Chapter Text
Recitals were a painful routine in Sebastian's life. He hadn't had an unsuccessful one since he was nine and yet no matter how high he climbed, no matter how he blatantly outshone and upstaged his peers (something he only took a touch of pride in, by the way), there was always something for Father to pick at. Something he'd sorely regret when they got home. He couldn't bask in the applause, the praise of his teachers soon faded into white noise as he caught wind of Lydia's condescending sneer, which only served to frustrate him further - she truly thought she was the center of the universe when the conservatory accepted her, and her ego only seemed to grow year after year until she finally graduated and got to spend her days waving her diploma in his face, which was rich, because if she was really so good, she'd be touring in the national orchestra by now.
He'd be applying to the conservatory soon. Sooner than he'd like. School was nice, he liked it here. His classes were a reprieve from home, a place where music still felt like a chore, but one that wouldn't get you lashed for not performing perfectly every time. He practically coasted through his classes; he was damn good at them. Liked by his peers, regarded well by his tutors...The second he stepped out of those doors today, he'd be treated not as a student, but as a burgeoning professional; and not just by Father, by everyone.
Sebastian struggled to pay much attention to the next performance after he stepped off the stage (some flutist that he was sure he'd never seen in his life); truthfully, he struggled to care. Wading through a crowd of doting parents praising their children's performances, his gaze scanned the hall for Father, who had already stormed off to speak with the staff, and even across the room, Sebastian couldn't help fruitlessly straining to listen in on what they were discussing. Setting his violin case atop one of the many tables that had been hastily arranged for the demonstration, he was only snapped out of his frantic stupor at the sound of a voice that didn't immediately get his back up.
"Sebastian." Mother wasn't usually one to deliver feedback. It was easier for everyone involved if Father spoke first and she chose to agree, he supposed, which made her willingness to initiate at a time like this all the more surprising. He stood a little taller, subconsciously moving to fix his lapel.
"Yes, Mother?"
Mother glanced around, that alert glimmer in her eyes that always seemed to plague her evident as she anticipated something only she understood. With some reluctance, she stepped forward, planting a gentle kiss atop his head. The contact felt bizarre, foreign. Mother always used to do that to calm him when he was upset. He wasn't sure he could recall when she stopped bothering.
"Well done." She smiled weakly, then, but he couldn't bring himself to reciprocate. It was plain to him that she was only performing; every other mother was proud, and thus she must be as well. They both knew he could have performed the classics with pinpoint accuracy today and it still wouldn't have been enough. So could he really look his mother in the eyes and believe her when she said she was proud of him?
"Thank you," he said, though he hardly felt grateful. How could he when he knew in mere minutes he'd have his end of year report, which would be picked apart in the parlor, Father furious about something he couldn't even conceive of yet. And Mother would do what she always did; stand to the side and stay out of it. Maybe she agreed with him, maybe she thought he deserved it. Sebastian's nails flexed in and out of his palms, attempting to steel his nerves.
"You sounded wonderful up there. Like a real musician.” And what was he before, exactly? An amateur?
“Thank you,” he repeated, somehow now feeling more palpably irritated. The silence enveloped them once more, and quite frankly it was preferable. In sync, their eyes flickered towards Father, who seemed all too charismatic as he laughed with teachers that were most likely once his teachers. Sebastian's teeth worked into the inside of his cheek, before he glanced over his shoulder, up at his mother. "What do you suppose they're talking about?"
"Your father is looking to get a letter of recommendation from your tutors."
"I thought conservatory admission was exam based."
"It is, but…"
A jolt of anxiety shot through Sebastian's chest. He lightly gripped at the fabric of his lapel, teeth clenched in frustration. "He doesn't think I'll pass, does he?"
"It's not that," she replied mildly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "But as a legacy admission, he thinks it'll help strengthen your reputation before you apply.” Sebastian scoffed lightly, offering a roll of the eyes in turn. Mother continued, “He’s certain you’ll pass, Sebastian. You just have a lot of studying to do before you’re prepared.” Sebastian couldn’t even conceive of the notion of failing the exam. In part because the chances of him not passing the exam were slim to nil, but also because even considering the possibility made him feel physically, palpably sick.
"But I will pass," he insisted, though he couldn't quite keep that questioning, approval craving tinge out of his voice. Maybe mother's opinion wasn't an expert one, but he felt the need for it nonetheless. Sebastian dared to search her gaze. She nodded briskly.
"Your father thinks so." And you don't? Sebastian found himself physically biting back his frustration, drawing a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Right. Naturally." It was hard to muster much in the way of confidence when Mother didn't seem to have a shred of it. Another icy silence enveloped the two. Mother glanced over her shoulder.
"This exam is very important to your father," she began, and though he wanted to complain about her stating the obvious, he knew better. "Things are going to get — challenging ." Mother's hands clasped together gently in front of herself, a glimmer of something he couldn't quite place in her eyes. “He’s expecting more from you, and with the way you’ve been falling behind in your studies…” Falling behind? Falling behind? Dread and shame and anxiety and fury lapped at the corners of his mind as he stared, bewildered, up at his mother, who seemed entirely apathetic to his reaction. So much for a well-meaning bestowing of advice; this was a lecture, one thinly veiled with faux concern. Sebastian turned once more to his violin case, snapping the clasps shut with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary. Mother flinched slightly at the noise, and a small, spiteful, bitter part of him was happy to toss even a shred of the unease he was feeling back at her.
“Right,” Sebastian echoed again, mostly for the sake of saying something. “Father expects better from me than third place.” Lydia was the lucky one. She set the bar, and she set it high enough that the only thing Father would want from him was perfection. And when he achieved perfection (because there was no point in doubting it, he would. He would. ) he’d have to incur Lydia’s wrath for the duration of their natural lives. A small price to pay for first place.
“And if you want to be better, you will.” Because in all his years, he’d never considered just being better. Sebastian bit his tongue, swallowed down his resentment like sickening bile in his throat, lowering his head in a courteous nod.
“I won’t let you down.”
Even if it killed him.