#as other schools' orchestras sat in different sections of the room in their own little islands of people

[orcelito]

ladue is bringing something out of me (latent orchestra nerd remembering what it was like to participate in a school orchestra)

[gwen-tolios]

Trumpet Wars

There were always rivalries in band. The clarinet section hated the flutes, the saxes the trumpets. Tubas were the cool people that got along with everyone, the rest of the low brass feeding off their coolness just enough to not be ignored while still being shuffled aside. And then it was all the winds versus percussion.

But that was normal school stuff. While the rivalries had been heated and fun during middle school and high school, by the time Ken hit university it was just an inside joke that only showed up in prank Christmas gifts and happy hours. Okay, and maybe the occasional jokes on the blackboard, but that was the professors doing.

But animosity towards a fellow player, trumpet or not, he hadn't felt until his senior year.  The Dungoo Symphony Orchestra announced a search for new members. Ken and others from around the country sent in audition tapes and all those who passed in the tri-state area had been informed to show up at the music department. 

While he would have traveled across three state lines to the audition, Ken was happy he only had to cross three streets and a rather large grassy hill.

Ken was surprised at how many people were there warming up. He thought the process would be more selective and that he wouldn't be going up against more than fifteen other trumpets. Sure, this location was only one of seven in the country for DSO auditions, but really, 60 others? More actually, as he signed in on the 60th line and more came in after him. 

With such a wait time ahead of him, Ken decided to put off warming up. They had been told ten minutes per audition, but he suspected things would fall behind. He grimaced. Hopefully they wouldn’t cut later additions short due to time.

Ken pulled out his trumpet, propped his sheet music up inside the case, and went through fingerings after he finished greasing the values. He got lost in his head, imagining the sounds he’d create. A vibrato on this whole note, double tonguing that run, circular breathing during that ballad-esque passage. It was only when one of the professors came in to announce four names to follow her did Ken figure he should start blowing wind through his trumpet.

As he fitted his mouth piece on, felt a harsh glare on the back of his neck.  He turned around to see a Hispanic man, maybe late 20s, looking at him through narrow eyes.  Something about Ken obviously riled him up, and now that Ken looked back he thought that same thing. His uncombed hair, the stiff color of his shirt, and, oh man that trumpet! Hadn't the other guy heard of polish?

Ken tried to shake of the sudden violent dislike and blew air through his instrument to warm up the metal before settling into a range of scales. Wanting to show the other guy he might as well pack up and go home, Ken made sure to use his best tone and went slightly faster than normal. Ken turned, looking out of the side of his eye at the other guys in a challenge.  

When he paused for breath the Hispanic took over, playing with the complementary minor scale. No, the blues complementary scale with its skipped notes and accidentals.

Ken did two octaves.

The other man did it double tongued.

On the same brainwaves, they each took a deep breath and started playing C, trying to not be the first to let the sound die.  Even with circular breathing, Ken was running out of air, but he held out for one half of a second longer.

He sent a cocky smile to his new found rival.

The other man looked murderous. Carefully, he put down his trumpet, and then stood up looking as if he was going to sock Ken.  

But, as he was standing, the other's face smoothed out, his desire to start a fight fading. In fact, he looked as if he didn't actually know why he wanted to start a fight to begin with.

That grated Ken.

“What, not man enough to do anything?”

The other man flopped a hand at him. “I've got better things to do.”  And with that, he sat in his chair again. But as soon as he touched his trumpet, something strange happened. It was if the metal burned him. He looked up at Ken.

“What?” Ken snarled at him.

Still looking at him, the man took his hand on and off the trumpet. The behavior was so odd Ken's dislike of the other faded to confusion. What was he doing?

Before he could think of an answer, his number was called. Goodness, he was so caught up in competing he hadn't actually played any of his trouble sections. Too late now. It wasn't like he hadn't practiced the piece a billion times.

To his surprise, his new found rival was called too. The professor indicated they were to each stand outside a different door. There was already another trumpeter standing at each one.  Shortly after they took their places, a girl walked out of Ken's assigned room. A voice barked out 'next!'. The already waiting player stepped inside and Ken scooted closer.

Ken spent the time fingering. Glances at the Hispanic man showed him doing the same. Eventually, two more trumpets arrived and stepped into line behind each of them, and then Ken was called into the room.

Deep breath, he told himself. Think of it as an S&E competition, you rocked at those.

The room was one of the small, not much space for more than a stand and the panel of three judges five feet away.  

He said hello and gave a little bow.

“Let's start with scales. Play C minor.”

Half way through the scale, he realized he could hear sounds from the other audition room, and he knew exactly who was playing.

In hindsight, he doesn’t really remember playing for the three DSO representatives. His entire focus was playing better than the other player. He didn't care if he didn't land a job, as long as he was better. He had never felt so passionate about playing his best. He had also never played as good. Tone, breathing, color, technique, he had never gotten this close to perfect playing.

Once dismissed, Ken looked toward the other room. It was still shut, so he walked toward the warm up place. He sat and gave his trumpet a quick polish.

As Ken closed his case, he looked up and watched the other auditioner enter the room. As he passed Ken figured he should be friendly despite everything. He didn't know what sparked the animosity he felt towards the other player, but maybe getting to know him would help.  Ken held out his hand. “Hi, I'm Ken Price.”

The other trumpet sneered at his hand and quickly went to put down the instrument. As soon as he did so, his face relaxed and he turned around to offer his own hand just as Ken was pulling his back. “Conor Caraballo.”

They shook.

“Look man,” Ken began. “I felt extra competitive today. Not sure why, but I just wanted to let you know it wasn't your fault.”

Conor nodded. “No big deal. Hey, try something for me?”

Ken shrugged. “Sure.”

“Look at me without touching your trumpet, and then while you are.”

It was a crazy suggestion, but Ken figured there was a reason for it considering Conor had done just that earlier. He sat on a chair and pulled his case onto his lap. With a snap, he released the catches. With his hands hovering over the trumpet, Ken looked at Conor and thought about what he felt about the guy.

Okay, kinda friendly and maybe a little bipolar, but a pretty darn good trumpet player.

Ken placed his hands on the trumpet.

Conor was a no good show-off who shouldn't be because he had no skills to show off in the first place. He smelled, cheated, manipulated others to gain ranks in groups, he -

Ken took his hands of the trumpet.

Conor zipped his own case closed. “See what I mean?”

“That was...weird.”

“You're telling me.”

“So...our trumpets hate each other?”

“Did you hear yourself? That's crazy.”

“Yeah, but...” Ken trailed off, looking at his instrument before slowly closing the case. “You have any other ideas?”

“No. Just that I'm gonna ignore it and hope I never see you in a situation like this again.  And now, to make up for all that anger I felt towards you I feel like I should buy you a beer.”

“I know just the place.”

[abbas-ragamuffin]

AU 17, trope 4, prompt 27 for Lokane.

Thank you so much for the request! I’ve never done a band!au before, or a messy meet, so thank you for the challenge, @iamartemisday I hope I did it right and that you enjoy it anyway! :)))

17-band!au, 4-meet messy, 27-“that was a very bad idea. 0/10 would not recommend.”

 Jane was running late, like nearly an hour late, and the show was only ninety minutes long. Her car of course, a Picasso more than a car really, made up of different parts of different colored cars decided to break down tonight of all nights. It wasn’t a beautiful car by any means, but up until recently it had always gotten her from point A to point B. She didn’t come from money, and she worked her tail off in high school to pay for it. Now two years into college, she was planning on trading it in with the money she’d earn from an internship to an astrophysicist. But that wasn’t until the summer and they still had several months worth of classes. This was the worst time to lose her car.

But right now she couldn’t think if that, or the fact she’d left it abandoned on the side of the road. She couldn’t run in her heels, knowing on this uneven pavement she’d probably break her ankle. So she hobbled along on unsteady legs, carrying her violin case and cursing her course choices. Band wasn’t something she needed, or even wanted to take. Her father had played, and left her his violin before he died. Jane was about to begin her freshmen year, the loss still brutally fresh and she chose music as an elective in remembrance of him. Music was her father’s passion, astrophysics was hers.  

Still, she let out a sigh of relief as she entered the parking lot and the entrance to the Music Hall came into view. Just a short way now, she just needed to make it inside without falling and she might be just in time for her solo. It was Bach, the name of the composition still escapes her, all she memorized was the section she’d be performing. She paused as she neared the door, pulling down the skirt of her black, halter top dress and doing her best to straighten her hair. Taking a few deep, steadying breaths, she walked the final few steps to the door and reached out.

The door, however, flew open towards her – so hard it appeared it would fly off the hinges. The hinges held, however, that didn’t stop the door from hitting her in the face and knocking her backward until she fall in the garden along the front of the building. She sat up immediately despite the spots in her vision, checking her nose for blood and luckily finding none. But she noticed her bare foot, and the broken shoe that rested beside it. She faintly heard cursing in a smooth British accent coming closer.

At least it wasn’t raining. She didn’t fall in a puddle of mud and nothing was broken. Except her shoe, realizing the four and half inch heel had lost a solid 3 inches. Maybe she could get away with it. As long as she stood stock still while she played, she likely wouldn’t faceplant into the orchestra. A tall, intimidating man in a three-piece suit knelt before her, stretching out his hand to help her up.

“I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

He looked genuinely concerned and she’d never before seen a man with jet black hair that had such bright, vivid eyes. The tears burned in her own eyes, her ankle wasn’t twisted, but this day had been horrible enough and this was only making things worse. She didn’t even wanna do the stupid solo! But Mr. Selvig insisted, even called her his favorite student to butter her up.

“Oh don’t cry, Darling, very bad idea,” he said, waving his program across her face as if to dry her tears, “Your make-up will run. 0/10 would not recommend–”

“10/10 would recommend you not hit me in the face with a door and break my shoe!” she cried, swatting at his outstretched hand as she hauled herself off the ground. Before she could bend to pick it up, the stranger was already handing her the violin case, “I have a solo and I’m already running late…”

She yanked the case from his hand and took hold of the door, pushing passed him as she hobbled on uneven shoes. The nerve!

She felt him rush up behind her.

“I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but your shoe isn’t the only thing ruined…” her steps faltered at his words.

“What?”

He didn’t answer, merely pointed to her left hip. A tear in the dress that went from her hip to just below her armpit. Her whole side was exposed – she’d never be able to hold the violin up and play without everyone getting an eyeful. 

“Oh my god! Are you kidding me?!” she glared at him, mouth agape and a true loss for what to do now. She obviously couldn’t run home and change.

“Before you murder me, just follow me. I have an idea.” he said with hands in the air, walking backwards away from her.

“Follow you? To where?”

“The drama department…” he called as he ran from her view..

She rolled her eyes, removing her other shoe to run after him. As she passed the backstage door of the auditorium, she could hear they were nearing the end of the song before the movement. Luckily, her solo was about five minutes into the piece, which meant she had just under 8 minutes to get new clothes, new shoes, and get back and in place to play. By the time she caught up to him, he was bent in front of the door, she assumed he was picking the lock.

“Do this a lot, do you?” she asked, stopping at his side.

“Not since I was a child.”

The lock clicked and despite herself, Jane was relieved to see the doors open. He switched on the light, seeming to know his way around. He rifled through the rack of costumes, some of the most ugly and ostentatious dresses she’d ever seen.

“Are you in the drama department?”

“Yes, as well as the band.”

She scoffed, “You’re not in the band, I’ve never seen you in our rehearsals.”

“I’m usually late due to one of my courses. I try not to draw attention, so I sit toward the back and I’m always first to leave.”

Jane didn’t respond. It wasn’t impossible, she just couldn’t believe this man had sat a few rows behind her for the last few months and she never noticed.

“What do you play?”

“The chello…Ah!” he pulled a black gown from the rack and held it up to her. It was a long, A-line slip of a dress, black with a plunging v-neck and lace trimming. He held it out to her and motioned to a small fitting room to the right. She sighed and took the hanger. What choice did she have?

“I’ll sort out some shoes for you in the meantime…” he said as she closed the door behind her.

“Thank you…” she called, studying her face and still in shock that it wasn’t bruised or bleeding. That door hurt, and she was certain her nose had been broken. 

There wasn’t time to waste and so she pulled the dress up and zipped the side the closed. It didn’t quite fit. She’d worn the halter top because it was form fitting and left her arms free to play. This dress was way too long, and the plunge of the v-neck nearly reached her belly button. 

“It doesn’t fit…”

“I expected as much. Step outside, I have a remedy.” his voice was much closer and she bit her lip as she debated just staying in this dressing room all night, or at least until everyone from the concert had left.

Jane did as he asked though, reluctantly opening the door and holding the dress closed across her chest. His eyes did a swift once over, not in lust or anything inappropriate, but appraising and calculated. In his hands he held a pair of black heeled boots; the heel was not only shorter but wider as well.

“Put these on first…” she took them with one hand, unwilling to release her grip of the front of the gown.

“So why did you leave in the middle of the performance?” she asked, trying to distract herself as she slipped on the shoes. A near perfect fit. 

“I just needed some air,” he replied, already kneeling before her in an obviously expensive suit, several pins stuck out the corner of his mouth. She held her breath, watching his deft fingers work along the hemline, pinning the fabric where it reached her ankles. A man of many talents…odd talents, but full of surprises.  

Staring was rude, but Jane just help couldn’t help herself. She’ll be needing some air if she doesn’t get herself together. All she could think about was how those long fingers would feel brushing along her jaw, or moving through the short length of her hair. The man could be a model with those angles to his face, but Jane could swear she’d never seen a more gorgeous man than him.  

His long black hair, the paleness of his complexion, those mischievous, vibrant green eyes. If Snow White had been a man, Jane was sure this man was him. And his eyes never wavered as he stood, pulling her wrist away and gathering the fabric in the valley between her breasts. She could hardly breath and he seemed entirely unaffected as he bunched the fabric, inserting two more pins to keep it together.

He stepped back abruptly and turned her around to face the mirror. He stood behind her, hands on her shoulders as he, too, studied her reflection in the mirror. He’d created a rather nice looking knot where he’d gathered the fabric, it almost looked like it belonged there. The v-neck was still lower than she’d normally wear, but he’d done a remarkable job covering her up. A cellist and seamstress...

“You look perfect. Even your make-up held up.”

“Thank you…for all your help – for everything.” she turned to face him, extending her hand, “I’m Jane.”

“A pleasure to meet you Jane. I’m Loki.” instead of shaking her hand, he knelt down to kiss the back of it. She couldn’t control her giggle.

She smiled, “That explains it then…”

“What?” he asked, gently releasing his hold.

“Loki…God of Mischief.” It was his turn to smile, and even look a little surprised. 

“Ah, very good. Most people around here don’t know my namesake.”

“I’m not most people…” she said, and his smile only widened. It made him even more attractive if that was even possible. The blush tainted her cheeks and Jane ducked her head, retrieving her violin and making her way back to the auditorium.

**

“No Miss Foster, you are definitely not most people.”

Loki watched her leave, allowing her to get back and enter the auditorium alone. He didn’t need any gossip getting started. But he couldn’t stop smiling after meeting such a captivating and beautiful woman. Perfect complexion. Heart-shaped face. And her wide blue eyes, looking up at him with – ok, scorn – but also curiosity. And maybe even a touch of awe. But now was not the time to dwell on that.

He’d had his eye on her for some time, but he knew her from his astrophysics class. Her understanding and grasp of the subject awed him, and he’d spent several months just working up the nerve to talk to her. Instead he slams her in the face with a door. Hardly his best moment, but what’s done is done. The hard part is over, they’ve met, he knows her name and she knows his.

Turning out the light, he closed the door behind him, unable to lock it. The sound of her violin filled the halls and he picked up his pace, sneaking in the back stage door. He watched from the shadows, strangely proud of her for her determination to be here and not just give up. He was also proud of his own quick thinking - the dress really did look made for her. He’d have to remember to thank his mother later, despite always complaining when she taught him such feminine things.

After the show, he would offer her a ride home. Come Monday, he intended to start getting to know her and courting her properly. 

[fic-al]

People Call Me Trixie

CHAPTER SEVEN

UP WEST 

The taxi pulled up at twenty-to-eleven, Marianne Turner waved out of the passenger window to her new friend without apology. Trixie tried to look as if she hadn't been stood at the top of the daunting Nonnatus steps for a least fifteen minutes, checking her watch every two.

The black cab dropped the two excited shoppers on Bond Street.

"We might as well start as we mean to go on," grinned an awfully pleased with herself Marianne, linking Trixie by the arm and leading her into Fenwick's department store.

They began by visiting every single cosmetic counter, checking every single shade of lipstick against their individual skin tones. Covering themselves in so many different fragrances that Trixie started to feel slightly nauseous. They decided to mooch their way through ladies' fashions, accessories, haberdashery, leather goods and finally the gentlemen's department. Mrs Turner wanted to buy a scarf for her husband, the nights were starting to draw in.

Marianne and Trixie left several packages with the Fenwick's concierge to collect later. The weary shoppers wandered arm in arm up Brook Street towards Grosvenor Square. Suddenly Marianne stopped, turning to Trixie, she gave her a cheeky smile.

"Do you fancy a pot of tea and a bite to eat?" Trixie nodded in relief.

Before she knew it, Trixie found herself thanking the Claridges Hotel doorman as he politely allowed access via the grand revolving doors to the two women.

"I usually just go the Lyons Corner House tea rooms," mumbled a startled Trixie.

"Oh, that's far too long a walk." Marianne was defiant. "My treat, well Patrick's," she giggled shamelessly.

The friends sat in the elegant Reading Room, drinking the prestigious hotel’s own blend of tea, eating plain scones with strawberry jam and real Devonshire clotted cream and fresh strawberries. Marianne said that Dr Turner had once brought her here for a birthday treat and she was certain she had spotted Princess Margaret. Trixie's eyes stayed peeled towards the door, just in case the monarch's sister just happened to pop in.

When Trixie was finally convinced, Princess Margaret wasn't going to grace them with her presence that day. They took the short walk up Davies Street, Trixie was now on familiar territory as they headed towards the Oxford Street HMV store.

"When Patrick and I used to come here," Marianne started wistfully. Trixie got the impression that her friend was not referring to the most recent past.

"He always used to tell me Edward Elgar opened this record shop in the 1920s."

"Is that true?" Trixie asked.

"I don’t have the faintest idea," she wickedly chuckled, "but he never got tired of telling me. Why do men do that?"

Trixie was chuckling now. "I think it's because they don't like to gossip,” she explained, "so they fill the silences with useless bits of information."

Marianne and Trixie held onto each other as they giggled their way into the landmark record shop.Trixie had seen her new friend enjoy herself in the department store, but in the record shop, Marianne was the proverbial kid in a sweet shop.

She paid attention to all the new releases and US imports Trixie pointed out. She reminisced as she searched the classical and sacred music section, moving onto old standards, musical scores, jazz and blues records. Delighting in introducing her new friend to some of her old friends.

With a pile of vinyl each under their arms, they squeezed together into one of the new sound booths, attracting only a raised eyebrow from the assistant. Taking it in turns to choose the next record to put on the adjoining record player. Singing and moving to each tune. They both left the shop with a package of 45s and 78s each.

Out on Oxford Street, Marianne suddenly hailed a black cab, pulling Trixie so violently into the responding vehicle, that she nearly dropped her records.

"Where are we going?" She exclaimed.

"Somewhere I haven't been in years, somewhere Patrick and I used to frequent."

Trixie had heard of Wigmore Hall, but had never been. They were too late for the afternoon performance, but Marianne didn't seem to care. Not for the first time that day, she led a mesmerized Trixie by the arm on this occasion into the bar. Where she ordered two champagne cocktails without even consulting her companion.

They could still hear the music from the Bach recital, well underway in the auditorium. Marianne offered Trixie a cocktail cigarette from her gold case. Trixie chose a purple one, she had noticed Marianne favoured the green today, a slightly different shade to her lime green coat.

As they smoked, sipped at their cocktails and listened to the small orchestra, Marianne appeared to unwind a little after the excitement of the day. She began to tell Trixie about the times Dr Turner and her had attended the classical music venue, what they had heard, who they had seen. At one point she let slip, that she had also performed at the hall once. When Trixie enthusiastically asked for more details, she changed the subject.

Trixie had tea with the Turners, it was another fish supper, as Marianne was definitely not in the mood to cook. Patrick said all the right things about his new scarf. Timothy was delighted with his new set of marbles and some fresh editions to his marble tracks and ramps from Auntie Trixie. Soon realizing she wasn't going to be allowed to contribute to the transport, any of the refreshments or the evening meal. Trixie had been blessed with the foresight that Marianne would not prevent her buying a gift for her peculiar boy.

The girls played their new records, danced and sang along, smoked cigarettes and drank Babycham. While Patrick and Timothy built the most elaborate assault course in Poplar for the prized new alleys. Timothy already knew which ones he would swap at school tomorrow, definitely not the steely.

His real aunts and uncles lived miles away, and he hardly saw them. It might be quite smashing having a pretend auntie, especially if it was Trixie. She seemed to know about presents and she made Mum laugh and that made Dad laugh too.

"Did you leave any vinyl, in HMV?" Patrick pretended to scold.

"Just some beastly Frank Sinatra, no-one wanted," Marianne retorted, Trixie guessed by Dr Turners curled lip, he must be a fan. He pretended to ignore his teasing wife and addressed Trixie.

"Did you know Sir Edward Elgar opened the HMV record shop in 1921?"

Marianne and Trixie, now full of bubbles, collapsed on each other in hysterical laughter.

Father and son looked at each other and simply responded, "Women?"

[thesilverdawns]

The Man Named Lion

The entire house smelled like boiled meat.

That was just the smell of dinnertime, and maybe some bland greens to go with it.

Mischa never once cared very much for mealtimes. It was just an inevitable fact of life. One had to eat in order to move onto the next hour, and the next hour. And then before he knew it, it would be time to eat again, and so on and so on. And he only had  to do it for the rest of his life.

Rather than fret over it, the boy usually took it upon himself to tour through the strange airship captain’s house. There were so many things to look it, it may have rivaled any museum in the city. The sheer AMOUNT of peculiar trinkets and memorabilia almost made it impossible to remember what one has seen and what they haven’t. And yet, somehow, the house did not look cluttered. Only extremely organized.

He took his stool with him and brought it to the foot of a cabinet that housed all sorts of weird looking items inside.

Some kind of taxidermy sculpture of a frog stabbing another frog with a tiny rapier, some sort of animal toy in a miniature military uniform, pictures of...bananas and strange red little animals with big eyes in these felted hoops… Tiny black balls that looked fuzzy inside jars of water with colorful rocks at the bottom...

Mischa scrunched his face up. He couldn’t make sense of it. There was no theme to any of this, though if he had to pick one, he’d have said ‘arts and crafts’. To a certain degree anyway. That was only the section lining the foyer all the way towards the staircase leading to the second floor. That didn’t take into account the REST of the house.

Next to the entryway, was the study and living area. A small library of sorts, as bookshelves covered every wall in there, along with more things to oogle at.

Above the mantle of the fireplace was some huge painted portrait of a ghostly specter and a hawk with silver and black feathers resting on its wrist, the two of them staring off into some swirly yellow and orange sunset. And to each side of the painting was a green flag with the silver hawk printed on it, proudly displayed.

And where there were patches of wall the shelves would NOT cover, there were usually photographs framed nicely going up as high as the captain could get them. Which wasn’t terribly high, considering the height of this room.

Pictures of soldiers and maimed battlefields out in the countryside, vehicles of war and grandure, scenes of the city in which public officials rode in their fancy automobiles waving at the masses, with a parade trailing behind them. The famous five airships hovering mysteriously in the sky above, pieces of confetti flying everywhere… Mischa knew what those were all about. He practically attended said parades by himself for as long as he could remember (once.)

There were many other things, but he grew bored and decided to head back upstairs. The captain hadn’t appeared yet, so dinner must have not been ready.

He had a while longer.

The hallway at the top of the stairs was rather plain by comparison to the first floor. There were a few scenic paintings here and there, that all looked like they were made by the same artist, but they weren’t very interesting. It was only the countryside outside of the city. And he’d seen that loads of times (maybe twice.)

To the right was his room, with all his things. And directly across from there was the washroom. And on the far end of the hallway opposite of those two, was another bedroom. The captain’s bedroom to be precise. Mischa hardly went in there during the daytime. He’d come only at night when he couldn’t sleep, which was semi-often, and he’d be too tired to look around properly by then.

He pushed the door open quietly. Only the ticking of a clock on the wall greeted him.

Up here it was completely silent. And again, like the hallway, plain.

How peculiar.

Mischa slipped inside and shut the door behind him and looked around. There was the bed, neatly made and practically perfect as always. There was a dresser adjacent to it that looked immaculate and had a mirror hanging over it on the wall.

Having a mirror seemed a bit silly. Why have a mirror when you have no hair? Better yet, why was there a hairbrush sitting there??

Ridiculous. The captain did NOT need a hairbrush.

On the walls where the window facing the front yard was, were several posters of old shows that had come to the Grand Theater in the city. Most of them were of the same piano player over and over again. Mischa DID know that the captain always did say that he was his favorite musician in the entire world. Next to the orchestra itself, of course.

By the bed though, on wall just above where you’d rest your head, there were a few more photographs, mostly featuring the captain himself.

There was always that stern look on his face throughout so many of them. The steely gaze, tight jaw, the frown certainly, and some unrelenting look of either indignation or determination. Perhaps both. Mischa often made the same kind of face without realizing it. People called him an angry child.

The more he looked though, he soon realized too, that so was the captain. He had to be. He always made comments about how he and Mischa were so much alike, right down to their big ears. It was true. Mischa touched his own ears while he stared up at a younger captain with the exact same expression he was making now.

More frowning.

Their ears WERE really big… Bigger than everyone else’s for sure.

Still, the idea that the captain had once been younger than he was now was a funny one. He didn’t look terribly different standing next to his plane in this one.

Same facial expression, less lines on his face, maybe a few less wrinkles around the eyes too. Next to him was this taller man however that Mischa had not recognized, only because all the soldiers sometimes looked the same, except for their varying heights. He and the captain were both dressed in the same uniform and standing with their arms behind their backs, with what he assumed was their plane behind them. It had two seats in it. Maybe it was his co-pilot. The captain DID tell him stories about when he was a pilot after all. Before he was an airship captain.

But he never once did mention who this man was. Maybe he didn’t care about him very much. Maybe they only worked together and that was all.

The door squeaked as it was pushed open, causing Mischa to jump in surprise.

Yaedra stood there staring at him. How long had he been doing that? Mischa KNEW he closed the door, but there was something about the captain that always made him wonder whether he did something, or not.

He waved his hand at him and pointed towards the direction of the stairs, before making a few signs. “Dinner is ready. Are you hungry?”

Mischa furrowed his tiny brows. No, he wasn’t. He had other things on his mind. “Who is this in the picture? Your plane had two seats.”

Yaedra glanced up at the photo he was referring to and came over to him.

He pulled his mobile datapad out of his pocket and started to type away, as this was going to be too hard to explain to Mischa in signs. “When you become an airplane pilot, you are assigned a partner. This was my partner.”

“You mean you didn’t fly it by yourself?”

“I flew the plane by myself. But he manned the gun behind it. You see there?” Yaedra took the picture off the wall and sat down on the edge of his bed, with Mischa joining him. He handed over the framed photo gently.

“I see. So he was a gunner.”

“Yes, he was. He was a good companion, and he kept me company.”

“Was he a friend?”

Yaedra, for whatever reason hesitated. “Yes.”

Mischa stared at him, confused. Why the pause? Perhaps he had to think about it was all. Besides, he didn’t know what it was like to have friends. He always got into fights with the other boys whenever the captain tried to take him to school. “What was his name?”

Yaedra swallowed noticeably, but just for that one moment.

“His name was Lev, and he was very brave. And a very good friend.”

“His name was lion?”

The captain smirked and closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, the man was named ‘lion.’ He was as proud as one too.”

“What happened to him?”

The smile faded as Yaedra stood back up to replace the picture back onto the wall again. “He died.”

“How did he die?”

Yaedra glanced down at Mischa again, and then picked him up to carry him back downstairs. “We fought in a war.” He signed with one and a half hands.

Mischa kind of understood. “I remember.”

“You were not born yet.”

“No. I remember you telling me stories. So it WAS real?” Mischa asked as Yaedra sat him down at the dinner table, taking his place on the opposite end to his boiled meat and boiled vegetables.

“Yes, it was real.”

“Tell me more about it. I want to know.”

Curious child, Yaedra thought to himself. Very curious. Very strange. “I will tell you small pieces, if you’d like.”

“I’d like it.”

He smirked and semi-snorted again as he stirred his bland food around.

Very to the point. Just like him. Lev would have been absolutely relentless.

[redqueenanxiety]

Modern Red Queen Au Pt1 (Family Business)

A Modern Red Queen AU following a depressed 17-year-old and his summer adventures.

Ugh again? Another wind weaver, personally I wasn't a fan of that house. Sure they were powerful but they're stats pointed to weakness in battle, their special attack and defense were basically nonexistent. Sure they could put up a good fight, but adding a little smog to the air should have them running for the hills.

Why else do you think I choose burner? The stats were amazing the defense and the attack were at their heights. Well if you trained and educated yourself (Which I did) they were at their heights.

I leaned down gracefully, balance is something perfected long ago, keeping my eyes on the concealed enemy, most people didn't travel alone at night but I was well on my way to ranking grandmaster, and Thomas had a band thing tonight, that he couldn't possibly miss. I didn't want to reach this historical achievement without an audience but, it was Tuesday and experience was doubled on Tuesdays!

I smiled as a small fizzle of heat bloomed from my fingertips setting the grass ablaze. I could already smell the smoke before I saw it. The Wind Weaver had no idea who he was dealing with I was Maven Calore the greatest burner to ever live and today was the day I joined the elites and reached level 95 maxing my experience and claiming the title others would envy for years.

Four seconds had passed roughly nine to go before the smoke would begin affecting the Wind Weaver abilities and I'd go in for the kill, actually, no If I powered up my ember to exterminate him I'd get triple the XP. I'd make sure to message him thanking him for the easy experience points, he'd probably be demoted, the more I'd get the more he loses. Thomas was gonna be so jealous, I thought with a smirk.

A faint knock rang throughout the forever dead silent house. The Room chilled.

"Maven, We have visitors get your ass down here!" Mother's voice rang, cold as ice

Shit, not now, why now?This was the worst time possible time. I was so close.

"You better be down here before I open the door, You know who it is, and your hair better be combed."

"In, ah s-second-"I stammered The grass began smoking, 57 more seconds before his wind weaving was rendered useless, 39 more till my ember finished powering up. I'm sure dad could wait.

"No I gave you orders, and you will follow them" She barked, slamming my door open. There she stood in all her glory. Porcelain pale skin to match my own, covered in a deep blue strapless dress to frame her flawless hourglass figure topped with Fine Blond hair braided into an intricate bun, that must've taken hours, with piercing blue eyes. "HOW DARE YOU?"

She probably wasn't too pleased to see her 17-year-old son still in his briefs crumpled over his computer with his school clothes littered everywhere. "I-I can explain-"

I half expected her face to turn red from anger to match her expression like normal people, but mother, wasn't normal, she doesn't get embarrassed or mad just... clever. She was smart like that always getting what she wanted. She simply held out her hand, irritation radiating from her ice cold eyes.

"Please" I huffed "Just nineteen more seconds" Last time she took my keyboard I didn't get it back until four months later which was Christmas.

"Make yourself presentable." She said marching over to rip the keyboard from my desktop in the process, knocking over my limited edition 1989 model of mega man, Thomas had savaged the world for my 16th birthday gift. "You disgust me," was all she said with the slam of the door

Another knock rang through the house followed by mothers hurried footsteps.

I didn't care though, the world didn't matter as I knelt down to pick up the beautifully sculpted figure. Tears filled my eyes as I crumpled in on myself. It had dented. I sat there staring at the thing. It had taken Thomas 2 years to find the damn thing and cost 745.78$ plus shipping from Japan.

I heard another "Maven" Mother's voice again, but more playful, like she hadn't just disrespected my whole being. She'd yanked my keyboard so hard the jack had imploded.

"Mavey?" Cal's voice., No, not now. I was expected Father and his wife, but Cal was too much. I Can't not now. Cal's outburst was followed by footsteps. He was coming.

Crying won't help Mave, so don't start.

No, I refuse to do this right now, Go Away. I commanded I would not entertain these voices anymore. I refuse to.Schizophrenia. That's what she called it. A wild combination of imagination and hallucination drilled into my head. I could control it, I would control it. At least in the presence of Cal.

I slowly pulled myself together, finally convincing myself to pull on some pants and tuck in my shirt. I worked quickly and quietly, Mother was going to be ballistic after dinner. My hair was a tousled mess but more often than not so was Cal's so that shouldn't be too big of an embarrassment during dinner. Now time for the hard part, shoes or no shoes? We were staying home so was there really a point in wearing shoes or formal clothing?

But this was father we were talking about, sometimes I wouldn't eat dinner at all, so it obviously wasn't as sacred to her as it was to father. She was rarely home after all.

My eyes rose to find Cal standing at the door, barefoot as a child, so that answered my question. He looked nice. Why was I not surprised he was wearing simple jeans and a sweater vest that hugged his sculpted muscular form.

Cal looked like my father with his strong angular jaw and rustic amber eyes. We'd both gotten our black fine curls from my father. I could probably achieve the light caramel tan that highlighted his cheekbones if I actually went outside or just took off my hoodie. But my hoodie was my shell, my home, and protection.

He smiled down at me, dazzling as always. He had the same smile girls would stand in line for miles to see, I'd probably stand in line too if he wasn't my brother, Thomas definitely would with me, it's all he ever talked about.

I smiled right back lifting myself off my newly made bed.

"Mavey" He breathed as If he couldn't believe we were actually seeing each other face to face in real life. He'd spent the last six months studying abroad in Tiraxes, some ridiculously preppy school he attempted to talk me into every time we made eye contact. In fact, I was slightly surprised he hasn't started going on about it. "Long time no see," He said with a bigger smile flashing teeth. I wonder if he was doing that on purpose or if he knew he was doing it at all, did some people have to try to be more heartbreaking beautiful?

"Good to see you too," I wasn't exactly sure if It was good to see him, Him being back in Norta meant much more distractions. Tiraxes has a different school year schedule then Norta does like any other state, so I was still in school while he'd been dismissed for summer. Cal wasn't one to respect that, what if he picked me up for early dismissal during Civics and I missed Calculus? I swear if he interfered with my perfect record I would eat him. "I bet you've got so many new stories to tell,"

"Not as many as you've got, man I miss high school," He said a dreamy look crossing his face, it seemed like just two weeks ago when we were sitting at his graduation then sending him off three states down for college.

"Why would you ever-"

" Amaranthus University (AU)is filled with people that are there on scholarships, so their ridiculously academically focused and you know I never really fit in with that crowd, you'd probably like it there, they've got an excellent science community and an astounding engineering community, which is pretty fun..." He said cutting himself off, "But it's still pretty lonely..."

"Oh" I didn't know what to say, Cal and I were never ones to talk about our feelings, we were half-brothers after all. We didn't even live together, sure when he was in high school we saw each other more, but he was a band kid and I an orchestra. He graduated as Section Leader of the Bassoon's, while I'd still been working my way up to concert master.

He looked like he wanted to say more, or maybe he wanted me to say more, maybe I wanted to say more. Maybe I should've? I would've opened my mouth to say more. "Oh" didn't seem to cover it but was gladly interrupted by another shrill of Mother's fake laughter, bringing us back to the present.

"Hope, they haven't started dinner without us," I said taking a step towards Cal and the door, he hadn't moved an inch. Standing perfectly still, something about my Mother made him uncomfortable, no unsteady, on high alert all the time, even as children at our birthday parties.

"Doesn't seem like something Mom would do, She loves family time." He said with a smirk, waiting for me to join him in the hall where we would venture down the stairs.

Cal may have been a bit taller than me but I didn't have to strain to catch up. I spent my whole life chasing after him and somehow didn't get completely left behind.

It didn't take long for us to find the stairs, our house was big but not as big as Mother wanted it. There they stood at the door of the just newly cleaned foyer. Father looked nice today, with his freshly trimmed beard and eyebrows. Cal and him must've planned this, matching sweater vest with a slightly different color scheme. He held something in hands, wrapped up nice and neat in a startling shade of red wrapping paper, a present, It wasn't too big but nicely sized.

Standing by his side stood his wife in a monotone shade of gray was Coriane Calore. Cal didn't take after her in body type but she did give him his soft innocent smile that was impossible to win an argument against. Everything about her seemed soft from her almost grey-blue eyes to her faint curves. Cal looked so delighted to see her his face lighting up in any way possible "Mom made Haggis!" He said with a smile.

I gave him a silent smile as we approached, noting the tin foil tray Coriane held with pride, she smiled at her boy. Her pride and joy."Cal helped," She said with a smile, beaming at her son. I've only heard rumors but apparently, she suffered many miscarriages before having Cal, no wonder she loved him so much or maybe that's just the way all parents should feel about their children. Everyone I met had different experiences.

Mother surveyed my appearance before Father closed me in for a hug, He was working on his weight trying to live a healthier life while trying to recover from his darker times. I knew he sometimes went back to them, they all did. Mother kept track of the rehab appointments he made along with Coriane's and Cal's therapist appointments. Even with him in Tiraxus he couldn't escape her prying eyes.

"How's life been treating you, Son? Your mother tells me your academic career is going great." He says finally releasing me.

"Not to mention he's nearly worked his way up to Concert Master" Mother pipes in proudly before I can open my mouth and speak for myself.

"Nearly" I coughed shyly, I loved playing, violin. But it was taking up one of my elective slots and there were other things I'd rather do like Desktop Publishing and maybe Psychology. Maybe after I achieved that she'd let my quit, besides Orchestra was something I could do outside of school.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you graduated early, with a full scholarship considering your grades." He said clapping me on the shoulder. Scholarship? it's not like we needed one Father is loaded. I'm guessing he only wanted it for bragging fuel considering Cal wasn't the best in the academic department.

"Who knows maybe you'll be in one of Junior's Class one day" He said playfully rolling his eyes at Cal. Tiberius had never been a fan of being called junior and neither had his mother so they substituted his name with Cal, but Father did let the name slip every now and again. Especially in front of Mother.

"Maybe," I said with a shrug, little did he know I had no aspirations of going anywhere near AU. Thomas and I had been talking about a college in Prairie, for years, they had an excellent Engineering And Psychology program for me, with an amazing band program for Thomas. Not to mention they only accepted people on scholarships, so no rich idiots anywhere in sight, not to mention that meant that Thomas' family could afford it, we finally found a way to stay together through college, Mom would approve of me getting into an elite college, whether I was following Thomas or not.

"Is dinner set, I don't want the haggis to grow cold," Coriane chirped from in front of me, pulling me back to the present. Oh yeah, dinner. I almost forgot

"Of course, I've prepared Stollen for desert," Mother says proudly rolling her eyes sizing up Coriane like a predator on prey. While Mom's opinion of Coriane was obvious, while mine were mixed. Our families intertwined history was complex and so long not even I fully understood it. All I knew was Mom caught a newly made father without his newly made wife in the worst possible time...

But that's a story for another time, now it was time for dinner I thought following the four people that impacted my life in more ways than one, into to the dining room.

Forgive me I’m new at this. But Stay tuned for more! (This exact A.U is also available on My Wattpad and AOW if they’re more assessable to you. Parts may or may not be uploaded on wattpad faster)