Title: Counterculture

Genre: Romance

Rated: T

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya

Summary: When Roderich Edelstein – musical prodigy, concert pianist, photographer and friend of the most annoying man on earth – is unwillingly dragged off to a heavy metal concert, he could never have imagined what followed. Modern AU, FinAus

COUNTERCULTURE

A SYMPHONIC METAL OPERA

CHAPTER ONE

ANACRUSIS

Seven-thirty

The first fingers of dawn tentatively brushed the undersides of the clouds, casting flickering, illusory shadows. The branches of an enormous fig tree stood murmuring beneath a still-grey sky, the ornate old streetlamp beneath it flinging pale light onto the olive leaves.

The wind was gentle yet cold – he zipped up his jacket as he knelt down behind the camera. He adjusted the tripod, lowering it several inches to better capture the tableau before him. The streetlamp cast its light down onto the cold stone steps leading down to the river. The tree hung its sheltering boughs, casting a tapestry of alternately swaying grey and black shades against the cold stone. The quality of the image was perfect, the chiaroscuro of mottled light capturing the moment perfectly.

He couldn't give anything to a piece of scenery to show his appreciation, obviously, but he smiled as he packed up the tripod and moved on.

ooOOoo

Gilbert was not happy.

He could tell by the unhappy slump of his shoulders, the impatient tap of his battered Converse shoes against the pedals, the way he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. The streetlight loomed from the asphalt behind the car like the tentacle of a vast monster preparing to grab it, illuminating the interior in a wash of gold, lightening his pale blonde hair to white and reddening his dark brown eyes.

"There you are. Seriously, where were you?"

Roderich heaved open the passenger door of the car, resting the tripod against the seat. The camera went in the space above the dashboard, rubber casing squeaking slightly against the roughness. "I was taking pictures," he answered as he slid onto the seat. A slim-fingered hand darted out to snatch a black marker and a dog-eared blank music sheet from the glove compartment. It was hard to fill in the stave neatly while the car was moving, but he did the best he could, hissing briefly under his breath in annoyance as the treble clef ended up facing the wrong way around.

Gilbert glanced at the sheet with narrowed eyes. "You're gonna work all the way there?"

Roderich barely glanced at him, humming a few bars of the imagined song as he let his perfect pitch and the marker do their jobs. Line after line was filled with the scrawled, slightly slanting musical notes, the vigorous rasp of pen against paper successfully deterring Gilbert from saying anything further.

Roderich knew Gilbert was worried about him, even though he would never admit it. That was the reason he had dragged him out tonight; showing up at his apartment at eight o'clock in the morning, Gilbert had threatened to call in Feliks if Roderich did not come out of his house for the first time in weeks and 'be social', as the self-proclaimed Prussian called it. If there was one thing Roderich couldn't stand it was the thought of the Polish cross-dresser dancing around his pristine mock-Tudor house, so he had relented. Gilbert had wanted to distract the brilliantly eccentric musician from his work, as did most of his friends. They all knew full-well what had happened last time the emotional Austrian had been locked up in his house for weeks on end with nothing but line after line of Mozart's Ode To Joy for company, and none of them had any desire to repeat the experience.

But it still rankled him. Not so much that Gilbert was taking him out, but…

Roderich glanced beside him at the German and, unable to contain himself any longer, burst out. "A heavy metal concert?!"

Gilbert grinned wickedly at him, quite an accomplishment for someone whose ruddy eyes never left the road. "You know you love it."

"Why?" Roderich demanded, abandoning his sheet music. "You know I'm a classical composer…"

"Plenty of bands combine heavy metal with classical, it's not that hard. You might even get some inspiration."

Roderich doubted Gilbert had meant to look that dirty when he said it, but he still turned to stare out the window, sparing himself of any more lecherous gazes the German might think of throwing at him. Roderich had always known Rammstein was a bad influence.

They pulled up outside a dingy-looking warehouse. The amount of people milling around the entrance was a thin trickle – Gilbert was late for most things, but when it came to his beloved metal bands, he always had to get there an hour early if he could help it. Roderich cast an apprehensive glance through the car windows at the fans on the street – the people out there boasted more tattoos and piercings than he'd ever seen in his life, and blacker clothes than he would have thought humanly possible.

"Are we going to meet…?" He began as they got out, but was interrupted by a sudden shriek.

"Roderich! You came!"

Roderich only had time to turn halfway around before someone barrelled into him, enveloping him in a crushing bear hug. The figure revealed itself moments later when it released him and stepped back, revealing the face of…

Roderich gaped. "Erzsébet? Is that you?"

The Hungarian woman grinned. She had accessorized herself in more studs and spikes than the Austrian musician had ever seen in his life, and he doubted the thick black eyeliner did anything for her normally fair complexion. "Come on Roderich, you can't go in there looking like that!" she gestured at him.

Roderich looked down at his pale grey jacket and polished dark shoes, then back to his friend's leather ensemble. "I'm fine, thank you."

Erzsébet tutted. "Alright, but at least wear this." Before he had time to react, she had darted forward and clasped a black leather cuff around his left wrist. "That way you won't freak everyone out by looking like a policeman," she winked.

Roderich felt the weight of the cuff and felt insulted. "I'll have you know that this is a designer suit…"

"Hey, Erzsébet, weren't you meant to pick up Vasche?" Gilbert piped up from behind them. The self-proclaimed Prussian's voice was cordial, yet the dagger-like glare he shot Erzsébet when her back was turned made it clear he hadn't forgotten their long-standing grudge.

Erzsébet swore under her breath. "Damnit, you're right. I forgot. Come on, Gil."

"Wait, what about me?" Roderich demanded, beginning to panic. Several of the people milling around were beginning to shoot him suspicious looks, and he was prepared to bet that the spikes decorating their clothes weren't purely for ornamental use.

Erzsébet waved a hand dismissively, already striding off with the blonde German in tow. "There're still a few minutes until the concert starts, just wait by the car and you'll be fine."

Roderich's protests died in his throat when it became clear Erzsébet wasn't going to stop walking. He leaned against the side of the car, nervously tracked the fan's movements out of the corner of his eye, and tried to control the feeling of panic. Vasche's house was practically down the road – five minutes at the most, and he knew the uptight Swiss was punctual to his dying day. Until then, Roderich would wait by the car and try to avoid being beaten up by the scariest bunch of people he had ever witnessed. Roderich's count of the number of people with piercings rose to twenty-four, and he became convinced he had seen a tall, skinny man with 'BITE ME' shaved into the back of his head. Once or twice he even saw covert bottles of beer being passed around.

Are you even allowed to drink before a concert? Roderich thought wildly. He swallowed. Maybe the bouncers don't mind… He had never touched alcohol in his life, but the way people were staring at him, he thought he might have to. Didn't Gilbert have a bottle of wine stashed somewhere in the car…?

He was mentally debating this when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. "Sorry, do you have a light?"

Roderich spun around and nearly screamed. The man facing him now was everything he feared of heavy metal fans personified. His hair was long and blonde and looked like it had never been washed, falling down in a greasy sheet to a point roughly at his waist. His clothes were the standard for most of the people around him – black and leather, with enough spikes and chains to successfully sink several battleships, and his build was tall and muscular. Roderich felt intimidated just by standing two feet away.

"Have you got a lighter?" he repeated slowly, holding out his hand. Even as Roderich stared, the man smiled awkwardly. "I'm sorry my German isn't very good." He had an odd accent. It sounded vaguely Scandinavian; Swedish, maybe.

His eyes were a peculiar shade of violet-blue, and pale; pale enough to make the Austrian picture smoky windows, stained-glass; a church in the snow. Roderich tried not to stare as he felt those eyes skim momentarily down his body. A strange feeling was enveloping him from his head to his toes, a kind of hot prickling that made him wonder if his jacket was too tight. "Umm… no, sorry, I don't." Roderich answered eventually, distracted.

The man smiled, and for some reason, Roderich's heart seemed to skip a beat. "That's fine. I don't smoke anyway – it's for my friend back there." He jerked a thumb behind his shoulder.

Roderich didn't have the heart to tell him the black-leather clad masses looked all the same to him. "You speak very good German." Roderich said instead, trying to compliment him. The tall, muscular, strangely charming man had captured his interest, despite his best efforts, and Roderich felt his racing heart begin to calm. Perhaps these people weren't so bad after all. "You have an interesting accent… Are you from Sweden?"

The man paused. Those strangely coloured eyes blinked once. "No, I'm from Finland. My name's Timo. Timo Väinämöinen."

"Roderich Edelstein. I'm from Austria."

"Really?" Timo's fascinating eyes sparkled. "I've always wanted to go there. Whereabouts in Austria?"

"Vienna." Roderich answered.

"Aha! The home of Schubert!"

A metalhead who knew the classics? Roderich was instantly sold. "That's right." Feeling slightly more daring at the Finnish man's knowledge, he ventured. "I'm a classical composer myself."

"You don't say?" Timo's eyes raked over him once again, but with a fiercer, more interested intensity. That feeling swept over Roderich again in an abrupt wave.

"Y-yes." Roderich gasped. To distract himself, he blurted. "Where in Finland are you from? What do you do?" Was this moving too fast? Roderich had no idea. They seemed to have abandoned the point of being strangers several sentences back, but Roderich had no idea where they were now.

Timo paused. "I'm from Kitee. Have you…" he broke off at the unexpected arrival of Gilbert and Erzsébet, who were both determinedly dragging a disgruntled blonde Swiss behind them by each arm.

"Hey, Roderich!" Gilbert ruffled his hair. Erzsébet had released Vasche and was muttering away to him in rapid Swiss-German, seemingly unaware of Timo, who was staring at them all with an expression of complete bemusement.

"Are these your friends, Roderich?" he asked politely. Gilbert, Erzsébet and Vasche's heads instantly spun around to the tall, leather-clad Finn.

Vasche's jaw dropped, completely diverted for the time since he'd arrived. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Timo Väinämöinen," Timo introduced himself, seemingly unperturbed by the Swiss man's foul mouth. He smiled, violet eyes darting back to skim Roderich's face again. "Me and Roderich were just talking, weren't we?"

Erzsébet's head spun back to Roderich. "Is this true?" She sounded rather like a policewoman demanding evidence.

Roderich felt oddly defensive; Vasche's green eyes were burning an uncomfortable hole in the side of his head, neatly countering Timo's amused violet gaze. "Yes. He was telling me about where he was from."

"You're Finnish, right?" Gilbert's ruddy eyes were wide as he interrogated the tall man.

Timo's teeth flashed white in a grin. "Yes, I'm from Kitee."

Gilbert's jaw dropped; he looked astounded. "You have got to be kidding me."

Timo looked as though he was holding back laughter. "No, I'm not."

"That's where Nightwish are from!" Gilbert looked ready to pounce upon him. "Have you met them? Do you live near them?"

"Slow down!"

Roderich leaned over to where Erzsébet and Vasche were standing in nonplussed silence, and whispered. "I have no idea what's going on."

"Then don't ask me," Vasche whispered back.

"How could you guys not know Nightwish?" Gilbert rounded on them. He looked slightly maniacal; Timo's expression had long crossed into wary bewilderment at his barrage of questions.

Growing heartily tired of Gilbert constantly reiterating himself, Roderich shot back. "Who are they, then?"

"Only the best symphonic metal band of all time!" Gilbert's expression was bordering on rapture, and fervour Roderich normally only associated with particularly fanatical religions.

Timo raised one hand, still looking amused. "Sonata Arctica are still pretty good." He checked his watch and addressed Roderich, sounding almost sheepish. "I have got to go." He smiled at him. "Will I see you again?"

Erzsébet froze like a hunting dog scenting a rabbit, her head whipping around to the Austrian so fast it made an audible whooshing noise. Her brown eyes were shining, and Roderich was prepared to bet she was mentally egging him on. Agree, her eyes seemed to scream.

Looking slightly askance at his friend, Roderich glanced uncertainly back at Timo. "Um… maybe."

Timo smiled and procured an iPhone from his pocket. "Here, I'll give you my number."

Roderich took out his phone warily, feeling slightly self-conscious of the battered little Nokia, and keyed in the phone number while the Finnish man read it aloud. "Umm… okay…" A billion alarm bells were going off in his mind. Firstly, who was this man? He knew his name was Timo, he was from Finland, and he liked heavy metal, but that was all. He could be a molester, for all Roderich knew. Yet there was just something about this man – maybe the way his violet eyes flashed so winningly, maybe the easiness with which he spoke, his friendliness – that fascinated him.

"…eight-seven-five-six," Timo finished.

Roderich's fingers itched. "Okay." Realizing the Finnish man was waiting, he said. "Mine is…"

His Muse was striking, as Gilbert would say. Roderich had never felt more in need of sitting down at a piano in his life. He already had the beginning of a tune – the first three bars a poignant reflection of snowy days, burning candles, friendliness, and the colour violet. Maybe he could change the time signature to 2/4 instead of 4/4, and make it a C#... or maybe a B flat would be better, to create a more whimsical mood…

Timo smiled at him, effectively catapulting him from his thoughts and shooting him into the real world. "Great. I'll call you, okay?"

Roderich blinked, feeling slightly dazed. "Umm…" he was acutely conscious of his friends staring at him. "Okay. Sure."

Timo smiled and walked away, weaving expertly in between the crowd with long strides.

Gilbert's head whipped around to Roderich. "Have you just been picked up?"

Erzsébet joined in, a vindictive, slightly evil grin spreading over her face. "Roderich! I didn't know you had a fetish for leather." Unlike most, Erzsébet was almost dangerously supportive of her Austrian friend's homosexuality, and took every opportunity to make inappropriate jokes about it.

Vasche took advantage of Roderich's momentary lapse in concentration to hit his Hungarian friend on the arm. "That's disgusting, Erzsébet. You should be ashamed." Then he ruined it all by adding thoughtfully. "But yes, it did look like he was getting picked up."

"What?" Roderich felt confused. And slightly dizzy. "What do you mean? Who's picking who?" a thought occurred to him, and he added. "And what are they picking? Flowers?"

Erszébet's laughter sounded like the tinkling of a bell. "Oh Roderich, you're hopeless."

Gilbert checked his watch, Roderich's romantic status obviously being the last thing on his mind. "Guys, the concert's about to start." There was an undeniable edge of tension in his voice.

Vasche slumped where he stood, Roderich's meeting forgotten. "God, kill me now." Although he heartily disliked the Swiss man, Roderich couldn't help feeling the same, all thoughts of the charismatic Finnish stranger draining from his head in a long trickle.

"Guys, come on!" Gilbert was bouncing where he stood, his grin wide, ruddy eyes sparkling with barely supressed glee. "You don't know how long I've been saving up to go to this concert; this is the start of Nightwish's world tour to promote their new movie!"

"I thought the whole point of being in a metal band was to stand around looking Satanic and scream." Vasche chipped in dryly.

Gilbert's eyes narrowed as he rounded on him; he looked willing to happily choke the man. "Say that again."

"Door's opening, guys." With her unerring ability to sense the beginning of a row, Erzsébet grabbed hold of Gilbert and Vasche's collars and promptly dragged them away to where a small queue was forming. Roderich followed with a feeling of doom settling in his stomach, lathering along with a hearty wish that he could disappear from here. He had left his blank sheet music in the car; Roderich's fingers itched to start noting down the beginning of the song now, before the memory of those violet eyes faded from his head.

The queue at the door of the warehouse was cramped and sweaty; Roderich gingerly inched backwards away from a man who looked like he could wrestle an elephant and come away with a hearty grin. In doing so, he bumped into Gilbert.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Gilbert clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make him wince. "Lighten up, Roderich, this'll be fun!"

Roderich smiled weakly. "I-I'm sure it will."

"Well, I hate it." Vasche's complaint was petulant, leaf-green eyes glaring at the self-proclaimed Prussian. "I only came because you had four tickets and couldn't find a fourth person. I don't even know who it is we're seeing!"

"Neither do I," Roderich added, feeling that, if he was forced to endure a heavy metal concert, the least he could do was endeavour to find out the name of the band.

Gilbert beamed with almost indecent enthusiasm. "I just told you, it's Nightwish! Best symphonic metal band in the world!"

"You realize I hate metal, don't you?" Vasche inquired, seemingly determined to do whatever he could to ruin the night.

"Oh, get over yourself," Gilbert flapped a hand at him. "Seriously, between you liking folk and Roderich with his Mozart, you guys must have no idea of what's awesome!"

"I like Adrian von Ziegler," Vasche muttered as the queue of people inched forward. The Swiss man raked a hand through his blonde hair, ruining the careful comb-over. "He does all sorts of stuff…"

Gilbert remained adamant. "He also isn't signed with a record label."

"Record labels don't matter, you can get by just fine without one…"

"Can't talk now, tickets!" Erzsébet sang. For a second Roderich didn't know what the Hungarian woman was talking about – maybe the new fashion sense had gone to her head – but then he realized they had come to the front of the queue and a guard was requesting their tickets.

Gilbert frantically searched his pockets. "Damnit, I know I put them here somewhere…" from his pockets he drew an assortment of objects – a pair of tangled earphones, three slightly fuzzy breath mints, a pair of keys and two keycharms – one in the shape of a German flag, the other a pint of beer – before he yanked out his black leather wallet and flipped it open. "Here they are!"

"More's the pity," Vasche muttered. He winced as Erzsébet elbowed him in the ribs.

The interior of the warehouse was dimly lit and stank of sweat. Roderich's eyes widened as he cast his gaze around the massive hall, searching in vain for somebody who didn't look as though they were emulating KISS. Everybody in the hall seemed to have never heard of personal space – everybody was jammed up against each other, some in positions Roderich felt sure weren't for public display.

Erzsébet was shouting something over the roar of conversation – it took Roderich several seconds to work out the words and even then her sentence made no sense. It was only when Erzsébet ducked her head down to his ear level that he was able to hear "Where are we sitting?"

Gilbert checked the tickets, and looked a breath short of cheering aloud. "At the front of the moshpit!"

Roderich's knees buckled; he didn't even mind Vasche flinging an arm around his shoulders to haul him upright. "A moshpit?"

Gilbert grinned and ruffled his hair. "Try not to faint on us, won't you, Beethoven?" He started for the front of the crowd, but Roderich refused to move.

"I'm not going into a moshpit." He said with as much firmness as he could muster.

Erzsébet and Gilbert both grabbed hold of his arms. "Come on, Roderich!" they chorused, with almost eerie synchronism, and began dragging the protesting Austrian musician to the front of the pit.

"Vasche! Vasche, help me!"

"Are you kidding?" Vasche was laughing so hard he was almost doubled over in mirth. "If I'd known the night would involve you being manhandled, I would have come earlier!"

Erzsébet released Roderich's arm once they had reached their allocated positions in the moshpit and whirled to face the Swiss man, looking delighted. "Vasche, my dear, you're coming out!"

"What?" Roderich wished he had a camera; the look on Vasche's face once he realized what he had said could be taken for homosexual innuendo was something money simply could not buy. "No! I'm not ga-"

"Yes, you are, you've had a crush on Roderich for years." Erzsébet said sweetly, and Vasche's expression turned to one of pure horror.

Roderich choked. He felt rather winded, as though somebody had slapped him around the face so fast he hadn't had the time to comprehend what had happened. "What?"

Vasche coughed into a fist. He looked embarrassed, and the tips of his ears were reddening – Erzsébet simply looked proud, with the grin of a mother who had witnessed the marriage of her child. "I… I'm…"

"What?" Roderich felt odd. "Are you saying you've…"

"No, Erzsébet's lying, it's me who's had the crush." Gilbert chipped in. Roderich whirled around with wide eyes, about to interrogate him too, when he saw that Gilbert was grinning the grin he normally only wore when participating in a particularly hilarious joke.

Oh. Oh.

Then suddenly all of Roderich's friends were bursting out laughing and Roderich was left grinning, feeling suddenly very small, and remarkably foolish.

"Oh Roderich, you're so easy to mess with." Erzsébet was about to put her arm around the gullible musician's shoulders, when all the lights in the warehouse went out.

Just when Roderich was about to panic about the possibility of a blackout, a single white spotlight beamed down onto the stage, illuminating the heavily scuffed wooden boards in a swathe of harsh light. The light reflected off the boards, catching in the lenses of his glasses and nearly blinding him.

"Welcome, everybody." A deep, masculine voice purred, and several people in the crowd screamed. Whether from fear or joy, Roderich couldn't tell; his brain seemed to have frozen mid-procession, rendering any and all attempts to function a dismal failure.

"We are the Nordic Five," the voice continued. The harsh light was ebbing slightly now, Roderich could distantly make out the vague silhouette of a figure standing tall in the centre of the stage.

Beside him, Gilbert was frozen; he looked as though he was about to jump onto the stage then and there, and his expression was one of pure disbelief. Erzsébet leaned over to Roderich and whispered. "That's the feature band."

"Where the hell is Nightwish?" Gilbert hissed back.

Roderich opened his mouth, about to reply, when the dim spotlight strengthened. A sudden swathe of bright light illuminated the whole stage, glinting off the bodies of guitars, the structure of the drums, and the spiked accessories the whole band sported.

And he was standing there.

Timo Väinämöinen was standing in the middle of the stage. His torso was twisted sideways, each foot spread far apart, and his head flung back. The lights illuminated his face, with the black painted lips and thick eye makeup, and glinted off the spiked armbands and tight black leather clothes. A black-nailed hand was clenched around the head of the microphone, rings burnished silver in the glow. Everything about this pose suggested a snapshot of ecstatic torment, a frenzied gyration suspended for one moment in time, so that everybody could see the vulnerability in the muscular frame.

Roderich's eyes sped along the length of that body in shocked silence, the memory of their conversation suddenly fresh in his mind. Erzsébet, Gilbert and Vasche had all turned to gape at him, their expressions completely astonished.

Roderich shared the feeling.

The drummer – a short, blonde man dressed in what looked suspiciously like a leather corset and gloves – came to life. The drums kicked in, bursting over the speakers in a sudden wash of purposeful beats, and Timo's eyes flashed open. His irises were a beautiful flash of pure violet, and he opened his mouth and screamed. The scream soared over the pounding of the drums, rising and falling in an ululation so loud and so eerie it sent a long shiver down Roderich's spine. It was like the prickling of a dozen icicles across his skin, the twisting of a thousand knives directly into Roderich's heart, Timo's voice sending icy chills coursing down the length of his body.

Roderich didn't need to ask if his friends were feeling the same; he could see their reaction just by their expressions. Gilbert's mouth had fallen open; Erzsébet and Vasche were looked at each other in amazement.

Timo's long, heartrending scream trailed off into a long, deadly growl as his head whipped forward, glaring at the crowd through his black-ringed eyes, violet orbs lancing at the faces of the many people crammed together in the mosh. It was an expression so primal, so raw, and so utterly unlike anything Roderich had previously witnessed in their short conversation, it made him feel almost scared.

Timo's torso was tightly bound in the straps of a white straitjacket, and it could not have been any clearer to Roderich that he was the madman.

Then the lead guitarist started, the frenzied thrashing of his wicked-looking, axe-shaped guitar stabbing at the crowd in a flurry of notes so fast and so visceral Roderich gasped. The guitarist's hands ran up and down the strings so fast his fingers were a black-tipped white blur, spiky blonde hair falling into his eyes as he grinned a dark blue grin.

He was the punk.

The guitar trailed off and the bass guitar took its place. The notes were slower and more purposeful than the turmoil of the lead guitar, yet none the less heart-rending. The bass guitarist cradled his guitar close to him like a mother holding her child, radiance suffusing his face as he lovingly caressed the strings.

He was the benevolent.

There was a keyboard up the back that Roderich hadn't noticed before; another blonde man was sitting at it. The man seemed the most sensibly dressed out of all his fellow band members; the spotlights flashed off his plain square glasses as he lifted his fingers to the keys and began to play. Both guitars soared to meet it; the sheer elation and beauty of the melody made Roderich gasp again.

He was the composer.

Then Timo opened his mouth and began to sing, and everything that had occurred before then instantly fled Roderich's mind.

Timo's voice was… beautiful. There was no other word Roderich could use to describe it. The melody was simple yet gorgeous – a heart-rending cadence that hugged at his heart no matter how loudly the guitars roared or how frenziedly the corset-wearing drummer assaulted the drums. The song built in volume, soaring over the speakers in a triumphant crescendo, and in that moment Roderich felt as though he was standing in the middle of a battlefield, suffused by all the triumph and the medieval, folk-tale awe that had attracted him so much to the Lord of The Rings.

Vasche and Gilbert were both gaping up at the stage, while Erzsébet was laughing.

"This is excellent!" she cheered. Her brown eyes were shining almost as brightly as her grin. "I approve!"

The keyboards' glittering notes rose in the most delicate, triumphant crescendo Roderich had ever heard – it set the pianist's fingers alight with tingling and constricted his heart with excitement. The bass and drums joined in harmony, melding to form a low, thudding beat, while the guitar screamed a song of love and loss, the plaintive riff and the sheer, beautiful power of Timo's voice soaring up and up and up.

Everybody was going ballistic, jumping up and down. Roderich felt himself being tossed mercilessly up and down, side to side, born by the furious, frenetic movements of the mosh, the music soaring, so loud it could possibly break his ears. Strobe lights flashed hot pink, blue, green, yellow, purple, white, and his heart raced in time to the wheedling of the guitar and the clash of the drums. Roderich's heart was speeding, every nerve charged in breathless excitement, tingles scattering up and down his skin that had nothing to do with the close proximity of the people in the mosh. The band was tall and triumphant, thrashing at the head of the crowd, snarling and spitting, driving them onwards as the crowd surged like a living tidal wave, bodies crammed together, a single living, breathing entity amped up on the Nordic Five. And drawing them onwards was the irrevocable magnetism of Timo Väinämöinen, his charisma transformed into something harder, rawer, almost visceral. As he stood on the stage, violet eyes searing through the crowd, he radiated the fearsome, otherworldly air of a sorcerer, mouth open, singing.

"THIS IS AMAZING!" Gilbert screamed over the roar of the crowd. Even Vasche, wide-eyed and sweaty, was nodding, head blurring up and down in a vigorous series of bobs, a grin stretching the contours of his face.

The roar that resounded as the Nordic Five brought the song to a crashing end was nearly as loud as the music had been. Throughout the crowd, Roderich could see questioning gazes being flashed around, heavily pierced faces lifting in surprise one after the other, almost like a chain reaction. None of the people in the hall had any idea who this band was, but after a song like that, they were willing to suspend all doubts.

Roderich himself was just trying to calm his heart rate before the organ gave up on him entirely.

"Okay, we're going to finish up with one last song now," Timo's accented voice came over the speakers and Roderich's heart wrenched at the sound, so deep, so fierce, so intense. Beside him Gilbert was grinning an almost soppy grin, while Erzsébet and Vasche laughed and cheered along with the crowd.

"Just a little number one might know, called Lacrimosa." Timo said casually. Every eye in the venue followed him as he wandered around the stage, almost absent-mindedly dragging the microphone stand behind him.

Roderich's heart thudded in his ears as shock doused him like icy water. Lacrimosa?

Lacrimosa was a traditional religious requiem that Mozart had expanded upon. When he and Roderich had spoken, Timo had made it clear he not only knew but enjoyed the classics. What if…

Then the first few notes of the song started, and Roderich's doubts were erased.

"This is incredible," he whispered, as the guitars kicked in and the crowd roared. Hearing his voice, Erzsébet, Vasche and Gilbert turned towards him. Unwittingly, strangely, Roderich felt his eyes begin to prickle with tears. "This is unbelievable."

Erzsébet put an arm around him. Gilbert laughed and ruffled his hair. A small grin wormed its way onto Vasche's face.

The song finished and Roderich swayed. The previous tears had dissipated now, leaving him feeling overwhelmed. He was jumpy and shaky, but he was also happy. So, so happy, so blindly ecstatic it felt as though his heart was about to burst from the strain of containing so much emotion. Because what he had just witnessed – the metal band they had all heard – had been so raw, so ecstasy-inducing Roderich berated himself for not coming across the genre sooner.

The Nordic Five trooped off the stage to tumultuous applause – the noise sounded so peculiar to Roderich after the frenzy of the two songs he had to touch his ears to ascertain they hadn't been damaged. The abrupt lack of any loud sound seemed to hang in his eardrums.

"Well, that was awesome," Gilbert said in a hushed voice.

"I am so getting their merch." Erzsébet agreed. Then her eyes widened and she rounded on Roderich. "Roderich, darling, what did you think?"

"It was good." Roderich managed. His heart was still thudding; he wondered vaguely if it would ever calm down.

"Halleluiah! He likes metal!" Gilbert flung his arms around the Austrian's neck, coming in danger of choking him.

As Roderich disentangled himself from the German's arms, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Fishing it out, he squinted at the dimly-lit screen and his heart leapt. It was a text from Timo.

What do you think? Good enough for Mozart? :P

Smiling, Roderich texted back.