Pianos are Made for Falling.pdf

P IANOS ARE M ADE FOR F ALLING

Summary: Inspired by Nodame Cantabile. Arthur is a world class violinist, trapped in

Sydney, Australia, by his fear of flying. In the wake of a mediocre concert, vicious critics

and with barely a month to go before his next (hopefully reputation-saving) recital,

Arthur is almost at breaking point. When his accompanist, Morgana, breaks her wrist in a

car accident, Arthur is more or less doomed. And the story begins, when the Maestro at

the conservatoire, Gaius Stresemann, recommends his protege Merlin Emrys to step in.

Merlin, who plays by ear, as he pleases and really just wants to be a kindergarten teacher.

Well. The story really starts six months previously when Arthur passes out drunk outside

Merlin's shoe-box apartment.

Don't play what's there, play what's not there.

- Miles Davis

:i:

ONE

:i:

Outskirts of Sydney, Australia. 6 months ago.

There was a man sleeping on Merlin's doorstep.

Merlin hefted a heavy bag of confectionary and ginger-nuit biscuits more securely in his

arms before crouching down for a better look. His knees protested with a creaky-sound as

be crouched down, stiff from the cold late night dash to the groceries. He really just

wanted to get back into his flat, back to his little space heater and back to his piano. But

this man was in the way.

He looked to be about the same age as Merlin, had hair that glowed gold in the spluttering

lamplight. He had pulled his tie low – they were evil things which Merlin had banned

from life in general. His top buttons were undone, revealing a stretch of skin. He had a

starch white shirt on, which he wore beneath a soft and warm-looking jersey.

The man was half lying on the concrete steps. His back was bent so that his chin rested on

his chest and it nodded slightly as he breathed. Despite the faint whiff of the alcohol that

probably knocked him out, Merlin thought this man was the third most beautiful thing he

had ever seen (the first being his piano and the second being Liszt whom Merlin would

marry in an instant had he not been dead and a ladies' man). It wouldn't do to leave him

out here.

Merlin poked him carefully with one gloved finger. Well, actually, it was his actual finger

doing the poking, as the black wool of his gloves was so worn through they had holes.

Even so, the man's cheek was cool to the touch, despite dark overcoat he wore. Merlin

poked him some more. No reaction.

Huffing, Merlin put his bag of rations by the doorway and tried to lift the man by

hooking both hands beneath his arms, dragging limp legs along the steps. His shoes

bumped rhythmically as Merlin heaved him up the hoped there wouldn't be too many

bruises as he pulled his cargo along by the shoulders towards the lift on the first floor.

Thankfully, the lift was working today, or Aesthetically Pleasing was going to be very

unhappy when he woke up.

"You're really heavy, y'know," he said to the unconscious body. Merlin hit the up button

for the lift with his fist, putting the man to the ground to retrieve his bag. There was a

metallic rattle before the doors of the small lift dinged open and Merlin proceeded to haul

the man inside, the candy and biscuits riding on his chest. It was a bit of a mission trying

to get the man's (long!) legs to fit inside the small lift before the doors chomped down on

them. But Merlin managed with the skill of someone who had been in these situations

before and had to save cups of tea from being crushed by falling piano lids.

Merlin pushed the button for the top floor and leant against the wall of the lift with a sigh

as it began its rattling journey upwards. A green digital clock above the door told Merlin

that it was just a little past midnight. Once the orange flashing numbers finally settled on

12, the doors opened. Merlin grabbed the man by the armpits and proceeded to drag him

out into the narrow corridor.

There weren't many apartments in Merlin's block of flats, and there were only two doors

on the top floor, one reading 36 and one reading 3. The number 7 had long since fallen off

and Merlin was too lazy to bother replacing it. Instead, he had drawn a little quaver note

drawn beside the brass "3" in black sharpie. From the other side of the door came a series

of high-pitched chirps.

Merlin smiled to himself as he fumbled for the keys in his coat pocket. He stuffed the

right one into the keyhole clumsily and turned it back and forth several times before it

clicked and the door swung open. Merlin turned back to the man and pulled him inside by

one arm, his bag of candy still balanced on his chest. Kicking the door shut behind them,

Merlin dragged the heavy body into the middle of the room, where a mattress lay buried

beneath a veritable nest of blankets, clothes and stuffed animals.

"It's because I'm nice," said Merlin, a little out of breath from all the dragging, "And

you're aesthetically pleasing."

Taking the bag of confectionary, Merlin put it on the table by the bathroom door for

safekeeping. He took off the man's coat and shoes, then he arranged him under some

blankets. Aesthetically Pleasing didn't wake up. Merlin wondered just how drunk he was

and whether he should be doing something like calling 911 and arranging a stomach pump.

That made him panic because maybe he should have rung 911, like, ten minutes ago. But

then Amazingly Beautiful snuffled in his sleep, and Merlin forgot what he was thinking

about.

A few minutes passed before Merlin realised he was simply staring at the man sleeping.

Behind him, Mozart gave a disapproving sort of chirrup. Merlin pulled himself away,

standing with a stretch and a yawn.

"I know. I know," he said to the budgie, "That was creepy. But I couldn't very well leave

him outside, could I?"

The bird squawked. Beside Mozart, Wolfgang woke up from all the noise, yawned a tiny

birdy yawn and pecked Mozart vindictively. More squawking.

"Look what you've done," Merlin scolded, "Now he'll never shut up."

Mozart flapped his wings indignantly, and Merlin sighed. His pets had just as irregular

sleeping patterns as their owner, due to his late nights, late mornings and compulsive

piano playing. Filling a glass of water from the tap in the bathroom, Merlin methodically

downed his daily dose of vitamins. The bottles stared back at him from their row on the

bathroom shelf, marked words he couldn't quite pronounce. He was meant to take these in

the morning. But Merlin often forgot. He winced at the taste, and set the empty glass by

the sink. He closed the bathroom door with a soft snick, and opening a bag of fruit gummy

bears, Merlin took the packet with him to the piano. Merlin shifted a pile of papers from

the piano stool and sat down with a happy noise, facing the keyboard and open packet of

sweets. Glancing over at Aesthetically Pleasing, who was now drooling on Merlin's pillow,

Merlin took off his gloves and placed his hands on the keys.

Mozart said something rude in budgie-English.

Merlin began to play.

:i:

Arthur woke from a nightmare, wherein he had been abducted and forced to listen to

Beethoven being butchered, phrasing and sustained notes chopped into pieces in front of

him. Then his father chased him off the stage with a fruit knife, after the disaster that was

last night's concert.

…

Arthur sat bolt upright, eyes flying open. The sight that greeted him made him wonder if

he was actually awake or trapped in another nightmare. A very messy nightmare.

He had no idea where he was.

For one, Arthur couldn't see the floor. There was… stuff, piled over every inch of space,

with a narrow winding path to the front door and to what Arthur presumed was the

bathroom. Large, fluffy, multi-coloured animals were arranged along one wall, and Arthur

rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand, trying to focus. Where was he? Arthur wondered

just how drunk he had been last night, to wipe out any memory of the girl he obviously

went home with. Giving himself a cursory once-over, Arthur noted that all his clothes

were still on, his shoes sitting neatly at the end of the…nest he was lying in, and his jacket

folded beside his head. He turned around, and came face to face with a white-felt unicorn.

Arthur didn't leap backwards.

His head hurt.

"What in the world…?"

Arthur threw back the blankets (it was colorfully checkered with bears in the squares).

Then he scrambled off the springy mattress, pulling on his jacket as he went. Maybe he

could leave before the girl came back and things got awkward. Or something. Trying to

stuff his feet into his dress shoes, Arthur tripped over something on the floor, failed to

find anything to grab onto and landed hard on his backside.

He swore.

Loudly.

Something chattered back at him, and Arthur looked up to see a birdcage near the window.

Two brightly coloured birds, one blue and one yellow, were sitting inside it. The blue one

puffed out its chest feathers, swung back and forth on its swing in a manic kind of way.

Arthur stared. Not only did this girl live in a hovel, she also kept crazy birds. Figures.

"….shu'up, Mozzie," came a drowsy voice and Arthur spun around.

At first, he couldn't see who had spoken, eyes skirting over the pile of laundry over

flowing in a basket, a bag of food on a side table and books piled in little forts along the

walls. Then what Arthur had thought to be a curtain moved and a shock of dark hair

appeared over the edge of – Oh! That's what it was- the piano. And this was definitely not

a girl. Blue eyes blinked owlishly above cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and the first

thing Arthur said was:

"Your ears!"

Magnificent Ears rubbed his eyes and yawned so widely Arthur could see all the way to

the back of this throat.

"Good morning to you too," he said, pushing his stool back. There was a dark red line on

his face where he had fallen asleep on the keyboard, and Arthur could slowly make out the

outline of a grand piano, buried beneath all sorts of junk and soft toys and candy wrappers.

A bag of half eaten lollies rested on the lid right now.

The budgies chattered animatedly in the background. Arthur edged slowly towards the

door.

Magnificent Ears gave him a smile that caught Arthur off guard. It was wide, genuine and

a little idiotic and confirmed Arthur's first impression of a mad hermit. A young mad

hermit. A young mad hermit who apparently played the piano and whose bed Arthur slept

in.

Right.

"Do you need painkillers?" asked Magnificent Ears as he picked his way clumsily across

the room, "I've got some aspirin, if you think that would help. You were pretty drunk last

night. I think you were drunk anyway… you're not a druggie, are you?"

By the time he had finished talking, Arthur was already gone.

:i:

"…and then he just ran away!" Merlin finished, dropping his face into his hands. Will gave

him a sympathetic thump on the shoulder.

"Well," said Merlin's best friend, "You're kinda scary looking when you just wake up.

Maybe it was a bit of a shock."

"Thanks," said Merlin, dryly.

"You're not going to start pining are you?" asked Will, narrowing his eyes. At Merlin's

forlorn expression, he rolled them.

"No," said Merlin, "I don't pine. "

"I think that says otherwise," said Will and pointed at the half-made, Arthur plushie in

Merlin's hands. Merlin ignored him and went back to sewing.

Darling Point, Sydney, Australia. Present day.

Afternoon sun streamed into the studio from the skylights on the ceiling, warm and

golden. The studio itself was open and spacious, white walls and lacquered wood floor

panels. In one corner of the room stood a polished black piano, a music stand, a shelf sunk

into the walls full of music and CDs. There was a coat slung over the back of a chair, and

a glass jug of orange juice on side table. The place smelt of rosin and wood.

A framed picture of a woman sitting at a piano, blond and smiling, stood on a glass shelf.

It was the only photograph in the room.

Arthur turned the page on his music stand, chewing his bottom lip in frustration. He held

his violin and bow in one hand, the other tapping out a complicated rhythm on the edge of

the stand. He glared at the offending passage on the page, its semi-quavers and harmonics

mocking him with their stems and rough tone. It sounded horrendous; Arthur had the

urge to stab something.

There was less than a month until his concert, and he was still wrestling with this. He

could recall the words of the critic, see the black type on the white page, taunting him:

without flair…dry… and … technical ability not compensating for the butchering of Brahms. It made

something inside Arthur's gut shrivel with indignation and hurt – though not as much as

the expression on his father's face.

The doorbell rang.

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