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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. ^^