O Fortuna Excerpt - Interlude 1981


"O Fortuna" - Excerpt - Interlude 1981




WARNING: This bit has some explicit stuff at the very end. If reading about one man pleasuring another offends you, then it would probably be a good idea to leave this page without going any further.

Lorin, after suffering at the hands of an abusive teacher, has finally decided to call it quits after two years. He has dropped out of school completely and is now looking forward to "going indie," and moving forward on his own as both an organist and a composer. Neal proves to be a most willing guinea pig for Lorin's first attempts, and in the coming years, Lorin will write many pieces specifically for Neal, which will feature oboe, English horn, or Heckelphone.

Yes, eventually Neal WILL acquire a Heckelphone. All things are possible in fiction!

At this point in the story, Neal has almost fully recovered from his last operation, and it will only be a matter of weeks before he can start using a cane instead of a crutch.

Thanks for reading!

J. St. M.

***

In the morning, Lorin awoke fully refreshed and ready to strike out on his new path. First, he made coffee and a batch of blueberry muffins, then settled in at the kitchen table with his notebook and reviewed his latest composition-in-progress, pencil in hand. It had potential, but did it really want to be an organ piece, or--?

“Morning,” Neal greeted him.

Lorin looked up and smiled. “Hey, Babe. Sleep well?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He yawned and stretched and sat down across from Lorin, and set his crutch against the wall. “Is there coffee?”

“It just finished brewing. You want a cup?”

“Please.”

Lorin got up and poured some into a mug, then added cream and a lump of sugar, just as Neal liked it, and set it down on the table before him. “I made muffins, too. They’ll be done in about five minutes.”

“Oh?” Neal sipped the coffee. “I hope you remembered the baking powder this time.”

Lorin reached over and rumpled his hair playfully. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“No. I was looking forward to a nice muffin, and I got a blueberry-studded hockey puck instead. It was unforgettable, and not in a good way.”

“These will be good, Neal. I promise.”

“And if they’re not, you won’t be offended if I make myself some porridge?”

“O, ye of little faith!” Lorin mourned, striking his breast. “You’ve cut me to the heart!”

Neal chuckled. “I’m glad to see you’re in a better mood than you were last night.”

“How could I not be? I’m free, Neal. Free!”

“Yes, but remember, you’ve got to keep on working. Don’t get lazy.”

“I won’t, don’t worry. Look at this.” He pushed his notebook across the table to Neal, then put on some oven mitts and waited while the timer counted down the last few seconds. Finally, the buzzer sounded, and he opened the oven and took out the pan. The muffins were perfect: loaded with blueberries, and their high-domed tops sparkled with cinnamon sugar. “I dare you to call these hockey pucks,” he said, and proudly displayed his handiwork.

“Oh, those do look good!” Neal exclaimed, smiling. “Now, let them cool for a few minutes, then put them in a basket with a towel over, so they stay warm.” He turned his attention back to Lorin’s manuscript and hummed a bit of the melody. “Interesting,” he remarked. “It’s an organ piece?”

“Funny you should ask. I was just wondering that, myself.”

“It seems more of a solo instrument plus keyboard vehicle.” He scanned the page a bit further, humming thoughtfully.

Lorin never failed to find it unnerving, the way Neal could just pick up a piece of music and sing it, note for note. Perfect pitch certainly came in handy at times, especially when coupled with a singing voice as good as Neal’s. “Do you like it?”

“Very much. Do you have a minute to take it to the piano? I have an idea.”

“I have all the time in the world, but don’t you have to leave soon?”

“No, not for awhile. I have a check-up with the orthopedist at eleven, remember? Then I don’t have to be at school until four. I wouldn’t bother going in at all, but it’s a wind ensemble day, and I can’t blow that off--no pun intended--when it’s my turn to conduct the group.”

“O.K. Well, what’s your idea?”

“Come play it for me, and let me think on it a little more, and then I’ll show you.” Coffee and muffins forgotten, Neal rose and picked up his crutch.

Lorin followed him down the hall, amused. Neal was still in his bathrobe, unshaven, hair uncombed, and only half awake, but something about the music had certainly set him on fire, and there was no stopping him. “You’re sure you want to do this right now?” Lorin asked, recalling that he wasn’t dressed yet, either, and had nothing in his stomach but black coffee.

“Yes, just quickly, though. I’m hungry, and the smell of those muffins is driving me crazy!”

Lorin laughed, and sat down at the piano, arranging the notebook on the rack before him, and started to play, with Neal standing slightly behind him and reading over his shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

“English horn. Let me try to play a bit?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not oboe, though?”

“It seems too--” he thought for a minute, searching for the right word, “--dusky for the oboe, yet not dark enough for bassoon or cello. Know what I mean?” He stuck a reed in his mouth and began to assemble the instrument.

“I think so.” Lorin’s brow furrowed. “Hmmm. English horn,” he mused, and inverted a chord in the progression. “Which is better?” he asked. “This?” He struck one chord. “Or this?” He played the inversion.

“The second one, but try taking it down an octave. Oh, yes, like that! There! See how rich that sounds?” Neal fitted the reed on to the bocal, then raised the horn to his lips and played a few long tones. “Right, then. I’m good to go.” He moved to stand behind Lorin and peered over his shoulder at the score. “Lead me in.”

Lorin began the introduction, and gave a nod when he had reached the soloist’s entry. When Neal started to play, he grinned. Damn, but the man’s instincts were good! “Oh, yeah, Babe! Yeah! Come on, let me have it!”

The tone cracked, and Neal burst out laughing.

“What?” Lorin demanded.

“We’re playing music, Lor, not fucking.”

“We are so fucking. Mind-fucking.” He mock-sang: “Bam-buh-chicka-bam-buh-bam-bam,” and then he was laughing, too.

“Now, now,” Neal chided. “If you want me to take this seriously, then play!”

“All right, I will, but the only trouble is, now I feel more inclined to tickle you than the ivories.”

“Later. Let’s play a bit more of this first.”

So, they got down to business, and it was good: very good, even though Neal struggled a bit. Transposition on the spot while sight-reading was not his strong suit, and Lorin enjoyed a bit of a schadenfreude moment. Every now and then, it was satisfying to discover that there was something musical Neal could not ace on the first try.

But the second attempt went better, and the third was nearly flawless.

“So, I gather you like it?” Lorin asked.

“Yes, absolutely! What do you say to playing it in church as a prelude, either this week or next?”

“It’s only a first draft, Neal.”

“Even so, it’s a lot more polished than some composers’ final drafts. Come on, Lor. What have you got to lose?”

“Nothing, I suppose, but if you really want to play it this week, we’ve both got to hit it hard over the next day or two, and then practice together every day until the gig.”

“I’m game if you are. Piano or organ?”

“I think we’ll go for piano this time. The accompaniment is a little too bare-bones for the organ. If I try to force it or rush the job, it’s going to suck.”

“I hardly think it would suck, but yes, I know what you mean. Get the melody written out for me, just in concert C, and I’ll write up the transposition myself.”

“O.K. That makes things easier for me.”

Neal packed up the English horn. “Think we could have another go after I get back from school tonight?”

“You talking about the music, or--” He grinned mischievously. “--bam- buh-chicka-bam, buh-bam-bam--”

Neal laughed. “You are incorrigible, Mr. Wethersford. Incorrigible!”

“I know, but you love me that way, don’t you?”

“I do,” Neal replied, and put his hands on Lorin’s shoulders.

Lorin leaned back against him, and Neal bent down and kissed him full on the mouth.

“You’ve got plenty of time before you even have to think about getting ready to leave. Let’s go back in the bedroom for a bit.”

“It’s a nice idea, but--ah! Don’t!”

“If you played baseball, you could hit a home run with that,” Lorin said admiringly. He spun around on the piano stool and locked his arms around Neal’s waist. “Man, do you have any idea how hot you look right now?”

“I--”

Deftly, Lorin untied the belt on Neal’s robe, and the garment fell open, and there was nowhere to hide. “Oh, Babe, I guess I’d better do something about that,” he murmured, “unless of course you don’t want me to.”

A strangled laugh caught in Neal’s throat. “I think--ah! You had best--” He gasped. “--finish what you started--”

Lorin’s lips brushed the head of Neal’s sex lightly as he replied. “It will be my pleasure, Babe. My. Pleasure.”

***

Jehan St. Marc
© July 2013


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