Work Text:
"Don't let the champagne go flat while you're staring at the architecture," Richard remarks, his voice a sharp, cultured blade that cuts through the humid anticipation of the hall.
He steers Edward toward the tiered seating with a firm hand on the small of his back, the physical guidance bordering on a push. Waiting for them is Carice, her small frame vibrating with a kinetic, restless energy. She kicks her legs against the velvet cushion, her heels drumming a frantic rhythm. She beams at Edward, her eyes dancing.
"Dasir! Dasir!" she chirps, her voice a frantic whisper.
She is a coiled spring of excitement, clutching a secret that makes her toes curl in her patent leather shoes. Her papa has a surprise, a gift of monumental proportions, and she is barely containing the urge to scream it into the gilded rafters.
Then, the lights dim, and the air thickens.
Edward freezes. The opening chords are unmistakable—a haunting, visceral resonance that vibrates in his very marrow. It is *The Dream of Gerontius*. He gasps, the sound caught in his throat, as he sees the man at the podium. Pyotr. His husband, his anchor, leading the orchestra with a feral, sweeping intensity. The British premiere had been a disaster of under-rehearsed chaos, but here, translated into German by Pyotr’s own hand, the music is a living, breathing entity.
The tension peaks during a delicate transition. A key on the harpsichord sticks—a jagged, metallic hitch that sends a shudder of anxiety through the hall. For a heartbeat, the music fractures. Edward feels the glitch in his central nervous system, a spike of cold panic.
Pyotr doesn't blink. With a predatory grace, he leans into the error, pivoting the tempo with a sharp, instinctive flick of his wrist. He recovers the melody with a surge of raw, triumphant heat, weaving the mistake into a moment of breathtaking suspense before resolving into a soaring, golden crescendo. The performance is a resounding success, leaving Edward breathless and aching in the dark.