Chapter Text
"Pizzicato, people!"
Dr. Tarkin's voice echoed across the orchestra pit as he slammed his baton down onto his music stand and pinched the bridge of his nose. The exasperation in his voice was palpable. And while he could have been referring, in very general terms, to a whole host of people unfortunate enough to rankle his infamous ire, his eyes landed directly on Rey.
"Shit," she sighed inwardly as an icy cold bead of humiliation slid down her spine. "Not today."
"Pizzicato! Is! A dance! It's supposed to be a dance! Not a... a drunken stumble! We learned how to keep proper time in grade school, do we really need to break out a metronome?! Like we're children?! Stay together!"
Rey took a deep breath and steadied her bow arm. She did her best to ignore the scrutiny and listen to her logical self. She kept her eyes locked on her music and her ears open, and played her best, most focused rhythm. A perfect pizzicato. She'd worked so hard to get where she was, faced unparalleled opposition, incredible competition, and triumphed over every challenge. She was so close to her prize, and that prize was right next to her. At last.
First chair.
Which was currently empty.
Because the First Violin of the Western Michigan University Symphony Orchestra couldn't possibly be bothered to show up to rehearsal on time.
And the audacity of it. The unearned privilege, the entitlement. The repugnant stench of it stained that chair like a coat of black paint. Ben Solo only claimed the seat by birthright and nothing more. The man had likely never known a single day of real work in his life. If Rey even dared to put forth the same pittance of effort that he did, she'd find herself kissing her scholarships goodbye and packing her bags to fly home to England, broke and alone. An orphan with nothing more to tie her to her homeland than her Union Jack quilt, her electric kettle, and her accented speech.
"Again," Dr. Tarkin instructed after he brought them to a close. Her tension lifted a little, but not enough. In all honesty, it seemed like the whole day was out to get her.
First, she'd found out in the shower that she'd forgotten to buy a new bottle of conditioner. Then she'd stubbed her toe on the corner of the couch. She'd spilled coffee on her pants and had to go put on new ones, at which point she'd discovered that she would have left the house with the wrong composition folder if she hadn't returned to her room. And then, after all of that, she'd had trouble getting her car to start. The thing was lucky she'd had enough energy left to coax it gently into compliance.
Because she was tired. Deeply tired. Bone tired. Her shift at the local drug store the night before had kept her til half past midnight, more than an hour after closing. Every step she'd taken for an entire day after that had been a struggle. Her tipping point came with the announcement that the annual auditions for sectional chair assignments would be taking place after their performance at the Presidents' Day Charity Ball.
And Ben Solo had never been unseated.
It wasn't that he was untalented. He clearly was no hack, given his pedigree. He was also large and imposing, a dark and dour figure that towered over six feet with broad shoulders that were probably better suited for an upright bass. It's possible his peers were intimidated by him. Perhaps they found it easier to just... let him have it. But taking his place came with a stigma that was frankly offputting to most.
And that was because he was the son of the fabled Leia Organa-Solo.
Whose millions were responsible for the very concert hall they were currently seated in.
His mother was a concert pianist of exquisite reknown, whose talents were extolled the world over. Everyone knew who she was. She'd played for politicians and royalty and foreign dignitaries. She'd even played for a small herd of elephants at a zoo in Munich as a part of some sort of cognitive science experiment. She'd also spent some time in the film industry, working with famous composers and plying her trade in movie soundtracks. She'd rubbed shoulders with celebrities. Her son's father was even rumored to be one of them. Her fingers were behind some of the most recognizable themes in pop culture to date. But she was best known for her philanthropy and her dedication to bringing fine arts and music education to impoverished inner city schools.
Simply put, no one wanted to be the reason why someone would have to tell her why her son was no longer the First Violin.
In her concert hall.
But Rey did not have that hang up. If Ben Solo wanted to keep his chair, then he could do his mother proud and work for it as hard as she did. And he could start by showing up on time.
Dr. Tarkin brought them to a close once more, but before he could open his mouth to speak, the door at the back of the hall swished open. Ben Solo sauntered through the door and hurriedly made his way to the pit. The pages on Rey's music stand rustled as he plopped down into that first chair, the one right next to hers, smelling of the cold winter street outside. A cellist down the row cleared her throat, but otherwise no one said a word. Rey waited for Dr. Tarkin to make some sort of snide remark, something like, "Good of you to join us," or, "Hope we haven't interrupted your evening plans," but once again she was disappointed. The man, instead, straightened his sheet music and rolled up the cuffs of his shirt as if no interruption had been made.
As if this was just... perfectly fine. Reasonably acceptable.
Rey felt her cheeks grow hot.
She resigned herself to knowing that if she had to claw her way to the top, tooth and nail over Ben Solo's worthless hide, at least she did it on her own merit.
"Again," Dr. Tarkin finally said once Ben Solo had dropped his chin into his chin rest. Rey did her best not to elbow him in his stupid face as she brought up her own bow and began to play. This day was hard enough already. She would not let him make it harder.
He would not get the best of her.
And one way or another, he was going to work for that chair.