#debussy

[sanjaangie]

Erik Satie

[kalista-101]

‧₊˚♪ HOMESICK 𝄞₊˚⊹

michael jackson x pianist reader

summary: based on this post by @jeahamkrle. after three years of not seeing his childhood best friend, michael can’t resist attending her solo piano performance, where old but precious memories surface.

content: angst (but hopeful ending and pt 2 coming soon bc I refuse to leave michael sad).

word count: 1k+

a/n: I really recommend reading this with lang lang’s rendition of claude debussy’s rêverie (oneshot begins halfway through this) and clair de lune. ALSOOO this was meant to be wayyyy longer, but as I was writing it just felt right to end it there- their story’s not over yet hehe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~✦•๑⋅⋯₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹⋯⋅๑•✦ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Michael’s POV ♫ ༘⋆

The concert hall was filled with hundreds of people.

But you'd never be able to tell.

The audience were hushed, silent in appreciation for the delicate melody being played: Rêverie. I recognised it instantly.

A piece I listened to more times than I cared to count, but this time was different. More intimate.

Because of who was playing.

Before I even saw her, my heart swelled, because I heard her.

And that was just as impactful.

There was something so distinct about the way Y/n played the piano, as if uncovering her soul and allowing the music to flow through. It evoked something so visceral, it felt tangible when echoing in the cool air.

Tonight was a smaller audience than she was used to as one of the world's most famous concert pianists, but whether it was in front of several thousands or by herself, Y/n touched each note with all her emotion.

Mindlessly, I drifted nearer to the stage for her to come into view. As if needing to be closer to the sound, the feeling: her.

Over the years I always checked in on her, read the glowing reviews of her latest sold-out performances, traced over the photos printed from the night, but nothing compared to seeing her myself. With the angelic spotlight casting over her, and against her features that I had memorised in extraordinary detail over the years. A vision.

The piece came to a close, commencing the applause and cheers, soft from being calmed by the music.

I couldn't help but smile. This was exactly the life she'd always dreamed of: quiet fame. The classical world respected privacy.

It didn't demand, but appreciated.

I understood this was why my lifestyle wasn't compatible for her.

And yet the ache of her rejection still stung the same.

On her tall stage, I detected the sudden searching in her expression. As if she somehow knew I was here.

Then, our eyes met for the first time in three years. I could've fallen to my knees in that moment.

After surprised passed her, her already-joyful expression melted into something deeper. Heartfelt.

We shared so many unspoken words between us through the eye-contact alone.

It was deep and meaningful; like finally coming home. And I hadn't realised just how homesick I was.

A microphone was handed to Y/n, causing her to tear her eyes- so magnetic- away from mine. I missed the interaction already.

“Thank you all so much for coming here tonight,” she spoke softly -the sound melting through me like warm honey- as smooth as the melodies she played. “Now I'd like to dedicate this last piece to someone in the audience.”

That was her tradition; she always dedicated her last piece to someone.

To her artist manager in her last performance, to her fans the one before, her mother, anyone who had ever felt alone, our childhood piano teacher.

The one closest to her heart.

That one was a mystery I spent countless nights attempting to unravel. The jealousy shouldn't have hit me the way it did.

But it really did. Relentlessly.

“To my very best friend since childhood. I won't say your name, but you know where you are,” her smile became tender, as my heart ached with the weight of our past shared between us.

She was the only one who didn't throw my name around ostentatiously, as if it proved everything.

It was almost ironic how the one thing I appreciated most would ultimately drive her away: how she didn't care for the glory or status. Only for me.

But I guess fate was twisted at times.

“This couldn't be a more fitting piece, as it's one I believe holds a very dear place for both of us and runs deep in our history together.”

I knew which piece she referred to with more certainty than anything. A reminder of how intwined we were.

“So, I hope everyone enjoys, and...” her eyes drifted back to mine, as my brows tightened with pure emotion. “Know this is for you.”

A few people seated in the audience looked to me briefly, stood near the edge of the stage in a formal black suit- casual compared to the glamorous outfits for tours- but no one stared for too long. It was nice. Simply curiosity, but respectful.

Then, she began playing.

My breathing caught in my throat, the memories surfacing into warm sensations that burned.

Clair de Lune.

The piece she played all those years ago when I first met her: it was after a particularly rough day. I couldn't remember exactly what happened, only that I thought I was alone, and so let the threatening tears finally fall freely in the auditorium.

But I wasn't alone.

Because suddenly there was a faint pleasantness in the distance.

A melody.

Claire de Lune.

I didn't know the name at the time, but that one moment of confusion and curiosity was enough to pull me out of my mind and the looming, overwhelming pressure. My breathing steadied and, as if my body acted of its own volition, I sought out the source of whoever could create such tranquility.

I remembered how my heart had skipped a beat when I saw her face for the first time. As lovely as the melody; as if she was composed of music and embodied its grace and elegance.

I remember how such a sorrowful piece was imbued with wonder and reverie.

Now, she the same music coursed through her with something deeper: nostalgia. Dreaminess. Like the present was an illusion and we would soon wake to find ourselves back in the past. Back together to what we could have been. Maybe that was just hopeful thinking.

Did she even realise how much of an impact she had on me that day? And every day after?

Flashes of our childhood to teenage years passed through my recollection, during the slow whispering chimes of the piano, just after the build up. The tune now seemed like a lament.

My clutch on the flowers I held tightened. Her favourite, and like a lifeline anchoring me. I couldn’t forget anything about her even if I had tried.

I just prayed whoever held her heart understood just how precious it was; more valuable than anything in the world.

Before I was even prepared, the melody came to a close, forcing silence to hang in the air, as the crowd processed the wavering emotions felt throughout the performance, many crying from how touched they were.

Then all at once, the applause erupted. Roses were thrown onto the stage, cheers were constant and never ending.

But, where Y/n would usually smile and acknowledge everyone in attendance, she instead lost herself in the moment, gazing at the piano keys.

It clearly took a lot out of her mentally.

Exhaustion felt from the sheer emotion experienced.

Finally, her eyes lifted and she wiped away a tear, the loud applause shifting to a standing ovation.

Her gaze treacherously turned to me, like second nature, and it was as if our souls connected. I could pinpoint all the feelings that swirled conflicted within her: bittersweet nostalgia, relief from finally finding home again, but most of all- vulnerability.

She had communicated more through her performance than words could ever hope to achieve. Except perhaps three dangerous and endlessly significant words, that I once said to her.

And for either of us, there was no taking it back after.

The vestige of hope that I thought had lost its tenacity burgeoned to life. That was frightening.

I knew she wanted nothing to do with my life. It would only be a burden for her. And she deserved so much more.

And so, as the lights faded, harshly cutting Y/n from view, I held onto whatever was left of myself. Going against every fibre of my being that desperately yearned to return home, I forced myself to turn away. To stay homesick for a little while longer.

Because if there was one thing she had taught me: some words were better left unsaid.

꧁ ༺ ❀ ༻ ꧂

taglist: @daemontargaryenwhore +yourself

“Wait-”

Her voice. But not its usual silk softness. Pleading.

I halted, fighting every instinct I had to not give in.

“Aren’t you going to give me my flowers?”

[suigenerisstuff]

The Sirens (1892), John Longstaff / The Siren (c. 1900), John Waterhouse

One more for the series.

Visit Original Link

[kaylmao]

i need more classical music mutuals. if u like listening to/playing classical music hi let's be frands ..!

[masonyin]

50 composers

[balletbrainrot]

ANTIQUE EPIGRAPHS by Jerome Robbins

Ruby Lister, Ava Sautter, Miriam Miller, Mira Nadon, & Isabella LaFreniere

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📷 Erin Baiano

[florenloren]

How many hours can one sit practicing debussy when one has an A level exam to sit the next morning?

a.) None! Should be revising

b.) maybe 1, rests are important!

c.) 24, this is a practice day. Do not say the word A level around me

[rotor25]

Claude Debussy et Erik Satie