Archive of Our Own ^beta

Static. The space between his memories.

Then

Track one.

He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the cold stone, letting it wash over him.

It begins with Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 2 in B flat minor, played by long fingered hands with manicured (magenta red) nails.

Arthur kept a piano in the back corner of his shop, even though he didn't know how to play. In fact, it was the only instrument in the place he couldn't play, through the simple fact that it was so old it didn't have a jack for him to plug in to. But he liked the way it looked, and it was, after all, a relic of musical history, so he kept it.

He wasn't really even sure if it was in working order or not, until one day he heard piano music and looked up from repairing a customer's holophoner. He hadn't noticed anyone come in, but sure enough a man was sitting at the piano, his back to Arthur so all he could see was fine gold hair (on the long side) and a pressed white shirt.

Not sure if he should be delighted that the piano was in functioning order or angry that someone was playing it without his permission, Arthur swung around the counter to stride over. "Oy-"

He stopped short when the stranger turned to face him, long fingers going still on the ivory keys. Arthur knew he was staring, but couldn't quite bring himself to stop. The stranger was handsome enough, he supposed, somewhere in his maybe-twenties with high cheekbones and blue eyes and a hint of a scruff beard, but Arthur's eyes were drawn along the line of his jaw to his ears.

Pale pink, shell-like ears, like a memory forgotten from childhood.

Unconsciously Arthur's hand rose to touch his own enhancements; smooth gunmetal gray wings that swept back from his temples and cheeks, styled like a pair of old-fashioned headphones and fitted in where his ears had been up until the time of the enhancement surgery when Arthur was fifteen (late, old for enhancement, but his parents had had to save up after paying for his next-eldest brother's enhancement only the year before).

Arthur started suddenly, realizing he'd been staring, and scowled fiercely. At least the stranger seemed amused, rather than annoyed. And he should be; walking around unenhanced was practically asking to get stared at.

"What do you want?" Arthur snapped, sharper than he'd meant to.

The stranger chuckled lowly, running his hand lightly over the piano's keyboard. "Not many people have these around anymore; it's hard to make ones that can plug-and-play."

Arthur frowned, feeling his cheeks warm for some unidentifiable reason. "That one's not 'plug-and-play'," he pointed out.

The stranger just chuckled again, making Arthur's scowl deepen. "No, you're right, it's not." He ran his fingers over the keys again, a caress, then offered those same fingers to Arthur with a shrewd smile. "Francis Bonnefoy, musician."

Arthur eyed him, but took the hand and gave it a firm shake. "Arthur Kirkland."

"Arthur," Francis rolled his 'r's in an alarmingly French way, still looking up at Arthur from his seat on the piano bench, through golden eyelashes and a fringe of bangs. "I must ask, Arthur, are the eyebrows part of the enhancement?"

Arthur found himself glad of his enhancements that day, because it meant he could haul the other man bodily out the door and kick him to the curb.

Pause.

Static.

Track two, something upbeat, annoying and energetic.

Intruding upon his ears the way he intruded upon his life, time after time.

Arthur never did find out what Francis did for a living before wandering into his store. Because ever after that, Francis seemed to spend the majority of his time there, pestering Arthur when there were no customers. At least he had the respect not to interrupt when Arthur did have a customer come in, instead wandering around the shop or, more often yet, sitting down to play the piano.

The third time he came, he had a thick binder of paper with him, which he propped up open above the keys. As soon as Arthur was finished making the sale, he walked over to peer curiously over Francis' shoulder. He was surprised and rather baffled to find narrow bands of lines crossing the pages, interrupted by a nonsensical pattern of dots.

Or perhaps not quite nonsensical. As he watched, Francis flipped a page, and then Arthur could tell that when the dots rose higher along the lines, so did the pitch of the notes Francis played.

"What is that?" he asked when Francis paused to flip a page again, and he couldn't manage to keep the eager curiosity out of his voice.

Francis paused, fingers poised over the keys, and then he half-turned to give Arthur a funny little pitying look. "You don't know what sheet music is?"

Arthur blinked, already searching the Net. He blinked at the information he pulled back. "You still use sheet music?"

Francis sighed, letting his hands drop to his lap. "Sourcils, not all of us can instantly have notes and fingerings downloaded into our brains. Sheet music tells me the order to play the notes."

Arthur bristled, grinding his teeth in anger. But the shop was empty at the moment, so he took a step sideways and plopped down to sit on the bench beside Francis. "Show me," he demanded, more of a challenge than a request.

He nearly missed the surprised, wondering look that Francis gave him. "Alright then."

Track three.

A lullaby. The first piano piece he ever played on his own, without the assistance of the Net.

He's never quite been able to match the high he achieved then, the sense of accomplishment that filled him up until he thought he might burst with it.

It surprised him, gratified him.

He wonders now if maybe the unenhanced are right, if the Net is a bad thing.

"Why didn't you ever get enhanced?"

The question slipped out one morning as Francis was standing at the stove cooking breakfast and Arthur was sitting at the table drinking his tea. (Later, he would blame the question on the fact that he wasn't awake quite yet.)

He'd been wondering that for a long time, and for some reason that morning it was on his mind more than usual, watching Francis' back as he cooked.

Francis paused, then turned to face Arthur, spatula in one hand. "Why ask now?"

Arthur shifted in his seat a bit uncomfortably, wishing now that he could take the question back. "I don't know. I've known you long enough I know you won't throw something if I ask," he paused. "Or if you do, you won't mean it."

Francis pursed his lips, hefting the spatula consideringly, then relaxed and chuckled, leaning back against the counter. "Such faith you have in me." Arthur scowled, but Francis was still talking, musingly. "The reason I chose not to become enhanced is because I believe it is killing us."

Arthur blinked and sat up a bit straighter, already calling up the information over the Net. "There's been hundreds of studies done-"

"I don't mean physically," Francis shook his head, and did toss the spatula then, making Arthur yelp and duck. "Get off the Net. Think of what you just did. You automatically went to look up the relevant statistics, rather than think for yourself. In the last four hundred years, there has been very little new art, literature, music."

Arthur glared at him for the projectile attack and made a sound of protest in the back of his throat. "Now wait, Roderich Edelstein-"

"But don't you see? That's my point. Edelstein's talent for music was discovered as a child, and as a result he, like myself, chose to remain unenhanced. I believe the ability to instantly download knowledge and skills directly into one's head inhibits creativity. Or put another way, humans with the world at their fingertips have become too lazy to go looking for it. In the last four hundred years, the vast majority of 'new' works have simply been old works rearranged with characters and colors changed. Humans have become too lazy to create."

Arthur stared at him, but couldn't really find a way to disagree. Francis was right, and somehow Arthur had never noticed before.

Something of his dumbfounded shock must have shown on his face, because Francis' expression softened, and he stepped over to bend and lay a kiss to Arthur's hair. "Now, sourcils, I have every faith I will be able to install some better sense in you, despite the limits of your enhancements. You'll see."

Arthur scowled and hit him on the shoulder, though not very hard.

Years pass.

Blurring through his head, through the playlist of his life.

A song for spring, when they would walk together through the rain, one with the umbrella and the other with the groceries, arguing over the merits of piano versus guitar while their hips and shoulders brush comfortably against each other.

A song for summer, when they spread out a blanket and laid underneath the trees, sheet music spread around them and shuffling between them, notes made in each others' hands until no one piece was written by one of them alone.

A song for autumn, when he put a new sign up in the shop window, fresh paint and gold letters advertising lessons, and the twins who became their prized students; loud on the guitar, soft on the violin, together on the piano bench.

A song for winter, when they would curl together beneath blankets and pillows, sometimes to cuddle or sometimes for sex, but always together and always warm.

Always.

He's such a fool, to have thought things would last forever.

Stop.

Static.

Track something-or-other.

The first notes bring tears to his eyes, because he knows this is the beginning of the end.

"Arthur,"

Arthur looked up at Francis, and snorted softly. Vain bastard was using color to hide the gray in his hair again. Arthur thought the silver at his temples made him look charming, really, but Francis did not share that particular belief. "Hm?"

Francis smiled at him softly, and offered him the folder he was holding. "It's finished."

It took a moment for that to sink in, and then Arthur sat up straight, feeling an excited thrill go through him. For years, literally years, Francis had been working on writing a piano sonata, what he called his 'magnum opus'. And no matter how many times Arthur bugged him about it, Francis refused to let him see.

He licked his lips, trying not to look too eager as he reached for the folder of sheet music, but something must have shown in his eyes and expression because Francis chuckled. He put his hands on Arthur's shoulders, steering him toward the piano. "Would you play it for me, Arthur? I'm afraid I no longer can."

Sitting down on the piano bench, watching Francis sink down beside him, Arthur frowned in confusion. Seeing his expression, Francis held up his hands, the knuckles knobby and fingers curled with the tightening of age.

Arthur's eyes widened in sudden horror as the realization hit him straight in the stomach. All these years, and the changes in Francis had been so gradual that somehow Arthur hadn't really noticed. When he woke up beside Francis every day, it was easy not to notice that there were more lines on his face today, or he got out of bed a little slower. How long had it been since Francis had played? Arthur couldn't really remember.

He must have looked sick with dread, but Francis just smiled, a little sadly, and leaned over to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Play for me, Arthur. Please?"

And so he opened the folder and set it on the stand, running his fingers lovingly over the ivory keys as he stared at the top of the first page.

And he played. The sonata was beautiful, characteristic of Francis, warm and light and brilliant, but Arthur felt numb as he played. It felt like a giant lump of wet cement had settled into his gut. Francis was unenhanced. What had always seemed so brave and idiosyncratic before suddenly seemed foolish and destructive and there was nothing Arthur could do except keep playing, with Francis' body warm against his side and Francis' head on his shoulder.

Unenhanced meant aging.

Francis was old.

Arthur was not.

He presses his palms against the grave stone until he can feel the 'ranc' and 'nnef' impressing into his skin. He realizes there are tears rolling down his cheeks.

There's nothing new. Nothing more. Nothing. Nothing without Francis.

No music, nothing worth it, only recycled recut redownloaded retuned remixed re-re-re- shit.

The playlist in his head runs its course, the last notes of Francis' sonata fading, ringing in Arthur's ears.

Static.

Static.

Silence.