This Nearly Was Mine

by BillyColt

Prelude

This Nearly Was Mine

Prelude

The recital hall was completely dark, save for the lights on the stage. A grey earth pony mare stood with her cello at the center of the stage. Off to the side, another earth pony, a brown stallion with a white mane, sat at a grand piano. Behind them were a mass of white walls, used to improve the acoustics.

The cellist lowered her bow, looking at the black mass of the audience. The recital hall was then filled with the sounds of hooves stomping in applause. She bowed appreciatively before gesturing to her companion at the piano. He slowly stood up from the piano bench and bowed politely. The lights went up in the audience. The recital was over.

“I don’t think ponies appreciate the sonatas enough,” she said as they walked backstage. “They only care about the concertos with the full orchestras. But I like the sonatas for solo instrument and piano. They’re more intimate.”

“You played beautifully, Octavia,” said her accompanist.

She stopped. “Thanks, Frederic. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Oh, you could’ve,” he replied with a subdued grin. “Just not as well.”

They stepped out the stage door, greeted by a crowd of friends and admirers.

“Well, there’s my girl!” shouted a voice from the crowd. “Outta my way!”

A very pale yellow unicorn with big purple glasses and a wild blue mane pushed her way through the crowd. “Hey, move it, buddy, I got priority!”

“Octa! You nailed that thing!”

“Octa?” Frederic asked with a dubious cock of the eyebrow.

“And you were good, too,” Vinyl added. “Like, you’re like a piano-playing statue!”

“So,” said Frederic, “would that mean that I ‘rock?’”

“Yeah,” said Vinyl, “no. You do not ‘rock.’”

“That’s a shame,” said Frederic, “for a minute there I almost thought I had your approval.”

“Honestly, you two,” chortled Octavia, shaking her head.

“I brought you these,” said Vinyl, producing a bouquet of flowers. “So did...” She looked at the other ponies, who were starting to become quite impatient. “So did everypony else.”

“Well, yours mean a lot more,” Octavia said. She threw her forelegs around Vinyl’s neck and kissed her. Her accompanist seemed completely uninterested in the display of affection.

“Well, I’ll have to get to my job at the bar,” he said. “I see you’ll have a lovely reception. I’ll see you tomorrow for rehearsal.”

“Wait.” Octavia tried to stop him. “I haven’t paid you yet.”

“You don’t have to,” said Frederic. He smiled. “You get this recital for free. Think of it as my flowers.”

***

Canterlot was usually quiet at night, which was odd for a big city. Frederic remembered his gigs in Manehattan; that was a town that was always noisy. Big cities were usually loud, but for some reason Canterlot was oddly serene. Maybe Frederic was just used to the place.

He liked Canterlot. It was like a grand magical kingdom full of pristine white spires. Come to think of it, it was a grand magical kingdom. In any case, it was a classy city with classy ponies who appreciated good music, even if they talked in the stuffiest accents imaginable. Frederic chuckled to himself as he thought about that: he and Octavia had cultivated similar “proper, but fake” accents. It came with the crowd, he supposed. Sometimes Harpo would turn his nose up and play with a “snooty” expression just for laughs. Frederic never found it particularly funny, but then Harpo was a bit of a clown and Frederic’s sense of humor never really went for that.

A wagon barreled down the road, its wheel striking a puddle and drenching Frederic in water. Frederic flinched, startled and roused from his thoughts, but didn’t say anything. He simply watched as the wagon went down the road, and then straightened his bowtie.

Calm. Unflappable. Stoic. These were character traits he prided himself on, but the one descriptor he always aspired to was “professional.” Whether he was hired for a wedding, a concert, an audition, a rehearsal, or a birthday party, he was always professional. Even when going to his job at a lower-end bar, where the regulars didn’t cultivate fake, hoity-toity accents, he was always professional.

He continued on his way and hoped that the warm summer night air would dry him off before he got to his next job.

***

“Y’know, I never understand,” said the bartender, a husky pegasus pony. “I never understand what a classy dude like you’s doin’ here in an old dump like this?”

“I’m a starving artist,” replied Frederic. “It’s standard.”

He was seated at an old beat-up piano with a sticky key. The bar was a hot, musky place, filled with ponies far less cultured than himself. Still, it was a place where everypony felt welcome, and the bartender was a friendly pony who made a point of learning the names of all the regular customer. He was a friend to everypony, and it paid.

Frederic had foolishly told Octavia that she didn’t have to pay. Therefore, Frederic Horseshoepin had to swallow his pride and work at a less than upscale development in town. At least the expectations were low. He played a few simple pieces from memory, not paying attention to the patrons as they shuffled in, ordered drinks, and carried on conversations about whatever was on their minds.

The bartender left a malt for him on top of the piano. “On the house, as usual.”

“Thank you,” replied Frederic, politely nodding his head. “You don’t need to do that - I can pay for myself.”

“Didn’t ya just say you was starvin’?”

Frederic chuckled. “I guess I did. Thank you.”

“Hey, Freddy!” called one of the patrons. “Why don’t you play ‘As We Lay at the River?’”

Frederic gave a wry smile. “Certainly.”

He could think of worse songs to play. It was an old song, simple and sweet. Very easy to play: melody on one hoof, chords on the other. It was a sad song, about a colt longingly remembering a summer when he was in love. Like many young loves, however, it didn’t last, and the song’s narrator was left sad, bitter, and alone.

Sad love songs, thought Frederic, are always popular.

The song was so easy that he didn’t even really have to think about it, and his mind could wander to other things that were troubling him.

“Think of it as my flowers,” he mocked, that has to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. I don’t even think that’s grammatically correct. He shook his head. Not doing that again. You can’t afford to be sentimental, Frederic. Stay professional.

That sticky key got in the way of the playing. Frederic always felt a pang of annoyance whenever that happened. A faulty instrument was simply unacceptable - if the music called for a D, and the instrument couldn’t play a D, then it was impossible to play it right. One had to simply blunder through the section and hope that the audience didn’t care that there was a missing note.

“So, where ‘xactly can I hear you play?” asked the bartender.

“Canterlot Music Hall, if I’m lucky,” replied the pianist. “But I usually do odd jobs, like here. I always appreciate the big breaks, but mostly I play accompanist. I am slated to play the Brahmas Ballades next month, though.”

“The what?”

“Johannes Brahmas,” Frederic explained, “probably the greatest of the bovine composers.”

One of the patrons decided to raise his voice and start singing along with the playing. The patrons were free to sing as badly as they liked, but if Frederic messed up, he’d look like a fool. And a professional, Frederic was convinced, could not look like a fool.

Always stay professional.

Comments

[Your Antagonist]

Amusing, I'm intrigued slightly.... Nyes... I shall follow along..

[ScyStorm]

Checkin off that Tracking box~!

Definitely excited about this one. Finally I see an Octavia story where the author has a musical background and thus an understanding of how the classical music world works (more-or-less).
I completely agree with the sonata vs. concerto argument; sonatas are definitely more intimate. Though concertos have a mystical grandeur surrounding them that isn't always present in sonatas.
And interesting spin on "Brahmas". Creative title is creative.
I'm looking forward to reading more; keep up the solid work.

[Baron]

Professionals have standards.

[windtitan]

93890 Be polite, be efficient, have a plan to kill everyone you meet.

Apart from that, this is looking to be a fun read featuring side characters that don't get enough love. Poor Frederic. I look forward to more.

[TinyIttyBittyponY]

Pretty cool. :3 Keeping an eye on this one~
But I thought Vinyl was a white/off white pony, not light yellow? -shrugs-
Because I can.

[Crowne Prince]

I seriously hate it when you have a sticky or stuck key, so I'm sympathetic to Frederic's irritation there.

[Desideratium]

Ah, I love a good Frederic fic. Especially one in which he's alive and well, since in my own, I killed him off relatively early. dl.dropbox.com/u/31471793/FiMFiction/emoticons/shrug_Rainbow_Dash.png
This is more compelling than most. Consider me interested.

[Bad Horse]

This is QUITE good. I was directed here by The Descendant. 126822 is correct; Vinyl is in no way yellow.
The picture is fantastic. By coincidence, the artist who drew the original picture that I modified for "Fluttershy's Night Out" said my modification was all wrong because the posture was wrong for that emotion; yet this picture shows a pony experiencing a similar emotion, and the exact same posture, with chest thrown out, head pulled back, and neck extended.

[Leapingriver]

Oh god I hate when there's a sticky key. It seriously messed you up sometimes. Like your hand goes there and nothing happens and you throw the beat off an ugh, poor Frederick. I quite like him as a character, he's not nearly developed in the fandom as much as he should be. I look forward to reading the next few chapters, call me interested.