#and we both agreed that he was our fave beatle | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lostinfic · 5 years

Text

Dissonance and Harmony | 6

Pairing: Roderick Peterson (Nativity 2) x Alison Crosby (The Canterbury Tales).

*You don’t need to have seen either film.*

Summary: Alison wants to boost her pop music career whereas Roderick needs to restore his reputation in the world of classical music. Neither of them is above using “irregular” means to get what they want, so when she joins his choir, they are in a unique position to help each other… if only they could get along.

Rating: M | Word count: 4k

A/N: I'm far from a music expert, researching songs for a mash-up was holding me back from writing so I had to make up one of the songs.

Ao3

♪ ♪ ♪

Alison still can’t believe Roderick not only agreed to add mashed-up songs to their repertoire— on a trial basis only— but has also invited her to his home.

She stands on the sidewalk, staring at his beautiful Georgian building in Kensington and its liveried doorman. Her phone pings with text messages from Marcus, Janet and Abel.

“How’s it going?”

“What’s his place like?”

“I bet he has one of those hairless cats”

“He’s not a Bond villain!” Alison replies.

“He looks like one”

“Ali watch out for shark tanks lol”

She mutes her phone and heads in.

Roderick greets her with a smile she can only describe as uncertain. Perhaps he’s as surprised as her by her presence in his apartment.

Inside his own home, she expected him to wear a different outfit, more casual than his typical turtleneck and jacket, but he’s not. And he still calls her “Miss Crosby”. Everything to indicate this is no different than their regular choir meetings.

Alison hangs her jacket by the door, regretting her leopard print crop top and pink dungarees.

“Where’s your music?” he asks. She holds up a USB thumb drive. “Convenient but poor quality. Would you care for a drink?”

“Sure, whatever you’re having. What’s your poison?”

“Mint tea.”

“Oh. Spiked with rum?”

She follows him into the open-plan kitchen on the left. It has the same sleek minimalism as the theater, white cupboards without knobs, bare countertops. Where’s all your stuff, she wants to ask.

Beyond the black marble island, the living room stretches to high bay windows, a baby grand piano stands in front of them. The sun is setting over Holland Park, and orange rays play across the glossy black lid of the Steinway.

It’s beautiful but empty, something out of a magazine, the bones of a home she wants to flesh out with silly cookie jars and fuzzy blankets.

Roderick prepares two cups of tea.

“Don’t you have a butler or something to do that for you?” she jokes.

“I gave him the night off.”

“Wha’, really?”

“No.”

He hands her a steaming mug. She detects a hint of alcohol in it.

In the living room, opposite the leather couch, where a TV usually stands, shelves line the wall, stacked to the ceiling with vinyls, CDs as well as pictures and awards. Everything symmetrically arranged.

Alison whistles and takes a closer look.

“You must think it’s vain,” Roderick says.

“Nah, I have a wall of my achievements too, mind you it’s not as impressive.”

The first photo to catch her eye is one of Roderick holding two babies. His twin brother’s sons, he explains with warmth in his voice, he has already started introducing them to classical music.

“Very cute,” Alison says.

“Yes, they are.”

“I was talking about you.” She winks to indicate it’s another one of her flirting jokes.

Roderick rolls his eyes. “Shall we begin our research?”

But Alison is more interested in looking at the other pictures. Many of them are of his former choirs. She picks one up: Roderick fifteen years younger, a jacket too large for his slim body, wire-framed glasses, smiling with pride.

“Do you prefer conducting children or adults?”

“It’s different. I like both… But shaping young minds, giving them the gift of music and self-discipline, it’s very rewarding.”

He wipes specks of dust off several frames, lost in souvenirs, smiling to himself. They’re obviously important to him.

Maybe one day we’ll be on that shelf too.

“You know, for what it’s worth,” she says, “you gave me that gift too. The self-discipline. And I appreciate choral music a lot more.”

“As you should. I’ll fetch my laptop for your music.”

So much for trying to make him feel better.

Roderick sets his Macbook Air down on the coffee table. Meanwhile, she pulls a list of songs from her front pocket, suggestions sent by her friends, and reviews it.

As he browses her music collection, she peruses the albums on his shelves.

Alison loves every genre, from K-pop to opera, traditional Celtic ballads to hip hop, and Bollywood movie soundtracks, of course. As far as she’s concerned, there’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure. Roderick’s collection, on the other hand, consists exclusively of classical music, some contemporary composers and a little jazz.

“No Led Zep or Beatles? That’s your generation, innit?”

“My generation?” He scoffs. “I’ve been listening to Mozart since I was in the womb.”

She picks a few CDs at random and scans the songs listed on the back. As it happens, one is an album of Mozart’s piano sonatas. On the cover, there’s a painting of the composer as a child.

“How old was Mozart when he wrote his first piece?”

“His first simple one, that was around 5 years old.”

“Wow. And you?”

“Seven.”

Alison’s jaw drops, and she takes her eyes off the CDs to stare at him.

“You’re a proper prodigy. Still, you must’ve had like a teenage rebellious phase where you listened to The Clash or something.”

She tries to picture him as a teenager with acne and spiked hair, but she can’t.

“My father forbade other genres of music,” he explains. “My brother Donald did have a phase like that, and that’s why he’s a primary school teacher and I have an O.B.E.”

“As long as he loves his job, that’s what matters.”

“I’m happy with my work,” he retorts. “For your information, I do listen to other music. Sometimes. It’s necessary in my work. I’m not a neophyte.”

“Like what? Name one popular artist you genuinely love.”

He ponders her question for some time while Alison taps her fingernails on the shelf.

“Queen,” he finally answers.

Alison agrees wholeheartedly with him. However, when she suggests they use one of Queen’s songs for a mash-up, he rejects the idea right away, calling it “sacrilegious”.

“Who is your favourite composer?” Roderick asks in return.

Is it a test? What if she picks the wrong composer? She bites her thumb nail, as she frantically searches her memory for a name. “Vivaldi?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m sure I’ve some Vivaldi on that USB drive. Look, I don’t know, okay? I really do love classical music, and I’m trying to learn more about it, but the titles are all the same: symphony No.8, No.3, No. 4., Opus 8. And all the Russian names and Italian ones sound the same.”

She expects a sneer or a lesson, but he says, “I envy you in a way. You have such wonderful music yet to discover. I wish I could listen to my favourite composers for the first time again. Erase my memory and relive that instinctive reaction to the melody.”

“So, who’s your fave?”

The look on his face isn’t unlike a kid’s who would have to choose between a kitten and a puppy. He scans the shelves and picks a record. The sleeve is worn out, the corners peeled to the brown cardboard. He lays the disc on the turntable and delicately places the needle over it. “Close your eyes.”

Alison sits down next to him, legs crossed, and closes her eyes.

The piece starts slowly with light, ethereal flutes. As more instruments join in, the tempo increases. Bouncy woodwinds, then a staccato of strings, counterbalanced by somber brass. Percussion thunders in. The melody surges into a crescendo that makes her heart beat faster, and ebbs to a wistful air, like a stream in a forgotten forest. A lump rises in her throat. When the song ends, she keeps her eyes close for a few seconds, savouring the chill the finale gave her.

“That was gorgeous.”

“Has a pop song ever done that to you?” he asks insolently.

“Many times, as a matter of fact.”

She scrolls through her music library to the letter L.

“Leonard Cohen, that’s cheating,” Roderick declares.

“Fair enough. So, do you think using his ‘Hallelujah’ would be sacrilegious too?” He hesitates, but Alison insists. “If you don’t want us to use commercial songs from pop stars because you don’t think they’re good enough, and none from artists you respect, I don’t know how we’re going to do this.” She crosses her arms on her chest. “Was that your plan all along? Agree, but then make it impossible?”

“No… but that song is in quadruple meter, it’s uncommon. Then again I suppose there are plenty of Hallelujah songs in choral music, maybe we can find one that will fit.”

“That’d be brilliant!”

He writes the title down on a notepad, and they start searching for other songs.

In order to create mash-ups, the songs must have the same meter and chords so the musical elements can be seamlessly laid on top of one another. But the songs must also carry similar emotions and themes.

They set to work, queuing songs on the computer and pulling albums off his shelves.

With each piece, Roderick shares some trivia about the composers. “Did you know Schoenberg had a phobia of the number 13? And he died on April 13th.” Or “Mozart wrote the overture to Don Giovanni on the morning of the premiere, whilst he had a massive hangover.” “Tchaikovsky, now he was a piece of work, he would hold his chin while conducting because he was afraid his head would fall off.”

Alison cracks up with each fun fact and asks for more. His limitless knowledge amazes her. Although she’s learning, Roderick is not in teacher mode; his eyes sparkle, and his whole demeanour bursts with energy. He discards his jacket and ruffles his hair, and keeps changing track before the previous one is finished because he's too excited to make her hear the next one. “You’ll love Vivaldi’s ‘Gloria’.”

Alison shares her music and trivia too: Joan Jet, Elton John, Nirvana, ABBA. “You’re tapping your foot!” Alison points out gleefully.

“I’m not!”

“Yes you are, you love it.”

“It’s repetitive.”

“It’s catchy. Number one hit. Everyone loves it... Even you.”

She bumps him with her shoulder, and he sighs.

“Why won’t you admit it?” she asks.

“I’ve fought all my life against this type of commercial music.”

She rolls her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying something catchy. Takes a bit of pressure off our shoulders. It’s a happy song, just go with it. It’s like Schumann said.”

“Quoting Schumann now, are we?”

“I am.” She juts out her chin. “More or less. I don’t remember the exact words. But he said that artists must send light into people’s hearts. ABBA does that.”

“You want light in your heart? Surely nothing can possibly surpass ‘Ode to Joy’.”

Beethoven’s ninth symphony starts slowly, and Alison pretends to snore just to taunt Roderick. But the music escalates, and when the voices join in with a jubilant “O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!” Alison springs to her feet and pretends to conduct the recorded choir. She waves her hands as she pleases in exuberant movements.

“No more tea for you. You don’t know what you’re doing,” Roderick says, but he’s laughing.

“I do know! I’m making a fool of myself.” She grins.

Roderick steps up behind her and places his hands on her upper arms.

“Let me show you.”

Despite the space he carefully left between them, his breath brushes her ear, and her breath catches in her throat.

He guides her arms to conduct properly, up and down, along the tempo. It’s a dance of sorts. Two bodies moving to the same rhythm.

“Hold it… now drop.”

A beat of silence and the symphony slows to one instrument, and Roderick moves her arms in long, smooth strokes. Slowly, the tempo increases again into a steady pounding of brass and chords. Her hands thrust through the air as the fortissimo builds up, faster and faster, toward the finale. Roderick’s grip tightens. Her breath quickens. Her heart beats louder than the fourth movement. The symphony reaches its climax. Notes and voices erupt in an intense finish.

The symphony ends and Roderick’s hands stay on her arms. She leans back against him. For a moment, everything is still. The vinyl crackles. His chest swells with sharp breath.

Another song begins and startles them.

“I can do your job now,” Alison jokes to dispel the tension. “More tea?”

She scurries to the kitchen with heated cheeks.

What was she thinking? He’s the conductor of her choir. And the only professional contact she has who might actually help her career.

By the time boiling water is poured in the cups, she’s convinced herself nothing happened.

“You would have liked Beethoven, I think,” Roderick says when she hands him the mug.

“The man himself, you mean?”

“Yes. Even when he started losing his hearing, he made a point of going out with his friends every day. He was a bon vivant.”

She wonders what that has to do with her. Is he saying she’s like Beethoven? Is that a compliment? A very roundabout compliment.

“I think that’s the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

“I know I’m not the most… genial person, but I hope you know I do think well of you, Alison.”

“I think well of you too.”

They smile at each other.

The thing is, even if he’s not the most expansive person when it comes to compliments and encouragements, and despite how much she craves validation, at least one always knows where they stand with him. He’s honest. For someone, like Alison, who has been fooled by flattery in the past, there’s some comfort in that.

They get back to work. The list of songs grows, but they have yet to be paired in a satisfactory mash-up. Roderick outright rejects many songs he deems too commercial (”mass-produced music is the very antithesis of art, it has no soul”), but overall he proves more open-minded than she expected.

They make each other listen to various pieces. Each song invites the other to step into their inner world. It’s not just trivia they’re telling now, but meaningful anecdotes associated with Haydn, Cher, Stravinsky and Tupac.

Time flies, but Roderick never forgets their task. It helps that he enjoys the musical gymnastics of fitting the songs together. Alison looks over his shoulder as he scribbles notes on blank music sheets. After one listen of the songs, he can already identify chords that overlap. His fluency is astounding.

“Can you find me Alessandrini?” he asks, still writing with one hand, the other pointing vaguely towards the shelves.

His collection is sorted in alphabetical order, she spots the album on the highest shelf, but she's shorter than him and has to stretch as high as she can to reach it. Unsteady on her tiptoes, she retrieves the album but also knocks a picture frame off the shelf. She catches it just in time: it’s a selfie of Roderick with Angel Matthews, on holiday judging by the palm trees in the background. Angel is his ex-girlfriend, or so the Internet told her, but if he still has a picture of her in his living room…

She's not even that pretty.

Roderick takes the photo out of her hands.

“I thought you’d broken up”, she says.

“We have.” He replaces the frame on the shelf, face down. “How do you know that?”

“I googled you.”

“Uh. What else did Google have to say?”

He knows. He’s definitely the kind of person who would search for his own name.

“The usual: career, discography… and that you stole a song from another school during a competition last year.”

His features harden. “I see.”

“Did you?”

“Tell me, Miss Crosby, do you think I could do something like that?”

“No. I— I don’t know. Maybe? But I can’t understand why you would.”

He’s a competitive person, and his desire to use Marcus’s handicap and Alison’s beauty to gain an advantage says a lot about that, and yet blatantly stealing another school’s original song right before the competition seems a step too far.

Without answering, Roderick picks up their empty mugs and disappears into the kitchen. Alison waits, wringing her hands. They were having such fun and she's ruined it. He's not going to think well of her now.

Roderick comes back with refilled cups. Alison chokes on the first sip, it’s more rum than tea this time.

He walks across the room to the windows, and back. Finally, he says, “At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing for my students. I was invited to this competition to give it some credibility. I was under the impression our victory was guaranteed. But when I saw the judges and the audience, I knew they would be swayed by emotional appeals and catchy tunes, rather than our musical excellence. My kids were perfect but what if the judges didn’t see that? And there was my brother and my father there.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I made a bad decision. It was blown out of proportion by my detractors.”

“Is that why Angel broke up with you?”

“No. If anything, she encouraged me. But when it turned into a scandal, well…” He shrugs and goes to sit on the leather couch. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Alison isn’t convinced by his explanation. After some hesitation and a few more sips of rum for courage, she sits down next to him.

His straight back progressively hunches over as he circles the rim of his mug with his finger.

“It happened at a peculiar time in my life,” he says without looking at her. “The problem with being a prodigy is that one’s career begins early and therefore… ends early.”

“Are you thinking of retiring? You’re not even 40 yet.”

“I don’t want to. I’m not ready to let music go, but what if she’s ready to let go of me?”

“Oh, Roderick. You always look so confident, I had no idea.” She tentatively strokes his arm.

“Don’t take pity on me.”

“I don’t. I sympathize. I know exactly how that feels.”

He scoffs. “You’re too young.”

“Okay, maybe not exactly, but when I had my birthday last August, I felt like I was getting too old for this, so I told myself I had to make significant progress in my career this year or I would quit. The choir is my last chance.”

“Mine too,” he says.

What a pair they make.

“No, it’s not. It can’t be. You’re a bloody genius. And, you know what, I’m not that old. We’re so daft.”

Roderick chuckles and pats her hand. A fond, but almost paternal gesture, except his hand lingers on top of hers, his thumb rubs along her knuckles. Their eyes meet, he’s not hiding behind his severe glasses anymore, he’s letting her see him, and her heart melts. She gives his hand a little squeeze.

Roderick’s ears perk up, and he looks to the computer. “What is this?”

“Uh? Oh, that’s Florence and the Machine, I think. Yeah, ‘Shake It Out’.”

“This has great potential for choral arrangement.”

Roderick puts his glasses back on and hurries to the piano. He finds the partition online, gives it a cursory glance, and, after another listen, plays the first verse on the piano. Just like that.

“You know the lyrics? Go on.”

Alison sings the intro A Capella, “Regrets collect like old friends Here to relive your darkest moments I can see no way, I can see no way And all of the ghouls come out to play”

He holds her gaze as they adjust to each other’s rhythm. He tweaks the song here and there as she keeps singing. He’s got an idea, she can tell, he slows down after the chorus and he’s looking at her, expecting a reaction, an understanding.

“Wait, play that last part again,” Alison says.

Pride curves his lips into a smile.

“It’s like…”

“Yes.”

“Opus 16!”

He replays the passage and segues into the second movement of Ralph Vaughan Williams’s “Opus 16”, a song the choir already knows.

“We have our mash-up!” Alison says, clapping her hands.

“I think we might.”

They analyse the two songs side by side, trying out different points of transition and choral arrangements.

“Does it work thematically too?” Alison asks.

“Yes, it’s about rising from dark times. Williams wrote it after a hard time in his life, when he thought he’d lost his muse. See this line here: ante lucem tenebris it means dark before light.”

“I had no idea.”

‘Opus 16’ has never been one of her favourite chorals, she liked that it was a bit more upbeat, but now that she understands its meaning, she’s excited to sing it.

She can see it so clearly in her mind’s eye: the concert begins in a very traditional way, they’re in formation, wearing those black robes, singing the classics. And then “Shake It Out” begins, she steps to the front of the stage and discards her robe. Her colleagues follow suit and maybe dance a little. The lighting changes too, curtains part behind them to reveal colourful stage props. The second part of the concert consists of upbeat songs and more mash-ups. People in the audience stand up and clap their hands.

Roderick arches a dubious eyebrow at her suggestion.

“It’d be brilliant,” Alison insists.

“I’ll think about it.”

She stands by the piano and they go through the first half of “Shake It Out”. After the chorus, he slows the tempo, they stay in sync, eyes trained on each other, nodding along the notes. The transition into “Opus 16” is a little rough, but it works.

When she hits the high note in the third verse, her voice falters. Roderick abruptly stops playing, and the disappointment in his eyes cuts her deeper than any of his harsh words ever has before.

“I can do it,” she quickly says. “I’ll work day and night.”

“Clarissa would be able to do it.”

“No! I will. I can do it.”

“You must do it,” he says. “Again, from the top.”

Alison straightens her shoulders and gets ready to sing, but after three cups of tea, she needs the toilet.

From the bathroom, she hears the music Roderick is listening to on the computer. He selects more songs by Florence + The Machine.

She smiles smugly to herself. She did it. She changed his mind.

He skips to another song: “I know that it’s over They say that time’s a healer I’m ready to rise again”

“Oh no no.” She stands up from the toilet, but she’s not done pissing. “Fuck.” She hurries as much as she can.

When she returns to the living room, the song is still playing and Roderick’s face is a haughty grimace.

“Is that you?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s an original song I recorded a while back. In Canterbury.”

“It’s horrendous.”

Alison flinches. His words sting.

“Yeah, it’s silly. Can you stop it?”

“My pleasure. Let’s try the mash-up again, shall we?”

“Actually, it’s getting late, I should go."

“Already?"

I’ve to go if I want to catch the last bus.”

“The bus? At this hour? You must take a taxi. It’s safer.”

“It’s kind of a long ride, I can’t really afford it.”

“Let me call you one, I will put it on my tab.”

Before she can protest, he’s on the phone. She’s too tired to put up a fight.

“He will be here in ten minutes.”

Roderick holds up her coat so she might slip it on.

“I’ll wait downstairs,” she says.

“You’re welcome to wait here.”

“Nah.”

“Okay. In that case, thank you for your help.”

After shifting awkwardly on his feet, he holds up a hand for her to shake.

“Sure. See ya later, Mr. Peterson.”

#Teninch fic #Roderick x Alison #so sorry for the long wait!#Lostinfic writes stuff #d and h #if all goes well #the next chapter will be the denouement

24 notes · View notes