Good Enough
The keys rang like tiny ivory bells, each tap of the hoof becoming something far more, adding to some beautiful mosaic of sound. High, low, sharp, dull, fast, slow: the notes came in all forms and varieties. The room was full of them, and it had no intention of letting go of its collection of sounds.
On the bench of the piano sat an ancient, all-brown brown stallion, bent over double at the keys, his mane hanging in his eyes. He looked as though he could barely move, as though a stiff breeze would blow him over, but his hooves moved with perfect precision. Beside him sat a tiny brown colt, brown of coat and white of mane, who stared, enraptured by the sight and sound.
The old stallion moved his hooves deftly, his eyes closing in a look of ecstasy as the song reached its climax, building higher and higher. Only a brief glimmer of frustration crossed his old face before he slammed his hooves down, the final notes of the song ringing out powerfully. The sound bounced throughout the room, lingering in the newfound stillness. Even when the silence had fallen completely, it felt as though the music was still there, simply waiting for its chance to come again.
The colt burst into applause, clapping furiously. “That was amazing, Gran’da!” he said, his voice squeaking in his excitement.
The old stallion laughed, closing the lid over the keys and resting his elbows on it. “Well, that’s kind of you to say lad, but these old hooves don’t move quite like they used to. Sort of missed a tricky note near the end there.”
“You mean you used to be even better?” the colt asked, dumbfounded. His grandfather patted his head gently, coughing faintly.
“Well, not by much,” he said. “I’ve never been a great, mind you. Not professional, to be sure. Just needed something to do to keep my hooves in shape during the off season.” He winked. “Ponies don’t always need furniture, sad to say. No, I just happen to like this song, and got good at it.”
The colt gazed up at him, apparently oblivious to his grandfather’s explanation. It was clear to see that in his big, bright eyes, his grandfather may as well have been the very first to unlock the instrument’s secrets. “How come you like the song so much, Gran’da?”
The old stallion smiled wistfully, scratching his belly. “Weeeell, that’s a story for when you’re a bit older, I think,” he said, laughing. “Doubt your mum would care for me telling it.” He winked. “She just don’t like thinkin’ about where she came from too hard, is all.”
The colt stared at the laughing stallion oddly, confused but understanding in that curious way that only a child can manage fully. “Then,” he asked, “If you can’t tell me why you like it... could you teach me how to play instead?” He beamed hopefully at his grandfather, who grinned.
“If it keeps you from asking? I’d be more than happy to, lad.” He lifted up his grandson, seating the colt on his lap. “Now,” he said, “The song is called Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue, and we start with this key here...”
***
“Nnnnnn...”
Frederic Horseshoepin buried his face in his hooves, leaning over the sink. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt sick. Try as he might, he could not actually remember if he had just vomited. He peered through his hooves at the porcelain bowl, breathing deeply. It was clean, but the water was running. It was hard to tell.
He straightened up as though pulled along by strings, brushing back his white mane. He turned this way and that, inspecting it in the mirror. It was tidy enough, at least by the standards of a hairstyle that has been subjected to a week's worth of insomnia and mane-pulling. Still, if nothing else, a pony would have to get very close up to notice that it looked more like a particularly ambitious and esoteric piece of modern art than a manestyle, and there was little enough danger of that happening. Canterlot’s upper class might make a show of their patronage, but when it came to actually meeting the performers, they were roughly as gracious as Frederic’s mane was attractive.
They were packing into the hall now, Frederic knew. He couldn't hear them there, tucked away in the back of the concert hall, in among all the soundproofing and the winding halls backstage, but he knew. He didn't have to hear them. He could feel them. He could feel their expectation, their judgement. He imagined that it must have cost them all a pretty penny to come and see him, and not a single one of them intended to see their investment go to waste. The brown stallion swept his mane back again, turning over the words in his head.
Don't want their investment to go to waste...
***
“We don't want it to go to waste, do we Freddy?”
“But Ma, I thought you said Gran'da gave it to us when he died?”
Frederic's mother smiled wistfully, gesturing for the colt to come closer. Frederic did so, snuggling up to her side. The chocolate-coloured mare nosed through his mane, sighing. “He did, yes,” she said. “He gave it to us because he knew that you liked to play on it. You do like to play the piano, don't you Freddy?”
“Uh-huh,” Frederic replied. He laid his head on his mothers foreleg, his eyes casting downward. He pawed at the rug. “I like practicin'.”
“Then why don't you want to go to your lessons anymore?”
The colt sighed, tucking his face into his mothers legs. He rolled onto his back, wiggling his legs and letting out a tiny, pathetic little whine, as though he could not work up the motivation to have a proper tantrum. “It's boooooriiiiiiiiiiiiing!” he wailed. “I never get to play!”
His mother chuckled, rolling him back onto his belly. “That can't be true,” she said. “They tell me that you play plenty!”
“Nuh-uh!” Frederic said, propping himself up on his elbows. He bobbed his head back and forth, pretending to play a very large, very clunky piano. “We just play scales, and hot-cross-buns. We don't play any real songs. Hot cross buns, hot cross buns!” He pulled the sort of face he normally kept reserved for alfalfa, harrumphing.
“Everypony has to start somewhere, sweetheart,” she said.
“Gran'da let me start with Beethoofen,” the colt mumbled, crossing his hooves.
“Well, Gran'da also didn't have five other little colts and fillies to take care of, now did he? He just had you.”
“Yeah...”
“Besides,” she added diplomatically, “Hot cross buns might be a little bit easier for you to play.”
“Yeah,” Frederic muttered again. “It's too easy. It's no fun.” He snorted. “I don't see why I can't skip ahead.”
“Well, you might be good,” his mother said, “But I'll bet you you're not perfect.”
Frederic's little eyebrows shot up. “Am too!” he insisted. “I can play it frontwards an' backwards!”
“Oh, really?” his mother asked. She rolled onto her back, lifting the colt up and holding him above her head. “What are you willing to bet, hm?”
Frederic's tiny face screwed up, and he put his hoof over his mouth. “Umm... I bet doin' the dishes for a whooooole week that I can play it perfect!”
“Alright,” his mother agreed, chuckling. “If you don't get it perfect, then you do the dishes for a week. But if you do, then I'll buy you ice cream for a week. Sound good?”
“Uh-huh!” Frederic agreed, shaking his head vigorously. “Deal!”
His mother laughed, pulling him down into a hug. “It's a deal, then. I'll even give you a week to practice. After all,” she smiled, sitting up with the colt still in her forelegs, “practice makes perfect.”
***
There was a knocking on the bathroom door, followed by a mare's voice. “Freddy?”
“Come in,” Frederic said softly. “I'm decent.”
The door squeaked open, and a tiny gray muzzle poked through. “And the other stallions?” it asked, a tiny smirk flicking across it. Frederic chuckled.
“There are no other stallions, Octavia. It's just me in here right now. Soon to be me and you.”
The door opened further, and she stepped in. The gray on her muzzle extended over her entire body, even her mane was simply a deeper, charcoal shade of gray. The dim fluorescence of the bathroom did her little justice, but under proper lighting her coat gleamed beautifully. She trotted across the bathroom, laying a hoof on Frederic's shoulder.
“Are you alright, Freddy?” she asked.
Frederic shrugged, the sort of shrug that's neither a confirmation nor a denial, and is indeed barely an answer at all. “I... think so?” he said. “I think I feel better. I might have thrown up.”
“You don't know?”
“Uh...” Frederic looked between Octavia and the sink. “Well... not really. I guess I was...”
“Distracted?”
“I was gonna say 'terrified,’ but that works too.” He laughed weakly, slumping against the wall and looking down. His forelegs were quaking. “Gods, Tavi... I've got no idea what I'm doing here.”
She sighed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, come on, Freddy, even your memory isn't that bad.”
“That's not what I mean and you know it, Tavi,” Frederic said sharply. “I'm serious. I still can't believe they offered me this. I'm still half-convinced it was a mistake, and they meant to book some other, better pianist. I'm... I don't know if I can do this.” He exhaled deeply. It felt as though he were breathing out a part of himself, as though there was a sort of emptiness when the breath had left. He inhaled just as deeply, but he didn't feel full again. It felt as though there was a gaping hole in his chest. He placed a hoof over it, clutching at the phantom wound. “I think I might throw up again,” he said. His voice was weak and tight as he spoke. “Or maybe for the first time. I shouldn't have eaten before coming.”
Octavia sighed, sitting beside him. “Oh, Freddy,” she said, leaning against him. “Why are you always so hard on yourself?”
“I'm not hard on myself,” Frederic said. He groaned, shaking his head. “How is this hard on myself? I'm just... nervous.”
“Nervous is Beauty nearly drowning herself in punch before her final recital,” Octavia said. “This is beyond nervous – and you do this every time you have a show. You're going to kill yourself doing this, Freddy.”
Frederic shrugged in denial of the question again, rubbing his chest. “I dunno,” he said. “Everypony always... overestimates me. They're too easy on me. Give me stuff I'm not ready for.”
“How? You're a wonderful pianist! How can you claim that everypony is being too easy on you?” She leaned in close. “That many ears can't be wrong, Freddy.”
“Yeah, well...” He rubbed his eyes. “That many ears aren't musicians. Not pianists. They don't really know the difference.”
“But you still sound amazing to them.”
“Octavia...” Frederic peered at her through his bangs. “I could tell you you're wonderful at the cello until the cows come home. I can tell Harpo he's the best harpist I've ever heard until his mane turns red. But I'll bet you could both point out a thousand things I don't catch about your performances.”
Octavia grimaced a bit, trying to find a way not to admit that he was right. In the end she simply sighed.
The pair was silent for a long time. They let the sounds of the bathroom speak for them: the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the steady drip drip dripping of a leaky faucet, the creak of the plumbing. The very fact that it could be heard spoke volumes, and not a single word of it was lost on Frederic.
He still felt empty inside, but now it was joined by something. He could not quite place his hoof on it, but it was there. Regret, perhaps? More fear? It was almost impossible to tell. All he could say for sure is that, whatever the feeling was, the sickness only got stronger. He rubbed his belly, leaning back against Octavia as his thoughts began to wander again.
***
“What's the matter, sweetheart?”
“I did awful, that's what's the matter!” Frederic grunted into his pillow. He struggled hard not to show his tears, but try as he might he couldn't hide the shuddering of his shoulders as he fought down the chokes and sniffles. His mother sat down beside him, resting a hoof on his back. He jerked violently, shaking it off. His mother sighed quietly.
“You didn't do awful, Freddy –”
“Yes I did!” he sobbed. “I completely lost it halfway through the song! I'm surprised anypony could even recognize it!”
“What did your tutor say?” his mother asked. Frederic was silent.
“He didn't... say anything,” he said. “He just looked at me.”
“Lots of ponies were looking at you, Sweetheart...”
“Don't remind me,” the colt said. His voice was venomous, and he shifted to stare at the wall. His swollen red eyes burned like tiny coals, as though he was trying to burn a hole in the wall to escape. “He was different though. They just looked... I don't know, disappointed. I can't blame them. But he looked like.... like he was disappointed in me. Like he was ashamed.”
“That's not true, Freddy,” his mother said. “You know that that isn't true. You're Mr. Ivory's favourite student, and we both know it.”
“Yeah, and I still fucked the recital up!”
“Frederic!”
“I did!” he wailed, pulling the pillow to cover his face again. “I was so stupid! I thought that I was perfect, that I didn't have to practice! I didn't even do my hoof stretches before the recital! And look what it got me! A disappointed audience, a disappointed teacher and these stupid, clumsy fucking hooves! I may as well have stomped all over Rachponinoff's grave while I was at it...” He sniffled, wiping his eyes. “I bet even Gran'da would be disappointed in me...”
“Oh, don't you dare say that,” his mother said. She grabbed his shoulder, pulling him to face her. “Freddy, don't ever say that. Gran'da loved watching you play more than anything, and he'd be so proud of you right now.” She forced him to look at her, tilting his chin up with a hoof. “Don't you ever doubt that, Freddy.”
“Would he?” Frederic asked. “Even though I fucked up so bad?”
“Well, he might not if you keep swearing...” The mare smiled, fourteen years of motherly love and care all swelling into one small, tight grin. “But yes, he would. He would be so proud to know that his little Freddy loved the piano so much that he got this upset over one little bad recital.”
Frederic sighed, leaning in. “...Thanks, Mom.”
The mare pulled him in closer, hugging him tight. “Anytime for my little colt. How are you feeling?”
“Still pretty lousy,” Frederic admitted. “I just... I dunno. I still can't believe I messed up that badly. I just...”
“Hush,” his mother interrupted. “You already know why you didn't do as well as you wanted to don't you?”
Frederic looked down, sighing. “'Cause I didn't practice enough,” he said.
“That's right,” his mother cooed. “So...?”
“So I need to practice more,” he said. His mother nuzzled into his mane, kissing his cheek.
“Good boy,” she chuckled.
***
“Hey Freddy?” Octavia asked. Frederic shook his head sharply, snapping back like a rubber band against one’s forehead.
“Hm?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “What? I'm sorry, I kinda... faded out.”
Octavia chuckled. “You say that like it's something new... no, it's alright. I was just... wondering something.”
“About what?” the pianist asked. Octavia shuffled her hooves awkwardly.
“Do you remember when we were in university, and we went to see Sunday in the Park with Brush, with Harpo and Beauty?”
“Yeah?” Frederic answered. Part of his mind was still miles away, focusing on memories of his grandfather, and his mother, and of piano recitals years past. “We, um... it was Harpo's idea, right? He figured we ought to bond for the quartet project. Thought it would help us play better together.”
“That's right,” Octavia said. She chuckled. “Well, the idea to go to a play was Harpo's. He wanted to go see... what was it, again? Something so strange... I think it was... Street something?”
“Avenue, I think,” Frederic corrected. “I think it was Avenue something. Heh. With the puppets, right?”
“That's the one!” Octavia said, clapping. “Hah, I remember the look on his face when we voted him down. He loved it as much as the rest of us though, didn't he?”
“Yeah,” Frederic said, laughing wistfully. “Yeah, he loved it. He wouldn't stop talking about it.” He chuckled.
“And,” Octavia continued, “do you remember that song? The one that made you cry, but you wouldn't ever tell any of us why?”
“‘Finishing the Hat,’” Frederic answered. The name leapt into his mind unbidden. In a way, it was always there, living in his heart. That same heart lurched at its mention, and he felt a lump rise in his throat, even now. He knew everything about it. He could see the sheet music in his mind, hear it in his ears. He could even feel his hooves tapping away at keys that were not there, playing the song. “I remember,” he said.
“And do you remember,” Octavia said again, quietly this time, “When you locked yourself away those months before the final performance to graduate, and when I asked you why, you said...”
“I was Finishing the Hat,” Frederic said. His voice was quiet, barely a whisper. He didn't have the breath for anything else. He barely had the breath not to drop dead on the bathroom floor. The lump in his throat climbed higher.
“That's right,” Octavia said. She hugged her forelegs around his, resting her head on his shoulder. “You looked half-dead on that day, Freddy... but you played beautifully.”
“I was alright,” he answered instinctively. “I wasn't perfect.”
“You got the best grade out of any of us.”
“I got a Ninety-eight.”
“That's a pretty good mark.”
“It's not perfect.”
“Does it have to be, Freddy?” Octavia asked, looking up at him. “You were almost perfect. Why do you always do this to yourself? Can't that be good enough for you?”
“There's no such thing as 'good enough',” he responded, looking away. That empty feeling was back, worse than ever. It was as though his entire chest had been stolen, and yet his heart still thudded sickly. Something new was there, though. No, not quite new. It was familiar, a strange something between sickness and heat in the pit of his stomach. He felt it after that recital when he was fourteen, for the first time. He'd felt it many times since then, though. “Good enough isn't good enough for me,” he said.
“It's good enough for the rest of us,” Octavia told him.
“Well, the rest of you aren't playing Cantergie Hall, are you!?” he shouted suddenly, jerking violently. Octavia let go of his foreleg, leaning away from him.
“No,” she said, her voice hushed, “we aren't.”
There was silence in the bathroom again, but a different kind of silence this time. It was wounded. Cold. The heat slowly slipped away from Fredric's shoulders, and what once was a heavy heaving, a furious beating in his chest, slowly weakened into a pattering, a pathetic trembling. He hung his head forward, as though he didn't have the strength to lift it up anymore.
“I... I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean it like that...”
“No, you did,” Octavia said. “It's alright, though. You're right. I don't think any of us could claim to be half of what you are... not a single one of us could claim to be as... as dedicated as you are.”
Frederic's ears twitched. He could hear a word being swapped out at the last moment. He didn't need to wonder what it was. He knew. He had told himself it a million times. His mother had told it to him. Octavia was far from the first, even if she couldn't bring herself to form the word, to shape her lips around the accusation.
“But Freddy, I just want to know why you do it. You've come so far, Freddy... but it's never good enough. You've got a packed stadium, all to hear you play, and it's still not good enough for you. Why?”
Frederic looked at his hooves. They trembled violently, the vibrations traveling up his arms. He shivered, placing his head in the hooves and moaning as his body quaked.
“I don't... I can't...” His chest was tight, stretched taut over the emptiness inside of it. He was full of bile, of fire, of ice, of a million things he was afraid to imagine. The lump in his throat turned to a fist, but he couldn't cry. “If you don't know Octavia, I can't... I...” He sighed pathetically. “I need to finish the hat,” he said. “The hat... isn't done yet.” He lowered his voice, so quiet that nopony but him could hear. “Because I'm not good enough for it...”
Octavia sighed, shaking her head. “I'm sorry, Freddy. The show's going to start soon... I'm going to go take my seat.” She reached into her mane, pulled out a small object, and stared at it. “You just... I came because you forgot this outside,” she said. She reached down slowly, placing whatever it was at his hooves. With that she stood, swiftly leaving the bathroom and leaving Frederic alone.
He peered down at the floor. Before him sat a bow tie. He smiled.
***
“Way to go, Freddy!” Harpo called, bounding over to the pianist in question. Frederic blinked, looking up from his papers. His three friends were coming down the hall, huge smiles on all their faces.
“I'm sorry?” Frederic asked.
“Sorry for what?” Harpo asked. “For showing us all up? Well you should be! That was amazing!”
“You mean the performance?” he asked. “You were there?”
“We were listening outside the door,” Beauty Brass said. “So, technically...”
“Regardless,” Octavia said, waving a hoof, “It was a wonderful performance. You should be proud of yourself.”
“Proud nothing, you should be celebrating,” Harpo declared. “Heck, we should all be celebrating. Our buddy Fred's gonna be one of the greats! Ludwig Van Beethoofen, Timberwolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Freddy Horseshopin!”
“Well, I'm not really any Beethoofen,” Frederic said quietly, but Harpo ignored him, throwing a hoof around the pianist's shoulders.
“We're going out tonight, Freddy!” he declared. “The four of us! Fancy restaurant, swanky wine that you can't afford enough of to get drunk on, and really good food that'll never fill you up! Then we'll all go out for burgers and milkshakes!”
“Um,” Frederic said, “I can't really afford a fancy dinner.”
“It's alright, Freddy,” Octavia said. “I can cover for you.” She smirked. “There are some benefits to being of the upper class.”
“I'm... sure,” Frederic said. He looked down at the papers in his hoof, shaking his head and beginning to fold them.
“What're those?” Beauty asked.
“Oh... nothing,” Frederic said, “Just my grades for the performance. Professor just finished giving them to me now, actually.”
“Sweet!” Harpo said, snatching them out of his hoof. “Let's take a look at these!”
“Wait –” Frederic said weakly, but to no avail. Harpo had already whipped the papers open, revealing the contents for the three ponies.
“A... ninety-eight?” Beauty asked, dumbfounded.
“Shows remarkable dexterity for an earth pony... still needs work on the hoof flexibility. Missed a few notes,” Octavia read aloud. “Beyond that, almost nothing was in need of improvement, but always watch the pedals. It’s common to lean too much on them – Freddy, that's amazing!”
“It's alright,” Frederic answered quietly.
“Alright!?” Harpo exclaimed, “That's amazing! That's almost perfect!”
“Almost...” Frederic responded. “But if my hoof flexibility is bad, it's not just a matter of this song. That needs work in general. I should practice some more...”
“Well, you can do that anytime,” Beauty declared. “But not tonight. Tonight we're definitely celebrating!”
“Ah... I dunno,” Frederic said, lowering his head between his shoulders.
“Well, I do,” Octavia declared. “I already bought you your tie. So you're going.”
“My... tie?” the pianist asked, raising an eyebrow. Octavia reached into her mane, pulling out a small red bow tie, and a matching collar.
“A... bow tie,” Frederic said, taking it from her.
“That's right,” Octavia said. “I bought one for all of us. The restaurant has a dress code. Besides,” she added, reaching up to flick the tattered old pork pie hat he wore, “you could use a new accessory... that silly old hat doesn't suit you at all.”
“It's... red?” he asked again, furrowing his brow, as though the bow tie were some strange, alien device.
Octavia smiled, swishing her tail playfully. “That,” she said, “does suit you.”
***
Frederic trotted through the halls of the stadium, headed slowly towards the stage. He had swept back his mane, wetting it down, and the bow tie was set firmly around his throat. Even his coat had been hastily brushed down, forced into a semblance of neatness. His eyes were set dead ahead, the red puffiness around them serving only to frame the cold, almost zombie-like single-mindedness they held.
Stagehands flocked around him, but he didn't hear their words. They said things about the time, about how long he had to get to the stage, but he didn't care. He walked. He would reach his piano in time. It was right there: standing before him, black as pitch with brilliantly white keys, all the stars in the night sky. It was a beautiful instrument, the sort that made his heart leap to behold. If it leapt now, he didn't notice. The euphoria was fought down by a strange brew of sickness, of fear, of vague, undirected shame and most of all, of passion. He sat at the piano, opening the book on the notestand.
The curtain went up as he flipped to his page. Apparently he had been later than he had imagined, he thought to himself. He stared up at the rising edge of the heavy cloth, and sighed. He looked down.
It was hard to see the crowd through the stage lights. Frederic had to fight the urge to shield his eyes from the light, but he probably looked miserable enough already. Somewhere in the crowd were his mother and father. Somewhere else, his friends. If for nopony else, he wanted to look professional for them. Even if he couldn't be ready for this, he could at least look ready. He could at least lie his way through the beginning. The host was finishing announcing him now, his polite drone helping to bring Frederic’s mind to a dubious peace. “...Frederic Horseshoepin, performing Johann Sebastian Buch’s Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue.”
A soft murmur ran through the hall as the attendants stared up at him. He sighed, breathing deep. He raised his hooves, and the room went silent. Not a breath. Not a sound. Merely the touch of the bow tie around his neck, and a memory. A word repeated, over and over. Obsession.
His hooves came down.
The sound rang through the hall like the crack of thunder, a warning of an impending storm. He had practiced here for many weeks now and he was prepared for the acoustics... but no matter how much he practiced, no matter how much he prepared and fretted, no matter how many years of experience he had, he would never be prepared for the soul of the notes. They echoed over the arching walls, meeting his ears in a flood of noise, a thousand tiny raindrops strong. The sickness, the apprehension, all were washed away in an instant. The sound struck him like lightning, filling him to the brim with electricity.
His hooves moved. Almost without him realizing, they moved. His eyes were locked on the music, never moving, never blinking. Faster and faster his hooves moved, speed and flexibility covering for his lack of extra digits. Unicorns had always had the upper hoof on the piano, but he had been a competitive colt. He wouldn't let them overcome him. He let the vibration of the instrument ring through his forelegs, sending them bouncing to the next key with practiced, perfect precision.
Be careful with the pedals. Can’t lean on them too much. A small detail, but the small details are the most important of all. Makes a good song great, and a great song divine. He wanted divinity. He needed it. He needed perfection.
His mane fell into his face, so he closed his eyes. He didn't need them. He could see the sheet music in his mind... no, he didn't need that. The music itself was in him. Perfect. Whole. The song wanted him to play it, it had chosen him. His hooves shook, his entire body trembling, but they still struck with perfect precision, like a surgeon. Every key, every note, however many at a time he needed. He didn't care. He could feel the last notes trembling in his hooftips, begging to be let out. A dozen left. Ten. Six. Three. One.
His hooves struck the keys, holding the note. Sound rang through the hall one last time, like the last cry of a beautiful bird that had flown away, never to be seen again. Frederic's shoulders heaved. His heart pounded in his chest. His mind reeled. His whole body trembled.
The hall was silent.
He leaned back slowly onto the stool, closing the lid of the keys. His body was still shaking, but this was every bit as practiced as the song. Sit down. Wait for judgment. Analyze. Prepare for next time. Try as he might though, he could not critique himself.
Did I work the pedals right? he wondered. I always forget about the pedals... and my hooves, did I flex them right? Tricky combinations, I hope I didn't hit a wrong key...
The hall was silent.
I don’t... think I did... He wracked his mind for every note he had played, every key, every sound, trying to figure out what, if anything, he had done wrong. Surely he must have, though. Surely he must have made a mistake somewhere. He had never been perfect before. Yet his heart was light, still overjoyed by the passion of the music as his hooves retraced their steps across the closed keys, remembering their places and the notes they had played.
The hall was silent.
The applause did not come from one pony in the back of the room. It did not cascade through the audience like a slowly building wave. The applause came like an explosion, like a wall, shattering the silence into a million tiny pieces. The noise was deafening, the force of it nearly knocking Frederic off his stool, but he didn’t notice. His hooves had frozen on the lid, locked in position over one of the final notes of the song. Even with the lid down, he could tell what he would have played. The note was very slightly wrong, one key extra pressed down. Not enough for anypony else to tell, but for a musician... and yet, the fullness in his heart had not left him. He stared at the piano dumbly, numb to the noise around him.
The applause had not ended. If anything it grew louder, the tremendous, thunderous noise threatening to bring the concert hall down around their ears. It crashed over him like a wave, buffeting him even as he stared at his hoof. It was wrong. He knew it was wrong, but it had not sounded wrong.
“Must be going mad,” he murmured, a tiny sound lost against the applause. “I got it wrong, but...” His voice caught in his throat, blocked by a large lump that had suddenly appeared. He choked suddenly, putting his hoof to his chest. It did not feel empty as it had before. Instead, it felt terribly, amazingly full. “O-old hooves don’t move quite like they used to,” he whispered, tears springing to his eyes. “Sort of missed a tricky note near the end there.”
He covered his mouth. The world was noise, beautiful, wonderful noise. His heart felt like it was about to explode, and he barely understood why. He choked out a sob, leaning on the keyboard lid.
He blinked hard, the tears springing from his eyes and rolling down his cheeks as he stared at his hoof, still locked in the position where he had made his mistake, the one mistake, the mistake he remembered from his foalhood. He looked up, rubbing the tears from his eyes. He couldn’t let the audience see him like this, not after he had tried so hard to seem professional, but with each passing moment that ship was sailing further and further away. Tears rolled down his cheeks like river, carving deep ravines in his coat.
He stared out over the audience. The tears in his eyes blurred his view, but he could still make out the shapes, the colours. There in the front row, a beautiful mare of gray and charcoal with a pink bow tie. She smiled up at him, applauding furiously. On either side of her there were a blue mare and stallion, applauding every bit as hard, along with Frederic’s mother and father.
There, in a seat where nopony sat, he could see him, a stallion that wasn’t really there. A trick of the light, the tears in his eyes, or the imaginings of an obsessed musician finally gone mad. Who could say? He was there, though, the ancient brown stallion, applauding along with the rest of them.
“G-gran’da,” Frederic sobbed. He laughed, his tears falling from his face and splattering onto the piano. “I... I... oh gods,” he whimpered, laughing. It finally struck him what was happening, and his heart leaped in his chest. It soared and flew like a dancer across a stage. He clutched at his chest once again, not for the emptiness, but for the fullness. He laughed, a gleeful sob as the corners of his mouth pulled into the widest grin he had ever smiled. “M-missed a tricky note near the end there,” he repeated. He buried his face in his hooves, laughing gleefully through his tears. “Amazing,” he said. The tears poured down, drenching his face and running into his mouth, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He fruitlessly dried his eyes, looking up to beam at the stallion who was not there.
Take a bow, the stallion seemed to say. That was perfect.