black notes on white paper and black soul on white skin
/du-ende/ n. (Spanish)
¬the mysterious power of art to deeply move a person
¬the feeling of powerful awe experienced when viewing a piece of art, watching a performance or listening to music th...
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The ivory is cold against his fingertips, goosebumps are gracing Nikita's arms, maybe because he isn't used to the smooth surface of the keys anymore, the soft kisses of ivory against his for cooling longing flesh. Now you aren't so frory anymore, are you, boy? Apollo's molten the ice in your body but has he also made the stiff mask of yours flexible and slinky? Can you smile, Nikita? Smile with the hot ecstasy which is filling your once so cold heart?
Who knows, who knows? But Nikita definitely isn't smiling right now, his expression's rather stern and concentrated but Nikita's eyes are aflame, blue fire licking over the border of his pale lashes, framing his eyes like curved icicles, pointy and sharp. However, there's also a hue of annoyance vicible on Nikita's face, his nose slightly scrunched, a streak of irritation easy to be seen.
How can it be that his fingers still know what to do but at the same time they don't? Once, he's stretching his hands too much, playing a ninth instead of an octave - how fortunate, his hands have grown bigger, Nikita's actually not noticed this before -, then he's playing too fast with his right hand because Nikita's thought it would be clever to play Bach a little bit slowlier when he isn't in shape - but it seems as if his right hand can play its part only quickly and he's making so many unnecessary mistakes in general, god beware.
And while the euphoric light in his eyes is dying down more and more and he's pressing his lips together firmlier until his thin lips can't be seen anymore, Nikita can clearly hear his father, his slightly hoarse voice in the rich colour of good vodka, the disappointed clearing of his throat whenever the blond is playing a wrong note.
Oh Nikita, why haven't you practiced? You aren't good without practice-
At least you're playing without any scores. You know, Nikita, you can only master a piece when you can play it by heart.
You're playing by heart because you've forgotten where your sheet music is? Nikita!
Cold sweat is covering Nikita's body which is still warmed by the golden flames that are living off his heart, his finger tips are becoming numb and his left hand hurts because of its excessive use. But Nikita can't stop yet, he can't stop now, he can't stop, he can't-
He really can't. He can't play the piano but he also can't stop.
Ugly, hot annoyance - anger - has taken over him, filling his guts with heavy, seething murkiness, possessing Nikita like a demon, acting as if it was the deadly sin ira or its incarnated lord, the one and only - Satan. Is it the heat of hell that is keeping Nikita warm while hammering onto the keys like a maniac or Apollo's blessing? Good or bad? Black and white?
But you need ivory and ebony to play the most beautiful pieces and there is no grey for Nikita.
