Chapter Text
The piano is old, its wood weathered. The keys are clean and cold to the touch, still gentle and giving after decades of service, and the pedals have never felt any stiffer than they felt the very first time Alec used them. It’s a quality instrument and a reliable partner; it’s here, in the small living room, when Alec closes the door behind him. Silent, inviting, it waits under a sheet during the day, fondly protected from the harsh sunlight. It was probably worth thousands and thousands once; now that time has done its work, it’s nothing more than an old piano. It still carries golden letters with pride, the way an old man would carry medals and ribbons reminding him of the feats of his younger days. Alec polishes them regularly but they’ve still lost their shine over the years, subtly. Pushed flush against a wall, the small upright piano compliments a simple room; the warm brown of its robe reveals refined nuances when rays of light hit the mahogany. Solid, unmovable, the instrument is a constant, an anchor.
Alec can’t have a dog in this tiny apartment so he loves his piano instead.
He’d like to have a ball of fur welcoming him home after work, jumping to lick his face, dancing around him in unbridled celebration. The landlord said no though, but he didn’t say anything about music. At first, Alec was worried – what if one of his neighbors complained? Not everyone likes piano music after all, even though it’s not too hard on the ears if played well. With almost two decades of practice at the tip of his fingers, Alec’s never been afraid to be mistaken for an apprentice. Still, nothing and no one can stop old ladies who’ve decided they can’t stand the melody of an intricate sonata. Luckily, after half a year of playing almost every day, Alec still hasn’t received any passive-aggressive letter, which, in itself, is a compliment.
In the heat of July, when the alarm clock rings at 7 every morning, there is little better to do after 8 pm than to put a pillow on the worn bench, sit comfortably and open the fall board to reveal the keys. Alec loves this moment, always has. He still remembers – approximately – the first time he did it with this particular piano; undressing the keyboard after all these years is still oddly exciting, as if something else than plain black and white keys could hide under the lid. He finds a note, then another, slow. They’re the same every day. Alec likes this kind of routine, it’s like self-care. A trusted pillow on the bench, a full stomach and a couple of notes to wake his piano up; now he’s ready to go.
He has tons of music sheets. The large majority of them are stored in the small cabinet next to the piano, carefully organized by author. The oldest ones come from his grandmother; some of their pages are turning yellow but the ink is still here. She had a thing for Chopin and his Nocturnes but now that Alec can play whatever he wants – and god knows it took him a long time after moving out to realize no one would be watching over his shoulder anymore, these sheets are sadly neglected. Chopin can be too depressing at times.
The pieces he plays most often accumulate on his music desk, along with the pieces he should play. He often tells himself that he should look into Vladigerov’s third concerto or re-learn how to play Godowsky’s Java Suite. He never does. It’s always the same thing. This sheet looks cool, this piece would sound nice but oh here is Bortkiewicz’s Elegie, for the hundredth time, and nothing else matters anymore.
The window on his right is slightly open to let some air in. It would be inhumane to leave everything closed, even at this time of the day. Behind the glass, New York hums gently. From here, Alec doesn’t have the best view but it’s not too bad either. Lights from other apartments blink from a distance as people come in and out. Alec watches a group rush to cross the avenue below. The crowd dances back and forth between both sides of the street, as always. It’s pretty, their waltz.
Alec plays when it’s too silent. He plays when he has a hard time putting words on something but someone has already put notes on it. He plays when it’s too loud. He plays when he’s tired, when he’s not tired, when he doesn’t know what he wants. Alec plays and the piano sings, and things are okay. He plays and thinking becomes irrelevant; there is only feeling, barely remembering. His fingers know some pieces by heart, all he has to do is sit and listen to himself. Alec likes a challenge; he tries to learn new pieces on a regular basis and he trains until late at night. It’s easier if he thinks of himself as a sponge, soaking into what someone wrote decades and decades before he was born.
He gives up at times. Some sheets are just not for him.
Satie’s Première Gymnopédie is for him. The composer himself described it as “slow and painful” but Alec doesn’t feel it that way. It is slow, but it’s also gentle and tender, softly paced and moving. It’s more of a rainy day kind of piece.
Good thing it’s raining on New York. Summer has its outburst, its short showers before midnight. Alec likes it. Satie would like it too.
It’s still raining when Alec moves on. Respighi’s P. 22.4 comes to him next; bouncy, light and happy, the tune carries him away like an overexcited pony would. Maybe with too much zeal, Alec continues with the floating pieces – Chaminade’s Themes and Variations keeps him busy for a little while longer. Every time he plays it, the tune ends up stuck in his head for the next couple of days – he never minded. It’s such a beautiful piece, different in style and tone from all others, Alec would gratefully listen to it every day.
When he pushes the last notes into the keyboard, his window is almost dry again. New York is still purring, at peace. Alec stretches his wrists out of habit and plays with his fingers for an instant, getting lost in the view of the city. Piano music fits her so well.
Someone knocks on the door, twice. Alec almost jumps out of his skin, startled; his heart bangs against his ribcage for a second. He gets out of his trance quickly, perplexed. He isn’t expecting anyone and as far as he remembers, he hasn’t ordered food. No one even asked him to open the door of the building for him, so it must be a neighbor.
Alec stands up with a sigh and walks to his front door. Here comes the old lady. Things were going too well, it was too good to be true. Someone had to complain. Fine. He’ll go and face her, and apologize like the kind neighbor he is. It’s not even 9 pm though. Why must old people be like this?
He doesn’t even both to put his best “nice to see you, friendly person” face before opening the door – if someone bothers him in his own home, they will have to take him as he is. Part of him is glad to see that no old lady is waiting for him on the other side; most of him, however, is puzzled to see that no one is waiting. At all.
The corridor is empty. All the other doors are closed. Alec is confused.
Maybe it’s kids? There are a couple of them downstairs. But they’ve never done things like that. Maybe someone made a mistake and was looking for another apartment? But then wh –
There’s a note on the doorstep.
Alec bends over, picks it up and closes the door. It’s a thin piece of paper coming from some kind of notepad. Something is handwritten on it; the ink is a deep purple (really? who writes in purple ink?) and the words flow with grace despite having obviously been written in a rush. The letters are inclined, in cursive, elegant. Even more pleasing to the eyes, instead of a complaint, Alec reads a love letter.
“A humble request to the pianist: Liebesträume no 3 in A flat.”
A request. Someone heard him and when they could have ignored him or asked him to stop, they want more. They want more. A wild shiver runs down Alec’s back. He has an audience.
He goes back to his living room and opens his windows wide. The entirety of New York could listen to him for all he cares. There is one person out there, in his own apartment building, who wants to hear some Liszt and good god they’re about to hear some Liszt.
When Alec sits back down on his pillow, it’s with a purpose. He knows this one by heart but just in case, he puts the sheet in front of him and starts playing. First, the poetry. Second, the emotion. Then the strength, and the force, and the feathers on the keys. Alec soaks, soaks more then bursts and channels; there’s a story to be read through the notes and someone, listening out there, must be familiar with it. Turmoil drove the composer and must drown the pianist too in order to make this piece justice. Alec tries his best and hopes, as much as he can while playing such a song, that he’s doing it well enough.
The coda comes faster than he thought it would. Silence falls back on the keys; Alec can hear himself breathe. Liszt was a good one. New York is buzzing indifferently, as per usual – there is no crowd to cheer for Alec under his window.
A few stories higher, someone claps loudly. It’s clear and enthusiastic – the most honest thanks Alec has received in a while. One of his neighbors has left their window open just to listen to him play and now they’re probably leaning against their window frame, only audience member of this private concert. Alec looks through the window, basking in gratitude. It feels good to be appreciated.
The clapping stops after twenty long seconds but even by paying attention, Alec can’t hear a window closing. Whoever has this fluid handwriting and this frankly ridiculous purple ink is still listening to him. Their note is sitting on top of the piano; Alec reaches for it and reads it again. A humble request to the pianist.
If they like Liebesträume no 3, they’ll like Consolations no 2.
So Alec plays again, with heart and feeling. He plays again and the piano follows, loyal. He plays for someone other than himself for once, just for tonight, and New York lets him.
When his neighbor claps again, it’s with the same energy and love than the first time. Humbled, Alec waits patiently for the hands to still; they do, eventually. The silence has changed, now tainted with the color of Liszt’s works. It would be criminal to break its beauty, selfish to disturb the ether the small piano brought down to earth. Alec puts the fall board down, hiding the keys.
It’s enough for tonight.
Alec has too much on his mind, so he plays.
It’s 9 pm; he’s about to sit on his small bench but after a second thought, he decides to open his living room’s windows wide first. Just in case. There’s no way to know if someone is listening, but maybe there is, and maybe they’d like to hear more. If they don’t, they can still leave a note to complain after all. Alec will be waiting for it right here, next to the window. The skies are clear tonight; some stars manage to outshine the obnoxious city lights. He’s had this view for years but it’s still just as pretty.
Alec sits, opens the lid, plays one note, then another. He’s ready.
Slowly, one by one, notes unfurl from the paper and the piano sings. Debussy’s Rêverie is hazy, silk to the ears; it should be played with satin gloves, listened to while relaxing in a luxurious bubble bath or lying on expensive velvet. It transports and soothes – Alec needs it. The small piano delivers kindly, carries Alec away for four minutes, four minutes only. Then it’s over.
Alec exhales, at peace. It doesn’t last long; something rattles under his front door and his breath hiccups.
He doesn’t move, trying to understand what exactly is going on. From here, he can see a piece of paper being slipped under the door – it’s light and it flies over a meter or so. After it settles on the floor of the flat’s entrance, everything is silent once again.
Alec thinks he knows what this is.
Genuinely curious, he stands up and goes to take the thin piece of paper. The ink has barely dried but it’s not smudged; the deep purple varies in intensity along the words, it builds up in the curves and lightens in the lines, watery. Alec is no expert in deciphering people’s handwriting – his own handwriting is pretty bad – but he knows enthusiasm when he sees it. It’s there, in plain sight, badly disguised by the grace of the pen, just like it was yesterday.
“A humble request to the pianist: Vogel als Prophet.”
Ah, Schumann. A classic, truly. Alec smiles; he likes this one. Going back to the piano, he leaves the fresh note with the other one, right on top of the instrument, then sits back down.
And he plays.
From where he sits, the moon is the only obvious attendee to his modest performance. Yet, when he is done, it’s not the moon who claps for him. Warmth floods Alec’s chest at the sound of his neighbor’s thanks. It’s so nice of them.
Because he was in a mood for Debussy before the note arrived, Alec keeps his windows open and starts the Clair de Lune. It may not be what his neighbor likes the most, but he likes it himself. This one is for the both of them; Alec knows that whoever they are, they also see the moon tonight, and Debussy’s hymn to this pretty lady is most fitting. Alec takes his time, stretching the piece to extremes before its climax. Debussy’s innate talent to tie softness and magnificence together gleams from the Clair de Lune. Love is blooming somewhere on Earth.
Two stories higher, a wine glass in hand, Magnus Bane decides he should go on his balcony more often.
In the back of a closet, Alec finds an empty plastic folder. It’s perfect. The pieces of paper that appeared on his doorstep these last couple of days will fit nicely in it. He keeps the folder next to his piano, in the cabinet holding all his music sheets. A craving in his starts to build up in his stomach; this folder would look good full of notes.
Knowing that someone could be listening to him every time he plays is quite unnerving. For all he knows, they could’ve been listening to him since he moved in. Alec liked thinking he was the only one really hearing the piano, but it’s apparently not the case. Oh, well. If it’s only one other person, it’s not that bad. Still, he gets a bit self-conscious about what he has to offer. He’s not a professional pianist, far from it, even though he has lots of experience.
Some of his keys are slightly out of tune and Alec doesn’t know what to do about it. He regularly re-tunes his little piano but the instrument is old and tired. For now, it’s not too much of a bother – and it’s not like Alec had Piano Money to replace his brave partner, but he knows that one day will come the piano won’t sound good anymore. Hopefully it won’t happen any time soon. It’d be a shame.
At 9 pm sharp, Alec opens his windows, sits down and unveils his piano. He stays there for an instant, trying to hear anything that would hint at a window being opened somewhere above his head, but nothing happens. With a light shrug, he picks a sheet he hasn’t played in a long time. It’s different than what he’s used to play, and the piece itself is prettier if cords are also part of the arrangement, but it has its charm. Eyes on the measures, Alec thoroughly starts playing Ralph Vaughan William’s Fantasia on a Theme.
The entire piece is a story, starting with slow exploration and curiosity; Alec lets the notes bubble up under his fingers, popping one after the other in quick succession. Gradually, the story builds up over several minutes – fields and oceans expand under the palms of his hands and winds from another land blows around his wrists. Up and down, up and down, the story goes. Alec slows then runs then slows again until the seventh minute, when the piece pulls him in fully once again and ascends in a perfectly crafted apotheosis. He lets it wash over him then goes down, down, gently; his hands land on the keys one last time, satisfied.
The notes don’t echo; silence reigns again.
Alec stands up and stretches his shoulders, groaning. He should practice Fantasia more often, he knows he can do better. Someone who isn’t well acquainted with the piece probably wouldn’t be able to tell though.
Maybe he’ll get another request tonight? He tries not to let it get to his head, but he still hopes he’ll find another notepad page on his doorstep. Playing for someone is refreshing for once; letting another person choose what he should play next feels risky, adventurous – as adventurous as you can get when playing the piano alone in your living room.
When he comes back from the kitchen, a glass of water in hand, the now familiar sound of a piece of paper being slipped under his front door makes him grin. Here it is. Impatiently, Alec fetches the note, pleased to see that his neighbor hasn’t run out of purple ink.
“A humble request to the pianist: Suite of Short Pieces no 6.”
Alec frowns. What? Confused, he flips the paper around, only to see the other side is naked. Which Short Pieces? This doesn’t ring a bell.
Oh nice, now he got this freaking paper he thought about all day but he has no idea what it’s supposed to mean. And it’s not like he can go knock on every door of this apartment building like “hi, yes, excuse me, are you the one who wrote this? Please explain.” He’s still halfway tempted to call for help through the window on the offhand chance that whoever wrote this would be kind enough to answer and elaborate, provided they don’t shrug it off and think of him as an idiot for not knowing.
The cabinet besides his piano is crammed with music sheets; there must be some kind of Short Piece in there; Alec almost runs to it and starts shifting through his folders. The neighbor is quite fond of Schumann but Schumann wrote five Short Pieces, not six. Edward Grieg wrote a bunch of short pieces but he never called them a Suite. Liszt? Has Liszt written a Suite of Short Pieces? Alec suddenly can’t remember. Where is this piece supposed to come from? He kneels on his carpet, pulls a good dozen folders from the cabinet and lays them out on his floor; running a hand through his hair to keep it from falling in front of his eyes, he goes over every name in hope that one of them would elicit a sudden aha moment. If he wasn’t living on the third floor, he could almost feel the weight of someone’s eyes on his back, expecting, waiting for him to deliver. Wait a minute, Alec almost calls out, wait, I need to find it first. Eager to please, he battles his frustration as he pushes his Saint-Saëns folder to the side – where in the world does the Suite of Short Pieces come from?
He’s heard it before. He’s almost sure of it. It’s somewhere in there.
For ten solid minutes, Alec rummages through sheets he hasn’t looked at in months or even years, hoping to find a rare pearl. Handel has a Suite but it’s not what he’s looking for. Bach has tons of Suite material but none of them are called Short. Debussy has a Suite but it’s not even close to having the correct title. What is it? His neighbor is going to lose their patience and close their window; he can’t let this happen! He’s going to find it, he swears, but he has to find it fast. His heart is pounding – is he sweating?
At loss, Alec pushes on his knees and stands back up to grab the sheets he left on his piano. It hits him like a punch to the throat. Ralph Vaughan Williams, who composed the Fantasia, has a Suite of Short Pieces.
Alec jumps back to his cabinet and grabs Williams’ folder. Of course! Of course! His neighbor recognized the Fantasia – by ear, from a distance? Quite impressive – and requested a piece from the same composer. Alec can’t stop himself from smiling. Here it is, the Suite of Short Pieces no 6. The paper is almost new, untouched; Alec maybe has played it a couple of times at most. Pezzo ostinato is its pretty name and it doesn’t look too long.
Hoping his neighbor hasn’t given up on him yet, Alec makes sure the windows are still open wide, puts the sheet in place on his piano and sits back down. Exhaling deeply, he plays the first ten notes or so to get a feeling of the piece; he stops then and turns the pages to read through the music before playing it fully. It doesn’t look like it’s going to be a piece of cake but what’s the worst that could happen?
Alec’s heart is still thrumming; he rubs his hands against his thighs to dry them. And he plays.
His hands hesitate, stutter at times, but he doesn’t let go. The rhythm accelerates pretty early in the piece but there is a clear pattern Alec can fall back on. Music jumps up and down the way a nursery rhyme would and draws waves on the sheets, swift and graceful like a river. Alec misses a note from time to time and picks back up where he can; he knows it’s okay, he’s not familiar with this piece anyway. Eventually the song slows down, almost stops, then kicks up last time with this colorful pattern. Alec follows it until the final note, then breathes out and stops.
He would have anxiously waited for feedback but not two seconds after he stopped playing, someone starts clapping reverently from upstairs. Relief floods Alec; he looks up and lets out a huge breath. It may not be much after all, it’s only a small piece played for a neighbor, but he did well and that’s enough. He can’t bow in front of his public but he wants to show his gratitude anyway.
Magnus wasn’t expecting to hear anything else tonight yet he can’t help but smile when a simple, stripped down version of ABBA’s Thank you for the Music starts playing on the piano of the third floor.
It becomes routine, a habit of the best kind. Pieces of paper, all ripped from the same notepad, start piling up in Alec’s plastic folder. The dark purple ink is always the same, always used with a fountain pen. The first few words, a humble request to the pianist, make Alec giddy. It’s Pavlovian at this point, he can’t help it. Every night at 9, Alec opens his windows no matter the weather and plays something he likes. Minutes later, someone will come down and slip a paper under his door. He thought, once or twice, about opening the door right there and then and see their face, maybe invite them in for coffee; he never does. What they have going on, it’s too precious, it’s too pretty. He doesn’t want to break it in any way, to ruin the spell.
At least twice a day, Alec wonders who this neighbor could be. He doesn’t have a clue. Maybe it’s the middle aged lady living above him, she looks like the type to like piano music. Maybe it’s the trio of friends renting an apartment on the 6th floor; no, no one in their group would have this handwriting. Plus the clapping sounds like it comes from pretty close, maybe from the fifth floor. Is there an old person living on the fifth? Alec would have to look into it. Still, even if he knew which apartment this neighbor lives in, he wouldn’t have a complete name – only last names are written on the mailboxes of the ground floor. It doesn’t really matter anyway.
As the days go by, the neighbor starts requesting obscure pieces. The paper often carries the name of a composer along with a title and more than once, it’s unpronounceable. Alec has to find the music sheet on the internet and print it before playing. He experiments, slowly tries things out, hiccups but always finishes the piece; the neighbor always claps in return.
Alec starts listening to classical music during his commute. He finds podcasts and radio stations that talk about pieces he’s never heard of before. He plays on a ghost piano in the bus, subtly pushing the keys in his thighs. For each new composer the neighbor mentions, Alec downloads as much sheets as possible. He reads them during dinner, sorts them before going to bed and tries a few measures when the windows are closed. On the weekend, he plays in the mornings; New York is still drowsy with sleep when he stops.
Over time, it becomes clearer and clearer that Alec’s neighbor knows what they’re talking about. Their knowledge of piano music is just as impressive as their passion for Alec’s abilities. Every night, without failing, they come down to share something with Alec and he learns from it. Alec can’t see them but he knows how patient they must be to listen to him stumble over the notes. Sometimes, a piece Alec knows by heart comes up; overjoyed, Alec plays it eagerly, pouring everything he has into his instrument. Infallible, the neighbor claps. Always.
Day after day, Alec understands: they’re communicating. At 9 pm, he starts playing and the neighbor replies. There are no words involved other than the ones written in purple ink, a humble request to the pianist, yet they talk just as much as they would face to face. Alec opens his windows and lays his heart out on his keyboard; one night, the notes are heavy and wet, salty even. He has called friends, he has hugged family, but ultimately, it’s his piano that bears his burden. When a piece of paper slips under his door, Alec doesn’t immediately stand to catch it. It’s probably a stupid piece, something too complicated, something meant to distract him or make him feel better. He would understand, he would know where his neighbor would be coming from. God, he must be looking pathetic right now, he must be sounding like a mess. Nothing he plays comes together in the right way, nothing resonates as properly as pure silence. He’s not in the mood. Playing happy gigs for someone is not what he needs right now.
He stills takes the piece of paper from the floor, just in case.
He’s always avoided playing Chopin but tonight, the apocalypse couldn’t stop him from ripping his heart out and playing with his lungs exposed. The paper who carries the name of the Nocturne no 19 has fallen back on the floor by the time he reaches his bench; the letters are round, deliberate, careful. There’s tenderness, empathy even, in the beauty of their curves. He hates that he knows the sheet without looking at it; he’s angry at everything, scared of everything, and centuries ago, Chopin knew it was going to happen. Alec will never tell anyone if he cried or not, he will never tell anyone about any of this anyway; he knows he doesn’t need to, for fate found him and gave him someone to talk to in the most ancient of languages.
Way later that night, Magnus will hear Bach’s Ave Maria being played from a couple of stories below. The wind itself will carry its heartbreaking echo to his balcony and hug him like a thankful friend.
On a Saturday, Alec comes back home late. Very late. His eyes don’t really want to stay open, his hair is greasy and there’s a drip of vodka – gin? Rum? He doesn’t remember – down his shirt. It’s not his doing, Simon lost all fine motor skills sometimes during the night and spilled his shots everywhere. Alec sighs. Simon.
The mirror in the hallway makes Alec look exhausted – which he totally is. He decides it’s not time for bed yet though. Today is the first day he missed his daily 9 pm meeting with the neighbor from upstairs and just for fun, he’d like to see if said neighbor is still up. What will most likely happen is that he will attract an old lady’s rage onto him for playing the piano this late; if it’s the case, he can always play the “I didn’t see the time” card. It’d be a lie, but it would work.
Without ceremony, Alec opens a window, takes the cover off his piano and sits down. How many glasses did he have tonight? Not many, right? He can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. Not many. He can’t have had many. He doesn’t like to drink. Jace may like to watch him drink, Raphael may like to make fun of him when he drinks, but he can’t have had more than two. Or maybe three. Four? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. Not that many anyway.
He should play for the neighbor. Are they awake? Maybe. Does it matter? No. He’s going to play. Mmmh what does the neighbor like? Oh, Liszt. They like Liszt, right? They asked for something from him, the very first time. Yes, Alec remembers now, the Liebesträume no 3. Alec knows the Liebesträume no 3. He can play that.
Turns out, he can’t. Or maybe he can but then it sounds incredibly different from what he remembers. Whatever. Alec plays for half a minute anyway then stops, unable to remember what comes next. Where is the sheet? Not here. Oh, it’s back in the cabinet. Oh no. The cabinet is far away. Well, it’s right there but it’s still far away. So far away. Alec doesn’t want to try, he giggles instead.
Someone else starts playing.
It takes a while for Alec to identify where it comes from, and what it is. It’s not piano, it’s a lot lighter. It enters the room through the open window. Guitar? No. Ukulele? Ukulele. The song is familiar but Alec can’t tell what it is. He leans towards the window, almost falling from his seat, as if it was going to help him hear better. It comes from upstairs.
Oh. The neighbor is awake.
They start playing the song again, from the very beginning. Alec stays there, mouth gaping, trying to remember where he heard this. It has the tone of a carefree afternoon, like good memories. After a few instants, the distance voice of a man joins the ukulele. He sounds happy. Alec likes it. He still needs a moment to recognize the lyrics and of course, he knows! He knows, and to make his neighbor understand, he slaps his keyboard the way he would tap someone’s shoulder to attract their attention. It’s Dream a Little Dream of Me and he could play it with his eyes shut.
The neighbor stops singing but keeps playing, more slowly, from the start of the song. Alec straightens up. His turn.
He starts playing from the beginning and listens to the neighbor carefully align his notes to his tempo. It’s pretty. It’s really pretty, Alec could fall asleep right there and then.
He almost does and loses their pace; the ukulele stops playing. Alec can’t see him but he knows, he knows the neighbor is laughing. He better not be.
They start all over, the neighbor guiding their rhythm this time. He’s not singing. Why is he not singing? Alec liked it when he was singing, he had a pretty voice. Now, Alec can’t sign to save his life but it’s not going to stop him. When they reach the first refrain, Alec breaks into an enthusiastic rendition of Ella Fitzgerald’s song. He’s out of breath after the first line but it doesn’t matter because now the neighbor is singing from his apartment, far away above him. Alec can only hear him badly; it’s okay, it’s perfect like this. To protect his already-busted vocal cords, Alec tones it down and continues singing with less fire. He really has to anyway, he’s going to lose track of his fingers if he doesn’t calm down, and he doesn’t want that. No one wants that.
They both slow down in the second half of the song. Alec doesn’t want it to stop. It’s so nice, like a musical embrace. If the neighbor was here, playing the ukulele by his side, Alec would feel like burying his face in the stranger’s neck and wrapping himself around him. Swaying gently from left to right as he’s playing, he wonders if the neighbor is doing the same.
They’re suddenly interrupted by the grumpy man who lives on the 4th floor, banging against his floor and ceiling with his adored broom. Alec stops and hears the neighbor play the last five notes delicately, subtly inviting the man to fuck off. The neighbor then turns silent, his voice gone, his ukulele mute and the old man stops thumping after a moment. Alec looks through the window, almost expecting a face to appear on the other side. Of course, nothing is here, but it barely matters. He laughs to himself. They should do this more often.
Magnus will fall asleep on his couch, his ukulele resting on his chest, the door to his balcony open on New York snoring in the middle of summer.
Alec doesn’t have to work this Thursday, so he takes the time he has to play for a little while. There is an old friend he hasn’t looked at in a while; Respighi’s Sei pezzi 44: Valse Caressante, of breathtaking beauty, deserves more attention.
In the middle of the piece, as he lets himself be carried away by the poetry written between the lines, a piece of paper slips under his door. Puzzled, Alec stops. It’s 10 am, and his neighbor never writes him notes this early, even when he plays in the morning. Last night, he requested one of Ravel’s pieces of work – a challenging one that Alec had to sweat for. That note is sitting on top of a couple dozens of others in the plastic binder; he’s proud of his performance.
Without a word, Alec gets up to grab the new note. It’s different. The handwriting is sloppy and doesn’t follow the lines on the paper; most importantly, the neighbor used a black ball pen instead of pulling his trusted purple fountain pen from wherever he puts it.
“A vital request to the pianist: 4’33”
Alec’s eyes widen, his mouth torn in incredulity.
Unbelievable.
What an ungrateful man, Alec mutters to himself, after everything I’ve done for him, this is how he thanks me? Cage’s Four Minutes and Thirty-Three Seconds of Silence. This man, this all-knowing, ukulele-playing, mess of a man, requesting four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence at 10 in the morning? What is he, hungover? Did he get out of his bed, scribble the plea on a piece of paper and crawl down all the way to Alec’s doorstep just to let him know that he wasn’t doing justice to Respighi’s composition?
On his way out of the apartment building, the bags under his eyes as dark as his mood, Magnus will find his own note sitting on the entrance mat of his third floor neighbor. His brain drowning in coconut-flavored fog will still recognize a Mozart sonata being played from the other side of the door. He’ll pick up the note from the floor and flip it over only to read a word harshly written with a bright green highlighter.
“no”
“A humble request to the pianist: Liebesträume no 3 in A flat”
Alec smiles to himself. His neighbor must have a personal history with this piece to request it more than once. How has he fallen in love with Liszt’s work like this?
Gracefully, Alec obliges. It’s nice to play, if nothing else, and it’s perfect at night. This single piece of music is so important to his neighbor; what is it? Is it the longing in the pattern, the elegance in the melody? Is it the cadence, the back-and-forth, like a conversation, as if two lovers were sharing everything they had with each other? O Lieb, the original poem was called; the third Liebesträume was the composer’s homage to pure, unconditional love. The feeling is here, it’s everywhere, in every accord, taking its strength from raw poetry. His piano glows when Alec plays and he knows he’s glowing too; each measure a symphony, each pause an applause, the piece is getting to him.
Relationships he never had catch Alec by the throat, heat blooms in his veins. Liszt is talking, his neighbor is feeling, his piano is singing and Alec lets himself unravel, one minute after the other. He understands now, he sees the genius of the composer. He’s always known but now it’s different. From performance to experience, there is only one step and Alec can already see himself take it.
His hands run over the keyboard without him having to think about any of it; maybe he has closed his eyes, he can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. His fingers know the keys, his heart knows the song. If his neighbor was here, Alec would have his own hands over his, would guide him through the bars, the highs and the lows of this masterpiece. Everything is sugar, sunsets and pain under Liszt’s pen; his piece bursts into Alec’s chest, torrents down his back and Alec shivers when he hits the last measure. With a few quiet notes as a goodbye, the piano is silent.
Alec is out of breath.
Leaning against the balcony’s balustrade, sipping on a cocktail, Magnus hasn’t felt this way in a long time.
For a full week at the end of summer, the notes stop coming. At first, it’s worrying. Is the neighbor bored? After all they’ve been sharing music for more than a month now, maybe he’s had enough. Maybe he’s only been humoring Alec all this time. Then Alec remembers his neighbor is probably just on holidays. On top of that, there is no way this classical music enthusiast would pass up free private performances every night.
It’s almost lonely.
By the time Friday comes, Alec already can’t wait for his neighbor to come back. He hasn’t really thought of it before – at least not this much. This routine they have, this daily meeting, it’s the best thing that happened to him these last couple of months. Alec still hasn’t talked about it with any of his friends or colleagues; what would he say? He’s never been good with words and somehow, he’d manage to make this story sound creepy.
He’s still unsure as to who exactly this neighbor might be. Alec knows he’s a man, judging by the sound of his voice, who most likely lives on the fifth floor of the apartment building, plays the ukulele and doesn’t wait for the weekend to get drunk. Alec hasn’t personally met anyone who lives on the fifth. There’s a couple of young adults, he believes, and that’s all he knows.
It’s almost a date, he realizes on Saturday morning. It’s almost a date he looks forward to every day.
He doesn’t mind.
Eventually, Monday comes. At 9 pm, Alec opens his windows, sits down on his small bench, opens the lid protecting his keyboard and plays one note, then another. He’s ready.
Or so he thought. Inspiration doesn’t strike him.
Staring off into the distance, eyes unfocused, Alec tries to think of something he’d like to play. Given his collection, he’d be damned if he can’t find something. With heavy hands, Alec goes through some of the sheets that have accumulated on his piano and none of them really calls his name. This one is too slow, this one is too hard, this one? He played it a couple of days ago. He’s not in the mood for a complex piece. He doesn’t want to play this, or that. He sighs.
Without conviction, he settles for Bach’s Ave Maria. Back when he was a kid, it was his go-to piece when the living room was too silent; his fingers are on autopilot. Methodical, meticulous, Alec aligns each note after the other. He can’t focus on his hands; he’s too busy nervously glancing at his hallway, just in case. It’s Monday after all. If the neighbor truly was on vacation for just a week, like most people do this time of year, then he’d be back by now.
Twice, Alec stops, thinking he heard the characteristic sound of a note passing under his door. His pulse races for an instant until he sees that his floor is naked, that no piece of paper has appeared in his hallway. Disappointment sinks to the bottom of his stomach. Displeased, he starts playing again, slowly and without much emotion. What was he expecting anyway? Chances are his neighbor never left for a week under the tropics and is just tired of hearing him play.
Why is he making such a fuss about it? He shouldn’t expect his poor neighbor to fuel him like this, he should play for himself above all else, it’s not like –
Someone knocks on his door.
Alec turns his head so fast he almost hurts his neck. A mess of notes die on his keyboard without any style. Even from here, he can hear light steps becoming more and more distant; someone is walking away from his apartment. It’s back.
Alec rushes to his front door. Part of him screams, begs for him to open the door right there and then, to catch a glimpse of this stranger who’s been distracting him every night. He doesn’t – oh he doesn’t, but god knows how much he wants it.
When he’s sure no one is in the corridor anymore, Alec opens the door. On his doormat waits a tiny package as well as a note.
A package?
Alec picks everything up and comes back inside, closing the door behind him. A package? They’ve never exchanged gifts before. This one is small and light, perfectly wrapped in some shiny cream-colored paper. Two bows, of different shades of brown, sit on top. The note is, as usual, a thin notepad page. Alec had missed this deep purple. He might buy a fountain pen for himself soon.
“A humble request to the pianist: your favorite.”
Standing in the middle of his living room, Alec wishes he had someone to thank. A name, a face, anything. This guy doesn’t even know him yet here he comes to the door of his apartment, gifts him something and asks him to play his favorite piece. What is it, his birthday? It’s far from being Christmas anyway.
Alec puts the note in his plastic folder (which is starting to feel full by the way), sits at his piano and proceeds to delicately unwraps the box. The paper itself feels expensive so he tries not to tear it. Bit by bit, Alec reveals a white box beautifully decorated with royal blue and rich gold details. In gorgeous letters, a name sits on top; Alec can’t pronounce it but he understands it’s... chocolate? His neighbor got him chocolate? Pushed by curiosity (and it’s his gift after all), Alec opens the box. Inside lay an assortment of sophisticated chocolates, all shaped and decorated in different ways. Some have ribbons, some are covered in a deep color, some look like they’re hiding something inside– and is this actual gold on this one oh my god? The whole thing smells exquisite. Overwhelmed, Alec picks one at random and bites in it. Expecting raw chocolate, Alec receives more than he bargained for; it’s like he bit in a flower made of cacao and praline, delicate and intense at once. It’s probably one of the best chocolates Alec’s ever had, and there are least a couple dozen others in this box.
He definitely doesn’t want to know how much his neighbor paid for this.
More important, he doesn’t want to think of how he’s going to repay him.
“your favorite”
Alec bites his lip and puts the chocolate box aside. His favorite. Does he have a favorite? There are pieces he has grown up and lived years with, but it’s less because they were his favorite and more because they used to fit in his life at the time.
The taste of chocolate lingers in his mouth; he licks his bottom lip to get some more. His favorite? He likes Tchaikovsky a lot but these pieces are not easy to play. Debussy is nice but Alec can’t say he’s his favorite.
Oh, he knows. How could he not think of it?
It’s maybe a temporary favorite, but Bortkiewicz’s Elegie is the piece Alec likes to play the most lately. Without fail, it always carries Alec from one side of the emotional spectrum to another; with force, accuracy, the piece portrays what long-distance love feels like, at least to his ears. Playing it is as good as just listening to it – it’s like flying high up. Icarus of black and white, the pianist must cautiously draw the line between the vitality of passion and the reality of resignation. It’s perfect.
Alec is not scared, he won’t screw this one up; it’s easy to play tonight. Two stories of difference could be considered long-distance after all.
For six minutes, Magnus savors the splendor his neighbor’s controlled fingers bring to life for him. Sitting on his balcony at the end of August, rarely has he felt this lucky. It’s not the champagne, it’s not the gold; it’s the breathtaking grace of the man living on the third floor, embodiment of a muse dead poets have chased for centuries. It’s the innocence in his confidence, it’s the purity in the palm of his hands, it’s the feathers on the wings he carries, on the talent he doesn’t hide. Magnus could listen to him bring poetry to flesh for a lifetime or two.
On Tuesday, his neighbor sounds tired, so Magnus requests a simple Goldberg Variation.
On Wednesday, his neighbor plays for a full hour without stopping so Magnus requests the short and jumpy Maple Leaf Rag, hoping to tire him out and allow him to sleep.
On Thursday, Magnus finds a large plate full of muffins of all sorts on his neighbor’s doormat; chocolate, caramel, blueberry, vanilla – only good stuff. They all look homemade too, all soft and perfectly baked. Still warm for some, they smell absolutely delicious. Magnus can’t believe it. It’s for him. His neighbor made all of this for him. He leaves his note and carefully takes the plate as if he had just found a pirate’s treasure. Of all things he owns, of all the silks and cashmeres he’s touched, nothing is quite as precious as a plate of baked goods prepared with love. Later this night, biting into the muffin version of an apple crumble as Alec delights him with Saint-Saëns’ Swan, Magnus wonders what he did to deserve this seat in heaven.
The small piano is tired. Alec’s ear never fools him. Some keys simply don’t answer the way they should. He sighs; he’s retuned his piano not long ago already. Paying a professional to do this isn’t cheap but he doesn’t have enough time to do it himself. He’d be patient enough, especially when it comes to take care of his beloved instrument. Still, it’s better if he asks someone else to do it for him.
Alec hates this. Seeing this piano decay like this. To be fair, the instrument is an old one, so it has to happen at some point.
He dusts the wood quietly, cleans the keys one by one and polishes the golden letters on the front of the piano. Hopefully he will be able to keep it for a little while longer. He can still play it and an untrained ear would tolerate it; Alec doesn’t. He knows his neighbor wouldn’t.
When night falls on New York, Alec opens his window on the pouring rain. After second thought, he closes it halfway to avoid being flooded. Luckily for him, the wind is blowing the other way, pushing the rain away from his windows. It comes in waves, strong ones, and makes the water crash against the walls of the apartment building. From here, if he closes his eyes, Alec can hear the tide.
He stretches his forearms with a groan then sits down, reveals his keyboard and presses a key, then another.
The second one is off. He winces.
Tentatively, Alec starts playing a Nocturne. It just sounds sad, so he stops.
He should have gotten his piano retuned earlier, he wouldn’t have to feel this bad about it. It’s almost like hurting a pet.
His hands slip off the keyboard. He won’t be playing tonight. Oh well, it’s not too bad, he thinks, rubbing the back of his neck. He can always watch a movie or call Clary so they can hang out at her place.
Barely piercing through the rain, muted by a curtain of wind and water, the heartwarming song of a distant ukulele makes its way to Alec. He squints, as if it was going to help him hear better. No, it’s clearly real. He’s not imagining it. His neighbor is playing the ukulele for him. Has he heard how badly tuned the piano is? Could he recognize a wrong note through the rain? Alec prefers to think it’s only a coincidence but over the course of the last two months, he’s learned to question coincidences.
He stands up to step closer to the window. He can’t tell what the man upstairs is playing, but it’s pretty. The wind steals notes from time to time, leaving him unable to fully hear the whole melody; Alec doesn’t mind. It only gives more depth to the gift he receives, more authenticity to the atmosphere. It has a good rhythm that Alec should be able to recognize if it wasn’t for the weather. For a minute, he stays there, head leaning against the window frame, taking everything in. There is man playing for him. A man who probably knows his piano is out of tune. A man with whom he’s shared everything that went through his heart and soul since mid-July. There is man, up there, he’d be glad to buy a coffee to. He owes him a lot, so much in fact he doesn’t know where to begin. Alec never had to repay people for how they make him feel.
His neighbor makes him feel.
He’ll probably never know if it’s intentional or not, if the man upstairs choses his requests depending on what he hears in Alec’s first piece. Alec’s never met him but everything, in what he does, in what he chooses, shows his thoughtfulness. This neighbor is kind, observant, patient. To Alec, he’s given plenty times and times again. His grace is in the way he writes, in the way he walks; Alec has never had the chance to watch him but he can already guess the perfection of his posture, the feline aura of the man standing. He’s rich for sure, probably decadent and colorful. He likes expensive chocolates, can recognize a piece by ear and writes with purple ink.
Alec wants to know him. He wants to take him out and listen to him talk – such a pretty voice he has! He wants to learn from him and teach him, teach him everything he knows. He wants to sit here, on this couch, so they can play the piano and the ukulele together. He wants to observe, to scan the man who’s been reading through the movements of his hands for months.
The ukulele slows down. Alec can feel himself slowly get out of his trance; without waiting, another song starts.
Alec has an idea.
He puts some shoes on, grabs the key to his flat, and then he’s gone. He knows where to go.
Well, he knows where to start.
Climbing the stairs two steps at a time, he reaches the fifth floor in no time. It’s identical to his floor, with the exception of the numbers on the door. From here, he can hear it better than before.
The ukulele is still singing. Without the rain to muffle it, Alec recognizes Hallelujah. There are no vocals on top, the neighbor is simply playing. It’s enough to guide him. Alec walks down the corridor, passing one door after the other, then stops in front of 5.03. Without a doubt, this is where his neighbor lives. There is no name on the door, nothing special on the doorstep. Only a black doormat with a cat drawn on it. Does he have cats?
Alec doesn’t know what to do. For a second, he thinks of knocking, but quickly decides against it. He doesn’t want to perturb his neighbor when he plays. This version of Hallelujah is something he had never heard before (to be fair, he doesn’t listen to ukulele much) and it’d be a shame to stop it now.
The most important reason why he’d rather just stand there and listen instead of knocking is that he doesn’t know what to say. Their relationship – relationship – is so fragile, so fleeting and rare. He’s never had anything like it and can’t risk to lose it. If the door opens, if they see each other, the spell will be broken. It’s terrifying.
So he stays there.
He stays there; the music is so much prettier from a shorter distance. He didn’t know there could be so many nuances in an ukulele. For once, he’s not the one undressing before the other, he’s not the one having to show his interpretation. There’s joy in this Hallelujah, where Alec wouldn’t expect to find it. From the other side of the door he can almost see able fingers dance over the strings, painting a masterpiece over the wood. Alec has heard this song too many times to count but this time is special because this time it’s for him.
Halfway through the last part of the song, Alec goes back up to his apartment, leaving the ukulele behind him. He finds the tune again, at his window. It was better from up close but it stills sounds good with the rain.
When his neighbor stops playing, Alec is the one to clap from his window. He knows what to do to pay his neighbor back.
The first time it happens, it’s a Tuesday. Magnus goes through some of his old pieces, looking for something he could give to his neighbor later. As usual, around 9 pm, said neighbor starts playing for himself. Magnus smiles; it never gets old. His piano must have been retuned during the day; its sound is clearer, more accurate.
After what sounded like a measure, the neighbor stops. Magnus doesn’t think much of it; he’s apparently starting to play a new piece that even Magnus isn’t familiar with – at least he couldn’t recognize it straight away, so it must be hard. Without losing time, the neighbor starts the same measure again. Up, up, up he goes, then soft. It’s a bit longer than his first try, but he only added two notes. Magnus frowns. Come on, you can do better.
Once again, the music starts from the beginning; up, up, up then soft and flying, elongated. Quickly, the neighbor replays the last five notes or so in quick succession. And it stops. Magnus turns his head to his window. What is happening? Maybe he’s just testing the piano’s tuning. Yeah, it must be it.
Up, up, up then soft and flying, elongated then graceful. What is this piece? Magnus can’t tell. He should know though, it kind of sounds like –
The neighbor stops abruptly, then starts again. Up, up, up then soft and flying, elongated and down then graceful. As he repeats the pattern and replaces a few notes by a few others, it dawns on Magnus that of course he can’t tell which piece it is, of course the piano stutters, for his favorite neighbor is creating.
The next time it happens, it’s a Saturday morning.
It’s a lot longer than Magnus remembers. So fluid, too, and gorgeously written. His neighbor stops regularly and plays one measure or another, trying out different combinations. Magnus bites into a pancake, still in his pajamas. He can tell the window is open two stories below; his neighbor doesn’t mind him listening to a work in progress.
It may be the most honest proof of trust Magnus has received these last few years
When the neighbor takes a break, probably to write down his progress on a clean sheet, Magnus can only hope he’ll start again. He’ll never be bored of this man. Magnus will never be bored of how much he shines and shimmers even when the sun is down, especially when the sun is down.
The small piano sings and sings until noon and Magnus sits in awe, seriously considering what he’d be ready to do to have his neighbor’s music play in the background of his life every day.
Magnus buys two bottles of purple ink. Seeing the color dance inside the glass is mesmerizing when the bottle is full. He was surprised when he finished his first one. He doesn’t use purple ink this much, but after using his trusted fountain pen for months, he desperately needed to recharge.
“A humble request to the pianist,” he writes this night, “Wedding Day at Troldhaugen”
Expecting Grieg’s masterpiece to start playing under his balcony, Magnus is confused when something completely different comes through his open window. He stops what he was doing; for some reason, he can’t think properly. He knows this piece, he does, but what is it? What’s most important is why his neighbor is playing it. He’s sure he wrote Wedding Day.
He could have shrugged it off and listened to the piece; he doesn’t. Instead, Magnus leaves his apartment and walks to the third floor. His neighbor must have left an explanation on his doorstep. The music echoes through the walls and the pipes of the stairs, resonating around him in an eerie symphony.
On the doormat of the apartment 3.03, Magnus finds his own note; on the other side, something is written with a blue pen.
“we’re not quite there yet, are we?”
Magnus can feel his face heat up at the insinuation; he raises an eyebrow and admits to himself he’s at least a bit charmed by the boldness of his neighbor. He may or may not develop a crush right here and now.
It gets worse when he recognizes that one the other side of the door, his flirty neighbor is playing Schubert’s Serenade.
Oh good lord.
Alec’s neighbor starts leaving music sheets from time to time. There are still normal notes, and then there are… other notes. “A humble request to the pianist: this one”.
The sheets that appear under his door are fascinating. Alec had never heard of most of them before and the ones he knew, he never could get his hands on until then. Baffled, Alec thinks of asking where he got all these sheets. Not that the music they carry is rare or exclusive; it’s that some of the sheets themselves are old. Too old. He even has to check the availability of a few, not fully convinced that he has an authentic dated copy of Bartók’s Piano Concerto no 2 from 1932 – it’s so hard he can’t even play it. On a Mozart sheet that has turned yellow over time, the notes are handwritten, the lines aren’t always straight. More exceptional even, a couple of Bach sheets come wisely laminated, a hard layer protecting the fragile paper. One of them carries a signature.
For an instant, Alec panics. He doesn’t want anyone to think he has stolen these sheets from some place. He reassures himself by muttering that they must be copies, they must be fakes. Still, by safety, he puts the sheet back under the door after having played its music (if he could) or copied the contents somewhere. Most of the time, the sheet is back in his apartment by morning.
Alec can feel himself get better at his own art. He doesn’t stumble in any of the pieces he owns now, he doesn’t hesitate or stops. Every night, he plays fully and his heart is at the tip of his fingers. October is stretching to reach its end; Alec has played for his neighbor for almost three months now and he has learned more than he thought he would.
He’s learned about his piano, about what this small beast still has to offer. He’s learned about the music, about all these pieces he had never heard before, never took the time to explore. He sees far now, his horizons broadened. There is an ocean behind all the Lakes and Alec is eager to crash on its shores. He’s learned about himself most of all, about what he can channel when he knows someone is carefully listening to him. Alec wants to impress, to make him proud, he wants to overwhelm and transcend. He knows what his neighbor’s ears like, knows what his heart prefers when it comes to music; so he gives, he tries, he excels at times in a desperate, fervent attempt to give back.
He’s learned about him, the man living upstairs. He’d know the purple handwriting anywhere, the regular clap of his hands, the details he pays most attention to; it’s for Alec, it’s all for him. All his cheers and his celebrations, all his efforts and presents, it’s for Alec. Day after day, a craving buds inside Alec’s chest. He wants more of it.
“A humble request to the pianist: please.”
Tonight, the sheet doesn’t wear a name nor a title. It’s freshly printed and the melody looks simplistic to the extreme. Alec frowns, wondering what his neighbor has in mind; still, he’s curious.
Windows wide open as per usual, he sits at his piano, puts the sheet in front of him and starts playing.
Before finishing the second measure, he recognizes Call Me Maybe.
Alec stares off into the distance, his fingers heavy on the last keys they’ve touched. He could swear a man is laughing upstairs; his voice barely muffled by the distance cuts through the silence.
Magnus finds the sheet he printed the day before on the brown doormat of the 3rd floor. Where a title and a name should be, someone wrote a phone number followed by the letter A.
Magnus can’t breathe. It’s almost literal; his nose is stuffed, his forehead is warm with the fever he’s been battling for the past two days and his body is burdened by more cramps than he ended up with last time he went climbing. He rightfully hates life right now.
Still, without missing a day, he uses the little energy he has to leave a note on his neighbor’s doormat. The music that comes through his window is the only thing that seems to help his battered body fight this flu. With a pinch to the heart, he can’t help but notice that his handwriting is far from looking as good as it usually does. With great effort, he manages to keep it cursive – it looks good and he knows his neighbor likes it.
The first piece tonight, courtesy of the neighbor, is Poulenc’s Phantom Ball. Threading spectral undertones with a serene melody, Poulenc – through the talented pianist – paints rays of light shining through thick smoke. Otherworldly, the song spreads over around Magnus, ethereal voices vibrating above his head, below his feet. In a waltz as old as time, it’s nostalgia that leads the dance, pulling whoever is listening into a smothering embrace; old memories, ageing ghosts, that’s what this piece was carved from. Illnesses come and go, family manors turn to haunted ruins yet the music stays. Magnus wonders what the piece would mean to him if he had been blessed with immortality.
“A humble request to the pianist: Moths”
Not actual moths, of course. Poulenc’s Moths. He hopes he doesn’t have to specify.
One step after the other, Magnus goes down the stairs carefully. He’ll just put his note on the doorstep and go back into bed. After only thirty steps, he already misses his blanket dearly.
By the time he reaches the door 3.03, the Phantom Ball has ended. The last few notes are suspended in the corridor then vanish after a couple of seconds. Magnus exhales and looks down. There’s already a piece of paper on the doormat. He stops in front of the door, puzzled.
Before he bends down to reach for it, something attracts his attention. Staying completely still, Magnus can hear movement behind the door. Light, controlled steps are getting closer. His neighbor is coming towards the entrance of the apartment, deliberately calculating his every move to stay as silent as possible – it doesn’t really work. Even with a banging headache, Magnus can recognize this sneaky way to walk anywhere. His heart starts thrumming in his throat; the door is going to open any second now and Magnus will be standing in front of it, red-faced, deer in headlights. He looks like a mess; a mess! Him! Of all people, him, looking like a mess! It happens maybe once every three years and yet here he is, about to be introduced to his charming neighbor at the worst moment possible.
The door doesn’t open.
The steps come to a halt right behind it and nothing else moves.
He’s waiting. The neighbor is waiting. He’s never done this before. Magnus never heard him actually come forward before the note goes under the door. At best, Magnus can sometimes hear a few steps once he turns around and goes back to his apartment. This is new.
At loss as to what he should do, Magnus takes the piece of paper waiting for him on the doormat. It’s not a piece of paper, as he soon realizes; it’s more than ten music sheets, clean and fresh. Notes dance over the bars, one page after the other. Instead of the name of the composer, Magnus only reads the letter A; instead of a title, he reads a confession.
“Humble nocturne No.1 in A flat major: To The Neighbor with Purple Ink”
On either side of the door, two men hold their breath in unison.
Magnus shakes his head in disbelief. In his hands lies a piece composed entirely from scratch with him in mind, him and him only. He can’t hold back a lopsided smile, reading the title over and over again. Despite his best efforts, he can’t tell what he did to deserve this. No one has ever done something like this for him. He knows too well the devotion and commitment it takes to compose anything, let alone such a massive piece.
Something pulls him towards the door. He’d like to knock and say thanks. Above all else, he’d like to listen. Is it egoistical? Asking someone to play something they have written for you? Magnus doesn’t really care.
He bends his knees and slips the pages under the door carefully. The bundle of sheets is thicker than a single page so he has to put in some work but after a moment, he succeeds; the pages slip halfway to the other side before hitting an obstacle. Magnus inhales sharply and takes his hands off them. He’s 100% sure the music sheets just hit his neighbor’s feet.
Slowly, he watches the sheets being pulled slowly from the other side. They disappear under the door, leaving the doormat clear and Magnus’ hands shaking. A forearm against the door for balance, Magnus stands back up. Hopefully his neighbor understood his request and didn’t take him returning the piece as an affront.
He’s still not sure of what just happened. The Neighbor with Purple Ink. No nickname could ever surpass this one.
After an instant, steps can be heard again from the other side of the door, way less careful than before. They’re getting distant; the neighbor is going back to his piano.
He’s going to play.
He’s going to play a hymn to Magnus and Magnus wouldn’t miss it for all the gold in the world. He considers staying here, in front of the door, and listening to the music through the wood but decides against it. It’s better from the balcony – everything is better from up there, it’s more authentic. It’s like the first time his neighbor played for him; it’s the kind of first time Magnus would be glad to experience over and over.
Forget the flu, forget his heavy legs, forget everything. Magnus rushes to the stairs like a possessed man and prays with all his might that his neighbor has the heart to wait for a few minutes. He hurries through his front door and jogs to his window, wheezing. This is not good for his health but damned be his doctor’s recommendations, damned be everything. He’d gladly take another day to recover if it means he’ll get to be drenched in his neighbor’s idea of him. The quality doesn’t even matter, it’s irrelevant, completely irrelevant; the man downstairs could very well play a succession of the same three notes for ten minutes, Magnus would still stand and sob.
New York is quiet; it’s 9:30 pm, the moon is out. The stars have aligned for Magnus Bane.
Up, up, up then soft and flying, elongated and down then graceful, the modest piano starts singing. Like water under a bridge, measures flow one after the other with delightful fluidity; first a subtle song is born, right in the center of Magnus’ chest, then an ode arises. Gentle and oh so warm, it carries his name and blooms in his heart like a sugar rose. A pattern, finesse itself, builds up and emerges from under the swirls in the tune. Never drowned in it, never lost, the pattern floats and accompanies, perfectly crafted for the piece. One hand marries the other; bold and intense, the music rises and blossoms in Magnus’ throat like a cotton flower. He can’t swallow, he can’t move. The man downstairs is talking to him.
As winds and currents do, the piece transports; gravity is insignificant for Magnus flies with both his feet on the ground. The pattern starts over and Magnus finds love between the layers of feathers; when the song rises again, its brilliance reaches his eyes and moves oceans there. In the lows and the dips, Magnus could swear the earth bends. The weight of these lasts months, the weight of the entirety of him lifts from his shoulders when his neighbor’s left hand carves magic from his piano. The right hand draws a map of the clouds above, or maybe it’s a map of him, a map of what the man downstairs knows of him; poignant and refined, it’s a myth in motion. Magnus doesn’t try to anticipate, he doesn’t try to read ahead for the present is enough, for he can already melt at the sound of the flawless nuances hidden in the rhythm. That’s why when both hands sing in unison, when the tune spirals and explodes again in sublime passion, Magnus gives in to the grandiosity of it.
Masterfully laced with each other, rich poetry blends with raw emotion; there’s devotion in there, Magnus can hear it, there’s love and gratefulness embroidered in piece. So simple yet so majestic, the piece unveils a portrait one measure at a time.
So magnificent, oceans spill over their shores.
Bliss spills across the night as if the sky had been a blank canvas all this time. Effortlessly, the piano sings for a while longer, suspended between dimensions; it pulls and pushes then pulls again, bringing Magnus up over the ether. An entire garden grows in his lungs, he can feel petals vibrate in cadence. The melody lightens and radiates with the gold of pure honey; with both hands at work, Magnus’ neighbor takes him apart and makes him whole again. Magnus lets the pianist mold him, from clay to marble to man.
The neighbor draws some final strokes gently; Magnus wishes he never stopped playing. It ends too soon. The final note disappears into the silence like a drop of water into the sea. New York hasn’t moved, the wind hasn’t picked up but Magnus feels like he’s traveled through time. To know one person on the planet has thought of him for weeks on end and came up with such a breathtaking gift renders Magnus speechless. His own voice would be foreign to him; in fact, everything from a bird’s morning song to his favorite composer’s masterpiece would also sound unfamiliar. Tonight, the Humble nocturne no. 1 is all he can ear and he’d give away his very heart to have the privilege to listen to it again.
Magnus can’t see clearly, he can’t clap loud enough, he can’t breathe. He’d like to say thank you, he really tries, but the words refuse to come all the way to his lips.
Something has awoken in him and he doesn’t want to stop it.
Before going to work, Alec leaves the sheets for the Humble nocturne no. 1: To The Neighbor with Purple Ink on the doormat of the apartment 5.03. On his way out, he briefly wonders what his neighbor felt while listening to his composition.
On the bus, he thinks about learning to play the ukulele.
Twice this morning, Alec considers writing another piece.
By lunch break, he can’t stop wondering if it’s possible to develop feelings for someone you’ve never met.
Magnus keeps the sheet for Call Me Maybe but never texts the phone number scribbled on it. He doesn’t know how to start an actual conversation – he doesn’t really want to.
It’s the hundredth note.
Alec hasn’t properly closed the plastic folder in about a month now. Piling up, the notes haven’t lost any of their beauty. The ink hasn’t faded, the paper still looks just as good; they all carry different memories, each as precious to him as any other.
“A humble request to the pianist: Liebesträume no. 3 in A flat.”
Alec keeps count, it’s the fifth of this kind. He knows he’ll never be able to hear this piece again in his life without thinking of his neighbor. It’s stained now, it’s heavy with the memory of someone he’s never seen in person. Alec tries not to think too much of how heavier he’d like this piece to become. He wouldn’t mind attaching more strings to it.
This note is different though, for there is a “M.” scribbled at the bottom.
Alec raises an eyebrow, grinning to himself. Never has anyone taken so much time to lower their walls and introduce themselves to him, but his neighbor is getting there. It’s a single letter but for now, it’s good enough.
Later that night, Alec will lean back and listen to the clapping as if he had never heard it before. This week, he promises to himself, this week I’ll go knock on his door.
The shriek of his doorbell almost makes Alec drop his plate. Man, he hates this bell, he really should have it replaced. Jace never misses an opportunity to make him jump and this freaking doorbell is his weapon of choice. Alec is going to make him regret this one day. With a sigh, he puts his plate down onto the table and goes for the intercom. He hasn’t cooked enough food for both Jace and himself but they can still order pizzas if needed. He presses on the mic button and unlocks the door of the apartment building at the same time.
“Come in,” he calls, his voice partially covered by the buzzing sound of the door.
“Uh, it’s for a delivery,” a foreign voice answers from the other side. Alec frowns; he’s not expecting a package. He releases a button so the door lock stops buzzing.
“A delivery?”
“Yes sir, it’s your piano,” the voice explains. Alec’s jaw drops. His piano? Which piano? He never ordered a piano. He shakes in head in disbelief before realizing the man on the other side of the intercom can’t see him.
“There must be mistake, I didn’t buy a piano,” he says. After a pause, the delivery man shuffles through papers.
“Apartment 3.03, Mister A. Lightwood? Is this you?”
Alec blinks and scoots closer to the intercom. It’s ridiculous. The chances that this is an elaborate scheme to sneak into his apartment and rob him of his every possession are abysmally low but it’s still more probable than him having ordered a piano in his sleep. He glances to his living room quickly; his small piano is still here. Tired, yes, but here. Where would he put another piano anyway?
“Yes,” Alec confirms after a couple of silent seconds, “yes it’s me, but I don’t understand, I – I haven’t ordered a piano.”
The man insists. “The delivery costs have already been paid for, sir. I can’t leave this piano on the sidewalk.”
Alec is honestly at loss for words. The delivery man continues.
“Me and my colleagues can bring it to your apartment. Do you have enough room?”
Alec stumbles over his own tongue.
“I – uh, I guess? How big is it?”
On the other side of the intercom, the man flips a page over.
“It’s a grand piano, sir. Around six feet at its largest.”
Alec takes a step back and closes his eyes. “Oh my god,” he breathes, “a grand piano.”
“Can we bring it up?” the delivery man comes again.
The possibility hits Alec like a ton of bricks when he opens his eyes again. What if it’s the neighbor? No, it’s not possible. No fool in New York would spend thousands on a grand piano for a stranger – an almost-stranger. Alec doesn’t even want to start thinking of how expensive the instrument must be; grand pianos are way out of his budget. He played for the neighbor yesterday! Yes, his current piano may not be the best out there and yes, Alec would likely enjoy playing on a piano of a higher quality but still! But his neighbor is rich, Alec already knows this… No. No, it’s not possible, he can’t have –
“Sir?”
Alec steps forward and presses the mic button again.
“Yes,” he blurts, shaking his head. “Yes, bring it up.”
“Sir, we’re going to need you to open the door please.”
Still shaken, Alec presses the button; a loud buzz comes from the other side of the intercom and several voices start chattering as workers get ready to carry a freaking grand piano inside. Alec releases all buttons once he’s sure they’re keeping the door open; for their own good, he hopes the delivery men will find the heavy duty elevator.
Febrile, Alec pushes a table to the side and makes way in his hallway. He starts pacing in his living room, his nerves getting the best of him. What is happening? He should probably go talk to the neighbor, if he’s home. If it’s not him, if the Neighbor with the Purple Ink isn’t behind this, then who is? No one in any of his social circles are rich enough to have a grand piano delivered on his doorstep out of nowhere. Alec is violently pulled from his thoughts by a knock on his front door. As expected, it’s the delivery crew.
“Good evening sir,” a man says. Alec recognizes the voice from the intercom. Behind him, three other men are still busy pushing a large piano on wheels down the corridor. The instrument is covered in a thick blanket and what looks like the upgraded version of the bubble wrap. From here, Alec can see the distinctive shine of a black piano. Jesus Christ, it’s really happening.
“Good evening,” Alec parrots. With a head tilt, he invites the man inside his apartment and guides him to his living room. “Just put it around – Uh, here.” He gestures towards a free corner where, he hopes, the piano will fit. It’s crazy. A free piano. Alec still has a hard time coming to terms with what’s going on; his dinner is getting cold on the kitchen table. The delivery man doesn’t seem nearly as worried as him.
Why he has even accepted the delivery is still a mystery to Alec. He shouldn’t have done that. It’s going to turn against him in the worst way, he can feel it.
With great effort, the four men manage to get the piano through the doorway after taking the legs off. Alec watches them put the legs back into place and gently move the piano to the corner of his living room. One by one, they take off the protective layers and undress the majestic instrument. Alec’s heart misses a beat when he recognizes the characteristic golden logo of Steinway & Sons embossed above the closed lid that covers the keyboard. These pianos cost a fortune. He runs his hands through his hair, grabs his own head in bewilderment and exhales everything he holds.
He can’t accept this. It’s too much, it’s way too much. Even if it wasn’t a Steinway, it’s too much. A nervous chuckle escapes him.
Two of the men carry a large bench into the room. It’s luxuriously cushioned – probably leather – and matches the black coat of the piano.
“Here are all the documents regarding your new piano,” the delivery man announces, handing a slick black box to Alec. Alec takes it without thinking and gets lost in thought staring at the golden logo on the box’s lid. This can’t be real. “I’m going to need your signature to confirm the delivery please.” A clipboard appears in Alec’s field of vision, making him blink. Slowly, he puts the black box down on the back of the piano and takes the clipboard. He almost asks the man to pinch him to make sure he’s not dreaming but ultimately decides against it, lowering his gaze onto the paper he’s been handed. His address his in the top left corner under the name “A. Lightwood” and the phone number written under the address is undeniably his.
Alec’s stomach’s sinks.
It’s the neighbor. It’s really the neighbor, no doubt about it. The neighbor has his phone number. He doesn’t have his full first name, only an initial, but he can find his last name on his mailbox, downstairs. It’s the neighbor who did this. A shiver runs down Alec’s back as he considers the implications of such a gift.
In the top right corner, the billing address points to apartment 5.03; above it thrones the name of Magnus Bane.
“Is everything okay sir?”
“Yes, yes it’s fine.”
Alec signs mechanically and hands the clipboard back to the delivery man.
“Your piano was tuned before delivery but it may need some adjustments. You’ll find a phone number in the documents,” the man says, pointing at the black box. “Call if you need anything.” Alec nods politely. After a smile and cordial “have a nice evening, sir”, the four men leave Alec’s apartment; when he closes the door behind them, he’s not even sure he’s thanked them. His mind is elsewhere, wandering around this piano itself, around the beast sitting in his own home.
He turns around to look at it. It’s gigantic, way bigger than his small upright piano. Lustrous, the glossy black of the piano’s coat makes it look like a collector’s piece. Adorned with golden accents around the lid and over the pedals, materials blend into one piece; brass, wood and soul have melted together. It feels sacred, charged with too much energy for Alec to put his fingers on it. Back when he was a student, one of his piano teachers used to play on a similar instrument; it’s the closest memory he has from a religious experience. These beauties are something else.
Inside the slick black box, Alec finds various documents and guides to his new piano; it’s apparently a model O, which doesn’t mean much to him. Specifications of the instruments are listed in great details and Alec can feel his blood pumping a little bit faster at every line. He breathes in, breathes out. It’s going to be fine. Everything’s fine. Gently, he leaves the black box on the table he pushed to the side and slowly starts to open the piano’s lid. He reveals the music rack first and props it up then lifts the heavy lid and secures it so it stays open. He also takes care of the lid over the keyboard and reveals the keys. Finally, Alec adjusts the height of the cushioned bench (which probably costs a small fortune on its own, judging by the quality of the leather) and gently sits on it, his hands resting on his thighs. It’s large enough for two people to sit side by side so he has plenty of room. He inhales deeply.
There’s so much he’d like to exteriorize he doesn’t know where to begin.
The beauty of this instrument is making it hard to breathe. And it’s his. It’s his because it’s a gift. From someone he’s never really met. A crazy gift from someone he, at the very least, considers a friend. But friends do not spend tens of thousands on each other, do they? In what kind of world does anyone spend that much money on anyone anyway?
It’s too much; it’s too pretty, too perfect. Unable to resist, Alec starts playing an Ave Maria, loosening the knots in his fingers. By the time the first notes hit his ceiling, there is no man nor angel for the lines have vanished through the call to Mary. The sound so pure, the tone so clear, the time so slow; this is how music was meant to be played all along, with a choir under every key.
Someone knocks on his door. The spell shatters.
Alec’s eyes widen. He knows who this is.
He gently pushes the bench back and makes his way to the door. There no note in the hallway, no piece of paper that came flying from under his doorstep; he’s going to miss them. A humble request to the pianist, he’s going to miss these words if they stop coming after tonight.
The door handle is cold and Alec’s bones are burning.
When the door opens, it’s the light that hits Alec first. There he is, standing at his doorstep. He’s shorter than Alec yet towering; impeccably dressed with dark violet pants and a black shirt open at the collar, he has a presence, an aura Alec could already read through his handwriting. Silver and gold cascade over his collarbones, shine around his ears and when he offers a hand to Alec, heavy rings catch the light too.
“Good evening,” the man smiles. “I’m Magnus.”
Alec shakes his hand. “Hey.” God he’s gorgeous. “Alec.”
Magnus glows from within when he lets go of Alec’s hand; he looks at Alec fondly. “I’m a huge fan of your work,” he says, his hand waving towards Alec’ chest, “and I’m glad to finally meet you. In person, I mean.”
Alec can feel himself blush. Everything he wanted to say to someone who just had a piano delivered to his doorstep is out the window, forgotten and buried.
“I, uh, you are the one who – “
“Sent you the grand piano?” Magnus’ eyebrow shoot up. “It’s me, yes. I figured you’d like to have a quality instrument to match your talent.”
Alec doesn’t know where to look; his words escape him, he can only smile vaguely. Magnus takes the lead.
“Can I?” he asks, gesturing towards the inside of the apartment. Alec immediately feels like a horrible neighbor.
“Of course, come in.” He steps to the side to let Magnus enter his flat and closes the door behind him. His ability to talk come back as he watches Magnus make his way to the living room.
“Listen, it’s really nice of you, but I can’t accept this,” Alec admits. “It’s way too much.”
Magnus spins around. “Too much? Alec, please don’t worry about that. It’s a gift from the heart, and I want you to have it.” His shoulders sway as he walks towards Alec, hypnotic. “Besides, you’ve spoiled me enough. My turn.”
Alec drowns in him. He’s been trying to keep up all this time, trying to keep his head above the surface and not let his heart race for the tide like this but now it’s too late; Magnus pulls, magnetic, and Alec weakens by the second.
“I have one last humble request, if you let me,” Magnus smiles, visibly proud of having used the perfect phrasing. He steps even closer, his hands joined together under his chest as he rubs his own palms gently. “Please, teach me,” he almost whispers.
Alec raises an eyebrow. This doesn’t make sense, Magnus always seemed to be such an expert. “Teach you? What do you mean, you don’t play it?”
Magnus’ eyes dart to the left. “I know a lot about music but I’ve never really…” he moves his hands around, looking for a word. “Taken the time to learn myself.” He locks his gaze back into Alec’s eyes. “So let’s make a deal. Keep the piano and give me lessons in return.”
Alec gulps. He’s not a teacher, he probably doesn’t have an ounce of pedagogy in him; this still sounds excellent. He’d get to keep the Steinway in his living room, play it whenever he feels like it and on top of that, his hot neighbor could come and visit on a regular basis. They’d sit side by side on the leather bench and Alec could show him how to use his hands, how to keep control over his fingers, how to develop a good wrist.
Oh no. Now he’s thinking about things.
“Alright,” he blurts, “yeah. Yeah, let’s do this.” He runs a hand in his hair, avoiding Magnus’ stare. “Let’s – uh, let’s do this. You want to start now or...?”
Magnus gleams with delight. “Of course, I’d be honored.”
“Okay, because I was about to have dinner but I’m not really hungry anymore,” Alec waves a hand, vaguely aiming for the kitchen, “so we can just… play for a bit?” He hopes he’s getting his point across because he’s really not focused on what’s leaving his mouth right now.
Magnus’ eyes widen but his face stays soft. “Are you sure? I can come back later you know.”
“No, no,” Alec insists, walking around Magnus to make his way to the piano. He feels the weight of Magnus’ gaze on his back. “We can do it now. I can’t just – I can’t play it by myself, it’s yours.”
Magnus lets out a breath and joins him. “It’s as much yours as it is mine, Alec.”
Alec was right about everything. The grace, the power, the beauty of this man; he knew all of it before laying his eyes on this face, on this body, on these hands made to carve blessings out of flesh and paper. He sits on the bench, leaving half of it free, and invites Magnus to sit by his side.
“Thank you, Alexander.”
Alec turns his face to look at him. “How do you know my name is Alexander?” Magnus smiles tenderly. “I don’t. It was just a guess, but I assume I was right?” Alec nods with a crooked smile.
On the cabinet over there sits a pile of notes Alec wants to show Magnus. He wants to ask him what’s his favorite piece, he wants Magnus to talk about his love for Liszt, he wants to hear him play the ukulele. “Let’s start with the basics,” he hears himself say. The basics. They’ve gone through the basics already. They’re met and crashed, they’ve sung back and forth and bloomed like a symphony does; like two hands of the same pianist, they found a pattern, a melody of their own. Now they can thrive and transcend, they can build it up higher, together, and give each other shivers like great sonatas do.
Now that he’s not alone in front of this keyboard, Alec understands. The piano isn’t a trap, it’s an anchor. It’s a promise. It’s a choice. It’s not about him, it’s about them. Magnus plays three random notes and Alec can’t help but smile wide. It’s about us.