[Christmas parties for the British forces in New York were, as a rule, quite lavish. None so more as the ones thrown by General Howe, which flowed with wine, food, and as many beautiful women and handsome young soldiers as the General could find. There was singing, there was dancing, and there was ... ahem, all manners of decadent behavior. Passions ran as deeply as the cups.
In the midst of this was the Golden Boy, Howe's favorite son, Jonathan Andre. Lieutenant, back from imprisonment and loaded down with fully memorized battle lines of the Rebels. His information brought British victories, up and down the coast, and he was hailed as a rising star. So the party goers all sought his attention, and he gave it to them. Bright and bold, charming and subtle. Not a one realized he paid them no more than a few moments of his time, before moving on again.
It was useful, to have such an image. Even more useful, to gather as much information as possible. Information was, after all, the foundation of true power...
Besides, the wine was delightful, the food excellent, and the music ... well. Andre had yet to make it to the pianist, but after a particularly fine air, he turned towards the piano and said in what he hoped was the direction of the artist at the keys.] Sir, you play like one of the great pianists of our age. Praytell, are you Mozart in a British uniform?
[ After dinner, after a few drinks, Richard found himself nearly strapped to the instrument. While he finds no fault in drunkenness, with limits and especially on such rare occasions, he does not like to partake in such action himself. The piano is an excellent distraction.
No, young man, he will not be playing a song quite that profane. He will, however, play something in line with the Christmas spirit for them to sing along. The charming voice distracts him. Thankfully, he has memorized this enough to not need the music. A wide - by default - and sincere smile is given in return. ]
You flatter me. ... And have discovered the truth, Lieutenant Andre.
[ Of course he knows who this is. There are few with such rank that do not. The lack of wig but with one long thin braid makes him unmistakable. ]
[John's eyebrows lift together, before a smile slips over his expression. Anyone who can return his jests without a nervous laugh is worthy of his full attention. He slides over to the pianoforte, smiling charmingly at the young soldier there who was just in the midst of arguing with the ... major? Yes, Major.
The young soldier flushed and stuttered. Jonathan asked him to fetch them all some punch, like a good lad. And now, he had the pianist all to himself.]
Well, you have the better of me, Major Mozart. It appears I have only heard of you by reputation, while you know me on sight.
[ And he means that sincerely, his friendly smile staying. ]
Richard Hewlett.
[ He introduces himself, looking slightly bashful? Possibly dreading the inevitable teasing? It's another reason why he's kept himself to the piano. No more snide remarks about gunpowder. The official report might have blamed the rebels, but. He could hardly lie. ]
A reputation is such a dangerous thing. When it is good, then you are lauded -- but it can turn on you in a second.
[He offered and easy smile in turn, before tipping a respectful salute.] Soon to be Captain, I have heard. Perhaps after that Major. I hope to be your peer soon...
[That charming smile did not falter, but the curiosity in his blue eyes flickered on.]
Yes, the man who held off the rebel invaders with only moment's notice, and a small garrison. Quite the feat, that.
[He leaned on the piano, waving it off.]
I would much rather watch those hands in their natural element. You truly have the gift, Hewlett. I only ... dabble.
[ Hm... Quite the flatterer... Hewlett may have to watch him. Although, part of him does enjoy the compliments, the attention. Part of him will always be quite vain. Still, he is no fool. Not entirely. ]
As do I, Mister Andre.
[ As one song ends, he shifts into another. This one much more light so that he might better hear his companion. That is one his vanity cannot ignore. He truly does bashfully smile. ]
Then you must have a keen ear. Shall I play you a request?
[ There were a few things that gave Yuri Plisetsky a strange, almost sick sense of pleasure. Watching someone - someone who wasn't part of his own family cluster - touch down on the ice coming out of a jump. The smell of gasoline. Dragging the toepick of his skate over the ice moments after the zamboni rumbles off the surface of the rink. And the echo of the ballet studio when it was empty. Something about hearing the thud of his own feet against the mirror-polished floor, seeing his reflection in the seemingly endless mirrors. It was like standing in the center of the ice, when the crowd had fallen silent in anticipation of watching his program, but less. Less intrusive, less like the world was waiting for him to make a mistake.
Always pleased to be presented with the opportunity to pratice more, to better himself, Yuri dropped his backpack onto the floor and shed his jacket, leaving it in a heap on the floor as any teenager would do. Long, slightly lanky limbs were stretched and joints were rotated as he crossed the shiny floor to the sterio system piled on a spindly legged table in the corner. Upon inspection, he discovered that the usual practice music was missing, and in its place was a CD simply labled 'Мила 3'. One of Mila's mixes, no doubt. Making a sharp sound of annoyance, Yuri shoved the CD tray closed and hit play, moving back toward the middle of the room. He had only taken a few steps when sound screeched from the speakers, practically vibrating Yuri's brain inside his skull. ]
What the hell is this crap?!
[ Not like the music he typically danced to. Not like the music Otabek sent him. Not like anything he knew at all. But there was still something to it. Something that spread a strange little smirk across his face, and caused him to tug the elastic from his hair before launching into some strange hybrid of classical ballet, modern dance, and even some of the disturbing gyrations that he'd seen Yuuri wiggle through at that infamous banquet a year ago.
Kinda fun, actually, even if the music itself sounded like the sounds Potya made when he stepped on her tail. ]
[ His life had become more than skating with Yuuri around. He had life and love and so much happiness without records and gold medals. But. He did still love the ice. The competition. Surprising everyone. Work had to be done, so off to the ice he went. Unsurprisingly, there was already music going. Surely it would be Yurio this early in the morning.
That's when it hit him. He knew that tune. He could have sang that song in his sleep - albiet in very accented English. Who on earth was practicing this early in the morning?! Did his Yuuri somehow beat him here--
Victor stared, nearly dropping his bag at the sight. Stared for a long while, then, a smirk. Would he noticed? Oh, he hoped not. He was getting ready for the ice right the HELL now. Time to show this child how it was done. ]
[ If there's one thing Yuri is good at (though let's be real, there are many many good things that Yuri is good at, and the world knows it!) it's getting out of own head while practising. Competitions were another thing entirely; it was much harder to block out the thunderous sound of his own thoughts and self-depreciation. But when it was just him, and the music, and the repetitive movements? That was when he could block everything else out and just move. Train his body to do what it needed. Apparently, dancing alone mere moments after the sun had come up could do the same, without the repetition part.
He has no idea how long he has been dancing for; someone last night must have set the CD player to repeat the same song on loop, so there's no changing of tracks to indicate that any longer than three and a half minutes have passed. Yuri's eyes are closed because there is nobody here to tell him to watch his footwork, to look at his poor form in the mirror, to berate him into watching his mistakes reflected over and over. He's just dancing, thinking of that night in the club in Barcelona, before he had been kicked literally to the curb. As such, he notices nothing around him. Just the feel of the music vibrating the floorboards beneath him. ]
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hermann gottlieb • pacific rim
tendo choi • pacific rim
aziraphale • good omens
crowley • good omens
dr. leonard "bones" mccoy • star trek tos
spock • star trek tos
major richard hewlett • turn
New York - December 1776
In the midst of this was the Golden Boy, Howe's favorite son, Jonathan Andre. Lieutenant, back from imprisonment and loaded down with fully memorized battle lines of the Rebels. His information brought British victories, up and down the coast, and he was hailed as a rising star. So the party goers all sought his attention, and he gave it to them. Bright and bold, charming and subtle. Not a one realized he paid them no more than a few moments of his time, before moving on again.
It was useful, to have such an image. Even more useful, to gather as much information as possible. Information was, after all, the foundation of true power...
Besides, the wine was delightful, the food excellent, and the music ... well. Andre had yet to make it to the pianist, but after a particularly fine air, he turned towards the piano and said in what he hoped was the direction of the artist at the keys.] Sir, you play like one of the great pianists of our age. Praytell, are you Mozart in a British uniform?
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No, young man, he will not be playing a song quite that profane. He will, however, play something in line with the Christmas spirit for them to sing along. The charming voice distracts him. Thankfully, he has memorized this enough to not need the music. A wide - by default - and sincere smile is given in return. ]
You flatter me. ... And have discovered the truth, Lieutenant Andre.
[ Of course he knows who this is. There are few with such rank that do not. The lack of wig but with one long thin braid makes him unmistakable. ]
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The young soldier flushed and stuttered. Jonathan asked him to fetch them all some punch, like a good lad. And now, he had the pianist all to himself.]
Well, you have the better of me, Major Mozart. It appears I have only heard of you by reputation, while you know me on sight.
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[ And he means that sincerely, his friendly smile staying. ]
Richard Hewlett.
[ He introduces himself, looking slightly bashful? Possibly dreading the inevitable teasing? It's another reason why he's kept himself to the piano. No more snide remarks about gunpowder. The official report might have blamed the rebels, but. He could hardly lie. ]
Do forgive me for not shaking your hand.
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[He offered and easy smile in turn, before tipping a respectful salute.] Soon to be Captain, I have heard. Perhaps after that Major. I hope to be your peer soon...
[That charming smile did not falter, but the curiosity in his blue eyes flickered on.]
Yes, the man who held off the rebel invaders with only moment's notice, and a small garrison. Quite the feat, that.
[He leaned on the piano, waving it off.]
I would much rather watch those hands in their natural element. You truly have the gift, Hewlett. I only ... dabble.
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As do I, Mister Andre.
[ As one song ends, he shifts into another. This one much more light so that he might better hear his companion. That is one his vanity cannot ignore. He truly does bashfully smile. ]
Then you must have a keen ear. Shall I play you a request?
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seriously do you know how hard it is to find a carol that is definitively written before the 1800's?
that's why i was fudgin' it. i had enough fun the last time they sang together
Frigging seriously
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jack skellington • nightmare before christmas
ＴＨＥ ＢＡＴＴＥＲ • off
gimli • lotr
schmendrick • the last unicorn
Poe Dameron • Star Wars: TFA
Victor Nikiforov • YOI • OTA
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Always pleased to be presented with the opportunity to pratice more, to better himself, Yuri dropped his backpack onto the floor and shed his jacket, leaving it in a heap on the floor as any teenager would do. Long, slightly lanky limbs were stretched and joints were rotated as he crossed the shiny floor to the sterio system piled on a spindly legged table in the corner. Upon inspection, he discovered that the usual practice music was missing, and in its place was a CD simply labled 'Мила 3'. One of Mila's mixes, no doubt. Making a sharp sound of annoyance, Yuri shoved the CD tray closed and hit play, moving back toward the middle of the room. He had only taken a few steps when sound screeched from the speakers, practically vibrating Yuri's brain inside his skull. ]
What the hell is this crap?!
[ Not like the music he typically danced to. Not like the music Otabek sent him. Not like anything he knew at all. But there was still something to it. Something that spread a strange little smirk across his face, and caused him to tug the elastic from his hair before launching into some strange hybrid of classical ballet, modern dance, and even some of the disturbing gyrations that he'd seen Yuuri wiggle through at that infamous banquet a year ago.
Kinda fun, actually, even if the music itself sounded like the sounds Potya made when he stepped on her tail. ]
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Surprising everyone. Work had to be done, so off to the ice he went. Unsurprisingly, there was already music going. Surely it would be Yurio this early in the morning.
That's when it hit him. He knew that tune. He could have sang that song in his sleep - albiet in very accented English. Who on earth was practicing this early in the morning?! Did his Yuuri somehow beat him here--
Victor stared, nearly dropping his bag at the sight. Stared for a long while, then, a smirk. Would he noticed? Oh, he hoped not. He was getting ready for the ice right the HELL now. Time to show this child how it was done. ]
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Apparently, dancing alone mere moments after the sun had come up could do the same, without the repetition part.
He has no idea how long he has been dancing for; someone last night must have set the CD player to repeat the same song on loop, so there's no changing of tracks to indicate that any longer than three and a half minutes have passed. Yuri's eyes are closed because there is nobody here to tell him to watch his footwork, to look at his poor form in the mirror, to berate him into watching his mistakes reflected over and over. He's just dancing, thinking of that night in the club in Barcelona, before he had been kicked literally to the curb. As such, he notices nothing around him. Just the feel of the music vibrating the floorboards beneath him. ]
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Aren't you young to be making moves like that?
[ Which, of course he wasn't. Given a different set of circumstances, he would have probably said the exact opposite. ]
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