The last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first

T.S. Eliot

As always, the key sticks out of the lock of the house, like a knife still embedded deep in the body of a shocked murder victim, coated in blood as this key is coated in rust. As always, Genevieve ignores it and pushes open the door, filling the damp night air briefly with the scent of Febreeze, roasted coffee beans and dust before she shuts it quietly behind her.

She can already hear the bittersweet strands of “Fur Elise” as she hangs up her soaked raincoat in the kitchen: perfectly aligned notes interspersed with frustrated chords. She imagines the fingers pounding at the ivory keys, and shakes her head sadly. It is not a good sign.

As always, the rarely-used sink is piled high with stagnating dishes, and the old refrigerator wheezes nearer to a timely death. Genevieve promises herself she must get around to it (someday), and continues on towards the living room.

“My inspiration,” a familiar, husky voice hums, in Stephen’s familiar greeting, as she quietly creeps into the room, and she stops, surprised. He shouldn’t sound that cheerful when his playing obviously showed his anger and frustration. And yet, she still smiles and whispers back, “My composer.”

Both of them know that both endearments are code words for “My Love, My Treasure, My Heart”…

…“My everything”.

Stephen is sitting in his usual position: slumped, his hands now resting idly against the keyboard of his polished grand piano as his blonde hair flops endearingly into his face. Genevieve leans over to brush it out, managing to sneak in a kiss on his lips as she does so. He doesn’t complain.

She sits down in her usual position by his side, and he presses his fingers down. She expects the original music, but instead he plays “Fur Elise” again. It seems that his situation is worse than she thought.

“No inspiration today?”

He smiles wistfully at her. The silence is answer enough for her, and she sighs and bows her head. There is more riding on his latest composition than just fame and publication…but she would never speak her worries out loud to him, not when he had so much to bear.

A calloused finger raises her chin, and for too brief of a moment, his lips rest against hers again, and she tries to relax for his sake. Then, sighing heavily, he pulls her closer to his side, and as soon as she rests his head in the curve of his shoulder, his fingers dance over the keyboard again. It is the beginning of his piece, and Genevieve relaxes slightly.

For these few moments, when she’s sneaked across town and into a rundown neighborhood to see her Romeo, Genevieve can unwind and close her eyes and imagine that she and her composer are together at last, in a small house of their own, and that there’s nothing to worry them: no bills to be paid, a marriage that had to be hidden from their own families, and…

Genevieve sighs and presses a hand against the small bulge in her stomach. Yes, bigger things ride on this than fame and money alone.

Stephan slowly raises his tempo, fingers gliding effortlessly, his brow furrowed in concentration. Genevieve lifts her head to kiss his cheek, and for a moment, his lips twitch before he is lost in the looming storm of music in his head.

When Genevieve had first met Stephan, she had found his moody, pre-occupied, messy manners irritating and a little disturbing; the fact that he could not even carry out a proper conversation without storming back towards his piano was even a bit scary. However, the friend that had introduced them had convinced her to give him a chance. For that friend’s sake, she did, and at first it was a living hell. Stephan simply wasn’t the type of man she wanted: temperamental, at times insensitive and vulgar, completely in love with his music and unwilling to let a woman to enter his life and “cramp his style”.

And then, she’d heard him play.

It was nothing big: playing the scores to a few romantic songs at a wedding reception. The piano that had been dragged into the hall was old and needed a good tuning. And yet, when she watched him, the way his eyes softened as his fingers brushed against the dusty keys before they danced the music into the air, and how he lifted a little girl off the floor and playfully accompanied her in picking out “Chopsticks”…it was a whole different person that the ordinary, troublesome Stephan Revere.

This was the Stephan that Genevieve fell in love with.

Even after that day, he was still difficult and sometimes even cruel. Once, she cried after he tore into her about cleaning up his desk, claiming that she had lost one of his most valuable compositions in the process. She had avoided him for weeks after that, until the day that he appeared on her steps, tired-looking and wan. For once, his fingers were not skimming over invisible keys, and he sat ram-rod straight in front of her parents, and obligingly drank coffee with sugar in it. It scared her to see him that way, especially when her parents left the room (still disapproving, of course) and he fell on his knees in front of her, his eyes bleak, asking for her forgiveness.

That was the moment when Genevieve realized that she could not live another day without him, and she told him so after she’d convinced him to take the conversation back to his house, away from the eyes of her scowling father and disappointed mother. He’d smiled as she sat next to him, and leaned against his shoulder, and as he started to play, he gently pulled her hands along with him. What started as a beautifully sweet piece of music ended up in tangled fingers and laughing, locked lips.

Neither of them cared at all. It didn’t even matter (much) to Genevieve that he’d never verbally said “I love you”.

His parents didn’t care what he did with his life; they’d abandoned him long ago to fend for his own, disapproving of his career choice and the fact that he set aside college to follow his dreams. Her parents weren’t much better, even after they realized that it was Stephan who made Genevieve the happiest she’d ever been: they were the typical middle-class parents who spent most of their life trying to make sure their little girl was well-off and taken care of. Obviously, some brooding poet type was NOT on their list for perfect potential husband.

So, they married themselves, in a small little church a little bit out of town. The reception was only them, the elderly minister and his kind, rather senile wife. It was perfect for them and their budding love.

Genevieve doesn’t want to tell Stephan, but the truth is that she is terrified---not of the fact that she had just snuck down a tree in her yard and stole her mother’s car in order to be on time for their daily nighttime hour together, but because her stomach is becoming larger, and earlier that night, her father had given her a strange look and asked, “Are you eating more, Viva? You seem to be putting on a bit more weight.” But from the way he’d looked, he’d known---known that it wasn’t food, but something else.

“They could separate us,” Genevieve says, and Stephan’s fingers slow down and a moment passes before she realizes that he has stiffened and she actually spoke aloud. Then, he presses closer against her side and kisses her forehead.

“They won’t be able to. You’re nineteen and legal.”

“They could take the baby,” Genevieve whispers softly, feeling her heart ache. It hurts to unload her worries onto Stephan, knowing that he bears so much for her and their child already, and it also relieves her, to be soothed and told that everything would be alright.

“I wouldn’t allow it,” Stephan growls fiercely, kissing her again. “As soon as the baby’s born, I’ll whisk you two away from here. We’ll change our names if we have to. They won’t follow us out of the state.”

Soothed for the moment, Genevieve allows herself to relax, and Stephan sighs with relief before he begins to play again.

“You inspired this song, you know,” he says suddenly, and Genevieve gives him a surprised look. He’s never spoken to her about his music before; he says that he only tells those who need to hear about it. It always feels as both a compliment and an insult at the same time. It is shocking to her that he will suddenly start telling her about the piece out of the blue.

“When I first saw you…” He pauses briefly, and so do his fingers. “…It was as though I was waking from a dream.”

The music takes a sudden turn, from slow and measured to abruptly fast and erratic. Genevieve stares at him. This is unusual. Maybe Stephan isn’t as collected as she thought he was. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything at all.

“A nightmare,” Stephan clarifies, smiling gently down at the keyboard. “A dark, deep nightmare of sleepless nights and endless frustration…and then, you stepped into my life like a ray of sunshine.”

If it were possible, the music gentles slightly, becoming somehow warmer. Genevieve feels her heart warm as well.

“When I spend time with you, everything seems all right, even if I don’t have a clue where to go with my composition, or your parents are causing trouble. I know that I will be able to take care of you, because I know that your love is enough to keep me strong.”

The music is so sweet and comforting. Tears prick the corners of her eyes and she closes them tightly. Suddenly, she realizes what Stephan is trying to say to her, what he’s always tried to say but ended up settling with kisses and chocolates and flowers.

The music grinds to an abrupt halt, and Stephan turns to focus blazing eyes on hers.

“You are my inspiration, my muse, my heart…no matter what happens, I will always love you and I will always try my best to care for you. In the past, I know I was an idiot, putting my music before you…work before love. Now, I know better.”

He takes one of her hands and rests it above his on the keys, smiling gently.

“My inspiration,” he repeats softly, and as he pulls Genevieve into his arms when she begins to sob, he whispers, “My love.”

A/N: Personally, I don’t think much of this one-shot. It’s too sappy, ambiguous, and Genevieve is really insecure. I would appreciate comments telling me what you think though. I’m better at full-length stories than one-shots (this is my first, by the way).