#(while Alex is in piano masterclass)

[spaceskam]

could you do 32 with michael guerin?

tags: professors au, marriage proposal, fluff

32. come what may [ao3]

Work sucked.

Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. It was the best job Michael had ever had and it paid well and, objectively, he loved it. It was a good job. It was just also extremely mentally taxing and he couldn’t remember if he had been warned about that in school. Probably not. If they did, he wasn’t sure anyone would willingly become a professor.

Michael heaved a sigh and threw the stack of tests down on his desk. He couldn’t grade another thing. He knew it was a Physics I class and there were students from a slew of different majors that didn’t really give a shit about what he was teaching, but wow. He could only take so many comically incorrect answers.

Before he could throw the tests on the floor and bang his head against the desk, there was a soft knock at the door. Part of him expected it to be a student coming to ask questions. Which, technically, that was fine. He wouldn’t turn them away. He just didn’t want to.

“Come in,” Michael said, looking up.

He was pleasantly surprised to see Alex there instead.

Michael physically relaxed, sinking into his seat with a relieved sigh. Alex grinned and slid inside of his office, closing the door behind him. He carefully took his guitar off his back and made his way closer.

“I’m always happy to see you, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful for your interruption,” Michael confessed, feeling a sick amount of joy whenever Alex pulled his chair out just enough to place himself on the desk. Michael couldn’t even see the tests anymore.

“Well, good thing I stopped by,” Alex said, reaching for him and tugging him back in.

Michael sat on the edge of his chair and craned his neck up, letting Alex be all-encompassing as he kissed him. He had his elbows on his shoulders and his forearms boxing Michael’s head in close. It was comforting. Michael put his hands on his thighs, sliding up until his waist and pulling him towards the edge of the desk. Everything was just Alex.

Technically, this was probably a bad idea. Anyone could knock on the door or barge in at any time and catch them in a rather compromising position. But Michael needed this. He needed him more than words could say.

Teaching at the same school as him had sounded a lot more questionable that ended up being. Michael remembered being terrified that they would be spending too much time together being on the same campus, but that turned out to be a moot point considering Michael was a science professor and Alex was a music professor and the head of the tiny classical guitar department. Their offices were, at minimum, a 15 minute walk apart and half the time they could barely get lunch together.

They were busy all the time. Sometimes Michael couldn’t tell which one of them was busier. Though, with Alex’s private lessons and masterclasses that were on top of normal teaching, he had to assume it was him. Michael did have much more grading to do, though, so it evened out to suck away all of their free time.

“How was your day?” Michael asked as they pulled out of the kiss, though he didn’t pull out of the sanctuary of his arms.

Alex hummed, combing his fingers through Michael’s hair.

“Fine. Ellie came to me crying because she has a piano exam tomorrow and still can’t get it without stumbling, so I spent, like, my entire lunch going over that with her. That was the only eventful thing, really,” Alex said, his long nails scratching the nape of his neck.

“You think she’s gonna pass?”

“She’ll do fine if she just breaths. She gets so tense and it messes her up. But Mariya gets it, she’ll go easy on her as long as she can tell that she’s trying,” Alex explained, craning his head to kiss his temple and then further to kiss his cheek. Michael could feel the tension bleeding out of him.

God, he loved him.

“How was your day?” Alex wondered, still pressing soft kisses anywhere and everywhere.

“Horrible. We should just run away and never come back,” Michael said. Alex huffed a laugh, adjusting to better rest his prosthetic leg on the seat of Michael’s chair. He always said it felt really weird letting it hang. Michael felt bad for forgetting and moved his hand to his knee, taking the brunt of his leg weight.

“What happened that was that bad?” Alex wondered. Michael sighed and just dropped his head to Alex’s chest.

“Nothing specifically, just a long day. I just needed you to distract me. Steal me away from my problems,” Michael murmured. Alex hummed, indulgent.

“What would we do if I stole you away?”

“Elope. Find a cave to hide in,” Michael suggested. Alex gave him a little squeeze in response, kissing the side of his face.

Marriage had been something they’d been speaking of for a while now. Casually, usually, because neither of them could actualize a date that it would work. Both of them were nervous at the idea of taking off of work for something like that. Alex usually had the summer off, but Michael typically picked up a summer class because he would fall apart without a schedule. So it remained something they spoke about in theory.

“Okay. Say we eloped. Would I take your last name? I don’t want you taking mine, fuck my family,” Alex said. Michael made a face, tilting his head up to look at him.

“Well, I don’t want to keep mine. It’s a dumb, meaningless last name that just stands for how I don’t have parents and needed a computer generated one,” Michael said. Alex rolled his eyes, putting his hands on Michael’s cheeks.

“Then what name are we supposed to use?”

“Something that means something. Something special,” Michael said. Alex gave a little gasp and sat up straighter, his eyes lighting up with an idea.

“Skywalker!”

Michael smiled and huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he reached up to touch his face. He was beautiful. Horribly, unrelentingly, perfectly beautiful. 

“We can’t change our name to Skywalker.”

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be made fun of by a bunch of kids every day,” Michael said, rubbing his thumb over his cheek. Alex pouted, overexaggerated and adorable.

“You’re no fun.”

“We’ll keep brainstorming,” Michael suggested. Alex sighed and leaned further in, a smile bleeding onto his face.

“Fine. We’ll keep brainstorming,” Alex agreed, “Maybe we can even start brainstorming about a wedding date?”

Michael hummed and tilted his head up at him.

“Are courthouses open on Saturdays?”

“I’d have to look it up.”

“If they are, let’s go Saturday,” Michael suggested. Alex stared at him for a while, just soft and sweet. It was hard to even remember why he was so angry earlier in the day whenever he was looking at him like that.

“Okay. And if they aren’t?”

“Then I’m just going to start calling you my husband and write a strongly worded letter to the state about how discriminatory it is to be closed on the weekends,” Michael said. Alex huffed a laugh, combing through his hair again.

“Husband,” Alex said, almost like he was practicing. It sent chills down Michael’s spine for some godforsaken reason. “If they aren’t, maybe we can take a Monday off in about a month and go get it done? Liz is off on Mondays and we can just give Isobel a heads up to make some time. Then we’ll have our witnesses.”

“Or we can take a drive up to some 24 hour wedding chapel this weekend and get it done there.”

Alex grinned, “You in a rush?”

“No rush. Just… hate waiting and having to go on other people’s schedule. Super unfair. I should get to marry my husband at 3 AM if I want to,” Michael said simply. Alex smiled even bigger.

“Okay. We’ll do some research when we get home then.”

Michael paused slightly, scanning his face.

“For real?”

“For real.”

Michael blinked once, twice before patting his thighs.

“Okay, then you should get up and let me finish grading this shit so I don’t have to worry about it,” Michael said, suddenly very inspired to finish up. Alex laughed and hopped back onto the ground, turning to look at the tests.

“You need any help?”

“You know enough about physics to grade?”

“Probably not, but if you’ve got an answer key I can help,” Alex said. Michael took a deep breath.

“Have I told you today how much I’m in love with you?” he wondered. Alex snorted and pulled up a chair, taking a few tests.

“No, but I love you too.”

Michael leaned over to press a kiss to his face before giving him the key.

One way or another, this man was going to be his husband soon.

It was worth the wait.

[the-everqueen]

Broom conservatory prompts: "god, you're a fox!" or alternatively, Adams Knows something is up with this boy and confronts Washington about it

Eliza tastes of summer nights and sweet jasmine and the smooth, pearled inside of a seashell.

Alex deepens the kiss as though he could swallow her whole, overcome with the need for more. She presses her hips flush against him, fingers clutching at his shirt; he trails open-mouthed kisses down her throat, runs his teeth over the exposed ridge of her collarbone. Tempting to bite down, but he restrains himself. Look, touch, taste. No eating (though his heart aches with hunger) and no marks (she has opera tonight).

She tilts her head back, thick hair loose around her shoulders, and moans as he nibbles at the pulse in her neck. “Mmm, you’re a fox.”

He freezes.

Eliza opens her eyes, frowning. “What is it?”

Just an expression, Alex. Right. He shakes his head.

“Don’t tell me no one’s ever called you handsome,” she teases. He relaxes, feeling his way back to the fractured moment.

“I tend to let them know before they get the chance.”

She laughs. “You’re impossible.”

“Very,” he agrees. Just how impossible she has yet to discover: they’ve been dating since last semester, and he should warn her before she wakes up to find an actual fox in her bed. He doesn’t want to, though, not yet.

He nuzzles against her neck and she sighs. “Rehearsal.”

“Must you?” He nips at her pulse, making her shiver. “You could stay here.”

“I can’t believe the man who lives in a practice room is encouraging me to skip rehearsal.”

“I sleep here sometimes.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I do! Ask John.”

“Are you that eager to be proven wrong?” She slips from his arms and gathers her things: coat, purse, opera score. “Besides, I can’t leave Laf alone with that many sopranos. It’ll go to his head.”

Alex pouts.

She kisses him on the tip of his nose. “You can come over later. I’ll text you.”

When she’s gone, he feels her absence inside him. He runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to catch her fading sweetness. Her magic - the same magic all humans have, the spark of talent or skill or wit that makes them fascinating to creatures like him - curls warm and gentle in his stomach like a mouthful of tea, enough to sharpen the edge of his hunger but not satisfy.

It makes his skin itch. He’s been human for too long, and it’s getting hard to hold onto the shape: a thin prickle shivers down his spine, the threat of coming undone. He pushes it aside and opens his laptop. He has a paper to write for Dr. Bartow’s class; after that, the promise of Eliza.

John comes back when Alex has reached fever-pitch, words burning at his fingertips as he hurtles towards his conclusion. Alex glances at him. “How was jazz band?”

“If I ever hear ‘Honeysuckle Rose’ again, I will personally challenge Fats Waller to a duel.” John hurls his backpack across the dorm room and sets down his saxophone case with utmost tenderness. “What are you doing here anyway? Isn’t tonight an Eliza night?”

“Opera rehearsal. Something about staging.” Alex pauses to stare at the screen, mulling over synonyms. “She’s gonna get me when it’s over.”

“Mm.” John flops next to him on the bed. “Have you told her?”

“Not yet.”

“Alex…”

“I will! I just… haven’t found the words.”

John gives him a flat look.

“Since when are you the reasonable one?”

“Since jazz band sucked out my soul.” John rolls onto his stomach. “You’re the one who came up with this arrangement, and part of the deal was communication.” His tone implies air-quotes around the last word. “I can’t keep going to Pancake Wednesday and not scream, ‘our Alexander is a fox!’”

“You should, it’d be funny.”

John swats him. Alex responds with a pathetic whine: not a human sound, but an effective one, as past domestic disputes have proven. It does little for him in the present. John sobers, his mouth turning down, eyes bright and earnest. He smells like gunpowder and citrus, tastes of overripe peaches.

“If you want this to work,” he says, “you can’t keep secrets. I get not spilling everything but this -”

Alex’s phone buzzes.

E: outside Morris Hall, meet me and i’ll drive. we can grab takeout?

“That’s Eliza.” Shutting his laptop, Alex pecks a kiss at John and catches a mouthful of curls. “See you in class.”

John grunts, burying his face in the mattress. “Talk to your girlfriend!”

“I will,” Alex promises, already moving out the door.

Later, he thinks. He’ll do it later.

***

Later comes sooner than he intended.

It looks more or less like this: him standing naked in the bedroom, arms folded across his chest, bushy tail tucked between his legs; Eliza staring at him, mouth fallen open, fisted hands clutching the sheets over her breasts. The last few minutes are a blur. He remembers her hands hot on him, her scent obliterating all thought.

He shivers.

“Oh God,” Eliza breathes. “You’re a fox.”

“It isn’t - don’t look at me like that - I can explain -”

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of her. “Can you?”

“Well, I -” And here it is, the problem he’s been skirting for weeks. What is he supposed to say? I’m a magical creature who’s been feeding off your talent and kindness since we met, but it’s fine because I love you and would never eat your heart. Stupid Alex, stupid, for not shifting sooner, for thinking he could pass as human. He ducks his head, licks his lips nervously. “I could show you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just gives in to the white noise buzzing under his skin. It’s easy, though not painless, like being transposed into another key. He shakes out his fur, pricks his ears, and draws on a bit of his allure, looking to Eliza for her reaction.

Her eyes widen. She relaxes her grip on the sheets, swings her legs over the edge of the mattress. “Kitsune,” she whispers.

A thrill runs through him at the naming. Names have power: she knows him for what he is, as well as what he calls himself. He lowers his ears and inches closer to her, wanting more than even he would have thought possible.

She holds out her fingers in the same way he’s seen her approach stray cats. Very carefully, so as not to startle, he noses at her hand and gives it a gentle lick. See? It’s me. Eliza lets out a trembling laugh and strokes his ears, her face lit with something like wonder. “Oh, Alexander.”

Okay, he’s past patiently waiting. In one fluid motion, he leaps onto the bed and squirms into Eliza’s lap. Blinks at her with the cuddle me? expression he’s perfected on John. She shakes her head but pulls him into her arms. “You ridiculous charmer.”

Alex nestles up against her, nibbles at her throat. She swats his muzzle. “I swear, you’re no different like this.”

He purrs.

She rubs his belly for a minute and then asks quietly, “Does John know?”

He lowers his eyes.

“You should have told me. Maybe not in the beginning, but when we realized this was going to be serious…” She sighs. “I want you to be able to trust me.”

Faeries don’t trust anyone - favors, promises, and agreements hold more weight than that transient concept - but Alex loves her and he thinks maybe that can mean the same thing. At least, he wants to take away the wrinkle between her brows, smooth it into a happier expression. He nuzzles at her chest and makes a drawn out whine.

Her mouth tugs into a smile. “I know, darling, but we’re still going to talk about it later. I think John should be included, too. We’ll go out for pancakes - no sense in breaking tradition.” She kisses the tip of his nose, just as she did earlier. “For now, we both have 8:00 AMs tomorrow. Let’s get some rest. That would be enough.”

[cristalconnors]

BEST ALBUMS OF 2019: TOP TEN

SPECIAL CITATIONS:

HOMECOMING: THE LIVE ALBUM, Beyoncé

The live album feels like a lost art form. Of late, many feel thrown together without much thought- an offering to the most ardent of fans about as meaningful as a gift card you’d give your coworker. Homecoming is the antithesis of that: a flawless documentation of Beyoncé’s benchmark live performance at the 2018 edition of the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival that is a staggering recontextualisation of her entire life’s work, dazzlingly criss-crossing her discography, offering rollicking, thoughtful new arrangements of classics and deep-cuts alike, filtered through the lens of HBCU marching band, playing like a half time show that goes on and on and on, offering the final, definitive evidence that Beyoncé is the greatest showman in modern history by leaps and bounds. 

LEAK 04-13 (BAIT ONES), Jai Paul

Discovering Leak 04-13 (Bait Ones) sometime in the summer of 2013 was like being let in on a secret. I felt like the member of an exclusive club of people in-the-know, the possessor of a forbidden document that could only be discussed in hushed tones and accessed illegally. The circumstances of its arrival were uncertain. Had he leaked it purposefully? Were all of the songs really his? It didn’t even have a proper name (it would be christened Leak 04-13 (Bait Ones) many years later). The enthralling mystery of it was eclipsed only by the music itself. It sounded like you shouldn’t have been listening to it, a top secret transmission intercepted and compromised in the process. Its stunningly lush, busy textures were threadbare, pieces of the songs suddenly falling away only to reappear, as if you were streaming it and your internet connection was struggling to keep up. But that only contributed to the mystical grandeur of this earth shattering R&B that felt so purposeful, so impeccably sequenced (not by Jai), so bizarre and at times even funny, so much so that it was difficult to imagine how it could possibly be unfinished- it was perfect.

I don’t think I’d ever really understood how thoroughly devastating the leak was to Jai Paul himself until I read the lengthy note that accompanied his abrupt return on June 1st of this year, when he not only graced us with two stunning new tracks but properly released this album for the first time, a remarkable gesture of goodwill to his fans who gleefully partook in the stolen material, many without much regard to how it’d become available to them. Reading the letter, I felt guilty. The extent to which the leak derailed his career, demolished his trust in the institutions the industry is built on, compelled him to cast himself away from music entirely- his lifeline- and, in his own words, “withdraw from life in general” was genuinely heartbreaking. But the official release of the album that caused so much strife is the culmination of a years long journey of recovery, reconciliation, and growth. It’s a hard-earned reclamation of ownership that signals that Jai Paul, one of the most vital, distinct voices to emerge from the decade, is ready to get back on the horse. Look out.

THE TOP 10 ALBUMS OF 2019:

10. CALIGULA, Lingua Ignota

Caligula is maybe the most stunning document of feminine rage I’ve ever heard- an improbable synthesis of metal and opera imbued with biblical imagery and defined by language that’s as flowery as it is vicious (“may your own shame hang you / may dishonor drown you / may there be no kindness / no kindness / no kindness”). Kristin Hayter’s classically trained voice bends almost to the point of snapping, sometimes bringing her tongue to her soft palate to make a sound somewhere between a hum and a gurgle before launching into blood curdling shrieks as the music around her morphs as well, twinkling piano and organ giving way to billowing, thunderous guitar. It’s music that belongs in a symphony hall, if only they’d allow moshing.

09. SINNER, Moodymann

The songs on Sinner, Kenny Dixon, Jr.’s twelfth album as Moodymann, unspool on their own terms, continually mutating as they go on, shifting gears just when you think you’ve got a handle on them. His house isn’t very dense, but there’s always a remarkable amount of intrigue in his deceptively simple sound, evoking early 70′s R&B until strange idiosyncrasies pop out organically from the fabric of the song, pulling focus, reframing it as you’re listening to it. It’s strange, compelling stuff that beckons you to dive beneath its surface, promising you’ll find something new each time.

08. NO HOME RECORD, Kim Gordon

My favorite Sonic Youth songs were always the ones Kim Gordon did lead vocals on. Her hulking monotone was strangely captivating, even when it wasn’t clear what she was even talking about (which was most of the time.) No Home Record is a sublime capitalization and expansion of her power as a vocalist and writer, embracing those same abstract sensibilities that have defined her work for nearly 40 years but pushing them boldly into the future, crafting entrancing, often menacing sonic dreamscapes that are littered with oblique, powerfully resonant hints at the fruits of her near decade of self-discovery after divorcing Thurston Moore. It’s a debut decades in the making that shockingly reveals new, untapped powers from an indelible titan of rock we thought we’d had pegged.

07. HOUSE OF SUGAR, (Sandy) Alex G

Alex Giannascoli’s folk rock warps itself, intentionally obscuring textures and images in a convoluted effort to clarify the feeling behind them. It shouldn’t work but always does, and on House of Sugar, his eighth full-length effort in just nine years, he finds thrilling new power in simplicity and repetition, exemplified by the woozy abstract tapestry of songs like “Walk Away,” “Taking,” or “Near,” wringing a simple phrase, or even just a word, for everything it’s worth, repeating them over and over and over again to craft crystal clear images of longing and pain. But the more traditional songs are just as gripping, striking his strange balance between downtown and backwoods, crafting folk that emanates from deep in the soul and soars out into outer space. 

06. BANDANA, Freddie Gibbs & Madlib

Freddie Gibbs and Madlib reunite on the most virtuosic rap album of the year, taking their unlikely marriage of gangster rap and delicately constructed, meditative beats that sound almost like memories to astonishing new heights. Gibbs grapples with personal demons- the lowest lows of his career, his ongoing relationship with drug abuse- but also flexes, showcasing his effortless flow as he flawlessly keeps pace with Madlib’s twisty production, navigating signature changes and tricky rhythms with ease, perfectly in concert with Madlib’s searching, soulful looping beats that envelop you, contorting right when you’ve settled into them. The collaboration keeps you on your toes, demanding your full attention as they whisk you through their kaleidoscopic vision of masterful, immersive rap.

05. ALL MIRRORS, Angel Olsen

The breakup album has never sounded so lush. Plenty can wax poetic about ridding themselves of toxic partners and of newfound freedom, but Angel Olsen tries to get to the heart of what it all meant, how she’d allowed herself to get lost in the relationship, forgetting herself. She makes the process sound luxurious, utilizing a 12-piece orchestra to inject a bolt of energy and welcome drama into her abstracted songwriting, embracing the darkness and working through it to find herself anew on the other side.

04. WHEN I GET HOME, Solange

When I Get Home sounds like you should be listening to it in a museum- and knowing Solange you’ll probably be able to at some point. Its heady sophistication is constantly announcing itself to you, but that’s not to say that it’s impenetrable. It’s her most personal effort, a surreal tour through the Houston of her memory and the Houston of her imagination, exploring the sounds she was reared on, but refracting them, embracing repetition to create a dreamlike, prismatic journey through her influences that, as Solange puts it, can’t be a singular expression of herself “there’s too many parts, too many spaces, too many manifestations, too many lines, too many curves, too many troubles, too many journeys, too many mountains, too many rivers, so many...”

03. NORMAN FUCKING ROCKWELL!, Lana Del Rey

Norman Fucking Rockwell! is Lana Del Rey’s victory lap, an amalgamation of everything she’s always done well packed into a sprawling 68 minute apocalyptic opus, invoking Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, and most memorably, Sublime while utilizing her trademark playful, disaffected word play to craft a soaring requiem for the world as we know it. “L.A.’s in flames” and who cares when there’s a good time to be had? It’s a stunning “fuck you” to an industry and populace that dismissed her viciously when she arrived on the scene, forging her masterpiece on her own terms.

02. U.F.O.F., Big Thief

U.F.O.F. evokes the sensation of reaching out and attempting to make a connection- a connection with another realm, with the dead, with alien life, with a distant lover. The music is open and searching, and to hear the band talk about the process of writing and recording it, this spirit of experimentation was present in the studio. They’d tinker with instruments none of them knew how to play, hoping whatever they could coax out of it might speak to the ethereal textures and opaque poetry of the music they were working on. The result is a ghostly folk masterclass that launches Big Thief into the stratosphere as they work seamlessly in tandem to craft music that touches God.

01. TITANIC RISING, Weyes Blood

Struggling to cope with a world on the precipice of collapse, Natalie Mering looks backward, invoking the baroque pop of the 1970′s to search for solace in the stars or the arms of another, like Karen Carpenter scrolling through Tinder or Co-Star. But trying to stave herself away in the past only finds herself submerged in her childhood bedroom. So she bolts forward, utilizing familiar frameworks to craft stunningly lush, contemporary and urgent pop that grapples with crises both personal and apocalyptic with an optimism that feels not naive but like a vital lifeline, like a hand reaching out in the darkness to pull you to safety. It may be a futile gesture, but at the end of a decade that’s abruptly descended into a hellscape, it’s a call to keep the faith and forge on.

[thesinglesjukebox]

LADY GAGA - STUPID LOVE

[6.42]

Far from "Shallow" now...

Brad Shoup: Thudding sixteenths and vocal chop straight out of a Todd Edwards remix... it's always great when she visits. [8]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: It must be exhausting to be Lady Gaga. Here's a short list of her accomplishments since 2013's ARTPOP: winning a Grammy for a jazz duets album, winning a Golden Globe for her role in American Horror Story, headlining the Super Bowl, co-hosting arguably the best Met Gala in years, winning an Oscar for A Star is Born, getting a number one Billboard single from the soundtrack, launching a vegan make-up line, and starring in a Las Vegas residency. And yet, the dominant critical narrative has still essentially been: Gaga is absent from pop music. (For comparison, Katy Perry has been a judge on American Idol.) Of course, her self-mythologizing is partially to blame for this, but it's unclear what could have possibly satisfied her critics and die-hard fans outside of re-reinventing music à la 2010. So what's her move given the weight of the world's impossible expectations? To make simple, unpretentious pop music on her own terms. In a recent Billboard interview, she laughed while stating, "I would like to put out music that a big chunk of the world will hear, and it will become a part of their daily lives, and make them happy every single day." My first reaction upon reading this was: yes, we should hold Gaga to a higher standard because she's Gaga, but how can we balance that with the potentially damaging effects for her mental health and sanity? So on "Stupid Love" when she sings, "Now it's time to free me from this chain/I gotta find that peace, is it too late?" I like to hope it's meta-commentary on her rediscovering the joy in her music and being, free of expectation. Gaga tracks are often described as "huge" or "epic", but none has ever so perfectly embodied "fun." I'm definitely excited about how this track sounds -- an ebullient return to her earliest disco pop roots, at a time when radio is dominated by trap -- but "Stupid Love" stands out to me because of her embrace of radical self-love. This is the Gaga that I've always loved -- and she's always been enough. [9]

Leah Isobel: The production filters back an entire decade's worth of Stefani's influence into a three-minute Fruit Gusher burst of tang, but the lyrics are decidedly forward-looking, all declarative statements of "now is the time!" bullshit. In the middle of this past/present/future time-play, as the beat drops out beneath her, she asserts the key line: "all I ever wanted was lahv." If it's a disappointingly shallow retcon for an artist whose initial breadth and ambition was the entire point, the promise of it lingers in my brain. After all, it's not too far from a similar pop megalomaniac realizing that she "traded fame for love without a second thought" about 20 years ago. That rich vein of popstar self-examination writ large is so suited to Gaga's talents as an artist -- a provocateur, fake-deep philosopher, musical theatre nerd, and hook-writing master all at once -- that I have listened to this song five times in a row pretty much every single day since it, uh, appeared on the internet. My paws are reluctantly up, Stef. Don't fuck it up. [7]

Jessica Doyle: Fun, and otherwise unremarkable. If you've been a Gaga fan for a while -- if you're invested in the narrative of this hardworking woman, who has been through downs and ups and downs and then ups again -- I imagine the fun is enhanced by a certain comfort and relief in seeing her have fun; in imagining her feeling strong and secure enough to release a fun song that doesn't have to upend anything. But I am a heartless, acontextual consumer, for whom the marginal cost of listening to something else is zero, and I miss "Bad Romance." [5]

Tobi Tella: For an artist who at her peak overstuffed everything with too many ideas, there's really not much happening here. It's loud and upbeat, sure, but the lyrics are barely the thread of a coherent song, and the production reminds everyone who wants "pure" pop to come back to be careful what they wish for. Maybe that A Star is Born "pop music bad guitar music good" cynicism rubbed off too much? [4]

Katherine St Asaph: Just when I thought Gaga was lost to the land of Real Music™, or worse, flailing attempts to be chill by the least chill performer in pop music (yes, including Taylor Swift), she goes and releases this, 50,000 firecrackers on a Eurovision stage. The thicket of hooks is packed, with Black Midi levels of referential density. The whole thing sounds like "Born This Way," which is to say it sounds like "Express Yourself"; there's a juddering sequencer out of "Do What U Want" (reminds me more of "Weekend" by Class Actress, but which is more likely to be the actual inspiration?) and a touch of, of all things, September's "Cry For You." Gaga fills every crevice of the song with singing, throaty and belty and huge: a relief after years of songs filled only with half-assed #vibes. If it feels frivolous against much of Born This Way and The Fame Monster and some of Artpop, and far less ambitious, it at least pulls her out of the "Shallow" piano muck. [7]

Vikram Joseph: Perhaps a stupid song about making stupid choices is the Lady Gaga lead single we both need and deserve in 2020. The battering-ram synths feel like running down a hill into a gale-force wind; the best thing about "Stupid Love" is that Gaga sounds like she's having a lot of fun, and by extension so are we. [7]

Alex Clifton: "Stupid Love," much like "Born This Way" before it, is ready-made for pride parades, grown from the same mystical lab that gave Lady Gaga her incredible melodic sensibilities. Unlike its predecessor, though, it has more euphoria in it, presumably because it's not making a political point. Gaga's more focused on having fun here, and you can tell. The verses aren't my favourite, but the chorus hits as an overwhelming rush of dopamine, and now I can't stop dancing in my computer chair. Between this and Dua Lipa's album, we're in for a hell of a good time for pop music this spring, and I am extremely excited. [7]

Thomas Inskeep: She was doing this better a decade ago. A lot better. [2]

Joshua Lu: The narrative surrounding "Stupid Love" regards it a return to the Pop Gaga that's been mostly absent since 2013: A revival if you're a fan, a regression if you're not. The issue with this narrative is that "Stupid Love" lacks any key similarities to the Gaga of yesteryear; the only real sonic link is how the bassline brings to mind the since-redacted "Do What U Want" beat. Instead we have something that's somehow not a Kygo song, with vocal chirps that got old last year, serviceable but clichéd hooks (the entire pre-chorus has all the charm of a Taio Cruz album track), remarkably basic lyrics filled with platitudes, and a title that has no bearing on anything in the song -- there's nothing lyrically or aurally stupid about anything here, and Gaga has shown a deep capacity to be stupid in her past pop works. In reality, what we have here isn't a return to anything, but rather the continued flagging of Gaga's desire to develop genuinely off-beat or interesting pop music, whether intentional or not. Gaga's talents as a vocalist elevate the song beyond the usual pop pap, but it's not nearly at the level I once hoped she could remain at. [6]

Alfred Soto: Kudos to Jamieson Cox for catching an obvious forebear: the rattling sequencer recalls 2013's forgotten "Do What U Want," which was all set to do some business until radio programmers remembered R. Kelly had been a menace for years. Amiably confusing lack of affect with simplicity, "Stupid Love" flexes its pop strength with the expectation that fans will admire it. [7]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: The synths pack a punch but they never quite get me to where I should be. I wanna feel desperation, exasperation -- that love is worth looking stupid for. All I get is a familiar, quasi-stoic performance that sounds like Gaga's doing some excellent karaoke. [4]

Kayla Beardslee: Sure, it's competent, but Gaga is capable of so much more. Many other blurbs will discuss the song's aggressive datedness and bland lyrics, but what really bothers me is that the two halves of "Stupid Love" -- the dramatic vocals and the unrelenting gallop of the synths -- don't fit together. Gaga is giving her all with those signature "laahv"s, but there's just not enough empty space left for her in the production. Her performance ends up laying flat on top of the track, adding nothing except a sense of laziness from her producers and engineers. [5]

Pedro João Santos: Serviceable Max Martin bopathon scams its way into my brain again -- no matter how direly in need of an incubator this whole structure is. Gaga's weakest lead single feeds you Kygo, threatens to ascend during "All I ever wanted was love", and still can't fight the aura of afterthought. [6]

Jibril Yassin: "Stupid Love" is a giddy rush of EDM-pop fun, but it's the first time experiencing a major Gaga single entirely devoid of surprises. Bracing yourself for a twist that never arrives or a strange turn of vocals rearing its head from nowhere, "Stupid Love" makes up for its unremarkableness with a masterclass in songwriting. What Lady Gaga hasn't forgotten how to do is translate the feeling of having your initial gut feelings completely validated. "Stupid Love" makes its magic in casting the act of love as necessary and dare I say it -- radical. [7]

Jackie Powell: On "Stupid Love" Lady Gaga achieved a corollary. By trying to put her healing process into simple poetry, she also created an accompanying sound that's comparable to an analgesic. The function of the track is to heal and liberate. (Truth be told, Little Monster or not, the song has helped me get out of bed in the morning.) Gaga's latest cut is packaged into a familiar formula, and that's part of the reason why this track serves as a formidable lead single and symbol for the upcoming Chromatica. The equation is one that mirrors the "best of" Stefani Germanotta. What's brilliant about "Stupid Love" is that its visual and lyrical messaging and surrounding sonic arrangement and melody bring what Little Monsters and casual music fans with a Gaga fascination expect. And that's okay. She has told Oprah that her goal now isn't just to shock people but rather to exude authenticity. She stirs elements from all of her pop eras into the most hearty and flavourful version of Gaga soup (and that does include Joanne contrary to popular belief.) Each ingredient works and is soluble. She tossed in the elements of the The Fame that made fans want to Just Dance and sprinkled some catchy Swedish-sounding pop melodies (Max Martin, hello!) and sung onomatopoeia from The Fame Monster, à la the "hey-ah, hey-ahs." A suspenseful build, uniquely potent and soaring vocals are ounces of Born This Way. Don't worry, ARTPOP is doused on this track not only in color, but in sound. There's a reason why that sped up "Do What U Want"-esque bassline works. There's a contrast between her bright vocal performance and the electronic bass' darkness. Joanne comes across in the allegorical concept which once again can be interpreted to reflect the current American experience. Music video director Daniel Askill confirmed that Gaga wanted to portray the "warring tribes as a metaphor for the state of the world today." So, Mother Monster is on a mission to introduce the world to her new brainchild, ever-developing ideologies and honest ways to examine life. "Stupid Love" isn't the end-all but merely the beginning. Paws up and welcome to Chromatica bitches. [8]

Nortey Dowuona: NOPE! WAIT. wait. This is actually a welcome back for... the bass, who is joined by his drumming sister, his synth bros and Lady Gaga, who has come here from the Make A Wish Foundation to take him around New York. They have a wonderful day together, with the synth bros getting their percussive background vocal girlfriend an NYPD hoodie, and the experience convinces Lady Gaga to make bright, happy pop music again! (The bass, in the midst of a happy dance, got hit by her limo and had to go back to the hospital.) [8]

Scott Mildenhall: Between its hyperventilating over-excitement and ever-exciting hyper-sincerity, Gaga seems to have finally created a pop emergency. The false alarm of "Applause" was overstuffed and underpowered, but "Stupid Love" redresses that balance by going harder and clearer, like a newly thawed cut from a cryogenically frozen, course-correcting Artpop Monster edition. Time might seem to have turned in on itself, but no: the greater lyrical directness arrives in a way that feels culminatory. The plainspokenness of that indelible "all I ever wanted was love" makes it almost an epitaph, grounding it in a present in which all experience has been lived, and all realisations are realised. Undeniably, Lady Gaga is not dead, but this is what she knows. [8]

Will Adams: I defended "The Cure" and lamented the immense pressure on Gaga to make every release the Next Big Thing, however even that soured when it turned out to be part of A Star Is Born's ~superficial pop~ world. So where to next, when she's caught between turgid rock balladry and ill-fitting trop-pop? On "Stupid Love," we get the best possible outcome: whizzing past Joanne, making a brief stop at Artpop but ultimately landing on the dazzling excess of Born This Way. Like any good synthpop number, the synths display a wide range of textures: they tunnel, they drill, they poof, they gleam. Gaga is more than willing to match their energy. Noteworthy, though, is that she takes a brief pause only on the pre-chorus's "all I ever wanted was love"; even the way the title scans it almost sounds like she could be singing "I want just to be loved." This is the essence of pop: amidst the big dumb fireworks display, a human message at the core. [7]

[the-everqueen]

oh also! when Alex said he was "gone that one year" in the last ficlet, what was he referring to?

for reference, that’s this fic. i could have given a short answer, but instead y’all get the long and Sad one. fair warning: this is the Bad Summer. heed the tags.

Coming onstage to scattered applause, Alex bows to the dozen or so students and teachers in the audience before he takes his seat and launches into the Rachmaninov.

His mind wanders while he plays. A new trick, something to keep him from smashing the keys and screaming endlessly during lessons with Jefferson, or these masterclasses, one after another, people picking apart his every gesture. Crescendo more in measure ninety-two, don’t flick your eyes at that point, listen to the tone listen to the tone listen to the damn tone, as though the quality of that particular B-sharp will make or break his entire performance. As though they would care if it did.

He thinks of Eliza, always. Her lilac perfume, the saucy curve of her mouth, the softness of her skin at vital  points - throat, wrist, hip - and her voice going high and breathless when she comes. Maybe the tenderness he feels for her will come through the music, where he feels nothing. Like masturbation: get off on a fantasy. Except these days Alex can’t even find release; performing always leaves him drained, chasing the ghost of a feeling.

He should be with Eliza, he thinks, as he moves into the agitato section. Last summer she brought him to stay with her family at their lake house: the two weeks are a warm haze in his memory, full of her and lemonade and sun on the water. If he were there now, he would play for her: mess around on the Schuyler piano and write silly lyrics for her to sing along.

Instead he is here, at the Aspen Summer Music Festival. Because he needs the connections, because Jefferson told him it wasn’t optional. A nine-week carnival of masterclasses and seminars and recitals. Alex hasn’t stopped playing since the first day.

He is so tired.

He finishes the piece. Drops his hands into his lap. The guest pianist - someone famous from Peabody or Colburn, Alex doesn’t care - comes around to him and starts into his critique. What is your intent for this piece? How long have you been working on it? The usual questions and Alex gives short answers or non-committal grunts. Just let him go, send him offstage, shut up shut up shut up -

“Good work,” the guy tells him, and Alex escapes back into the audience.

He takes an aisle seat, next to a girl hunched over a black binder. IMSLP, he thinks, free sheet music online - the go-to for broke students like him. Jefferson hates the loose pages, so Alex had to sacrifice a hundred bucks for Urtext editions. At least he took first at that one competition; the prize money meant he could afford express shipping.

The next victim appears onstage. Alex leans over to the girl and murmurs, “You playing for this thing?”

She gives a tight nod, slides the binder over so he can see the score. Brahms sonata, F minor. Huge chords and leaps, but her long, narrow fingers ghost the plastic-protected page and he knows she doesn’t have any trouble reaching. The score is almost obliterated by pencil markings: jagged cursive spells out note names, circles dynamics, and - most of it is this - fragments of sentences, including what might be a Yeats reference and the words “like Orfeo descending to Hell.”

She’s watching him. Something about her feels familiar, the wariness in her eyes, the way she chews on her lower lip, a nervous tick.  

He hands back the binder. “You’re going to be fine. Mercer - you’ve seen him - he gets excited but there’s not really any substance. No reason to be nervous.”

She doesn’t smile, exactly, but her mouth turns up at one corner. "Thanks.”

When it’s her turn, Alex claps loudly. The masterclass is an informal event, but she’s wearing a red sundress that shows her bare legs and shoulders. Her loose curls slip from their ponytail, brushing the nape of her neck.

Alex tries not to stare.

She catches his eye as she bows to the audience, and he gives her his best encouraging smile.

She’s talented. Everyone here is, but she stands out. Her selection - the third movement, the Intermezzo - and her interpretation. It’s dark and harsh, a strange characterization of a transient movement; but then he remembers the last movement is a furious rondo, and the falling melodic line feels like a moment taken out of context, raw and inexplicable. While Mercer drones on about function and form, Alex digs through his messenger bag for the program, finds the girl’s name.

Maria Lewis.

Mercer gives her some vague suggestion and ends the class. Alex stands as Maria comes back for her purse.

“That was incredible.”

"It isn’t right yet. Almost there, but…” She shrugs.

"What are you going for? I mean, not like that, everyone asks that, but to me it sounded… Tragic.  Not sad, but - Shakespeare. You see the ending coming but you’re powerless to stop it.”

She stares at him.

Alex hasn’t rambled about music since Kings. Jefferson hates it, has rules about comments in forum. Everything written, two criticisms, one compliment. Alex used to cram his index card with tiny script, trying to get it all down despite the restrictions, but Jefferson called him out so many times it didn’t seem worth it after a while. Let Callander be sloppy. Let Madison be dry and inexpressive. Focus on your own rep.

He forgot he liked talking about music.

Maria probably thinks he’s a freak, though, so he opens his mouth to apologize.

She beats him to it. “That’s how I hear it, too.”

And that confirmation is the release he’s been craving. The words pour out of him, like she nicked an artery. "I think all Brahms is tragic, maybe because the dude had such a sad life - I mean, his best friend died in an asylum, Clara rejected him - but this sonata is another level. It’s like a symphony - you know how he idolized Beethoven? Tried achieve that legacy? But the piano is too limited, too intimate for a public statement and the F minor feels like it’s trying to crawl out of its skin. Wants to be something it can’t be.”

He keeps going, on and on, his hands making broad gestures, and he’s aware he is close to her, enough to see the green flecks in her eyes, the slight swell where her breasts curve above the neckline of her dress. He stops mid-sentence, distracted, and swallows.

She tilts her head, considering. “Could you maybe help me with the second page? I’m having trouble with voicing.”

“Yes,” he says immediately, and then backtracks. “I mean, not right now, I’m supposed to rehearse Shostakovich with Will, but tonight? You’re at the Federalist hotel, right? I think they put all of us on the same floor, trying to contain the musicians. Anyway, there’s a piano in the ballroom. It’s private, but bigger - more open than a practice room. Less claustrophobic.”

She nods. “Sounds good.”

He grins, relieved. "Maybe you can give me some ideas for the Rach.”

That gets a real smile out of her. Her eyes light up, the corners creased with amusement. “Oh. I had some thoughts about that.”

“I want to hear them.”

***

Eliza calls after the rehearsal, while he’s walking back to the hotel.

“Alexander,” she says, and something in him realigns, like a compass pointing north. “How was your day?”

The masterclass springs to mind, Maria and the tiny thaw he felt, the promise of spring after an eternal winter. But that seems wrong to mention, for reasons he can’t explain, so he says instead, “Will and I rehearsed the Shostakovich. First time run through, and he can’t sight read to save his life. I don’t even know how he’s getting his master’s in piano, he could play better with his feet.”

He meant to be funny, but she doesn’t laugh. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“I miss you.” It bursts out of him. “I shouldn’t have come here, I should have told him no…”

“I miss you, too. But we’ll have other summers. And it’s just one more year.”

"Yeah.” He sighs. He hasn’t told her, how bad it’s been, though she must be able to tell. She always knows. “Tell me about your day. Please. Just talk.”

She does. Describes the aria she’s working on, tells him the funny things her students said in their lessons, muses over her theme for their recital. Any other day her voice would be a comfort, but today it just makes his skin crawl with want. He presses the phone closer to his ear. Maybe if he tries, really tries, he can reach through and she’ll touch him and everything will be fine.

He gets to the hotel as she concludes her day. There’s a pause, and then: “Mom and Dad want you to come over for Thanksgiving. I know you couldn’t last year, but…”

"I wanted to, Eliza, believe me.”

"I know,” she soothes. “And if you can’t, it’s fine. I just don’t want you to be alone. Also Mom insists you need her pie, says you could stand to gain some weight.

He breathes a laugh; it sounds more like a sob. "I’m fine.”

“You haven’t had dinner, have you?”

“It’s been a long day -”

“How many Red Bulls?”

“Just two, I’m fine.”

“Alexander.”

He steps inside the lobby. Maria sees him and starts walking over. “Eliza, I have another rehearsal, last minute. I promise I’ll eat something.”

“Dinner! If it’s from a vending machine it doesn’t count.” Her voice softens. “I love you.”

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

He hangs up as Maria joins him. "So, the ballroom is down this hall - found it on the first day when I needed some practice time and the kids in the music building wouldn’t stop their pissing contests. I guess they use it for big events but the festival has taken over so no one wants to book the space. Anyway, the staff don’t mind.”

He pushes open the double doors to reveal a spacious room with rows of chandeliers and linen-draped tables. The piano stands on a raised platform at the far end, a full sized concert grand, sleek and black and sexier than a sports car. He runs his hand over the inner curve and pushes up the lid.

“Might as well hear it,” he mutters.

Maria pulls out her score.

“You don’t need that.”

“But -”

“You can’t even see the music anymore. And the words are inside you.” He pulls a fold-up chair next to the piano. “Just start. Wherever you want.”

She’s tense, her shoulders rounded and her thighs clenching, visible as her dress rides up against the edge of the bench. She has to pause a few measures in. “Sorry.”

He bumps his knee against hers. “It’s just me. We’re peers.” A thought occurs to him. “You’re an undergrad?”

"Junior. Well, senior. In the fall.”

“Ah.” Beat. “You know, this is a hard piece -”

“Look, just because I didn’t go to Julliard or Kings doesn’t mean I can’t play piano. I’m here, aren’t I?” She inhales sharply through her nose. “Sorry.”

"It’s fine. I didn’t mean to - I came to the states on scholarships. No real training. So I get it, feeling like you’re on the outside.”

She closes her eyes. Rubs a bruise on her knee. "Yeah.”

“Do you want to try again? Maybe a different section?”

“Yeah.” She readjusts her skirt.

The second time is better. Alex can’t sit down: he walks around while she plays, and at one point he takes her hand - “try it like this” - and she tenses before she eases into it. He’s tactile, he likes demonstrations, and he poses her shoulders, her arms, her fingers, making adjustments to get the desired sound. She lets him, watching from under her long lashes.

He talks the entire time, explaining techniques Washington taught him and going on a tangent about the knock of fate motif in Beethoven. Maria is a fast learner: she makes changes after one or two tries, intuits meaning out of his rapid-fire nonsense. They go back to the first movement. She slams into the opening chords, making the piano shake with her force, and something uncoils in Alex’s stomach. He moves closer, talking faster, louder. A siren blares in the back of his mind, but he ignores it - the noise drowns out the darker voice that’s always there, worse since he left Kings, the one telling him you shouldn’t even be here.

He’s leaning over her shoulder, pointing out a note in her score, when she kisses him.

He goes still.

She flushes. "Was that not -”

In response, he presses her against the keyboard, mouth on hers. She makes a startled sound, moans as he deepens the kiss. She bites his lip, hard - good, yes, pain, make him hurt, he deserves it, he can take it - and his hands fumble at the back of her dress, grasping for the zipper.

“Table,” she gasps.

He swings her from the bench, takes her over one of the banquet tables. Her hands tug at his jeans; he abandons the zipper and hitches up her skirt. Lips, tongue, teeth - no thought, his brain finally finally quiet, all his focus on the white heat in his body and the sounds coming out of Maria’s bared throat.

Minutes later they’re back in their clothes, hair messy and mouths wet. It’s fine, he tells himself, nobody needs to know, they just have to make it to their rooms, it’s fine.

He doesn’t look at her.

Maria gathers her things. “I’m in room 791. In case you want to go over the Rach.”

She says it with a straight face. As though it would be perfectly acceptable for them to discuss the prelude and nothing else. Just two lonely people finding release. In the music, in each other.  

He should say no. The guilt is coming, too late - you bastard, you cheated on her, Eliza Eliza Eliza. He needs to make this right. Confess, apologize.

He should say no, but he doesn’t. Not that night, not any other night that summer.

[the-everqueen]

Things to know:

1) Alex and Eliza have been dating for a year and a half

2) Pre-recitals are hell.

Eliza has lost her boyfriend.

She makes a frustrated noise as she peers into the fourth practice room window and finds it dark. Their group went out for dinner and drinks to celebrate the end of finals, but they had to come back to the conservatory after because James left his laptop. She let go for a moment, made a joke about her first date with Tench, and when she turned around Alex was gone.

Of course he would take off to practice as soon as the evening was over. She had hoped he might at least take her home.

She covers the entire second floor before she finds him in the room adjacent to Washington’s office, stumbling through the Revolutionary Etude. The door is unlocked but he doesn’t turn when she approaches the bench. “What are you doing?”

“You tell me.”

His tone is sharp in a way she’s heard him use in class discussions - arguments, when it’s Alexander they turn into arguments - but never with her. She frowns. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Then don’t ask stupid questions.”

He doesn’t stop playing.

She takes a deep breath. Tries again. “I thought you might come over tonight.”

“Can’t. Have to practice.”

Never mind, she’s done.“No, you don't,” she snaps. “Finals are over, you can take a night off and spend some time with your girlfriend. But if you'd rather date the piano, we can stop pretending.” She turns to leave.

The music cuts short. “Eliza - Wait. I'm sorry, don’t go.”

She turns around. He’s reaching for her, hand outstretched and shaking. His eyes are huge and glistening and panicked, and she remembers the bits and pieces of his childhood he’s let slip: dad gone, mother dead, cousin committed suicide. She thinks about Alexander in class, or during performances - all loud confidence and untouchable genius - and she sees him now, the dark circles under his eyes, lean frame swamped in a hoodie, looking for all the world like a lost child.

She sits down on the bench.

He buries his face in her neck, leaving a trail of kisses down to her collarbone. His hands flutter over her shoulder, waist, thigh. Gentle gentle gentle. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t leave me,” he whispers into her skin.  

“Alexander,” she says, running her fingers through his hair. He exhales (had he been holding his breath?), and she pulls him into her arms. “I’m right here.”

They sit like that for a while, him curled against her, until his breathing evens out and he murmurs, “Had my pre-recital today.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

He gives a hollow laugh. “I failed.”

Eliza says nothing.

“Washington chewed me out after. Said I took the etude too fast and that the Beethoven was senseless - nothing to connect the variations. Of course he never mentioned this during the semester, I'm just supposed to magically know because that's my job.” He pauses. “I yelled at him. Adams was there. It was bad.”

She can imagine. She’s sat in on the studio masterclass, watched them snip at each other over minor details. Both of them, with their short tempers and no restraint? It must have been a nightmare.

Alexander continues, “He said I have winter break to fix it. My next pre-recital is the first day back. Otherwise I have to stay another semester. Which is impossible, and he knows it - my scholarships only cover four years, no exceptions, and I’ve already sent in recordings for Master’s programs. I have to pass, Eliza.”

“You will, you’re so talented -”

“Yeah, well, talent doesn't mean shit. McHenry is talented and he's never going to see the inside of a concert hall unless he gets over his stage fright.” He straightens, fixing her with a stare. “Don't you get it? I have to be the best. That adage ‘the audience wants you to do well’ is just another lie. People don’t care. Classical music is on the decline, it’s harder than ever to make a living out of it. There's ten thousand pianists in the world, and we’re all competing against the Decca records of the greats from fifty years ago. Who wants to pay to hear some unknown Latino kid take a shot at music written by dead German dudes when they could listen to Andras Schiff for free any time they want?”

“That's not true -”

“Am I really better than the rest of them? According to Washington I’m nowhere near the level I need to be. Can't do Mozart for shit. Sure, I've got perfect grades but those don't matter when you’re trying to score a gig with the New York Phil. It's about ability and connections. I'm a poor immigrant orphan, too abrasive to network, so I have to be so good they beg for me even if they hate me. Like fricking Glenn Gould.”

He’s getting wound up, his hands making furious gestures as he talks. Eliza is searching for the thing that will calm him down when suddenly he just… deflates.

“I don’t know why I’m here. I thought I could make it, but turns out the wings are made of wax after all. You shouldn’t be dating me. I’m sorry.”

“I'm not,” she says.

He fiddles with the hem of her dress.

“I'm not,” she repeats. She turns his face towards her. “I know who I’m dating. You're brilliant, Alexander. I've never heard anyone like you, in class or onstage. And if I can see that, others will, too.”

He looks skeptical, but he gives her a half-smile. “I'm sorry about earlier. Really. Ask John, he knows I don't apologize to anyone.”

“I forgive you.” She kisses the furrow between his brows. “Come on, we're going back to my place.”

His expression goes from worried and penitent to defensive in an instant. “I wasn't kidding, I need to practice, I've only got these two weeks -”

“Alexander,” she warns.

God help her, for a moment he actually looks like he’s going to argue. She presses on, “You’re tired and stressed, and probably a little drunk from that rum and coke you had tonight. Do you really think it’s a good idea to practice like this? At best you’re going to reinforce sloppy technique, at worst you’re going to get tendonitis.”

“Fine,” he sighs, but the tension leaves his shoulders.

“You can play the Beethoven for me in the morning. Give it some fresh perspective.”

“Really? Because there’s this one section that reminds me of a piece you sang last semester…”

He rambles on about the chorale movement of his Beethoven through the walk to her car, the drive to her apartment in the student housing section, the climb up three flights of stairs. It’s not a coherent argument, more stream of consciousness than anything else, but Eliza hums whenever he pauses for breath, and he holds her hand as they walk, and every few minutes he glances over like he can’t believe she’s there.

“Better?” she asks him, once they’re inside.

“Yeah.” He rubs circles into her wrist with his thumb. “As long as you’re here, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m here,” she promises.

[the-everqueen]

Things to know:

1) Alex and Eliza have been dating for a few months.

2) Masterclass is a weekly occurrence and no one besides Alex wants to comment on performances. No one besides Alex wants to be there.

3) This turned out longer than i expected and i am Sorry.

Alexander is unlike anyone Eliza has ever dated.

Sometimes she isn't sure whether that's a good or bad thing.

Case in point: Eliza is sitting in for Washington’s studio masterclass. For the past two weeks she and Alexander have hardly spent time together - kisses stolen on the way to class, fragments of conversations while he practices - and despite his long, rambling texts detailing the ways he finds her perfect and his feelings about Bach, she’s found herself missing him. His presence, his manic energy, his tactile need to have his hands on her always.

She knows he’s busy. She is, too, with opera preparations and finals coming fast. But she couldn’t help pouting earlier this morning, as he pulled away from a kiss to go tutor one of the kids in the survey.

“Come to masterclass,” he told her. “Then you’ll see me.”

So here she is, in Morris Hall, between her boyfriend and Tench Tilghman (of all people!), listening to James McHenry perform a Chopin nocturne. Not an ideal date, to be sure. For one thing, Alexander is not touching her, instead perched on the edge of his seat, fixing James with a death glare. For another, Dr. Washington keeps glancing in their direction and she feels like an outsider, because she is. Alexander said it would be fine if she came, but now she wonders if he asked in the first place. Then again, Washington seemed almost relieved - or at least, he gave one of his half-smiles - when he saw her, so maybe it is fine.

McHenry stumbles over a passage, and Alex makes an irritated noise.

James isn’t bad. Eliza took lessons when she was little, though it mostly gave her a predilection towards pianists, rather than any useful skills. But she can hear talent, and McHenry’s playing holds a sincerity that would be beautiful if his hands weren’t visibly shaking.

Having Alexander in his peripheral vision probably doesn’t help.

McHenry finishes the piece. He swipes at his forehead before giving a meek bow and scurrying back to his seat. The studio offers polite applause - or not polite, in Alexander’s case, as he slow claps, still frowning.

Washington sighs. “Any feedback?”

Alexander’s hand goes up, though he doesn’t bother to be given permission before he starts talking. “So it’s obvious you’re going for the parallels between Chopin’s style and Bellini arias, but are you really gonna ignore the pianistic elements in this piece? Because those phrases are longer than any vocalist could sustain, and when you break off in the middle of them, we lose all sense of direction. Where are you going? What’s the bigger picture? Also, yeah, it’s an aria, melody is important, but that doesn’t mean you can leave out the harmony altogether. Bring out those bass notes, we want to feel that dip to the lower register every time the left hand pattern repeats.” He hums the melody, drops his voice lower to indicate the downbeats, fingers miming the gestures in mid-air. “It’s the pulse... the melody is timeless, extending past the bar lines, but every measure the bass brings us back. Grounding, that’s the word.”

McHenry’s mouth twists like he is trying not to cry.

Alexander clearly has more comments, but Eliza puts a hand on his leg and he pauses.

“Thank you, Hamilton,” Washington interjects, seizing the opportunity. “I’m sure James will take your criticisms to heart. Anyone else?”

The others give their input: modest compliments and vague suggestions. Every word has Alex twitching with impatience, and Eliza absently traces the seam of his jeans with her fingers until he stills. While Washington is distracted, going on about strong versus weak fingers, Alexander turns toward her and raises an eyebrow. “Your place tonight?” he mouths.

She smiles.

“Hamilton?” Washington is looking at him. “Since we’re on the subject of Chopin, why don’t you play the Polonaise?”

“Hm?” He comes to attention. “Oh, sure.”

This is the Alexander everyone knows: restless, casual arrogance, his chin thrust forward, eyes sparking for a fight. He gives them, the audience, a wicked smile - tomcat, indeed - and takes his seat.

Deep breath. And begin.

This is the Alexander she knows.

He touches the keys like he touches her: tender, deliberate. His right hand climbs through the registers for the opening cadenza, and he watches it, gaze lost to somewhere else, lips softly parted. He lingers on the top note, drops back down - again and again, the line rises only to fall, and each time it becomes more desperate, reaching, until he launches into the fantasy theme and all his wanting is fisted inside it.

When the polonaise rhythm enters, it is pure forward momentum, the melody soaring above. No one should be able to sustain this wanting, but Alexander does, and by the time he crashes into the triumphant ending - loud octaves and fast triplets - he’s sweating, drawn taut as a wire. The final chord is release, a sudden exhale like he finally remembered how to breathe.

He stays there for a moment, bent over the keys and shaking. Then, abruptly, he stands and returns to his seat.

The studio is speechless. Horrified or impressed or maybe both.  

Washington makes them discuss his performance anyway, analyze all his interpretive choices. Alex is too agitated to pick an argument. Unlike most people, he doesn't get tired after performances: his leg bounces, and his eyes skitter over whoever’s talking, not really seeing them.  

Eliza rests her head on his shoulder, and he leans into the touch.

Later that night, they’re spooning on her couch, Alexander murmuring edits and innuendo into her ear while she fixes her paper for von Steuben’s class. She pauses, thinking of a synonym for happiness. “You were incredible. In masterclass.”

“I’m good in other places, too,” he teases, pinching her hip. She laughs.

“I thought you had a paper to write.”

“It can wait another hour. Not due till Friday. Besides, you’re more important.”

She blushes, thinks very hard about synonyms. “What do you think about, when you’re onstage?”

He presses kisses along her jaw. “Depends on the piece. Sometimes nothing.”

“What did you think about when you played the Chopin?”

He goes still.

She twists around to see his face. “Don’t say me, I was there.”

“No, I - I told you.” He swallows, not looking at her. “It’s me.”

She frowns. “You think about yourself?”

“It’s probably stupid, but I was listening to recordings for ideas and they all sounded - I wanted to do something different. And I started thinking about Chopin having consumption and the opening cadenza - how it’s this endless moment but it goes nowhere - and who starts a piece like that? With the sound dying out? It starts with death. And - all of that - it reminded me of my mom, when we were - we got sick. And she died. That’s what made me start playing piano, really playing, because I survived and I needed it to mean something. But yeah. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her. It started with death.”

He clears his throat. Continues to not look at her, his body tense under hers. “Anyway. I don’t think about that every time I perform it, but that was… the feeling behind it, I guess. I think Chopin understood that, being sick and the wanting.”

“Oh, Alexander.” Eliza’s heart is aching, but she reaches up to give him a kiss. “Thank you. For trusting me with that. I know it must be hard to talk about.”

“Yeah.” He relaxes, and she knows her reaction was the right one. He nods towards her laptop, at her blinking cursor and unfinished sentence. “The word you’re looking for is bliss.”

[the-everqueen]

Lams 2?

all you need to know is:

alex tutors/rewrites everyone’s papers for money and rage

alex has terrible pickup lines

2. At my worst I worry you’ll realize you deserve better. At my best I worry you won’t. (I’ve never been better)

“- and then he tries to argue that the gap between ethno and historical musicology is legitimate, using a quote from Adorno of all people, but anyway it’s out of context because the original essay is discussing the cultural effect of so-called popular music and the hell is this?”

John, distracted more by the rapid-fire cadence of Alexander’s voice than his actual words, nonetheless manages to stop short of crashing into him. “What is - oh.” 

Alex is staring intently at a piece of paper taped to the door. It’s a spreadsheet of times from 8:00 am to midnight, with names scrawled next to each hour long slot.

“I mentioned to Eliza that some of us had trouble getting practice rooms,” John says, adjusting the strap of his saxophone case on his shoulder. “I guess this is her solution.”

Alex double blinks at him. John needs to confiscate his energy drink stash. “Who’s Eliza?”

“Freshman soprano? She got a role in next semester’s opera?” John rolls his eyes at Alex’s blank expression. “Man, you need to go outside more.”

“This is my room. Why are people signing up to use my room?”

“Because even though you sleep in it on weekends, you don’t pay rent. Some of us also want to pass juries, you know.” He hefts his case as proof.

“But it’s my room. Everyone knows that.” Nope, John is definitely not getting through to him, and before he can continue this futile argument, Alex tears off the paper and barges into the room.

“Alex, someone is in there -”

“What is this?” Alex demands, thrusting the paper at them.

Eliza twists around on the piano bench, her long black braid slipping from her shoulder down her back. “Excuse me?”

And oh. John has seen Alex smitten before - Kitty, Cora, that transfer student Andre - but never like this. His whole demeanor shifts, from bantam fury to something softer - huge earnest eyes and a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Charmer, John thinks, and his heart twists.

“Oh.” Alex tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “You must be Eliza.”

Her brows pinch together. “Aren’t you in Washington’s studio?”

“Alexander Hamilton.” He offers his hand and, when she takes it, brushes a kiss to her knuckles. She gives a surprised laugh, a pearly sound that makes Alex grin.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, “but I should get back to practicing. I have a lesson in half an hour.”

“What piece?” Alex peers over her shoulder. Not subtle at all, John thinks, putting that silver tongue right next to her ear, but Eliza doesn’t seem to mind. “Ooh, Micaela’s aria. That’s good, everyone goes for the Habanera.”

“You don’t even like Bizet,” John points out. Neither of them acknowledge him.

Eliza blushes, a light pink on the apples of her cheeks. “It’s a little advanced for me, but I think it sounds lovely. Maybe for my senior recital?”

Alex pulls back so their eyes meet and tells her, with all the conviction of a zealot, “I’m sure you sound beautiful.”

It’s the same tone he used the first time they met, when John thought sax was a dirty secret, when he did jazz band for a reprieve from orchestra and woodwind ensemble and Hindemith. Greene gave him a solo that night and he played with all the passion he never felt for clarinet and after the concert Alex came up to him and said, as though it were a fact of the universe, “As long as you play saxophone, the world will be a bearable place.”

John quit clarinet the next day.

Alex nudges Eliza’s arm. “Hey, what if I accompanied you while you practice? Help you get a feel for what it’ll be like in performance?”

“That’s nice of you to offer, but -” and she glances back at John “- I’m sure you’re busy.”

Alex shrugs. “I was going practice. But this would help me with sight-reading. And maybe if you have time you can listen to the Ravel? I have to perform it in masterclass next week and it’s always great to have a test run. Especially with a worthwhile audience.”

Eliza worries her lip but she’s smiling and of course she will agree. John takes a step towards the door. “I’ve gotta get to band. We good for theory homework tonight, Alex?”

“Yeah.” He looks at John, his expression warm and tender, and John already knows he’s going to forget.

He hurries to band. Greene will be annoyed if he’s late.