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fic: Thread

Title: Thread
Fandom: Maurice (1987)/ Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Lestrade/Maurice
Rating: PG-13
Length: 450
Content notes: no warnings apply
Author notes: Part of The Old Bad Songs and Other Stories; this fic is a very late birthday present for [personal profile] 2ndskin, with love.
Summary: Another good-looking baritone tonight. Department of No Surprise, given Maurice’s tastes.

Last time Maurice took him to Wigmore Hall, Lestrade spent a lot of the concert staring at the spectacularly bonkers ceiling decoration. Supposed to represent the spirit of Music or something, though the half-naked bloke in the middle looks more like an ad for Physique Pictorial. To be fair, it was that or stare at Maurice’s old Cambridge mate Gerald Finley, who Lestrade’s fancied rotten ever since that DVD night on Maurice’s sofa watching Gerry being hatefully good as the Count in Marriage of Figaro.

Another good-looking baritone tonight. Department of No Surprise, given Maurice’s tastes. Takes Lestrade a while to realize it’s the singer from the first CD Maurice ever gave him, seven years ago now. Christ. Like that woman said in Rosenkavalier, Time’s a strange thing.

If anyone’d told him then that he’d be here with Maurice Hall, seven years later, and happy, he’d have thought they were nuts. Never mind that he’d be cheerfully sitting through a concert with songs in Finnish as well as bloody German... Least there’s some French in the second half, should be able to keep up better with that.

Ribald Songs, the programme note says they’re called. Seventeenth-century poems about drinking, shagging, masturbation – bit racy for this crowd, aren’t they? Not to mention the Radio 3 audience, since this concert’s going out live.

“Mmm,” Maurice says appreciatively as the musicians come back on.

Mmm indeed: the singer’s swapped his first-half gear for jeans and a close-fitting dark blue shirt, untucked. Very nice. Lestrade’s mind goes straight to the gutter, and not because of the seventeenth-century French filth either.

It’s not really his style of filth, anyway. A girl without tits is a partridge without orange. Makes no fucking sense to Lestrade, though the audience laughs in a polite, slightly shocked way.

There’s a change of mood for the next song – Invocation to the Fates. The singer swears to love his girl as long as he lives, and asks the Fates to make the thread of his life as long as possible. It’s beautiful, and unexpectedly sad. Elegiac, the programme note called it. Makes him think of that song in the first half, fear no more the heat of the sun, but also of a painting they saw in a gallery on their last holiday. Three old women, two of them spinning and one with shears, holding the thread of life in their hands.

It’s true, you never know how long you’ve got. He puts his hand on Maurice’s and squeezes gently, ignoring the disapproving glare of the straight couple next to them. Maurice lets go of the armrest and squeezes back, and they sit there holding hands while the short song lasts.


Additional notes:

Seventeenth-century French filth: poems set by Francis Poulenc as Chansons gaillardes; the song Lestrade likes is Invocation aux Parques.

that song in the first half: Gerald Finzi's setting of "Fear no more the heat o' the sun"

references to earlier stories in the series: Nights at the Opera ch. 3 (the DVD session on Maurice's sofa), Opening Night (the Marschallin's aria about Time) and The Ballad Singer (Maurice and Lestrade's previous visit to Wigmore Hall). The first CD Maurice ever gave Lestrade appears in the final chapter of The Old Bad Songs.

Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/226863.html with comment count unavailable comments.


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