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queenk00k · 5 years ago

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but what if we were pure gold all along? jj maybank (chapter 1)

Summary: After the assumed death of their best friend, the Pogues are falling apart at the seams. With Pope and Kiara getting closer and JJ left with nowhere to go, he finds himself left to his own devices. Feeling lost and rejected, his luck seems to turn when he meets Scarlett - a Kook who doesn’t treat him like shit and has an affinity for partying. JJ gets sucked into her world as she promises to help him forget.

How much longer can he keep running from his demons? And what happens when he starts sharing a bed with one?

Warnings: depictions of violence, child abuse, angst, sexual content, drug use, underage drinking.

Author’s note: Hi all, this is my multi-chapter fic I’ve been working on. My oneshots & Rafe series have taken off so I thought it was time to share this one too. Let me know what you think!

Word count: 1.7K

READ THE PROLOGUE HERE

the one where pogue promises are bullshit

“You mean she can’t hang out with us at all?” JJ asks Pope over cereal late the next morning. It feels almost insulting to John B to be doing something so irritatingly normal but hey, a boy’s gotta eat and he sure as shit won’t be getting breakfast at home.

“Nope. Parents got her on lockdown,” Pope answers solemnly. “They freaked out after the whole running from the cops thing. Not to mention, they’re not keen on Kie ending up like…” Pope trails off as JJ looks up at him sharply.

“They could still be alive man. We don’t know.”

JJ’s sure Pope looks at him with pity as he replies, “Maybe. But I mean, JJ, the Phantom in that storm…Shoupe said it himself, they took an open boat into a tropical depression. I just don’t see how they could still be a-alive.” Pope chokes on the word alive as if it were poison and he sucks in a deep breath as tears fall down his cheeks and JJ can’t take it anymore. He pushes back his chair, the metal legs scraping against the floorboards as JJ rises from the table abruptly.

“I’m going out,” he says as he feels the walls closing in and he just needs to get outside before its too overwhelming and goddamnit he’s sick of crying, will it stop sometime soon?

“JJ-“ Pope starts to rise from his chair but JJ waves a hand at him to sit back down, not looking directly at Pope in case, God forbid, he sees just how broken JJ feels.

“Nah man, it’s fine. I just need some weed. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, JJ makes his way out the front door alone, his feet heavy and his heart heavier still.

JJ’s been staying at Pope’s house for a week now and he can’t help but think he’s the only one struggling. He still hasn’t seen or spoken to Kie who, according to Pope, is still on strict lockdown, and Pope has thrown himself into studying and finding loopholes for other scholarships that would let him interview. This leaves JJ with not much to do but wander aimlessly, not going too far just in case his dad decides to come looking for him.

Pope joins him on the back porch one night where, despite strict orders from Heyward to not get up to any mischief in his house, JJ is surreptitiously pulling on a joint, the smoke curling outwards into the un-seasonally cool evening.

“Mind if I take a hit?”

Lost in his thoughts, JJ jumps at the unexpected interruption. “Shit man, you scared me. Sorry, I know your dad said not to get up to anything but I just feel like garbage and –“

“Nah, I know. I get it. Pass it here,” Pope replies, sitting down next to JJ on the worn steps. JJ passes him the blunt, the corner of his eyes crinkling in a rare smile.

“Coming back to the dark side, are you?” After Pope’s outburst around the time John B and Sarah went missing, he vowed not to get like that again.

Pope coughed as he blew out the smoke. “Ha, no. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

JJ takes the used stub and crushes it under his boot. “Uh oh. That’s never good.”

“It’s fine. More than fine. They’re letting me interview for the scholarship position again.”

“You’re kidding. Bro, that’s awesome,” JJ replies sincerely, clapping his calloused hand on Pope’s shoulder. “I mean it. Good for you. How did you manage to convince them?’

Pope smiles at him. “I told them about John B and Sarah. They figured two friends going missing at sea counted as ‘extenuating circumstances’.”

“Extenuating?”

“Means they agree it was fucked up and they’re letting me off the hook.”

“Hmm. Well, that’s great man.” JJ smiles. “Why did you want to talk to me about it this way?”

Pope sighs. “I’m just preparing you. I’m gonna be pretty busy trying to figure out how to answer their questions. I wanted you to know now so you don’t think I’m trying to ditch you.”

JJ nods solemnly. “I appreciate it. Thanks.”

Pope stares at him for a moment. “Do you think your dad is gonna come looking for you?”

“I don’t think he’ll try anything with your dad around.” JJ scoffs. “I’m pretty sure he was always scared of him.”

Pope nods and before he gets a chance to reply, his phone lights up with a new text and he steals a glance. JJ is sure he looks happy about whatever it was.

“Hey, I gotta head out and pick my dad up. Are you good here?”

“Yeah man, I’ll see you later.”

Pope claps him on the back as he bounds down the steps and in the darkness, leaving JJ alone to battle with his conflicting emotions.

On one hand, he’s overjoyed at the prospect of at least one of them having a decent future, considering his was pretty shot to bits and he had no idea what Kie was thinking, but on the other hand��on the other hand, JJ couldn’t help but feel jealous and a little hurt that Pope had something else to focus on other than the fact that one of his best friends was dead.

JJ remains sitting outside for longer than he realises, contemplating rolling another joint to keep him company and scuffing his boot in the dirt, willing himself to stop feeling so fucking emotional all the time.

After a while, JJ is brought out of his own head a second time as the sound of the front door closing causes him to jerk his head up.

JJ stands and makes his way through the back door, stopping abruptly when he realises he can hear Pope’s parents voices, but not Pope himself.

JJ gets the sinking feeling that Pope was lying to him, and he edges forward to make out what the hushed voices were arguing about.

“….and the longer he’s here, the more danger we’re putting our son in.”

“What do you suggest we do then? You know we can’t let him go back home. That boat was his father’s and I know what Luke is capable of. I’m worried for the boy.”

“He can’t stay here…”

“Last time I checked, Luke was scared shitless of me and-“

“You’re not 30 anymore baby, and he’s unpredictable - he could have a gun. JJ needs to leave, go into foster care or something, but he’s not staying here whilst we risk our family.”

A loud, resigned sigh. “Fine, I’ll talk to the boy.”

JJ’s heart races and he breathes heavily, nostrils flared and hands curled into fists. He turns slowly towards the back door, opening it quietly, praying that Pope’s parents don’t hear him leaving, their words echoing in his ears.

“…the longer he’s here, the more danger we’re putting our son in.”

“He can’t stay here…”

“…he needs to leave…”

JJ kicks the wheelbarrow as he crosses the yard, out of anger or fear he’s not quite sure, and ignores the searing pain in his foot. He was used to feeling like a burden, so why did this hurt so much? He wanted to be angry at Pope’s family, and he figured he was a little bit, but he also understood. He wouldn’t want to put Pope in any more danger than he already had.

JJ rounds the corner and runs straight into Pope, who has the decency to look a bit ashamed of himself. JJ can’t help himself as he narrows his eyes.

“Picking your dad up, huh? What were you really up to?”

Pope opens his mouth to stammer out a response but before he can come up with another excuse, JJ notices something in the glow of the street light.

JJ curses and moves Pope’s collar to reveal a dark purple bruise. Pope’s eyes widen as he steps back, faltering under JJ’s cool gaze.

“Is that a hickey?” JJ manages to ask through gritted teeth, his jaw clenching. “Have you been sneaking off to see Kiara?” JJ’s angry, sure, but he’s also hurt because why doesn’t Kiara want to see him and why is Pope lying to him and why does nobody want him?

Pope clears his throat. “I’m sorry man, we’ve just started going out and she needs me and-“

“You’re going out now?”

“I mean yeah, she did kiss me and everything and it just kind of escalated from there-“

“And what about ��she needs me?’ What about me, bro? What happened to us Pogues sticking together?”

“JJ, I’m sorry man, Kie’s parents don’t want her seeing you and I don’t want her getting into any more trouble-“

JJ interrupts again as he shoves Pope away from him, his blue eyes icy as he struggles to contain his anger. “Yeah man, whatever, I get it.”

JJ stalks past Pope, muttering “unbelievable” under his breath and heading straight for his bike.

“JJ, please,” Pope starts but JJ holds up a hand to silence him, as he hops on his bike and speeds away without looking back.

Pogues don’t leave each other behind, huh? Bullshit, he thinks as he speeds away.

JJ finds his way to The Chateau without even thinking, almost as if muscle memory brought him here. He stops his bike out front and heads inside, smiling tersely at the fondness he feels for the place. When his own home wasn’t safe enough, which was often, he felt most at home here with his friends, stealing food from John B and crashing on the futon after keggers.

His throat burns at the thought of John B, at the thought of the Pogues, at the thought of the fact that Pope’s been screwing Kiara and lying to him about it and why the hell is that their priority right now?

JJ walks slowly down the hallway, noticing how the place has been completely trashed and stripped bare thanks to those square groupers and now the cops. God, all of that seems like centuries ago. How did they manage to end up here?

JJ barely makes it to the back of the house before a familiar voice makes him stop in his tracks and his blood run cold.

“Boy, if you’re in here I swear to God I’m going to kill you!”

JJ gulps.

Looks like dad came looking for me after all.

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lostinfic · 6 years ago

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Dissonance and Harmony | 5

Pairing: Roderick Peterson (Nativity 2) x Alison Crosby (The Canterbury Tales).

*You don’t need to have seen either film.*

Summary: Alison wants to boost her pop music career whereas Roderick needs to restore his reputation in the world of classical music. Neither of them is above using “irregular” means to get what they want, so when she joins his choir, they are in a unique position to help each other… if only they could get along.

A/N: Apparently, turtlenecks are called polo necks in the UK. Here’s a link to the bells video Roderick shows her.

Rating: M | Word count: 5,4k

Part 1 and 2 | Part 3 and 4 | Ao3

♪ ♪ ♪

Today, when Alison arrives at the theatre earlier, it’s not in the hopes of time alone with Roderick, but for a job interview with Vera, his associate.

Vera asks her a few questions, but she’s a no-nonsense type of woman who quickly sees that Alison has all the requirements both in terms of job experience and people skills.

“I can see why Roderick recommended you for the job,” Vera says as they shake hands.

“I can see why you two are business partners.”

Alison will work at the ticket booth during the day and show performers around when they arrive ahead of their concert. Some nights, she will guide people to their seats and bartend during intermission. The pay is average, but it will compensate for the hours she can’t work at the pub anymore. And there’s a tiny chance she’ll meet interesting people in the business. Still nowhere near the 7000‎£ her ex-husband is suing her for.

There’s an hour left before the beginning of choir practice, enough time to call her friend in Canterbury. Lisa is an old friend, and, more importantly, a terrible gossip. If anyone in Canterbury knows the reasons behind John’s lawsuit, it will be her.

Alison sits in the staircase, and tells her friend the little she knows.

“He’s suing you?” Lisa exclaims. “I can’t believe it. You know, even after you left him, he kept defending you. He was clearly in denial.”

“Aaww. What’s made him change his mind, then?”

“I’ll give you the straight tip: he’s dating the new solicitor in town.”

Lisa has a lot to say about this woman, but Alison focuses on only one thing: with every party emotionally involved, there will be no easy way out.

“If I could talk directly to John, I’m sure I could convince him to drop this,” Alison says.

“Use your loaf, Crosby: he thinks you manipulated him once, he’s not gonna talk to you again.”

“Fuck.”

“Besides, you’re famous now, so what’s the problem?”

“I’m famous?”

“We all saw you on the telly this summer with Robbie William.”

“That was once! I replaced a backup singer at the last minute and never saw him again. I work in a pub and sing in a choir. That’s it.”

When Alison hangs up, she heaves a long sigh. She has some answers now, but not the ones she wanted. If John thinks she’s rich and his new girlfriend convinced him to take advantage of this, she has to prove them wrong. But how if they won’t even talk to her?

Footsteps echo in the staircase, and she springs to her feet. It’s Roderick, shaking rain off his black trench coat as he walks up to his office. Butterflies erupt in her stomach. The man she insulted then impulsively hugged. The two days off they’ve had since that event haven’t decreased her embarrassment in any way.

He stops two steps lower than her. For once, they’re at eye-level.

“Are you alright?” he asks when he sees her.

She smooths her hair self-consciously. “Erm, yeah. Yeah. So, have you heard back from the investors?”

“Yes, we were lucky, Vera told me they couldn’t stay to watch after all. So they didn’t see that disastrous performance.”

“Oh, good. Whew.” She mimes wiping sweat off her forehead. “Unless they left because they’re not interested in sponsoring us after all.”

“No, they’ll be back next Friday… They said they liked the choristers they met in the lobby.”

“That’d be me and Marcus. Guess choosing me for my good looks is already paying off,” she says it good-humouredly, not an accusation, just banter. She tilts her head to the side with a mischievous smile. “My, what a fetching polo neck you’re wearing today.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m practicing.” She flutters her eyelashes exaggeratedly.

“You might not want to sound so sarcastic.”

“Noted. You really do give the best advice, Mr Peterson.”

“Thank you.” He puffs up his chest slightly. “It comes from my extensive experience as a teacher and mentor.”

“See what I did there? Not so sarcastic this time, was I?”

She smiles smugly, and Roderick rolls his eyes, but there is a certain fondness to the way he shakes his head.

“Well played, miss Crosby, well played.”

“I’ve got it covered. So, we have till Friday to improve and dazzle the investors?”

“Not the word I would’ve used, but, in essence, yes,” he says. “Are you going to the coffee shop?”

“Nah, brought my own tea today. Gotta save money.”

“Ok. I will see you in eighteen minutes.”

Alison skips down the stairs, whistling a show tune.

There’s nothing she can do about the lawsuit now, but there is something she can do about the investors.

They had two days off after the last practice session. She’d spent the better part of them reflecting on Roderick’s words and her behaviour towards the choir. He was right, she was making it all about herself and acting like a brat. She still plans on using the choir to boost her own career, but in order to do so, the choir must perform well and win, and that can only happen if they work together. So last night, carried along by a surge of generosity and fondness towards her fellow choristers, she baked a whole lot of cookies.

In the basement, where they’ll practice today, she folds out a table to display the three batches of cookies (chocolate, double chocolate and shortbread) with cute napkins.

As she waits for the others to arrive, she sings “Tiny Dancer” to herself and explores the room with improvised dance steps.

She spends so much time at the Lux Aeterna theatre now, it feels like a second home. She calls it simply “Lux”, like an old friend. “I’ll be at Lux all day,” she’ll say sometimes. Lux. Light. Even the basement is luminous somehow. Cold November sun streams through small stained glass windows and creates a colourful pattern over the exposed stone wall.

She grew up in places like these: church basements, school auditoriums, community centres. Cupboards full of old costumes and stage props, mismatched chair, yellowing paper on bulletin boards. The scent of dust and incense lingers decades after. Her love of the stage, and backstage, started young, at 4, when a speech therapist suggested she tried singing to overcome a light stutter, and suddenly she could express herself so fluently. These spaces she associates with freedom now.

“Nice choreography,” Marcus says as he rolls down the back entrance access ramp.

Cold wind rushes in with him, and Alison gathers the cowl neck of her sweater dress over her cheeks.

Marcus helps himself to four cookies and, after some small talk about their weekends, cuts to the chase and asks what happened backstage with Roderick last time.

“We had a row. He called me a brat. I called him selfish,” Alison sums up.

“And yet you’re still in the choir?”

“Yeah, it’s all fine now.” She waves dismissively. “I guess he kind of needs me.”

“How so?”

She sits down next to him, leaning forward to confide in him.

“You know how on the first day you asked why he’d chosen me. Well, he told me. It’s for my… sex appeal.”

Marcus removes his cap to run a hand through his light hair. “Whoa. Makes sense, I suppose. Some people think you’re sleeping with him.”

“What? Who? No! They thought we were off shagging backstage or something?” An image flashes through her mind: shutting Roderick up with a kiss mid-argument and being lifted against the wall, amongst the ropes and pulleys, nibbling on the skin under his turtleneck to leave a hickey— she wipes out the thought. “It’s not like that. He’s soooo not into me. That’s just ridiculous. He wants me to, I don’t know, seduce the judges or attract a male audience.”

“Will you? How do you feel about that?”

“There’s no harm in that, is there? I wear something nice, stroke their ego a bit, brighten their day. That’s what I’m best at.” Alison shrugs and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I just feel… daft for thinking he’d chosen me for my voice.”

“Don’t say that. You’re a good singer Alison. Bit of a diva, but nothing that can’t be fixed.” He pats her knee playfully. “It’s like I said that day. He must’ve thought you have a great voice too. He wouldn’t have chosen you for your looks alone.”

“I suppose, yeah. Has he mentioned using your disability?”

“No, but I noticed that whenever there’s a more plaintive part in a song, he always gives it to me. But, hey, I get to sing more than the other blokes. More exposure for me if a talent scout comes to the concert.”

More people come in, and Alison quickly offers them cookies. Some are wary of her sudden generosity, but no one refuses a freshly-baked cookie.

Janet and Abel in particular are grateful for the pick-me-up after what they saw in the lobby: new posters advertising their concert in December. It features a blurry photo taken, unbeknownst to them, during one of their practices and a large close-up of their conductor, with “Roderick Peterson’s choir” written in bold letters. The information spreads as more people arrive, and pictures taken with mobiles circulate.

“We didn’t even get to choose the choir’s name.”

“I reckon we won’t get a say in the setlist either.”

The poster bother Alison too, but mostly because it’s derailing her plan to become everyone’s friend and lead them to victory. Hoping to change the mood, she tells them about the potential sponsorship. “Mr Peterson and I talked, and we agreed that we must impress these investors,” she says. She might be exaggerating her part, and that won’t help with the rumours, but it’s worth it to see Clarissa seethe. Except she’s not the only seething one, the fact that Roderick himself didn’t inform them of this, adds fuel to the fire.

Annoyance rises in Alison, she sighs heavily and crosses her arms. You don’t understand, he cares about us, she wants to say, but bites her bottom lip to stay on their side.

“Why didn’t he tell us last week? We would’ve sang better,” Janet says.

“Because the quality of your performance should not be contingent upon the presence of investors,” says Roderick from the doorway. They all startle and turn around to him. “I expect you to be at your best. Every. Time. Is that clear?” No one dares speak. The threat of eviction from the choir still hangs above their heads. “Besides, you should not concern yourselves with administrative matters.”

Marcus breaks the silence by clearing his throat, everyone watches intently as he rolls up to Roderick. “With all due respect, Mr Peterson, you’re not teaching children anymore. You can consult us.”

Roderick clasps his hands behind his ram rod-straight back. Only a slight contraction around his jaw indicates his annoyance. “Thank you for your opinion, Mr Bailey. Now, let’s begin.”

They take their places in the middle of the room, Roderick at the piano, and sing through the usual warm-ups. Inhale for four beats, and hum the breath out on the same note for another four. Chests lifted, shoulders straight. Their abdomens widen and flatten simultaneously, each of them an alveoli of the same lung. Dissatisfactions are forgotten. Music prevails. “Lauda Mater Ecclesia”, “Saint Nicolas, Op. 42”, “Thou, my love, art fair”.

Alison fights her instinct to draw attention to herself. It’s not easy, just as it isn’t easy for Roderick to give compliments, but he manages to do so. In as much as “adequate” and “reasonable” said looking like he just threw up a little in his mouth can be considered compliments. She likes to think she was instrumental in that change of attitude. It no less surprises her when, at the end of the next practice, he asks, “Which song would you like to work on this week?”

Glances are exchanged, but no titles offered. Alison can’t think of any song what would not cause him to scoff.

“Well?”

Abel hesitantly raises his hand. “Maybe something by Eric Whitacre?”

“Whitacre? Seriously?” The choristers hold their breaths. “Okay, I suppose we can try that.”

The next day, Roderick hands them new scores. “Who wants to sing the solo? Everyone is welcome to try.” He has never asked before.

Alison starts raising her hand, but lowers it. He’s said “the more you try to make it about you, the less it will be”.

“Miss Crosby?” he asks.

“I— I don’t know.”

“This isn’t some test designed to torture you.” He sounds impatient, but there is something encouraging in the way he nods at her.

“Okay.”

“Take 15 to study the score. I’ll see the soloist individually.”

Alison goes into one of the small, soundproof booths that line the basement. As she studies and hums the notes, she realizes how differently she’s approaching this part. Unlike she would have three months ago, she immediately thinks of it in terms of its place in the whole of the song. She wonders how to complement the others rather than stand out.

“I wasn’t ready before,” she remarks when Roderick joins her in the room.

“Show me what you understand now.”

Her pulse quickens. This is her chance. She can’t let him down. She strikes the pose, relaxes her jaw, and sings the first lines.

Roderick interrupts her with a cluck of his tongue. “The notes are perfect. But you must put your guts into it.” He stretches his hand over her stomach and presses it into her flesh.

The contact jolts through her, and she gasps.

“Again,” he commands.

She holds his gaze and leans into his hand. This time, her voice is infused with determination. It erupts from her core until she’s completely out of breath.

“That was better.”

He swiftly leaves the room, leaving Alison to lean against the wall, bewildered.

♪

When Roderick arrives at work the next day, Alison is working in the ticket booth by the entrance of the theatre. It’s not a demanding job— answering phone calls, printing out tickets, selling to the occasional walk-in client— so he knows she has time to talk with him.

He’s just come back from their coffee shop, one black coffee in hand, and a beverage for her too. It’s some awful seasonal concoction. He thought of her when he saw it advertised in the window, and he needed something to smooth things over. His conduct yesterday, touching her like that, was inappropriate. He knew he could get so much more depth out of her. He’d wanted to rouse that boldness she has, and it worked. But she has to learn to engage it by herself.

He places the clear plastic cup in front of her, glad to put the artificial scent of peppermint and vanilla away from him. Her eyes widen at the sight of the indecent amount of whipped cream, but she expresses none of the enthusiasm he expected.

“I didn’t get the solo,” she says.

For a moment, he fails to see the connection. “Oh, miss Crosby, you’ve known me for some time now, have I ever cajoled someone when I was displeased with their performance?”

She giggles and grabs the drink. “Not quite your style, no.” She sips noisily through the straw. “Mmmm. It’s the one called Elf Brew, innit? Want a sip?”

“No. I’m a vegetarian so no elf meat smoothie for me.”

“You’re funny.”

He finds he doesn’t mind this new habit of hers of flirting with him. It’s all a laugh, of course, she doesn’t mean any of it. But it lets him know she’s not upset about what happened.

“So, I didn’t not get the solo?”

“I’m still considering my options. Luisa did very well too.”

“Right, yeah.” She shrugs and swirls the straw around her drink. “I mean, Whitacre's her favourite composer. It’s more her thing than mine. She should probably get it.”

Roderick arches an eyebrow in surprise.

“We’ll find something else that’s a better fit for me, yeah?” she adds.

“That’s more like it.”

She offers a smile that fades quickly. He pretends to take an interest in the brochures around her booth.

“But I’m trying, though,” she says. “I’m making an effort to really be a part of the choir.”

“I noticed.”

He wonders how long that will last, but it seems his words had an effect on her. Just like her words had one on him. She was right, he had been making the choir all about himself. And Marcus was right too, he isn’t teaching children anymore. It’s all getting in the way of his success.

“I decided to make changes to the posters that created such a stir,” Roderick announces.

“Really? That’s very cool of you. ”

“Today in fact. Can you do something about your face?” He gestures vaguely in front of her.

Her smile vanishes. “What’s wrong with my face?”

He could kick himself for phrasing his request like that. He explains that a photographer will arrive shortly to take new photos for the promotional material. She rushes to the bathroom with her handbag. Ten minutes later, Alison comes out with a fresh coat of pink lipstick, loose hair and, somehow, glitter on her eyelids.

In the auditorium, the photographer asks her to sing while he snaps photos around her. Then she smiles and poses with a binder of music sheets. He’s efficient, he’s worked with Roderick before and knows what he wants, but he’s taking more pictures than necessary and getting too friendly with Alison. She, of course, is enjoying every minute of it. Roderick should be annoyed with this kind of vain attitude, but she remains professional and focused.

“Beautiful. You’re a natural, luv. Lean over. Okay, cross your arms. Yes. Look at me.”

“Okay, I think that’s enough,” Roderick intervenes.

“But we’re only getting started,” the photographer retorts. “I think we need her in a skirt. No? Okay, you’re the boss. Alison, here’s my card if you’re interested in modelling—”

“She already works for me,” Roderick insists, shoving the photographer’s bag in his arms.

After he’s gone, Alison asks, “D’you want me to tell the others there’s gonna be a photoshoot when they come in? I can text them right now.”

“No, we’re not taking pictures of the others, your face will suffice.”

“It’ll be only me? Outside on the marquee of the theatre? On a busy street in central London? Whoa.” She smiles brightly.

“Well, there will be my face too, and then you underneath me— I mean, under the title. Anyway.”

“I see. I suppose it’s like I’m representing the choir. The others— I just… Okay. No. That’s for the best.”

♪

By Friday, the new posters aren’t up on the marquee yet. Good. Alison doesn’t want them to distract her colleagues on this important day when the investors are coming to hear them sing.

She joins everyone in the auditorium. They all scrubbed up well.

“Nice shirt, Marcus,” she says. “Love your scarf, Janet. Luisa, new haircut? Beautiful. Abel you shaved!” There’s a thickness in her throat that isn’t from stress. She’s overcompensating. She should have insisted her friends be in the promotional photos too. She argues with herself that she let Luisa have the solo. And if her pretty face helps sell more tickets for the December concert, than she’s helping everyone. In a way. Being pretty is her thing, and if that’s all she is, then she bloody well deserves her face on a poster. But the guilt doesn’t go away.

She redirects her thoughts to the present when Roderick walks on stage. He greets the investors who are standing at the back of the room. They haven’t introduced themselves to the choir so as not to raise their hopes. They prefer to watch from a distance to better assess their performance. Love of music isn’t their only motivation, they need this association to reflect well on their business, and their logo on the program to pay off.

Roderick’s gaze sweeps across the choristers, and Alison smiles at him. No vein throbs on his forehead, and the movements of his hands and arms are more fluid; they have his back, and he knows it now.

They run through warm-ups and the song they know best. Nervousness strains their voices a little bit, but they cover up each other’s misses. Luisa sings the solo beautifully, and Clarissa is perfect, of course. Alison simply can’t be mad at either of them.

After the first hour, Vera walks on stage to introduce “your new sponsors.” Alison is the first to shake their hands with a warm smile.

“You have great potential, and our bank always believed in encouraging young talent,” they say in a speech that sounds like a marketing pitch.

True to her nature, after the rehearsal, Alison invites everyone to the Blue Bear pub’s Open Mic night to celebrate. Marcus accepts right away, and convinces others to do the same. Even Roderick agrees after they beg him in chorus. “Only for one drink.”

In the theatre’s lobby, a handyman is putting the new posters for the concert. The ones that feature Alison prominently. She doesn’t usually shy away from attention, but when her friends notice it, she wants the floor to swallow her. She sputters some excuses. Thankfully, Marcus smooths things over. “I’m too happy to be pissed right now, let’s not spoil our mood.” No other complaint is voiced, but Alison knows they’re all still thinking about it.

At the Blue Bear, Javier is surprised to see her. “Your shift only starts in an hour.”

“I know, I brought some friends to hang out and sing. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course, I don’t mind customers.”

“I’ll just grab a few things.” She passes behind the bar and picks up a bottle of whiskey along with glasses.

“Paying customers, yeah?” Javier says.

Elife is there too, with her bandmates. “You didn’t have time to go out for my birthday, but you have time for your new friends?” she accuses Alison.

“I’m sorry. We got the sponsorship! It’s like a team-building activity, it’s work.” She hugs her friend. “I’ll introduce you to Marcus, you can thank me later.”

They push tables together to sit the dozen choristers who came. Roderick sits at the head of the table, he raises his glass to them.

“As Bach once said: ‘I was obliged to be industrious. Whoever is equally industrious will succeed equally well.’”

“That’s it?” Marcus whispers. “Alright. Cheers!”

Janet is the first to go on stage to sing “Back to Black”. Alison’s focus shifts to Roderick. Does he even know Amy Winehouse? She’s a genius just as much as Beethoven. Even sitting at the same table as them, he’s distant. This pub, with its hunting ephemera on the walls and hanging lamps made out of beer bottles, is a far cry from his modern theatre. She’s sure he thinks it’s not good enough for him. Nothing is good enough for him.

She grows annoyed, but she doesn’t know where it’s coming from. Maybe because he called her self-absorbed yet encouraged it by having her pose alone for the photographer. He should have asked the others too or at least explained his decision to them. She’s not the only guilty one. It’s infuriating that he can he be so caring one minute— bringing her tea, finding a solution to her problems, saying she’s sexy, hugging her, smelling good, and that little smile he has sometimes— yet so distant and annoying the next.

Why didn’t he give her a solo? She improved. She worked hard. Why does he want only her face and not her voice? How is she supposed to sing with her guts when all the songs he chooses are hymns to a deity she’s not sure she believes in? Singing with the others is uplifting, but the lyrics are meaningless to her.

“I’ll show him,” she mutters to herself as she makes her way to the stage. Impulsively, she chooses a song by Carly Simon.

Alison keeps the microphone on its stand but puts her two hands over it, she undulates her hips to the first guitar notes.

“You walked into the party. Like you were walking on a yacht,” she sings with a voice deeper than usual.

Her friends cheer when they recognize the song and sing along to the chorus.

“You're so vain. You probably think this song is about you. You're so vain. I'll bet you think this song is about you. Don't you? Don't you?”

She presses her hand to her stomach as she belts out the last lines. It’s cathartic. Her frustration dissolves. She bows to the applause. Feeling better, she saunters off stage.

She crosses Roderick’s path as he’s walking to the exit, putting on his coat.

“You’re going already? It’s not ‘cause of the song, is it?”

“I thought it wasn’t about me,” he says with a playful tone. “I liked it.”

She wishes his approval didn’t make her feel so warm inside.

“Thank you for coming, it means a lot. To everyone.”

“Thank you, Alison. Good night.”

As he walks away, she considers insisting he stays, but Javier calls her to begin her shift.

Alison dons her apron and goes around the tables whiles her friends keep singing on stage. They’re absolutely killing it. Marcus’s rendition of “I Believe I Can Fly” has the crowd cackling, and a few minutes later, he and Elife are snogging like their lives depend on it. Janet and Luisa sing a duet, and are soon joined by a tipsy Abel. And the night wouldn’t be complete without “Bohemian Rhapsody” which she has time to join between two orders.

They stay until closing time, at 11. Alison takes the booze away from them, and goes around wiping tables while they discuss the choir.

“We should sing more songs like we did tonight.”

“We were so good.”

“More people would come to the show.”

“I’ve had enough of bloody hymns.”

“Do you know what we should do? Mash-ups!” Luisa says.

This suggestion is followed by a chorus of enthusiastic agreement.

“Mr Peterson will never let, though,” Janet complains.

“I don’t know,” Alison says. “I mean, he’s been making an effort to talk to us more like we’re actual humans. He’s trying, no?”

“That’s right, he has been making an effort,” Luisa agrees, “since you talked to him.”

They all turn to Alison with intent stares and mischievous smiles.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re going to ask him to change the setlist.”

“Oh, no, no.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Janet replies.

“We’ll forgive you for the poster,” Luisa adds.

“Fuck.”

♪

Roderick starts every day by swimming laps in the pool on the first floor of his building. The cool water stimulates his body and mind. He loves to feel the stretch in every muscle from forearm to calf as he crawls and kicks his legs. A musician must stay in shape, but he never liked sports.

When he was 13, his mother (who worried about his social skills and the effect of them of practicing piano alone for so many hours) asked him to join either a sport team or the school choir. He chose music, of course. In no time, he’d surpassed the choir director and was doing the arrangements himself both for the choir and the school band. And thus was born his love of choral music because, for the first time, he was part of a group, of something bigger than himself and free of his father’s shadow. And yet, it’s that feeling of belonging he wanted to run away from today.

He reaches the end of the pool and hangs on to the edge, panting. He hasn’t completed his usual thirty laps yet and he’s already out of breath. The whiskey and late night are affecting his performance. What was he thinking? Fraternizing and drinking with them. The frontier between conductor and choristers must never be crossed. If he gets too close to them, he will lose his objectivity and authority. It will affect his decisions and won’t be good for the choir. Hell, he’d almost given Alison the solo right after she sang for him even if he hadn’t heard the others yet. He had to keep his distance and a cool head.

Of course, keeping his distance would be easier if he hadn’t given her a job at his theatre.

“Hey, Mr Peterson. Here’s your mail,” Alison says, entering his office.

“Thank you.”

No fraternizing. Not crossing the line. He keeps his eyes on the computer and sees a file he saved yesterday, a video that reminded him of her. Bloody hell.

“Wait. There’s something I want to show you, come here.”

She joins him behind the desk, and he plays. It’s woman with bells sewn onto her clothes, each makes a different note, and she plays a medley of Christmas songs by tapping them all over her body.

He watches Alison rather than the video, praying she will think it’s funny. She laughs and he reclines in his chair.

“Oh, this is brilliant.”

“I was thinking we could get you one of those seeing as how you like to draw attention.”

“Oi! Cheeky.” She bumps him with her hip. “I don’t think the others would like that, though.”

Her sharp tone tells him there’s more to her statement, but she changes subject before he can ask.

“Mr Peterson, can I talk to you about something?” She wrings her hands. “Last night, we had an idea.”

“We?”

“Yeah, the whole gang, well, those who were at the pub. We were saying we’d love to sing more popular songs. Maybe do mash-ups? You know, when you take two or three songs and blend them together.”

“Like a quodlibet?”

“Maybe.”

“Darling Alison, the only reason mash-ups work is because there are too many bland, interchangeable songs out there. If a song isn’t interesting enough to perform in its entirety, we should be ignoring it. And if it uses excellent songs, it’s even worse, it completely ruins the integrity of the piece.”

“So you do think pop music has integrity.”

“You missed my point.”

“We could mix them with classical music. Like Steve Hackman did. Coldplay with Beethoven, Drake with Tchaikovski…”

“That little punk.”

“Tchaikovski?”

“Hackman. It’s derivative.”

She crosses her arms and looks at him seriously. He mirrors her pose.

“Alright. If you agree, I’ll do the thing you want me to, you know, be sexy for the judges or whatever.”

“Was refusing ever an option?”

“Well, you can’t force me to be sexy.”

“So far, I haven’t even had to ask you to do it. You charmed the investors of your own accord.”

“I can be ugly.”

“I doubt it,” he replies without thinking.

She smiles and her determination wavers, but not for long. “Flattery won’t work.”

“I doubt that even more.”

“Roderick, please,” she whines.

“We’re not throwing away the songs we’ve already worked hard on. We’re doing a traditional choral concert. That’s it.” He strikes the air with his hand to underline his words.

She sits on the edge of his desk, in front of him. Oh, she’s a stubborn one, but her perseverance doesn’t displease him.

“Can you honestly say the ‘traditional’ way has worked out for you?” she asks.

“Yes! I’m one of the tops in my field.”

“Lately, I mean.”She taps her knee against his. “C’mon, it’d be fun!”

“Alison, this is my livelihood. My life. Fun is not enough.”

Her shoulders slope. He’s getting through to her.

“Okay. I understand. I really do, but—”

“Miss Crosby.”

“No, listen to me.” She leans forward and braces herself on the arms of his chair. “We can do it better than it’s ever been done before. Because of you. Because you’re one of the tops. I trust your judgement and your talent to make the most amazing… quodlibets.”

“If this is another one of your flirting jokes…”

“It’s not.”

It’s hard to think with her so close. Her floral perfume. Her front teeth digging into her lower lip. Her hand so close to his arm, he can feel her warmth. He looks up to the ceiling and sighs.

“Can you come to my home tomorrow?” he asks her.

“Your home?”

“I can hardly carry my whole album collection here. Bring your music, we’ll look through it.”

She squeals and claps her hands, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to hug him again. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

So much for keeping his distance.

#Teninch Fic #mutual pining #slow burn #Roderick Peterson #Alison Crosby #Lostinfic writes stuff #Roderick x Alison #d and h

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queenk00k · 5 years ago

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but what if we were pure gold all along? chapter 2

Summary: Set immediately after the Season 1 finale. JJ finds a way to cope when he feels like he has no one, and finds someone unexpected to enable him.

READ THE PROLOGUE HERE

Chapter 2: the one where pogue promises are bullshit

NOTES: hi here’s the first proper chapter of my fic!!! pls let me know if you enjoy it or not & know that whilst i’m working on this, fic requests are open <3

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