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"So, how did that sound?"
"I am certain my ears will stop bleeding any day now." Czerny looks up from his book in time to catch the glare Ebenholz is shooting his way. "What? I thought that was the point of all this."
While most of their music practice tends to occur in either the music room or Czerny's personal quarters, the Leithanian pair are currently in Ebenholz's room, both seated on his bed. This isn't an official lesson, more an excuse to spend time in each other's company, with Czerny finally taking a break from his own compositions to catch up on some reading while Ebenholz tackles his newest musical project.
Ebenholz sighs and adjusts the guitar on his lap, fiddling with the tuners. "The point is to learn an instrument on my own, without any of the Witch King's influence. And seeing as he does not know the guitar and the sound of it annoys him greatly, it is the perfect instrument to learn." Vigna was the one to suggest the idea, and also loaned him an old acoustic guitar from her collection, covered in stickers from bands he's never even heard of.
Czerny says, "Then you should be overjoyed that you sound horrible! It means you are truly learning this on your own. No one sounds good the first time they try a new instrument, liebling."
"Hrmm." Ebenholz presses fingers to strings again and tries the four chords Vigna had shown him. She'd said these four are the basis for many modern songs, should make a simple starting point. He fumbles more than expected, and he's unsure if it's because he's more used to the cello, or if the lack of the Witch King's influence is to blame. That wretched monarch grumbles in his thoughts, a backdrop to the music in Ebenholz's head and strings. To drown him out even further, Ebenholz softly sings over the guitar riffs; turns out, he can sing many of his recent favorites over these four chords.
When he finally stops strumming, Czerny glances at him with a curious expression on his face. "I almost think your guitar playing sounded worse."
"You are free to leave, you know!"
"...But your voice is quite beautiful. I don't believe I've had the pleasure of hearing you sing before."
Ebenholz's face heats up and his ears twitch as he turns the words over on his tongue. "My voice? Beautiful? I—you can't just say that!"
"First you refuse my critiques, and now I can't even praise you? Then whatever am I to say?"
"You don't have to say anything at all." Ebenholz turns and grabs Czerny by the collar to pull him into a kiss. For a moment, the room is quiet, but the Witch King is not at peace with the reason for this either. Damn homophobe.
Once they finally pull away from each other, they continue leaning against each other as Ebenholz resumes his practice. Czerny offers a couple tips for the fingering. After a time, he goes silent, his book set aside and nearly forgotten. Then after a longer time, once Ebenholz nearly has the chord progression down, a low hum rumbles through the Elafia's chest.
"Oh? Are you going to sing for me now?"
"Nein. My own singing voice is...admittedly quite shoddy."
"You know, someone recently told me that is a good thing." Ebenholz doesn't stop a smirk from creeping onto his face. "Come on, then. I would love to hear mein Schatz sing something."
The chords strike up again. Czerny clears his throat. Looks away from Ebenholz—is he perhaps embarrassed? Yes, as the Caprinae learns once the legendary composer opens his mouth and absolutely caterwauls a handful of notes. It takes all of Ebenholz's efforts not to laugh, his body shuddering from restrained mirth.
Czerny groans and buries his face in Ebenholz's shoulder. "I told you. There is a reason I stick to performing with my fingers."
"I don't know, I've seen you perform quite a few other feats with your mouth." It is not often that Ebenholz is able to tease his partner like this; it's funny to see the normally composed Elafia grumble while his face flushes red as his hair. "Still. It is nice to know that neither of us are masters of every musical art. Perhaps we can practice together, ja?"
"And what, start one of your 'rock bands'? With all the amps and screaming?"
"I mean. You can scream." Another glare. Ebenholz laughs. "On the battlefield, I mean! I swear you spend most of the battle telling our enemies to shut up! That would be perfect for a rock band."
Czerny sighs and sits upright. With utmost caution, he carefully rests his chin on Ebenholz's head, narrowly avoiding the risk of interlocking antlers and horns. "I am afraid that is not for me. You will have to rock, and or roll, with others. If I change genres at all, it will be jazz, and I still haven't nailed that down."
"Really? What, is it too fast for you?"
"Yes and no." Czerny covers Ebenholz's hands with his own, easily dwarfing them. "It is true that while I have a longer reach with the size of my hands, it can be more difficult to play quickly. I can compensate for this with practice, and indeed I practice my performances extensively, especially those that require speed. But much of jazz is improvisation, and at such a jaunty speed. The soloist is constantly changing, and everyone else must fall in line to support. That is...new to me."
"Are you scared of that? Of trying something new?"
Czerny goes quiet in thought again as he and Ebenholz strum the guitar together. Their fingers take turns along the guitar's neck, wires digging into fingertips, leading to a mix of chords from the sticker-laden acoustic. They fall into a sort of rhythm, not entirely in-key or in-time but still better than playing alone. Ebenholz closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the building melody, the warmth of his partner pressed against his back, how the rest of the world seems to have disappeared beyond the two of them in this tiny dorm.
"I have come to realize that I am scared of a great many things, Ebenholz. After all, the name William Fitche Czerny has only ever been associated with orchestral music. What will people think if I change?"
"You don't have to be playing for others anymore, remember? You had your farewell concert. Far as I'm concerned, the rest of the time you've got afterwards should be yours. So why not do what you want? That's what I'm doing." He lets go of the guitar's neck to interlace their fingers together. "What do you say we make a racket together? We can take turns improvising and play as badly as we want in private."
"We'll need far more soundproofing for that. And yet...that does not sound so bad. It has been a long time since I've had anyone to practice with." Czerny's voice took on a distant note here.
Ebenholz doesn't have to ask who his partner is thinking of, just as Czerny doesn't have to ask if Ebenholz is thinking of white hair and a soft smile. What music would their late loved ones have tried, had they survived? Ebenholz tries to keep away from what-ifs, but sometimes he cannot help but wonder. Imagine Kreide beside him, singing softly, and a woman he can't quite picture by Czerny's side. But then...they wouldn't be sitting quite like this, would they? Hand in hand, bodies pressed so close they're nearly one, curled up together on a tiny dorm bed as the landship journeys farther and farther away from the cages that had trapped them so long.
Ebenholz pulls his partner's hand close enough to kiss his knuckles. "Ich liebe dich, mein Schatz."
"I love you too."
"Even when I play guitar so badly?"
"Playing badly is the first step to playing well. We've got time, liebling."
Time. What a strange and precious thing.
Ebenholz returns his fingers to the strings and tries his song once more.