Fanfic: Broken Melody
14 March 2026 13:58![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scifirenegadeTitle: Broken Melody
Rating: General
Fandom: Anders als die Andern (1919)
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Else Sivers, Paul Körner
Warnings: n/a
Spoilers: n/a
Note: Been chewing on this for way too long.
On AO3
On Squidge
Paul perched a cigarette on his lips, and was reaching for the matchbox stashed in his pocket when he addressed Else with a prosaic "would you like anything?". Those were the first words he uttered after leaving the lecture, the relief that had spread across his face after she voiced her support had evaporated by the time they arrived back at Paul's home. He returned to his nervous self, a little more fidgety than usual perhaps, and his demeanour strangely reminded her of a greyhound.
"I'm fine, thank you," she answered, for she was always expected to be fine, even when she was hit, once again, with the fact her brother was in who-knows-where. Kurt had never been away from home for so long. Every time he was to leave the house, he always told someone where he was going. That time, there was not a word but one vague note, leaving Else and the rest with even more questions. He needed some time to clear his head, that was all that was written on that plain scrap of paper. Maybe, she hoped, he was visiting the idyllic countryside depicted in the paintings adorning the walls; it would have taken him a train journey of many hours to get there. Wishful thinking. Hopefully, he had enough money, he wouldn't lack for anything.
All the pieces fell together neatly. Kurt's enthusiasm for his violin classes wasn't just for his love of music, Paul's rebuffs towards her advances never truly were just for a lack of romantic feelings for her.
Or almost all the pieces fell together neatly. Else couldn't fathom what happened to cause him to run away. Had something happened between the two of them? She didn't dare to ask, not then, when Paul was falling apart at the seams, burdened by that mysterious cause, as he slowly lowered himself onto the recliner, over its worn blankets. It hurt him, Kurt's absence. He was better at showing it than she was.
A sigh. There was clearly something missing, a hole shaped in her brother's image in the room. He wasn't there, practising with a borrowed violin. He wasn't there, eagerly chatting with Paul, filling the room with warmth. It was excusable to let herself be mawkish like that, because of how important Kurt was to her and Paul. And he wouldn't have cared if she was being a sentimental mess. He wouldn't have scolded her like others usually do, he was a good kid.
Seeking some support for and from her thoughts, she sat in the nearest available seat. At the upright piano.
Else didn't own a piano, her parents weren't able to buy one at the time she was learning. The trials they had gone through to let her have piano lessons for as long as she did — not a long time, but a time she looked back on fondly —, oh, she would be forever thankful for it. It had been years since she last practised, and every once in a while, she longed to play again. Especially since Kurt started having violin lessons. Her fingers itched, the urge to touch the instrument's aged wood was so powerful she couldn't resist doing so.
"A cheap model, it has to be said. My pianist friend doesn't approve, but it gets the job done. Only need it to keep a rhythm," Paul said, between drags, voice shaky and avoiding the subject that so wanted to burst out. How thankful she was for some distraction. "I'm so sorry, I should have... I'll get you a chair."
"There's no need, it's fine, really." Her remark didn't stop him from jolting out of the recliner, but he nodded in understanding. "I quite like it here. And for a cheap model, it is quite sturdy-looking." She ran circles over the piano's lid, the movement trying and failing to soothe her. It dusted off part of a thick layer of dust, revealing a few scratches here and there. The piano certainly showed its age, but also its character. Only a violinist would have a piano like that.
That poor violin of his must have been stashed away.
He bowed his head again and sat, then took one laboured drag of the cigarette, the last one. "That it is. One time, he..." Paul sighed, his lip quivered, "...he made quite the ruckus with the piano one time."
"It's a good thing the violin is his passion, then."
"Yes..." his voice trailed off, his hands rubbed together, first his thumb, then the rest of his fingers, smooth and seamless. His mind travelled elsewhere, eyes staring at nothing tangible.
Maybe, he was remembering Kurt's concert. Else hadn't yet heard her brother play, yet she couldn't help be filled with pride that there were those who waxed lyrical about his talent. He truly must have been nothing short of perfect. And her fingers itched again, she wanted to do something. Leaving was out of the question, it didn't feel right. The lingering, acerbic smoke clung to her clothing, just as it clung to the blankets, just like it probably had clung to Kurt's shirt. She was then part of Paul's family, a friend, a sister. She ought to stay.
"I'm sorry, I seem to be rather detached these days."
She didn't fault him for it.
He continued, "He was practising this one piece, let me see if I can find it." Paul stood, discarded the stub and reached the piano in two steps, proceeding to scramble through the nearby pile of sheet music. Stacked without care, since there was no reason for him to do so. "It's a good one, but quite difficult. He didn't stop pestering me until I let him try it."
That made her smile. "What is it?"
"You'll see, I just have to find it first." His hand held a sheet, and by the way his lips pursed, it wasn't the piece he was searching for. He kept looking for it, but didn't bother putting the paper back.
It was then Else couldn't fight the urge much longer, "I'm sorry, can I?" and she gestured to the closed lid.
Paul froze, as if it had started pouring and the ice-cold rain washed some of the dirt bothering him from his jacket. "Of course, feel free," he breathed, and his face softened as he looked at her. "He never told me you played."
"Well, it's been years. I'm sure he's forgotten, he was so young and we were going through so much when I stopped. But that's a story for another time." There was too much in her mind, and she didn't want to dwell on it. Not then. "When things go back to the way they were..."
"In that case, Miss Sivers, Else," the sheet music slid into the music rest, at her eye level, "feel free to play. This one is beautiful, and shan't give you much trouble." What a relief, something to distract them. And what a relief, he was understanding.
She lifted the lid and struggled to remember how to read the piece. It really had been so long. But once she managed to read it, she played, and found it fitting, sad. Her fingers hovered over the keys, tentatively pressed them, and the melody came out broken.
She stopped. "Like I said, it's been years."
"There are moments in life when hearts long for music like this." Paul was out of her field of vision then, but his hand rested on her shoulder. Encouraging.
She started again. Her lack of experience enhanced the atmosphere, she supposed. A violin virtuoso hearing and enjoying an amateur, it was once hard for her to believe. But in one afternoon, she started to believe it and, more importantly, she understood Paul better then than in the months she had been aware of his existence — and somehow loved the idea of him she had made up. She loved, in a different way, the real version of him more.
When all of that was over, she hoped to meet the pianist friend with the two of them someday. They were family after all.
Rating: General
Fandom: Anders als die Andern (1919)
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Else Sivers, Paul Körner
Warnings: n/a
Spoilers: n/a
Note: Been chewing on this for way too long.
On AO3
On Squidge
Paul perched a cigarette on his lips, and was reaching for the matchbox stashed in his pocket when he addressed Else with a prosaic "would you like anything?". Those were the first words he uttered after leaving the lecture, the relief that had spread across his face after she voiced her support had evaporated by the time they arrived back at Paul's home. He returned to his nervous self, a little more fidgety than usual perhaps, and his demeanour strangely reminded her of a greyhound.
"I'm fine, thank you," she answered, for she was always expected to be fine, even when she was hit, once again, with the fact her brother was in who-knows-where. Kurt had never been away from home for so long. Every time he was to leave the house, he always told someone where he was going. That time, there was not a word but one vague note, leaving Else and the rest with even more questions. He needed some time to clear his head, that was all that was written on that plain scrap of paper. Maybe, she hoped, he was visiting the idyllic countryside depicted in the paintings adorning the walls; it would have taken him a train journey of many hours to get there. Wishful thinking. Hopefully, he had enough money, he wouldn't lack for anything.
All the pieces fell together neatly. Kurt's enthusiasm for his violin classes wasn't just for his love of music, Paul's rebuffs towards her advances never truly were just for a lack of romantic feelings for her.
Or almost all the pieces fell together neatly. Else couldn't fathom what happened to cause him to run away. Had something happened between the two of them? She didn't dare to ask, not then, when Paul was falling apart at the seams, burdened by that mysterious cause, as he slowly lowered himself onto the recliner, over its worn blankets. It hurt him, Kurt's absence. He was better at showing it than she was.
A sigh. There was clearly something missing, a hole shaped in her brother's image in the room. He wasn't there, practising with a borrowed violin. He wasn't there, eagerly chatting with Paul, filling the room with warmth. It was excusable to let herself be mawkish like that, because of how important Kurt was to her and Paul. And he wouldn't have cared if she was being a sentimental mess. He wouldn't have scolded her like others usually do, he was a good kid.
Seeking some support for and from her thoughts, she sat in the nearest available seat. At the upright piano.
Else didn't own a piano, her parents weren't able to buy one at the time she was learning. The trials they had gone through to let her have piano lessons for as long as she did — not a long time, but a time she looked back on fondly —, oh, she would be forever thankful for it. It had been years since she last practised, and every once in a while, she longed to play again. Especially since Kurt started having violin lessons. Her fingers itched, the urge to touch the instrument's aged wood was so powerful she couldn't resist doing so.
"A cheap model, it has to be said. My pianist friend doesn't approve, but it gets the job done. Only need it to keep a rhythm," Paul said, between drags, voice shaky and avoiding the subject that so wanted to burst out. How thankful she was for some distraction. "I'm so sorry, I should have... I'll get you a chair."
"There's no need, it's fine, really." Her remark didn't stop him from jolting out of the recliner, but he nodded in understanding. "I quite like it here. And for a cheap model, it is quite sturdy-looking." She ran circles over the piano's lid, the movement trying and failing to soothe her. It dusted off part of a thick layer of dust, revealing a few scratches here and there. The piano certainly showed its age, but also its character. Only a violinist would have a piano like that.
That poor violin of his must have been stashed away.
He bowed his head again and sat, then took one laboured drag of the cigarette, the last one. "That it is. One time, he..." Paul sighed, his lip quivered, "...he made quite the ruckus with the piano one time."
"It's a good thing the violin is his passion, then."
"Yes..." his voice trailed off, his hands rubbed together, first his thumb, then the rest of his fingers, smooth and seamless. His mind travelled elsewhere, eyes staring at nothing tangible.
Maybe, he was remembering Kurt's concert. Else hadn't yet heard her brother play, yet she couldn't help be filled with pride that there were those who waxed lyrical about his talent. He truly must have been nothing short of perfect. And her fingers itched again, she wanted to do something. Leaving was out of the question, it didn't feel right. The lingering, acerbic smoke clung to her clothing, just as it clung to the blankets, just like it probably had clung to Kurt's shirt. She was then part of Paul's family, a friend, a sister. She ought to stay.
"I'm sorry, I seem to be rather detached these days."
She didn't fault him for it.
He continued, "He was practising this one piece, let me see if I can find it." Paul stood, discarded the stub and reached the piano in two steps, proceeding to scramble through the nearby pile of sheet music. Stacked without care, since there was no reason for him to do so. "It's a good one, but quite difficult. He didn't stop pestering me until I let him try it."
That made her smile. "What is it?"
"You'll see, I just have to find it first." His hand held a sheet, and by the way his lips pursed, it wasn't the piece he was searching for. He kept looking for it, but didn't bother putting the paper back.
It was then Else couldn't fight the urge much longer, "I'm sorry, can I?" and she gestured to the closed lid.
Paul froze, as if it had started pouring and the ice-cold rain washed some of the dirt bothering him from his jacket. "Of course, feel free," he breathed, and his face softened as he looked at her. "He never told me you played."
"Well, it's been years. I'm sure he's forgotten, he was so young and we were going through so much when I stopped. But that's a story for another time." There was too much in her mind, and she didn't want to dwell on it. Not then. "When things go back to the way they were..."
"In that case, Miss Sivers, Else," the sheet music slid into the music rest, at her eye level, "feel free to play. This one is beautiful, and shan't give you much trouble." What a relief, something to distract them. And what a relief, he was understanding.
She lifted the lid and struggled to remember how to read the piece. It really had been so long. But once she managed to read it, she played, and found it fitting, sad. Her fingers hovered over the keys, tentatively pressed them, and the melody came out broken.
She stopped. "Like I said, it's been years."
"There are moments in life when hearts long for music like this." Paul was out of her field of vision then, but his hand rested on her shoulder. Encouraging.
She started again. Her lack of experience enhanced the atmosphere, she supposed. A violin virtuoso hearing and enjoying an amateur, it was once hard for her to believe. But in one afternoon, she started to believe it and, more importantly, she understood Paul better then than in the months she had been aware of his existence — and somehow loved the idea of him she had made up. She loved, in a different way, the real version of him more.
When all of that was over, she hoped to meet the pianist friend with the two of them someday. They were family after all.
