Chapter Text
Klaus settled himself into the chair (which he’d strategically positioned by the fireplace at a 45 degree angle to Elijah’s) and tipped a wine glass to his lips. The color of the liquor matched the tint of his mouth exactly, his lips pursed over the rim like a bloom opening in the morning sun.
Shutting his eyes to savor the layers of the vintage, he failed to ignore his eldest brother who had barged into the family home as if he'd owned it. As usual, he'd done so in the name of ‘family bonding’.
Elijah was the perfect representation of his name, rigid and irritatingly overprotective. Though Klaus recognized that unlike Kol, Elijah sought to find the good in everyone, he almost gave humans a benefit of the doubt they sometimes did not deserve. Weren’t they horrible to one another and acted like the Earth was a self-replenishing banquet?
Perhaps Klaus was just feeling particularly lonely and jaded, he concluded. Maybe he was lacking a suitable distraction to his bitterness.
'What’s this silence, Niklaus?’ prompted Elijah, who turned a perfectly coiffed head to face Klaus, experiencing a measure of patience and serenity which had been so rare in the darker days. He'd since learned to manage Klaus' moods.
He didn’t think his sibling was aware, but Elijah had noticed it: Klaus had changed. A welcome thing (which was a first for someone of his occasional and all-encompassing passionate nature). The tension in his brother’s shoulders was now careless ease that came naturally to him, not the forced performance he kept up for ferocious appearances in front of boring humans. The smiles came easily, too. Bright, lasting things with only a hint of cruelty at the edge of his lips, which Elijah somehow appreciated. After all, what was Klaus without a little cruelty?
He supposed it was a blessing that this metamorphosis had been turned outwards, unleashed on the creatures of greater evil known as humans (although it was debatable whether there were any more dangerous creatures than vampires?)
If he’d pushed that sentiment inward, as Klaus had done in the past, it would have culminated once more in great bouts of depression and spirals into abysmal darkness. Paintings that would have put Picasso's Blue Period to utter shame.
That’s not something Elijah wanted to deal with anytime soon. Preferably never again.
“Niklaus, don’t ignore me. You’re acting… strangely.”
‘What’s so odd about being quiet and trying to enjoy a glass of wine?’ Klaus turned sea-flushed eyes at him. He'd all but poured himself into the seat just like he'd poured the wine into his glass.
Elijah, instead, looked uncomfortably stiff- clad in a three-piece suit and sat upright, as though he were expecting an important guest. It was a striking contrast to Klaus’ lax position in tight jeans and his body hugging a soft long-sleeve t-shirt. How similar they were, and yet how different.
Elijah lifted his index finger to his lips. ‘I think you’re losing your mind, brother. I’ve found no reason to celebrate the day of my turning, much less name it my funeral.’
‘We died then, didn’t we, on some level? Surely that horror could be classified as some kind of end?’ It was something Klaus had been pondering for a long time. (Centuries).
‘Well, yes- of course. But a funeral is to put a person to the ground and we are not human, Niklaus, much less dead. And heaven knows none of us want eternal rest.’
Elijah steepled his huge hands, and dragged his words out to silence Klaus, who had a habit of interrupting him. “Your young pianist is expecting something different from what you’ve got planned, I fear.’
Klaus uncrossed his legs and took another sip. ‘He’s not my young pianist, Elijah.” For some unknown reason, he felt like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar whenever Elijah mentioned his little pet project. Why did he have to always feel his brother's searing scrutiny like a second-degree burn?
‘Oh really? Then why did you choose him of all the pianists available? From what I’ve discovered of the young man, he is unusual. A past rife with…abnormalities and tragedies. He comes from a town full of supernatural occurrences to boot.’
‘You had him investigated?’ asked Klaus with an arch of his dirty blonde brow. He had no need for such frivolities, for if a man dared cross him then the unfortunate fellow deserved whatever he got.
Elijah smirked and tugged on his check-patterned tie. ‘Do you not know me? Naturally I had him investigated. I have every new person who’s coming to this house vetted. I nearly lost you, brother, I’ll not chance it again.’
‘Must be a tiring job,’ chuckled Klaus, ‘being my babysitter for a millennia.’
Elijah pretended it wasn’t a jab and tipped his gaze while Klaus’ mind returned to the pianist without any shame. ‘Ah, his name. I was meaning to ask you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Elijah bent his head in curiosity.
‘His name. Mieczyslaw Stilinski. It struck a match in my memory. Do you remember I had a friend like that once, your ex-schoolmate, the skilled violinist? In Poland. Do you remember?’
‘Polish,’ Elijah nodded in recollection. ‘Wonderful virtuoso. You mean the one you bedded, brother?” he paused for effect. ‘Perhaps a descendant?’
A flush colored Klaus’ cheeks, and it wasn’t from the wine. ‘Yes. The one I bedded. Thank you as always of reminding me of my libido. Still, if it were his blood, wouldn't that would be coincidental? If that were really his ancestor?’
‘Now I know for certain you have a romantic interest in this man. Wouldn’t it be inappropriate for you to sleep with him if you’d once been lovers with one of his great-great grandfathers?’
Klaus rose, a sense of propriety on these matters very distant from his view on things intimate.
‘Now Elijah, why on earth would I think that odd? That poor man is centuries dead and buried. It’s the curse of being a vampire, is it not? A little familial repetition is bound to happen. Now, he’ll be here any minute, brother. Be so kind and bugger off? I should like to entertain my guest alone.’
Elijah huffed out a laugh and flowed out of the chair in one swooping move, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles from his impeccable suit. ‘As long as you don’t eat the young man and leave me to clean up the mess, do what you will, brother.’
Klaus grinned. “Don’t I, anyway?”
“Yes," Elijah admitted with heavy heart. 'I’ve learned the hard way that your fiery penchants cannot be reigned in. If you can seduce this young man, more power to you. I’m off to see to some city matters. Let me know when it’s safe to come home, hmm? Wouldn’t want to interrupt you mid-coitus.”
Klaus wasn't able to contain his amusement. It rocked him until his wine swished in his hand. ”Elijah, you give me too much credit. I wouldn’t dare touch a hair on his head the first day we meet.”
Smirking, Elijah turned on his perfectly polished Italian heel. “Fine. Tomorrow, then. Either way, we both know poor Mieczyslaw Stilinski doesn’t stand a chance.”
When his brother had left, the door latch clicking into place as the ghost of his steps echoed through the manor, Klaus turned a contemplative eye to the fireplace. How wrong Elijah was, he mused. In reality, this whole project had nothing to do with sex at all.
_
Pursuing most arts made humans rather solitary creatures. Writers, artists, musicians- the training and dedication necessary molded people into individuals of habit and careful consideration, used to the company of their own demons more than living, breathing things. (Often enough, those very demons were also kinder in disposition than critics).
At least, that was how Stiles Stilinski fancied himself after countless years of study and reflection: a reasonable man.
He’d lost count of how often he’d stared at his reflection in the onyx depths of upright pianos- until he was good enough to pass to Steinways and world stages.
Being nervous by nature would have normally been a hindrance, but when Stiles sat down at the keyboard an almost surreal calm overcame him. He understood music- it belonged to him. Spoke to his soul – poured out from that soul through his fingers onto the ivories- and into the hearts of his audience. He'd seen people cheer him- weep over his performances.
It was exhilarating.
Music had made him passionate- life in Beacon Hills had made him careful. Stiles took no decisions until they had been turned over in his mind and he’d accounted for all facets. Stiles also liked to believe that in life, everything had an explanation. You only had to look deeper to unearth the secret corners of a mystery. Being a lover of solving puzzles, he was intrigued by the one currently in his grasp.
Here in his fingers was an enigma. Like any other pianist, he’d received commissions to play for an event, but unlike any other request, it had come in the form of a letter on parchment paper. Now, it was strange that a man would send letters in the twenty-first century, and yet, what was odd wasn’t so much the medium as were the contents.
His phone shrilled and as the first notes of Mozart filtered into the room, he thumbed the little green button.
‘So, you decided yet?’ asked Scott through greeting. He’d called him that morning to tell him about the letter and ask his advice on what to do.
‘I don’t know man, it’s seriously confusing. And you know I hate being confused, Scott.’ Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, something nagging in his chest. “I keep staring at the thing and I’m like, is this a joke?”
‘It wouldn’t hurt to at least go there to see if it’s real, would it? I mean the guy’s paying you to go to New Orleans all expenses paid. Shit, I’ll pretend to play piano and go in your place.’
‘Maybe you’re right," Stiles turned the letter over in the light of his lamp. 'I mean, I have experienced worse things than funerals for strange old men.’
‘What makes you think he’s old?” Scott asked.
“Dude, who sends letters now, with wax seals and all?! I don’t even where to get stamps now.”
Scott chuckled into the microphone, the phone poised dangerously in the crook of his neck. “Um, the post office, just guessing off the top of my head? Anyway, come on! Just go. If the guy’s a total creep, you leave. That’s that.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I think I’ll go. Thanks, man.”
_
Stiles, being a person who found it worthy to assign circumstances to things, had immediately come to a series of decisions once he’d opened the letter. First, he believed the sender was a man timeworn and articulate. He wrote so eloquently and with such aged mannerisms, it had to be the case.
Dear Mr. Stilinski,
My name is Niklaus Mikaelson. I’m a patron of the arts from New Orleans, LA. This is an invitation. After I spent the better part of a week listening to you play at the Mezzo Interlude in London, I became enamored of your work. You played Fantaisie-Impromptu with such beauty and finesse it reminded me of dreams and butterflies and I have to admit it remained with me for days after. Even now, I find it hard to dispel it from my mind. So much a welcome distraction it was!
That being said, I would like to enlist your services. When I discovered that you were also an occasional resident of my beloved New Orleans orchestra, I became impatient to hear you play again. One must not let such a chance cart by them. It would be most unfortunate.
The next part made Stiles think the guy was strange. Not the kind expected of old men, but the variety that made one doubt another’s soundness of mind.
I would like you to play at my funeral, which will be on the 30th of this month. There won’t be any other guests, as I would like the entirety of your performance to be private. Please get back to me so preparations can begin in haste. Also, you will not need to hire a piano as I already possess a Steinway grand you will find perfectly tuned the morning of your performance.
What sane man would actively plan their funeral down to the music details unless they were planning to kill themselves soon?! The notion sent chills down his spine, but at the same time, it intrigued him. Stiles had never received an offer like this before, and it was likely he never would again.
Stiles’ mind rushed with questions. What pieces would he play? Was he up to the task? Why did he suddenly worry so much about impressing a dying or suicidal man?
Finally, the part that truly sealed the deal.
Within this envelope, you will find some compensation for your time, of which more will come after your work is done. I trust it’s sufficient for one with a talent such as yours. Contact the name within to receive all the documents for your travel here to Louisiana.
Sincerely,
Niklaus Mikaelson
Stiles had let out an astonished breath and opened the envelope to discover an amount which caused his eyebrows to travel into his hairline and his Coke Zero to make its way into his windpipe and nearly out his nose.
He hadn’t recovered since. Thankfully, he needed his hands and not his voice for his performance.
Dialing his agent’s number, Stiles read the check one more time. Okay, it was worth looking into, for sure.
He was a tad giddy with expectations and a little nervous- the type of nervous that made him play impeccably.