Chapter Text
Arthur Kirkland once loved music.
When Arthur was five, his family went to his first classical music concert. As his brothers asked Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland when the show was going to start at every passing minute, Arthur patiently kept his eyes on the illuminated red curtain, wondering what was hiding behind it.
The audience’s mutters died down when the stage lights brightened. After the announcer’s introduction, the curtains opened. A grand piano stood in the stage’s center, enveloped by the spotlight. Hands clapped as a man dressed in a black suit sat down at the piano.
Arthur, like many spectators, was moved by the performance. His heart rose when the melody was lively, his heart sank when the melody was gloomy, and his heart panged at every slammed note.
His eyes on his sheet music, pianist kept his composure. His fingers gracefully danced on the black and white keys, loose and relaxed. By the time the pianist bowed at the thunderous applause, Arthur’s dream to become a detective faded away.
Mrs. Kirkland gently shook Allistor and Connor awake. Mr. Kirkland carried Dylan, who remained asleep as his father buckled his seatbelt for him. Unlike his brothers, Arthur could not stop jabbering about the performance until he and his family reached their car. He endlessly begged for a grand piano as his family drove back home.
“Pleeeease, I really wanna learn!” Arthur pleaded, his green eyes resembling a sad kitten’s.
“It is ‘want to’, not ‘wanna’.” Mr. Kirkland corrected. “And no, we cannot afford a grand piano. It is simply too expensive!”
“But it looks so fun to plaaaay!” Arthur whined.
“Oh, be quiet, Artie!” Allistor shot a cross look at his youngest brother. “I don’t understand what is the big deal about a stupid piano.”
“The piano isn’t stupid!” Arthur retorted. “You’re only staying that because you were sleeping during the concert!”
“It was so boring I fell asleep.” Allistor smirked.
“It was not boring!” Arthur’s voice rose.
“Was to!”
“Was not!”
“Was to!”
“Was not!”
“Boys! Lower your voices!” Mrs. Kirkland ordered.
Arthur and Allistor glowered at each other before facing their mother.
“Arthur, you and your father shall discuss about this.”
Dejected, Arthur sighed quietly and looked out the window. Usually when his parents said they would discuss something, it usually meant no.
A few days later, Mrs. Kirkland asked Arthur if he wanted to attend after school piano lessons, an offer answered with an excited, “Yes!” On Arthur’s sixth birthday, his parents surprised him with a piano keyboard. Arthur’s brothers rolled their eyes at each other as Arthur ran around in circles and shouted in joy. Arthur did not care if the keyboard was made of plastic or had to be connected to a wall outlet. What matter the most was he finally had his own set of black and white keys.
From then on, Arthur ran to his keyboard the moment he got back from school, finished his homework, and finished his meals. He protested whenever his parents told him it was time for bed, only submitting when they told him sleep would help him with his performance. By the time he was eight, he could play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and Chopin’s Etude Op. 10, No. 4.
The piano introduced Arthur to the world of music. If it were not for Arthur’s music classes at school, he would have stuck with the piano for his entire music pursuit. Pretty soon, pedestrians heard either a mellow piano, a whistling flute, a woozy clarinet, a humming saxophone, or a blaring trumpet whenever they passed by the Kirkland household. Although the piano was Arthur’s first instrument, his favorite instrument was the trumpet. Arthur, the quietest of the Kirkland brothers finally found his voice in his loud and proud trumpet. Whenever his brothers ganged up on him to tease him, Arthur always chased them away by picking up his trumpet and threatening to play the highest note he could hit.
With time, Arthur’s music skills could only improve. He performed at parties, churches, concerts, and shows and came out of competitions victorious. Soon, Arthur’s name was well-known in the music community as an unstoppable rising star. However, Arthur’s rise to fame, ironically, marked the beginning of his fall.
At the start, Arthur competed against screeching violins, slamming piano keys, and squeaking, spattering wind instruments. Now, his competitors could play the most complicated songs without missing a single note. When by their sides, Arthur became average. He had to prove that he was better than average, a burden made heavier by his family. Arthur became his parents’ walking, breathing trophy. Mr. Kirkland bragged about how their youngest son was a music prodigy to during gatherings, a repetitive action that earned disdain and jealousy of not only distinct relatives, but also his brothers. Sometimes, Arthur intentionally played louder just to not hear what his brothers whispered about him behind his back. Assuming that her son enjoyed being busy with music, Mrs. Kirkland signed Arthur up for performances and competitions one after the other.
Soon, music became a chore, a chore Arthur did for his parents. Most kids spent their free time watching cartoons, reading their favorite books, or playing with their friends outside. Arthur spent his leisure time practicing nonstop for the next competition or recital. He bit back his tongue and stuck with the strict schedule, even if his stomach grumbled or his eyelids felt heavy. Music defined his place in the world. He should not give it up. What would he be if he was not good at it?
Nothing, as he would learn after losing his first competition.
Arthur’s hands grew sweaty as he entered the stage. His trumpet felt slippery in his grasp. The audience’s applauses made his stomach flipflop. Despite the adrenaline shooting up in his veins, the thirteen-year-old’s eyelids felt heavy. Bleached by the spotlight, spectators failed to notice the dark circles under his eyes and how pale his face was.
Arthur began. Having recited the song over and over again, he knew the piece by heart. Every note and measure were played perfectly until he got to the highest note of the song.
A pitiful, sputtering whimper silenced the song. Eyes widened in surprise. Arthur froze.
“Start at the beginning of that measure and continue.”
A sound that resembled a weak airhorn burst out of the trumpet. A child’s giggle came from the audience.
“I could play that note last night! What is wrong with my embouchure?”
As Arthur’s trumpet continued to squeal and splutter, the judges whispered amongst each other. Murmurs came from the audience.
Cringing, Arthur continued with the rest of the song. His performance did not improve from then on. Although he could still here the music piece, his muscle memory forgot the fingerings. His breaths became shakier and more labored. According to his mental metronome, he was dragging behind the song’s tempo. His trumpet’s tone sounded like a cross between a strangled cat and a dying duck.
Although he could not make out of his viewers’ faces, he easily saw their disgusted, uneasy expressions. The spotlight scorched his eyes. Arthur just wanted someone to turn it off so no one could not see his tears.
Arthur had never hurried off the stage so quickly. He hid in the corner of the backstage below the glowing red exit sign until the competition ended. For the first time, his name was not called to receive a prize.
Familiar footsteps approached him. Arthur kept his eyes on the floor. His hugged his knees tighter to his chest.
“Arthur.” The disappointment in Mr. Kirkland’s voice made Arthur’s heavy heart clench.
“Arthur?” Not even Mrs. Kirkland’s gentler voice eased the swell in Arthur’s stomach.
“Let’s go home now.” Arthur weakly nodded at his mother’s statement. His knees shook as he rose.
Arthur’s parents did not say a single word to him on the way home. While Mr. Kirkland fought the urge to cuss out the drivers cutting in front of him, Mrs. Kirkland gave pitying smiles to Arthur whenever she looked over her shoulders at him. Arthur only looked away and sat in silence, numb hands tingling and fingertips twitching.
That night, Arthur shoved his trumpet case underneath his bed and pulled his keyboard’s cable out of the socket. The following Monday, he returned his school’s clarinet and saxophone.
Arthur vowed to never perform music again.
Three Years Later
The doorbell rang. Tossing his headphones aside, Arthur went to open the door. He frowned at the wavy-haired blond male in front of him.
“Oh, it is you.” Arthur’s thick brows furrowed.
“Bonjour.” Francis greeted with a smile. “May I come in?”
“I’d much prefer to know that I shall be expecting guests beforehand.” Arthur said curtly. “However, no one else is home except for me. You may enter.”
“Merci.” Francis thanked. Arthur shut the door behind him.
Francis Bonnefoy lived a block away from Arthur. The two formally met at one of Arthur’s first music competitions. When they were not trying to outperform each other on the piano, they were at each other’s throats in the playground. However, many playdates and scoldings later, Arthur and Francis eventually realized the silliness in their hatred. In fact, Francis was the only friend who still spoke to Arthur after the fateful catastrophic performance.
“Would you like some tea?” Arthur asked from the kitchen.
“Non, merci beaucoup.” Francis answered as he sat down on a sofa. “Have you gotten your schedule for this year?”
“Yes.” Arthur set his cup of iced tea on the coffee table. “I picked it up an hour ago.”
“May I take a peek at it? I would like to see if we are in any classes together.”
“Be my guest.” Arthur handed Francis the paper his schedule was printed on.
“Hmmm…” Francis’s eyes scanned the document. “AP Environmental Science, AP Calculus AB, AP English 3… So many advanced classes!”
“Are we sharing any classes?” Arthur rose a brow.
“None so far…” Francis reached the end of the schedule. “You have a free 8th period.”
“Yes. I decided to give myself more time for studying.”
“It’s such a busy schedule… How can you handle being this busy? Why don’t you take any fun classes? Classes that you enjoy?” Francis’s indigo eyes shone. “Like music?”
Arthur glared. “No. Absolutely not!”
Francis knitted his brows. “Arthur, I understand why you stopped playing music,”
“Not stopped. Quitted.” Arthur crossed his arms.
“Oui, quitted. But have you ever thought of having a little fun before graduation? We have two years before going our separate ways to college. Who knows how busy we’ll be.”
“Francis, we both have different plans. You are heading off to a culinary school. Me on the other hand, I’m planning to apply to several four-year colleges. I must work hard to get into the best ones!”
“You are right.” Francis admitted as he brushed his hair behind his ears. “I won’t have any trouble getting in. Still, I would like to spend as much time with mes amies before graduation. I just don’t know when everyone is going to see each other again.”
Arthur held back a scoff. Francis was his only lifelong friend, unless Francis managed to piss him off with his flirty antics. Then his status as a friend is demoted to “mere infuriating acquittance” before Arthur forgave him.
“If you do change your mind, join me in band. It’s always in 8th period.” Francis brought up.
Arthur only nodded.
“Joining the school’s band? Over my dead body.”
“Are you excited for school, Arthur?” Mrs. Kirkland asked.
Knives cut into chicken. Forks dug into roasted vegetables. Tea shimmered in porcelain tea cups. Arthur looked up from his plate. While Mrs. Kirkland gave him her warm smile, Mr. Kirkland kept his gaze on the wall behind his wife. He swallowed his food before taking a small sip of tea.
“Yes.” Was Arthur’s only answer.
“What classes are you taking?”
“How many? What kind?”
“I cannot remember.” Arthur brushed a speck of pepper off a slice of potato.
“It sounds like you are taking quite a lot! I cannot believe that you are beginning your junior year of high school! Time flies! Can you believe it, George?”
Mr. Kirkland only nodded.
“George?”
Mr. Kirkland took another sip of tea.
“George.” His wife hissed.
“What is the matter, Victoria?” Mr. Kirkland finally asked in annoyance.
Mrs. Kirkland’s emerald-green eyes, the exact color as Arthur’s, darted from her husband to Arthur.
Mr. Kirkland sighed. “Yes, I also cannot believe it. Arthur is becoming a fine young man.” He answered, voice monotone.
Arthur groaned. “Fine young man my arse.”
“Arthur? What is the matter? Is the food not well?”
In comparison to his parents’, Arthur’s plate still had pieces of overcooked, dry chicken. The potatoes were burnt black. The broccoli and carrots were overcooked.
“Your dinner is fine.” Arthur forced a small smile. “I…I just feel unwell. I don’t feel very hungry. May I be excused?”
“You may be excused.”
Once when Arthur reached his bedroom, his smile finally fell. He sighed as he sat down on the carpeted ground, leaning back against the leg of his bed.
Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland already accepted that Arthur was not going to be a music star many years back. Dad no longer pressured him to practice, and Mum no longer filled his leisure timeslots with gigs and competitions, yet the scars Arthur accumulated during the final months of his glory remained. He loathed his parents for stealing his youth and enjoyment of one of his favorite interests, and loathed them for making them live through him. Yes, Arthur Kirkland was just not a normal kid; he was a failed child prodigy to be more precise, a title would haunt him for the rest of his life.
And they wonder why Arthur no longer wanted to speak with them.
Having three older brothers was both a blessing and a curse. Ironically, shortly after Arthur’s failure, his brothers became the new stars of the Kirkland family. During his high school years, Allistor was the top player in Global High’s football (soccer, as Americans would call it) team, a title earning him a full ride scholarship. Both Connor and Dylan later carried on Allistor’s reputation. Like their oldest brother, they also received full ride scholarships.
On one hand, Mum and Dad had something positive about their children (except for one) to speak about, diverting negative attention away from Arthur. On the other hand, Arthur’s older brother hogged all the positive attention, attention Arthur had been deprived for too long.
Currently, Allistor was completing his final semester, allowing him to receive his degree in medicine. Connor began his 3rd year in college. Dylan moved into the freshman dorms a few days ago. All three had such bright beginnings and futures ahead of them.
Then there was Arthur remaining in high school with his above-average-yet-not-quite-the-highest GPA.
As sadness clouded his eyes, Arthur took a peek underneath his bed. His trumpet case remained in the same spot he left it three years ago.
He stared at the case for a few moments before reaching for it, grabbing it by its handle.
Arthur flipped open the case and looked at his reflection in the brass surface, buried underneath the smudges and fingerprints. His fingers toyed with the three valves. Though sticky, the valve oil in the case should still be useful.
After setting his trumpet back in its case, Arthur took his phone off his bedstand. He opened the messages app and selected the conversation with the contact name “Frog”.
“Hey frog, it isn’t too late for me to join this band, is it?”