Noah felt ridiculous. Absolutely, blatantly, unavoidably ridiculous. He wished he'd just stayed at the apartment, as Marcus had.

Once again the music settled, and once again he was forced to remove his hands from the ready position. Once again he could hear an opening, and once again he was forced to wait for his bars in spite of the obvious gap he could fill. It was maddening. If it wasn't for his obscure position in the classroom - not quite with the strings, but not quite anywhere else, either; tucked neatly in the back row with the percussionists like a forgotten toy, or an unwanted fruitcake - he was certain Lefevre would see the frustrated, hateful looks he was giving her, and the sheet music she'd given to him. As he mentally counted the bars until he would next pluck another ten strings before sitting like a lump again, he played his music in his head.

It was like the unwanted bastard child of a piccolo and a violin, living in secret with the tubas; sometimes there, but never heard clearly. He was doomed to follow the melody when it was loud enough to cover his own, blend it in with everything else like some half-assed meat stew in which someone had thrown in some sad-looking vegetables to pass it off as a balanced meal. It was vile, and he had no choice but to pluck strings like a music box on command, and only when the lid was open.

It was almost always like this. So many composers found the harp so alien an instrument, so fundamentally unfamiliar, that they either couldn't fully understand how strong or subtle it could be in a piece, or they didn't even bother to attempt an understanding. More often than not, Lefevre would have to throw up some vile concoction of orphaned notes for him to play in the background, like the unfortunate child in the school play who has drawn the short straw and must play a rock or a bush. On the rare occasion when he and the other harpists - of which there seemed to be fewer and fewer, speaking orchestrally, as he was the only one in his year - were actually given music written with the harp in mind, it felt like fifty Christmases in which you got everything you wanted occurring all at once, and ending just as quickly as you were handed another pile of mishmash to masquerade as harp music.

In this instance, it was a shame. He really did actually enjoy this piece. There were so many things Noah could've done, if only Lefevre would allow him to modify the music she'd given him. He wasn't limited to the strings with this piece - even the horns offered him an opportunity to create a harmony with them, so strong were the crescendos and so soft were the melodies that he could shoulder in anywhere and have it feel like home. Unfortunately, Lefevre did not seem keen on allowing him to modify his own music. She took the stance that, if she were to allow him the opportunity, how could she not allow everyone who asked her for the same?

Simple, thought Noah piggishly; tell them Prokofiev had actually cared to write music for their own instruments when he'd composed the Dance of the Knights, and where they could be inclined to shove their sheet music if it didn't suit. How he longed to actually say that aloud.

Noah fully realized how this all made him sound, and it really wasn't that he wanted to turn everything into a harp piece. For once in his musical career, he wanted to be able to prove to anyone unfamiliar with the instrument that it was capable of carrying just as much weight in an orchestra as any other instrument in the ensemble, rather than being shoved aside with the triangles and harpsichords into obscurity and stereotyping. He was tired of being told he had to cater to popular tastes. He just wanted to play something that didn't sound like it had been vomited from the belly of some generic learn-to-play soft cover music store bin liner.

Still, when it came time for him to pluck away at his offerings, he held his posture appropriately and played exactly what Lefevre had given him, exactly as she wanted him to play it; the pitch, the speed, everything. And, when he was done, he rested his hands in his lap gracefully and waited for his next bit of music to come about. He felt sick - like he was twelve again and still developing the callouses he'd worked so hard to build up, with his senior standing behind him with his hawk-like eyes searching for any mistake, any at all, his conductor's baton resting in his fist, poised to correct the first out of place knuckle he caught sight of.

Another prolonged rest; once more his hands to his thighs. He hated when Marcus skipped classes - he rarely spoke with anyone else, and felt so awkward on his own . As the music carried on without him, he allowed his eyes to wander over the other students in their stiff-backed chairs, eyes glued to their music stands with varying expressions - some more glazed, some almost unblinking, and many more in the uncertain limbo between the two. After picking Jean Claude out of the crowd, he let his eyes settle on one of the few other familiar faces in the classroom; Gabe. His skin shone slightly - he was probably sweating - and his face was one of utmost concentration. Noah sighed, envious, and raised his hands to his harp for another round of mimicking a hen in lieu of actually contributing to the score. He prayed the next piece Lefevre chose actually had a harp in it to begin with.


When his slow torture was finally over and the piece was finished, Noah barely needed to wipe his brow. No effort - how disgusting. Lefevre was saying something to the woodwinds about tempo, but Noah allowed that snippet of speech to flow delightfully in one ear and out through the other. All around him the other musicians were shifting in their seats, some shuffling their music, others producing bottles of water and drinking greedily from them. Noah buried his fingers in his hair, scrubbing the tangle of waves and curls to release some of the unused tension in his hands. He hated when music left him feeling unfulfilled like this; was it so much to ask that he enjoy what he played? Isn't that why one became a musician in the first place?

"- for a quintet or fewer -"

What was that? Instantly perking up at the mention of something unrelated to their current concert piece, Noah cursed silently. Of all the times for Lefevre to say something that may have been interesting! He sat upright and alert in his seat, and attempted to follow the rest of her sentence.

"There will only be a handful of positions for solo and small group performances, so you will need to audition your piece and be selected in order to secure a spot in the annual concert. The date for auditions has not yet been set, but it would be best to start preparing for them now. I will let you know when and where you may find more information on this, as soon as the final decisions are made.

"However," Lefevre peered at the students, allowing the weight of the word to settle on them before continuing, "The standards for being selected will be very, very high indeed. Just because we have the space available does not mean they will all be filled for the sake of filling them. If you want the chance to preform, you will need to exceed the standards of those judging your auditions, not simply meet them. If anyone from this class is intending to audition, I will have to ask that you are serious about obtaining the right to preform, or do not bother auditioning at all. We will know if you are being half-hearted."

The classroom errupted in a buzz of conversation. Noah brightened instantly. Student slots in the annual concert. He was instantly far more fond of Lefevre than he had been only minutes prior.



((OOC: Oooh, that's pretty; a really nice balance of sharp and soft. There's probably a super-magical music related word for that, but I dropped music after grade 8 and I can't remember what it is eleven years after the fact. xD I'll make a note that Lefevre is fair game. I'm all for NPCs - the pawns of the roleplaying world. Completely sacrificial without all the blood and cultist hooey.

Anyhow I hope you don't mind that I got the ball rolling on the option of a duet - Gabe doesn't have to accept Noah's eventual proposal x3 - but I was going to end my post without it, and it really just felt like WORDSWORDSWORDS with no substance. xD If it conflicts with what you had planned, just ignore the last paragraph or two~

Also, this is my last week of formal classes until January, so I should be able to post slightly more often when I'm not working on my portfolio. JOY! 3 weeks off! ))

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