Loz (lozenger8) wrote,

  • Mood:
  • Music:

O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound...

Title: If music be the food of love...
Rating: G
Fandom: due South
Character: Benton
Word Count: 300 words (tiny... and I'm sure you're all starting to notice and get impressed that I manage to write stories which are rounded to the nearest hundred or fifty)
Notes: The first line came to me, and somehow the whole small story built up around it. It doesn't have to be due South fan fiction. It could stand on its own quite happily. But when I wrote it, when I imagined it, it was Benton - before Chicago, before any Ray, even before Victoria. I, by the way, have a favourite song. It's "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen. Oh, and the title is of course the first line to Twelfth Night, also a favourite of mine.

You see, when it comes down to it, love is like your favourite song. You never get sick of it. If you think about it, it makes you smile. If it emerges some place, you feel like you're home. But not everyone has a favourite song.

The dappled beams swept softly into the room from the ornate leadlight window. There was red, orange, green and muted blue. And low notes from the piano reverberated from wall to wall. Fingers on keys were warm and supple. Mind on music was creative and free. Improvising, he played with deft precision.

He liked to play as the sun was setting, the house being positioned the way it was. This created the right ambiance for the melodies which spoke to him more frequently than most. Low notes punctuated by passion. This song had no words, but others did, and when they did he sang along. He played, he sang, and he felt. He felt something.

Eyes which concentrated on the piano keys were not sorrowful. Nor were they joyous. A flicker of loneliness, a flicker of humour, little splashes of this, that and the other. Most of all, eyes which concentrated on the piano keys seemed to represent a gateway to a world of experiences both good and bad.

There was no current need for thick jumpers or long cotton underclothes or any such nonsense. Yet the sun was setting and soon there would be, even if it did take a very long time for the sun to set. He cared not, played on. Note after note expressing thoughts and opinions he could not share anywhere but an empty room. He played all manner of things, sometimes mournful, sometimes jovial. Adapting each piece to suit his needs.

He did not have a favourite song.
Tags: due south, writing

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