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Bellamy Blake was a damn good conductor.
He had taken over for Kane after he had broken his leg when he fell off the podium during one of his usual, overtly passioante rants about the subtle difference between parallel keys and when Bellamy opened his mouth, Clarke swore that he knew how to play his speeches like an instrument because he had the majority of the orchestra following his every movement before he even raised his hands.
Clarke had worried when her husband took the position that his talents wouldn't be recognized (musicians were known to be wary of new conductors) but the orchestra had taken to Bellamy as quickly as he did to them. Clarke couldn't help the proud smile that spread across her face when she heard her ensemble mates praising Bellamy quietly. She was of the belief that the world should know of his talent. He was energy, pure and raw, when he conducted, pushing and pulling sound from the orchestra like the moon did to the waves. He could translate technical problems well but he imbued musicality within his orchestras naturally. She had the pleasure of watching some of his performances and she was entranced by the way the orchestra seemed to breathe with his hands. It was like watching the rise and fall of the song's chest, watching the heart of it beating, exposed, in the front of the auditorium.
"Alright everyone, let's take it from measure 182." He shook his shoulders loose, raised his hands, and like an escaped gasp, the orchestra raised their instruments. Bellamy silented counted off before they launched into the music. Clarke's eyes stayed on his hands the entire time, honing in on the tempo, letting it embed itself into every muscle in her body. He silently drummed the tempo, sweeping his hands when he wanted more and lightly tapping them when he wanted less. She admired the way his entire body moved with the music, his muscles shifting with the mood of the music. His expression transferred to the orchestra and their sound began to transcend the stage, the building, seemed to settle in the air like elements.
Then the second violins began to sporadically drift in and out tempo. She bit her lip and kept staring resolutely at his hands, praying that they would keep them together. He began to wave his hands more frantically, each movement more pronounced and intense. He was usually passion on the podium, but now he was energy, frantic. Finally, the parts converged back together like a climax. She smiled and returned to her music place.
He began to draw out his hand gestures like molasses and the song began to slowly die out. When the descrendo ended and the last notes faded, Bellamy dropped his arms and she let a sigh escape. She smiled to herself-- he had kept them together. He always did.