[ He's been going through a handful of transcriptions of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, comparing notations for historical accuracy as well as changes in the piece's various traditions. It's taken him all day, and at this point his bed/couch is full of sheet music and an open laptop with Arrau's version on pause while Elio himself is running through yet another transcription, a fairly modern one, beginner's notations. The adagio resounds between the walls, soft and melancholy while his eyes follow the sheet music, start to finish. His upstairs neighbor who never interacts with him otherwise has stomped the floors four times already. He isn't exactly Mr. Popular right now.
It's not like Elio doesn't know this is pure escapism. It's a way not to think about how Lucifer hasn't called or texted or in any way reached out after their botched one night stand yesterday. Elio's just running through the motions, because the Moonlight Sonata is familiar enough to require very little and so unbearably much of him at the same time, it keeps his head from running in circles. Instead, he can think about how he can't play it like the other man had played it, back at his penthouse. He can't play it like that and Lucifer isn't here. No, Lucifer isn't here, is he?
Two seconds after Elio stops mid-movement, letting his hands sink to his thighs, the doorbell sounds and he frowns, getting up from his sponsored Steinway Model 0 that takes up half his studio apartment. The rest is made up of a corner kitchen with a view of the communal park and somewhere in the middle, his impractical sleeping arrangements. The walls are lined with bookshelves, all full of music theory, history and a broad selection of classic literature. He crosses the room to the door, thinking it might be Hernandez who's finally gotten sick of him. It's getting late, he supposes. Not that he had really noticed. Today's been a blur.
Opening the door slowly, glancing out the crack just to be sure Hernandez hasn't brought something to beat his ass with, he stops for all of a second before throwing it open completely, stepping aside. Oh. ]
I'm really glad to see you, Lucifer. [ Elio smiles, a small smile, just a tug at the corner of his mouth, then cocks his head. ] Please come in.
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It's not like Elio doesn't know this is pure escapism. It's a way not to think about how Lucifer hasn't called or texted or in any way reached out after their botched one night stand yesterday. Elio's just running through the motions, because the Moonlight Sonata is familiar enough to require very little and so unbearably much of him at the same time, it keeps his head from running in circles. Instead, he can think about how he can't play it like the other man had played it, back at his penthouse. He can't play it like that and Lucifer isn't here. No, Lucifer isn't here, is he?
Two seconds after Elio stops mid-movement, letting his hands sink to his thighs, the doorbell sounds and he frowns, getting up from his sponsored Steinway Model 0 that takes up half his studio apartment. The rest is made up of a corner kitchen with a view of the communal park and somewhere in the middle, his impractical sleeping arrangements. The walls are lined with bookshelves, all full of music theory, history and a broad selection of classic literature. He crosses the room to the door, thinking it might be Hernandez who's finally gotten sick of him. It's getting late, he supposes. Not that he had really noticed. Today's been a blur.
Opening the door slowly, glancing out the crack just to be sure Hernandez hasn't brought something to beat his ass with, he stops for all of a second before throwing it open completely, stepping aside. Oh. ]
I'm really glad to see you, Lucifer. [ Elio smiles, a small smile, just a tug at the corner of his mouth, then cocks his head. ] Please come in.