the ride.
Now that I think about it, it's ironic that Hellstrom is so often the subservient person in a pairing, when the scene in which he shines is one where he is so wonderfully manipulative. Perhaps a definite power dynamic is just incompatible with a pairing like Hellstrom/Landa because they would constantly be trying to turn the tables on each other.
I would definitely say that the Mondschein Sonata (no. 14/op.27.2) is the most widely known (at least the first movement) but at the same time that introduces a feeling of annoyance (Not that one again!) whereas the Appassionata is relatively well-known but not a cliche. The 32nd is utterly schizophrenic in its difficulty curve, so it isn't as believable.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-10 12:25 pm (UTC)It's easy to manipulate me into more slash. And Heydrich has beautiful hands? I didn't notice ... pictures? (You might have noticed in this fic that I have a huge hand kink. ;)) But attractive or not, Heydrich/Schellenberg is weirdly intriguing. Although I stick to 17 Moments of Spring and say that Schellenberg is Stierlitz'. Although I'm actually a hopeless Stierlitz/Hellstrom shipper. ;)
I think the "problem" is that Hellstrom is usually shipped with Landa. Well, usually is a big word, it's not like many people write about him. And with Landa, the obvious power dynamic would be Landa having power over Hellstrom. Which is a pity, because it's not all that difficult to think of scenarios in which Hellstrom gets the better of Landa. You're right, the power dynamic would keep shifting with these two characters, but depending on the scenario one of them can still be in an easier position than the other.
Of course, but I really didn't want to use the Mondschein. ;) Although I absolutely love the 3rd movement. The 32rd is one of my favourites, but I'm not sure it's as fitting for Hellstrom. And, again, it's extremely difficult to play for an amateur. I guess I was just lazy when I chose the Appassionata - otherwise I would have spent hours and hours brooding over this, because I love pretty much every one of Beethoven's piano sonatas.
Part of me wants Landa to play the cello ... Beethoven's sonatas for piano and cello are among the most beautiful things ever written. *sigh* Why is my music geekery invading this fandom? oO
no subject
Date: 2009-11-11 08:56 pm (UTC)With Landa on the cello, Heydrich on the violin and Hellstrom playing the piano, we'll soon have enough SS officers for a slashy chamber orchestra. (No baton jokes!)
no subject
Date: 2009-11-11 09:33 pm (UTC)Haha, true. Heydrich played the violin? Cute. I still prefer a nice Landa/Hellstrom duo, though. (For some reason Schellenberg just started playing the flute in my head ... wtf brain?)
no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 07:40 am (UTC)Such a beautiful piece. I'm excited to read the next one. ;)
no subject
Date: 2010-07-17 11:09 pm (UTC)