Heir Apparent

Dvořák and Dry Heat

As Ander came down the curving staircase, he heard music drifting out from the music room. It was a solo piano, equal parts yearning and bright, played allegro, perhaps, or allegretto. Although the melody was familiar to him, he couldn't quite place its origin, which struck as Ander as strange, if only because after nearly five years playing with the New York Philharmonic and four years at Juilliard's music school, he'd played or at least studied much of the classical oeuvre.

The double French doors leading into the music room stood open, and, nervously, Ander approached. Whoever was playing – and Ander knew at once it was most certainly someone playing and not a recording; he could hear the pedals depressing, the keys clicking – was clearly very skilled, and Ander had a hunch—

As he peered through the doors, he felt his heart jump up into the back of his throat. Francis was seated at the bench of the glossy black piano, eyes half-shut, swaying to the sound of the music as he played it. What was it, Ander wondered, that was so breathtakingly attractive about alphas unselfconsciously caught up in their own music? From the door, Ander could see his fingers dancing across the keys, see the way his back bent and bowed with each swell and and surge of the melody.

The song was so familiar, and Ander found himself frustrated that he couldn't name it. It was as though the song was incomplete somehow, missing, something. Then, all at once—

"Dvořák!"

He blurted out the name before decorum could reign it in, and the music stopped on a fumbled chord. Francis looked up and over at Ander, momentarily struck dumb.

Ander felt a wave of contrition. "Sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't – uh, it's – that's Dvořák, right?"

Whatever surprise had rendered Francis silent faded quickly. He cleared his throat, adjusted his posture. "Yes," he said. "One of his Romantic Pieces."

"No wonder I couldn't place it, isn't that meant to be played as a string trio?"

"Actually, I was playing the arrangement for piano and violin," he said. "Or at least half of it."

There was, of course, an immediately obvious question that jumped to the fore in Ander's mind, but it got stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. Somehow, it seemed too intimate, too private to offer to play with him, here in this darkened music room, with moonlight pouring in through the tall sash windows. Even as he wanted to – and he did.

"I hope the playing didn't wake you?" Francis said.

"Oh – no, no, not at all," Ander answered, crossing the hardwood floor toward the piano, placing both hands on the the edge of its cover. "I just came down to make myself some tea."

"Tea!" Francis said, sounding entirely too pleased. "I thought you were more of the coffee sort."

"I am, but it's growing on me," Ander admitted. "Olivia brought me some for breakfast one morning, and I've gotten more fond of it ever since."

"We'll make a Briton out of you yet, it seems," Francis laughed. "Though it is a bit late for tea."

"After a lifetime of coffee-drinking, the caffeine content in tea is practically sleep-inducing," Ander promised him, and Francis laughed again.

With the tension defused, Ander felt brave enough to close the distance between them and peer around at the front of the piano. The sheet music was lying open on the shelf, well-worn pages and scribbled notes around the margins. Ander knew performance notes when he saw them.

"When were you performing?" he asked.

"Oh," Francis said, sounding modest, "not in ages, and never professionally. This particular piece I played for a charity concert several years ago."