Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Him

This was, he decides, quite possibly the worst idea he's had.

In recent memory, doubtless and quite possibly one of the top ten of his life as he supresses a shudder and inches further away from the man with the hacking cough and no tissue to rectify the results. Then again, he supposes he can use said man as a human shield from the individual soliciting tips up and down the subway car in exchange for a deplorable musical performance. 

His current situation can only be explained as a desperate attempt to arrive at a meeting he's had on the books for months, one of the few meetings a year he has agreed to attend in person and usually in the back of a hired black Escalade to avoid typical New York City experiences such as this. Unfortunately the drive of the said black Escalade begged off due to a last mine "family emergency"  which turned out to be to attend to the birth of his third child (bothersome of course, but he is nothing if not magnanimous) and therefore deserting him to plebeian public transport.

Idly, he reminds himself to send a balloon bouquet. Despite his annoyance, Bernard is a competent employee and Nadir is always saying he could improve in workplace culture.

The man beside/in front of him hacks again and he dips his face lower, surreptitiously reaching up to draw the brim of his hat down. His gazes slides across the car, relieved when no one pays any attention to the movement. Another reason for commonly avoiding the subway- too many eyes lead to too much interest.

And that is something he doesn't want.

The car lurches to a stop, door opening to a cacophony of entry and exits and he mentally calculates how many more of these wretched stops he must endure. 

He gets all the way to five when he sees her and he suddenly he can remember nothing at all.

She pauses just inside the door of the subway car, an urban cardinal sin if there ever was one. Oblivious to the shouts beside her, she allows herself to be jostled as she glances up, brow furrowed, to the digital line of stops at the top of the car. He blinks, trying fruitlessly not to stare as he takes her in, a fascinating combination clothed in dancer's attire and toting a violin case at her side. She is a delightful puzzle and suddenly he finds himself wondering what her story is behind the chestnut curls and sharp brown eyes darting frantically down the station list.

His mouth is dry, his heart is pounding, his feet are shifting unconsciously wanting to be closer to her and yet he could not articulate why.

She steps back, whether to get a better look or find a spot is unclear. Her gaze moves from the list, tracking her surroundings with a musician's methodology: left to right, down, scanning the contents of the car until- He feels it, the moment her eyes couple with his. He can't deny he'd been staring; not with the intensity radiating between them across the crowded subway car. She must feel it too, at last to some degree, because he sees her staring right back, a gasp escaping her lips as she takes an unconscious step backward. The movement jostles her violin case, knocking it into Cough Guy who spittles violently in response.

"Hey lady! Watch where you're going with that thing!"

Her eyes widen, snapping away from his, horror and apology alternating on her face. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry-" as the announcement comes over the loudspeaker.

"Stand clear of the closing door!"

Those brown eyes widen even more, if possible, and he wills his feet to step toward her as she stammers while retreating, "I need to go, but truly- I'm sorry, sir!"

And before he can manage to move or even signal his lips form the one word he wants most ("wait!"), she has backed up and out of the car as the doors close, carrying him away as platform shrinks into darkness

Chapter Text

Her

This has to be the worst idea she's ever had.

A truly terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea, to quote a book her father used to read to her before bed ad nauseam as a child. Then again, while she does not claim to be a literary scholar, she cannot deny the truth of the current situation.

Shifting the violin case from one hand to another, she glances around trying to get her bearings in the fathomless depths of the subway. She’s been in New York less than 48 hours and she’s already nearly been trampled on the sidewalk, walked into the wrong building four times and nearly taken some poor soul out with the said violin case. 

Vaguely, she wonders if that fact could classify her father’s precious violin as a weapon? 

She blinks the thought away. Better to just not go down that path.

Heaving a sign, she tries to scoot out of oncoming foot traffic as she tries to gather her bearings. Counting today, this is the eighth time she’s found herself lost, confused and utterly overwhelmed by this new city, it’s 8.25 million people, and it’s “ oh, it’s a breeze once you get the hang of it! ” underground train.

She idly makes a mental note to kill Meg when she finally does get home.

If she can find it, that is.

The thought causes her to allow herself a momentary pity party, shoulders slumping forward, violin case knocking into her left knee and she allows a whispered curse as pain shoots through the joint. She is, quite frankly, exhausted; physically, mentally, emotionally and she blinks back tears that have nothing to do with her now-aching knee.

You should be here, Dad. Not me. 

He’s only been gone five months, but it’s five months too long and, not for the first time, she questions if she ever should have left their brownstone in Chicago. She misses the historic buildings, the deep dish pizza, and, to her horror, she even finds herself missing the far-off din of Wrigley Field when the Cubs hit a homer. 

When Meg had shown up at her door with with wine, her favorite ice cream, and an offer in to mailbox to join the New York City ballet on her kitchen table, she dared to think a change was what she needed to pull herself out of the grief. 

An offer of rent-free lodging with Meg and her Mother in the Upper East side had made the decision that much easier.

Now if she could only get back to the Upper East Side where a bubble bath and warm bed awaited her return.

North and South were easy enough to figure out- uptown, downtown were self-explanatory. Figuring out the east-west trains? Not so much.

Which was exactly how she had found herself sharing a moment with an alluring stranger on the uptown A train. 

She knew almost instantly that she had boarded the wrong line as soon as she glanced up to the station list, noting that E 96th St was not an option, recalling Meg’s seemingly simple instructions.

Her heart seized when realization hit, her body ready to enlist ‘flight’ mode when her eyes had drifted down…

…and locked securely on his.

She could tell he’d been staring, and a gasp had escaped when she found herself staring into the most arresting eyes she’d ever seen. Somewhere between shades of green and gray, his had been an intensely quiet study while at the same time leaving her feeling as if she’d been stripped bare. 

There was a vague familiarity about him, but her mind was in no place to shuffle through the options. Instead, she held his gaze as she stepped back, thudding into someone else with her violin case and snapping her back to reality.

The spell was broken as she managed to squeeze out of the car just before the doors shut, muttering profuse apologies to the victim of her violin’s aggressive assault.

She is still thinking of him, twenty minutes later in the bowels of the 42nd street station as she searches for the green line- confirmed by texts with Meg- and she wonders off-handedly if she’ll ever see him again- her familiar stranger with the gemstone eyes.

She hopes she does, but seeing him again would be like finding a diamond in the desert; unlikely and miraculous.

Still, as much as his eyes captured her attention, it is not the most intriguing feature she noticed.

Rather the gleaming white mask that framed them.

Chapter Text

He can’t stop thinking about her.

Good or bad, he isn’t sure. Good, because  the memory of her bright eyes and the charming way she tugged her lower lip between her teeth as she pondered her query serve as a lovely distraction from the composition he’s been laboring over for the better part of a month.

Bad, well….for much the same reason.

Still, he has tried everything he can to take his mind from her in the twelve hours since their underground encounter. As much as he tries to be subtle, apparently he’s failed miserably, evidenced by the fact of Nadir’s  exasperated comment as they left the meeting earlier that afternoon.

“What was with you in there? You acted like you’d rather be anywhere else!”

He vaguely recalls mumbling something along the lines of “I’m fine,” as he brushed past his oldest friend into the waiting car. Bernard may be out of commission, but thankfully the company had sent a backup driver in time to avoid the evening commute.

That thought jolts him out of his musing for a moment enough to check his phone as it pings and…good. The balloon bouquet was delivered, complete with a selfie of a grinning Bernard flashing a thumbs up, a visibly exhausted woman glaring at him from behind, a tiny bundle cradled in her arms.

Thanks boss! Mom and little lady are here and healthy!

Despite himself, he feels the corners of his mouth lift into a smile as he types back a reply, quick and cordial. Before he can place the phone aside, a new text from Nadir lights up the screen.

Really? A black balloon with a thumbs up emoji with #done was the best you could find for a newborn?

He scoffs audibly, annoyance instantly chasing the warmth, fleeting as it had been, as his fingers fly across the screen in response.

They were sold out of ‘congratulations’. It was the best I could do.

Besides, wasn’t it the thought that counted? And Bernard had seemed pleased enough, even if his wife didn’t appreciate the congratulatory humor…

His texts merits no response so he sets the phone aside with a shrug, content to let his friend fume in private. At least he sent something. Let Nadir chew on that before finding fault with his wishes.

Turning his attention back to the music, he lets out a sigh. Resistance is futile at this point. He knows it, should have known it an hour ago and finally lets himself surrender to the truth of it.

Nothing productive will be accomplished tonight. Not while his mind’s eye is occupied with the dark-haired beauty with a renegade violin case. It’s as simple as that with one obvious solution.

He needs to find her.

Clearly, she was not where she needed to be when they met- and he uses that term loosely. To return on that train would be futile unless she somehow were to lose herself again and, while it is certainly possible, he acknowledges that she is likely too intelligent to make that mistake again.

So that bears the question: how to go about finding her?

He pushes to his feet with a sigh, abandoning the piano, music and pencil and proceeds to pace the entire length of his living room, pausing to take-in the uptown skyline, allowing a wild idea to push its way to the front of his mind, even as he dashes for his phone, frantically typing out a new message to Nadir.

Does anyone still use Craigslist?

Chapter Text

Her

She needs to get it together.

This is the third time Meg has called out her name and to be honest, she couldn’t remember the topic of conversation if someone had offered her a thousand dollars (shame, because that she could use).

The fourth time has her tearing her thoughts from enigmatic strangers in subway care and focusing on the woman sitting across the table from her. Her best friend’s blue eyes narrowed as they met hers, whip-sharp and assessing. “What’s up with you? I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said.”

She swallows, pushing the nearly empty mug of tea away from her. “Sorry. I got distracted.”

“No kidding,” A smirk forms at the corner of Meg’s lips, no doubt taking a little bit of pleasure in watching her squirm. “Something you want to share with the class?”

She scoffs, hoping it sounds more convincing that it feels. “Not unless you count the usual ballet drama.”

Meg arches a brow, but played along. “Tell me about it. Did you hear Camille carrying on before rehearsal today? Apparently her latest ‘greatest love’ dumped her fast and cold last night. A week before opening night!”

She nodded. “Poor thing.”

It’s Meg’s turn to scoff. “She does this to herself. The girl has a new ‘love of her life’ every season. She’ll have another one on the hook within a month. The important thing now is that she pulls herself together before we open.”

“She will,” she answers idly, stirring the dregs of tea.

“Right…” She hears the change in Meg’s voice, the lilting tone of gossip blunted by the claws of suspicion. “You know you could always try-”

“No!” This jolts her back to awareness, eyes flying up to Meg’s teasing blue ones. “No way. I’m grateful your Mom gave me a position in the chorus, but we both know I’ll never be anything more than that. You’ve been dancing your whole life and you’re still an understudy,”

“Thanks for that.” Meg deadpans.

“You know what I mean,” And by the humorous glint in her friend’s face, she knows she’s already forgiven. “Besides, I have the violin lessons…”

“And that incredible voice that you refuse to use.”

“Meg…” There’s warning in her tone this time and the other girl immediately lifts both hands in surrender. “I get it. I do. You’re not there yet.”

She doesn’t acknowledge any part of Meg’s response, only dips her attention to the dregs of her tea. She wonders if he likes tea too. Or maybe he’s a coffee drinker? Wonders if he like it strong and black or sweet with just a hint of cream...

“I’ve lost you again.”

She jolts, cheeks heating at being caught in her daydreams that have been coming with increasing frequency in the two days that have passed since their eyes locked across a subway car. She knows it’s crazy- this silly fantasy of an instant connection with a masked stranger, but whatever she does, he invades her thoughts.

It’s completely ridiculous and unreasonable, but he’s always there inside her mind.

And it doesn’t bother her in the slightest. Even though it probably should?

“Aaaaand again. Really, what is with you the last few days?” She glances up to find Meg squinting at her. “Did you meet someone?” When she hesitates, the blonde lets out a squeal loud enough to earn them a few glares from nearby tables as she leans forward, planting her chin on her fist. “You did! Spill! Who is it?”

She opens her mouth and closes it. Meg watches expectantly, frowning when no words come. “You don’t have-”

“I don’t know.” She blurts on an exhale. “That’s exactly the problem. I don’t know anything.”

It takes only an encouraging nod for her to break and the story to spill out. 

A wrong turn.

Gemstone eyes.

A white mask.

“And now I can’t stop thinking about him and I haven’t the faintest idea where to start looking,” She finished. “And lord knows what type of results I’ll get by googling ‘masked man nyc'. ” She leaves out the part where she’s already tried that and ended up with less than desirable results.

Meg is quiet, calmly studying her as she word-vomits her experience over the last two days, lets her finish, blinks and then extends one slim hand. “Give me your phone.”

She hesitates only a moment before handing over the device. "What are you going to do?”

The smirk is back. “Use the best people finding tool any New Yorker has at their disposal.”

She feels the finest edges of dread creep in as her best friend clicks though the phone. “I’m afraid to even ask.”

Meg’s smirk grows to a full smile, determined and smug. “Dating apps, of course.”

Chapter Text

The internet was terrifying.

Simply no other conclusion existed. For all of its positive attributes and the benefits it provided to those who largely preferred to live anonymously as he often did, the world wide web possessed more dark corners for depraved activities than the City herself and he was now a firm believe that none posed more insanity than the missed connections page hosted by the equally nefarious craiglist.com.

Suddenly feeling like he had been given the keys to the kingdom of humanity, he found himself endless scrolling through post after post of modern singles’ deepest desire expressed in headlines of 140 characters or less. 

“We glanced at each other over a moshpit and I felt forever in your eyes” Accelerated but to each their own.

“Big knife, cute smile” That was…concerning.

“Snufalapagous” Grossly misspelled muppet.

“Wrong way Tindr swipe.” What was Tindr again?

An alert buzzes on his phone, jolting him out of the trance and he realizes he has wasted he better pat of an hour and is no closer to finding what he seeks. Nadir’s name flashes at the top, the messages coming in pinging succession.

Moshpits aren’t the strangest thing on craigslist

Knives should be an automatic pass

Why are we even talking about muppets?

Why are you sending me all of these? They’re creepy

Why am I responding?

Tindr is a dating app. For a clinical genius, you are grossly behind on the facets of modern relationships.

He sets the phone aside and pushes to his feet, stalking across the kitchen. Pulling a bottle of his favorite white from the wine bar, he pours himself a sizeable glass and allows a decent swallow to slide down his throat before setting the glass aside.

What is he even doing? He’s acting like a damn fool over a girl he’s seen once and he can’t be sure she even remembers him. 

He isn’t even sure he wants her too.

But the more she tries to forget her, the deeper she burrows into his subconscious. He realizes that at the heart of it, he really is no different from the lonely souls on that website. Aren’t they only searching for those they found to be unforgettable…..however….odd their circumstances might have been? Can he really claim to be any more noble or different than they are?

His phone buzzes again. Erik, it’s almost midnight and you’re spiraling. Go to bed.

He silently curses Nadir and his frightening ability to seemingly read his mind, even miles away. He stares at the screen for a moment and then taps out a reply. Am I doing the right thing?

Nadir’s reply comes alarmingly fast. I never told you to do it in the first place! But we both know you’re going to anyway. Just…make it genuine and try not to be creepy.

His scoff is audible. Elegantly intense is not ‘creepy’ I simply wish to let her know I found her utterly captivating in a glance across the subway car and absolutely need to see her again.

N: Read that again. Slowly. Out loud .

E: Bugger off

Setting the phone aside, he mulls it over again and begins to type before he can question it further.HIs fingers fly across the keyboard, delicately balancing admiration with normalcy until he is tentatively happy with the results.

His cat chooses that moment to leap on the counter next to him, granting him a brief head bump before nudging his hand in search of a treat. “What do you say, my love,” he purrs, long fingers stroking her fluffy chin. “Will this suffice?” 

A meow is the only response he receives and he chuckles despite himself. “I know. What are human affairs to one as grand as yourself?” He turns and retrieves a treat, which the cat gobbles down before butting against his hand again. He obligies, even as he reads his post a final time.

“To the radiant brunette with the violin on the wrong-way train…”

While far from his best work, it will have to do for the moment. The cat meows again and he pulls her closer, stroking her back as he reaches fro the wine glass. “To serendipity. May she be in our favor. Now in the meantime…” A villainous smirk curls his lips as he scrolls back to the top of the page, eyes landing on the post featuring the depraved muppet. “What do you say we teach Uncle Nadir a lesson?”

Chapter Text

Her

The first thing she learns is that dating apps are little more than virtual cesspools and yet she is desperate enough to go swimming.

Really though, what had she been thinking? And letting Meg be the one to craft her profile for this ridiculous search? She loves her best friend- of course she does, but that isn’t the point. Meg’s approach to dating is much like a fair lady in a medieval jousting match- she knows how to play the game and its players ( and is scarily good at it), but it is largely entertainment and so far, no deeper. 

She doesn’t have time for the chase- until and unless it leads her to him.

Still, she had sat still and dutifully answered prompt after prompt, app after app. 

“Location?”

“New York City. Isn’t that self-explanatory”

“You never know. Do we include Jersey?”

Her nose had crinkled at the thought. “He didn’t strike me as ‘Jersey’”

“Fair enough. Age?”

“I’d say late thirties, early forties?”

“Silver fox. Nice.” She watched as Meg clicked ‘35-45’ age bracket, wondering, not for the first time, if she was just asking for more trouble than this was worth. Her mouth opened on a breath when Meg cut it. “Don’t even say it.”

Her teeth clicked together as she snapped it shut. “Say what?”

“Whatever you were about to say about calling this whole thing off or how it’s not worth the effort.” Meg kept clicking, never looking up from her phone. “I’m invested, so you’re committed. Thank me later. Now what else?”

90 minutes and five apps later, Meg had declared a satisfactory start and clicked off the phone, ready to let the algorithms work their magic. “We deserve ice cream,” she declared and dragged Christine three blocks down to her favorite bodega for a pint of cookies and cream.

Now, four days and as many dozen matches across the apps later, she actively wonders what the chances of finding her masked mystery man actually are. Worse, if she does find him, does he even want to be found?

What if he doesn’t want to be found by her ?

The last question causes her heart to momentarily seize- so much that she feels it skip a beat and causes a lump to form in her throat. In all of the efforts so far, she realizes she has never actually stopped to consider this angle, too caught up in the fantasy of the whole premise. 

Her phone buzzes next to her, jolting her back to the present moment and she forces herself to focus on the student sitting across from her finishing up runs of scales in warm-up. The girl glances over at her, raising the bow off the strings and she flashes what she hopes is an encouraging smile. “Good. Now let’s work on your recital piece. Kűchler, right? Violin Concertino in D Major, Op 15?

She received a nod in response, punctuated by a pout. “I wanted Vivaldi.”

She allows a small chuckle as she places the music on the stand, then offers a comforting hand on her pupil’s shoulder. “This was the best I could do,” she offers. Yasmine is talented and dedicated to her art, but still young. “Vivaldi is challenging, even for me,” she offers by way of an explanation. “You’ll be there before you know it.”

Yasmine’s dark eyes flick up to hers, then down to the music, still advanced for an ambitious ten-year-old. “I do like this one,” she concedes and allows a smile to creep over her lips as she lifts the violin to her chin.

She works to hide a smile of her own as she watches the bow dance across the strings and she feels a pang of sadness as she suddenly sees herself at this age, her father playing along as she struggles. She had a fraction of Yasmine’s skill at her age, but she loved hearing Dad play, encouraging her to keep up as he added smooth harmony to her struggling melody. He taught her all he could, but she will never match his passion or master his technique completely. Still, she is grateful to him for all he did pass on, enough to allow her fairly advanced command of the instrument and to share his talents with the next generation, at least to some extent.

The memory is too much, the grief is still too fresh and she finds herself blinking back tears as the girl in front of her comes back into view, coaxing the last few measures to life in the air between them. 

She works to keep the catch from her voice as she offers well-deserved praise, thankful that the lesson is nearly concluded. “Wonderful! I can tell you’ve been practicing.”

“My uncle helps me,” is the only explanation given as Yasmine removes the shoulder rest. “He even plays the piano part while I practice.”

“Well, it’s certainly paying off,” she remarks as she puts her own music away. “Does your uncle play the violin too?”

“He plays all the instruments.”

She feels her eyebrows climb higher to her hairline. “That is…impressive.” When Yasmine only gives a shrug in response, she turns away, racing for her phone. “Is your mom picking you up today?”

“Yes, and here I am!” She turns to see a stunning woman sweep into the room, clutching the hand of a younger girl and baby strapped to her chest. “So sorry I’m a little late. Ms. Diva would not take her bottle.”

“No problem. We were just running through Yas’s recital piece. I know it’s a month way, but she’s really doing well!”

“I’m not surprised,” Yasmine’s mother laughs, tone warmed by pride, “Between my husband and her sisters, I’m afraid they’ll convince her she’s the next virtuoso.”

“She is very talented.”

“She adores you,” The baby gives a wail, quieted only when a slight sway is added to the rhythm of conversation. “You’re the first instructor who listens to her. Her words, not mine.” A wry smile, a loving look cast toward the approaching girl. “We honestly can’t thank you enough.”

These. These moments are the ones that affirm she is exactly where she should be. Gratitude floods her heart as she returns the smile. “She’s a pleasure and we have fun while we work. Right, Yas?”

Yasmine fiddles with her violin case, not quite meeting her eyes, but the upturned corners of her lips are confirmation enough.

“Right. Great job today! Keep at it and I’ll see you next week.”

Yasmine offers a small wave which she returns before putting the rest of the sheet music away and heading over to grab her bag. Meg and Antoinette are expecting her for Family Dinner and she has already been late once. She hasno desire to be subjected to Antoinett’s withering glare again.

No matter that every night is technically a family dinner; living there kind of makes that the default situation, but Wednesday’s are special. It’s law.

Firing off a quick text to Meg that she was on her way, she stuffs her music and dance clothes in her bag, slings it over her shoulder and heads down to the street. Her phone buzzes again as she locks the studio door behind her, pausing long enough to dig out the offending device, only to roll her eyes at another notification from one of the apps. 

Oh, for the love of God.

Ready to chuck it back, her eyes happen to glance to name and she freezes, feet immediately rooting her in place.

It can’t be.

But it was.

And she finds herself very unprepared for what flashes across the screen.

Chapter Text

Him

As far as a track record of bad ideas, he seems to be right on a roll.

This is further confirmed when the head of the esteemed gentleman wedged next to him on the crowded A train thumps audibly on his shoulder, finally succumbing to the lazy cycle opening and closing of his eyes for the past eighteen minutes. He immediately inches further away, using a single finger under the chin to guide the stranger’s head back to his own body and asks himself, not for the first time that afternoon. Have I truly become this desperate?

His shoulders sag under the weight of the obvious answer. Yes. Yes, I have

Well…..that is just…fabulous.

The chime sounds, the doors open and he seizes his chance for freedom, not knowing (or even really caring) where he is. He’s been riding this train for four hours, desperate for the chance to catch her, the insatiable urge eating at him all morning until desperation drove him from his apartment. It’s an itch he can’t scratch, a hunger he can’t satisfy, no matter what he tries.

She is the only thing that will satisfy.

He does realize, of course, he sounds like a raving madman.

Also, Nadir may have pointed the same out a time or two since this whole ordeal began.

Which is why he can never tell his best (only) friend about today’s subway adventure.

But really, what was one to do? In the two weeks since its posting, the Craigslist ad had yielded three categories of results: incorrect details, spam adverts, and creep invitations. All useless, all undesirable. 

After the thirtieth or so dead-end (not that he was counting…), he was nearly going mad with frustration, the discouragement biting deeply at his heart. Ayesha had merely watched him as he ranted to the empty space, tail flicking back and forth until she had mowed incessantly for treats, penance for subjecting her to his blustery moods.

After folding to her culinary demands like a house of cards, he decided on the course of action, grabbed his coat, phone and keys and dashed to the nearest downtown A station based on two points: 1) He’d already spent a fortnight alternating between pacing the length of his penthouse, nearly climbing the walls and incessantly screening his email; and 2) He’d found her that way before. What could it possibly hurt to try again?

That had been over four hours ago and he has ridden the length of Manhattan twice to no avail. If he’s going to catch a glimpse of her this way, it’s not going to happen today.

The disappointment gnaws on his spine as he alighted from the 34th St. station and turns south, momentarily wondering if he should call a car on the likely event that anyone passing by dares to risk more than a curious passing glance. Still, he thinks a walk (a long one) will do him good, so he turns up the collar of his coat and pulls the hat lower on his brow. Let his be another strange face in the Manhattan crowd.

The bite of winter is still in the air as the City struggles to shift to spring. Still, a few brave blooms emerge along the sidewalk as the blocks fade under his feet, drawing a slight smile. In the bustling metropolis, it’s the simple things that bring him joy: flowers on the street, sunlight through the raindrops, a melody from an open window. On an island constructed of concrete and stone, so much beauty is born.

He has made it his goal to create as much of it as he possibly can.

The chime of his phone interrupts his musings and he is powerless to stop the satisfied smirk that quirk at his lips.

Have you completely lost your mind? Whatever possessed you to have Big Bird, Bert & Ernie show up at my house at 9:30 p.m singing The Rubber Ducky song???

A soft hum escaped his twisted lips. Nadir’s knowledge of vintage children’s television was more impressive than he realized

E:The Snuffleupagus actor had the night off. I thought the children would enjoy this in the alternative.

N: What alternative? I never asked for this or any of your insane ideas! The kids were terrified. The muppets woke the baby and now Rook is mad a ME!

E:....I was not the one who chose to reproduce at an advanced age.

N: I’m 44!

Still arguably the best $250 he’s ever spent. A new message pings through, a different number.

Erik, if you ever pull something like that after I get the baby down, I swear you will never have my fateer again.

He blinks at the screen, regret settling deep in his belly. Fighting words from Nadir’s wife.

E: Humblest apologies, fair lady. Although one could argue it was well deserved.

R: Try me. You’ve been warned :)

He swallows hard, types back: Understood, and is about to pocket the phone when another notification flashes across the screen : 1 new email.

His brow furrows, but his thumbs clicks over to his email app, eyes going wide behind the mask when he reads the contents:

Ummm…hi. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing or why I’m even writing this, but I came across your ad on Craigslist and had to ask. The ‘distinguishing feature’ you mention- any chance you’re referring to a mask?

He’s not sure if his heart stops or pounds harder. Could this really be her? After all his time and efforts, does he dare hope…

Before he can talk himself out of it, he hits “reply”, fingers flying over the keypad:

Greetings. Thank you for reaching out. Ironically, that is the very answer. 

He leaves it at that, presses “send” before he loses his nerve.

He gets all of three blocks before the tone sounds again, practically dislocating his shoulder in his haste to read the reply, the blood pounding in his ears as his eyes move over the words on the screen.

Please forgive my forwardness…but I think I may be the girl you’ve been looking for.

Chapter Text

Her

The studio hums with tension and sweat. Sunlight pours in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off scuffed marley floors and the mirrored wall lined with a dozen pink-legged dancers at the barre. Pointe shoes thud softly in rhythm—plié, relevé, repeat.

The air smells like resin, muscle balm, and ambition.

Christine stands among them, sharp-boned and laser-focused, checks her alignment in the mirror, chin high despite the tremble in her calves. Her curly bun is stuffed tight to her head. Her jaw is tighter.

“From the top!” calls Martin, the rehearsal director, clapping his hands. Early 50s, a former soloist, all precision and no nonsense. Madame’s second in command and not one to trifle with. Still, he welcomes her with no questions asked- a virtual rarity in the cut throat world of the New York City ballet.

She will not be found wanting, not when she hears the inevitable whispers of nepotism that drift in and out of the studio. 

The piano strikes a familiar intro—Stravinsky’s Symphony in C . The dancers move into formation, lines sharpening like blades and she immediately snaps to attention. 

Christine finds her mark, stage right. The movement’s already in her bones—she's drilled it every day for weeks since arriving—but this rehearsal matters. The principal who's usually center is out sick. Martin pulled Christine from the corps to fill the space. Just for today. Maybe.

The music lifts and so do they.

So does she

They leap like a flock of birds startled into flight. Christine’s body knows what to do, each port de bras slicing clean through the air. She pushes past the ache in her shins, the dull bruise on her hip, and the blister on her second toe.

Beside her, Meg falters a beat late, an unusual error. Christine registers it without reacting. Don’t look. Don’t break. Not even for a breath.

Martin stops the music mid-phrase.

“Meg, you're behind. Again.”

Meg nods, flustered, lips pursed, and Christine wishes she could offer her more than a quick head tilt of empathy. Meg catches her eye, offers the briefest shrug before snapping back to perfect position before Martin’s eyes sweep the room.

“Everyone—reset. And again.”

The pianist, a quiet man with quick hands, rewinds.

Christine rolls her shoulders back, heart hammering. Sweat beads along her hairline. No one complains. This is the work. The grind. The prayer. Every rehearsal is a war fought with one's own reflection.

Again, the music surges.

This time, Christine hits every mark, arms fluid, neck long, feet slicing into arabesque like a blade into silk. Her body burns, but her face remains serene, breath controlled.

Martin lets the phrase play through. When the music ends, there's a moment of silence—electric and taut.

Then, a nod.

“Good,” Martin says, and it lands like a gift.

Christine lets out a breath, relief pushing the air from her lungs and she finally allows herself the sweet tingle of satisfaction.

She is a good dancer, some would go as far as to call her talented. But it’s a skill developed from necessity, not passion. Her passion is something different, something much deeper and personal, something tucked away for a rainy day.

She hopes that day will come someday. Right now, the grief presses down too heavily to attempt retrieval.

“Take five,” Martin calls, heading to the back to confer with the pianist.

Dancers scatter to the sides, collapsing onto water bottles and floor-stretch poses. Christine finds the barre and sips water, not quite sitting. Never too relaxed. Meg joins her a moment later, taking a moment to stretch her hamstrings.

Christine passes behind her and mutters, “You still killed it.”

Meg glances back, offers a small, surprised smile. “Thanks.”

A pause. Then Meg adds, “I heard Martin might be reassigning the cover for Saturday.”

Christine’s pulse ticks up.

She nods coolly, like it’s just another rumor.

But inside, a fire catches.

It might be nothing. It might be everything.

She hesitates, then asks, “...do you think…?”

Meg’s eyes narrow as she leaves the question hanging, but now is not the time or place for rumors, no matter how tempting, so the subject is dropped as quickly as it came. Left for later like crumbs on the studio floor.

The room settles into a quieter rhythm, but the air still crackles. Christine stretches her calves at the barre, eyes flicking to Martin, who’s now gesturing toward one of the ballet masters. They speak in low tones, heads tilted. She can’t hear a word, but every glance they cast toward the dancers sends a fresh bolt of adrenaline through her limbs. Meg notices too, although she pretends not to.

She pulls her leg into a high développé, pretending not to notice.

Across the studio, the principal soloist, Julia, enters with her bag slung over one shoulder. Everyone straightens instinctively. Julia moves like royalty in warmups and sunglasses, late but untouchable.

Martin clocks her entrance with a raised brow. No greeting. No reprimand. He just turns to the room and says, “Last run. Full out.”

Christine moves to her place again, suddenly aware of Julia watching from the corner.

This run matters more.

The music begins, and Christine dances like she's burning—a fusion of grace and hunger. Her feet barely touch the floor, her arms tell stories older than words.

When they finish, the room is breathless. Martin doesn’t say anything.

But as the dancers disperse, his voice cuts through:

“Christine, Meg—stay a moment.”

Her heart thuds as her gaze collides with Meg’s blue one. 

Unbidden, her mind flies to her phone tucked safely away in her bag, to the text thread that she spent four hours growing late last night, fueled by a week’s worth of back-and-forth with someone she never expected to find.

To the coffee date she agreed to at midnight, happening right after she’s done with rehearsal.

As she and Meg gather their things, she see’s Madame Giry enter the studio, joining Martin near the piano and her heart skips a beat. For Madame to join them- something must be happening. For all she feels of home to Christine, here she is force to be seen.

A queen surveying her land.

Meg catches her eye again and Christine can feel the nervous energy of the room amplify. Daughter or not, Antoinette Giry shows no mercy, no favor and for the first time, she wonders if it is good news or bad that awaits them at this “meeting.”

She swallows hard, grabs her phone before slinging the dance bag over her shoulder and falling in step beside Meg. The phone vibrates in her hand and a quick glance down brings a slight smile.

A text.

From him

En route. Looking forward to seeing you.

Madame’s poker face gives nothing away as they approach and she forces herself to push all anxiety aside and focus on one simple fact:

No matter what happens, he will be waiting for her.

Chapter Text

Him

This is crazy

Those three words echo endlessly inside his skull, round and round with the nauseating corollary of the merry-go-rounds that plagued his unfortunate childhood.

Evil things, all of them. Literal rotating malises aimed at unsuspecting urchins, cleverly clothed in innocent joy.

He, however, knows better and if he ever does reproduce, he will not let his progeny be lured in by cheerfully bright melodies and cleverly colored equines.

You’re spiraling again.

His lips turn downward and his forehead creases as he hears Nadir’s voice in his head, his own personal Jiminy Cricket. In an instant, he feels further annoyed that he even knows the reference, forced as he has been to watch an animated conscience, in the form said insect act as a literal moral compass to a boy-puppet, at the teary bequests of three sets of eyes that somehow rend him absolutely powerless.

A resigned sigh escapes him and he knows damn well he will do so again and again.

Even he finds himself helpless against whatever sorcery they possess.

Something tells him they would whole-heartedly approve of this quest he find himself on. A literal search against the modern world for a strange woman he can’t get out of his head. As if somehow, she could be the one to change his life.

To own his heart.

He chuffs, the absurdity of it all catching up to him, even as he places his order with the barista - black coffee, blueberry scone- and steps aside to wait, trying valiantly to calm the words that refuse to be silenced.

This is crazy.

His toe taps

THIS is crazy

His fingers fidget

This IS crazy

He clears his throat

This is CRAZY 

Tap, fidget, clear…again.

No question about it.

This is absolutely, positively insane. 

A normal person wouldn't…

…but he is.

Well, then again no one ever claimed him to be normal…

…in the ‘normal’ sense

…Right?

He could ask Nadir.

He will NOT ask Nadir.

Nadir would enjoy this much too much.

…Maybe Rook?

…No, she’s still mad at him for the Muppet Invasion

…and she would probably tell Nadir

…and then Nadir would know anyway and probably mock him.

…Gently, but still. Apparently gentle mocking was a tenant was close friendship

…or so the internet said.

He should just leave now. She probably isn’t coming anyway.

She sounds like a reasonably smart woman…

…which would lead to also realize that..

…This was crazy

Therefore by extension, he must be crazy. 

He is crazy and she will probably realize this is crazy and then rationalize that he is, in fact, crazy and then she-

“Erik?”

…will call him by name?

He startles, blinking himself back to the present, orientating himself to the reality, the place, the girl standing in front of him.

She’s here... She came?!

Her smile is tentative, her voice quiet, questioning. “Erik? Is that you?”

He attempts to muster up a half smile, careful “not to make it creepy” as Nadir and Rook had coached him a day before. More blinking, bringing her into focus.

She came. Nadir owes him $50. That fact alone makes his smile grow.

Five, four, average built, nervous smile, bright brown eyes, long blonde-

Wait, what?

Blonde, not the riotous brown curls from his memory.

“You’re not her.”

It’s her turn to blink. “I’m sorry, what are you-?

His turn to apologize. “I am sorry, but you’re not her. Why are you here?”

Another blink, brown furrowed. “Aren’t you the guy from Craigslist? With the missing person ad?”

“Well, it wasn’t technically a missed person. More of a missed connection, but yes,”

Her smile falls. “Oh my god, you’re one of those people aren’t you?”

Why did he suddenly feel so offended. “I beg you’re pardon?"

“You know. The ones that love to twist words and..I don’t know, anyway…” she paused. “You weren't kidding about the mask though.”

This encounter was quickly becoming exhausting. “I am afraid this is an unhappy coincidence and both of us misjudged the situation. Clearly, we are not who the other anticipated.”

She cocks her head to one side, the other. “I don’t know. I guess you could be him. Swap out your mask for the one a Comicon and it could have been you.”

This is hell. “Madame, I assure you there is, in no city, world, or universe, any occasion that I would have been in attendance at Comicon.” He spits the word like a curse.

Her eyes narrow. “Did you just call me ‘madame’? Good God, how old are you?”

Okay. He’s done. “Seeing as how we are clearly mistaken, I do not think my age is any of your concern. Thank you for coming, but I think it’s best we end our acquaintance here. I am very sorry to have wasted your time and I do hope you find whomever it is you are looking for.” 

She shrugs. “Whatever. Later.”

He can only watch as she trots off, speechless and silently offended for only a moment before the disappointment settles heavy and large in his stomach. This was foolish. He was foolish. To think that she might actually come…

To hope that he would see her again.

The barista calls his name- finally! Took them bloody long enough and his phone vibrates as he steps up to collect what will become the best part of his day.

N: Well? Did she come? How did it go?

He plops (yes, plops. Abject humiliation will cause even the most elegant to slouch every now and again) and releases a long sigh that is eventually swallowed down with a large gulp of espresso.

E: The best part of it is that you now owe me $50

Three dots appear….disappear…appear again.

N: Come over for dinner? Rook’s making lamb kabobs

His fingers tap against the table, pondering the invitation. He should be working. Should be composing the piece he promised a month ago. 

Should be having coffee with his subway soulmate.

...He does love lamb kabobs...

He scoffs, lays a palm flat on the table, takes another sip of coffee, samples the muffin.

E: What can I bring?

He hits ‘send’, sealing his plans and finishing his muffin (really, sinfully delicious) before rising to place an order for a dozen more. 

God forbid a gentleman show up empty-handed.

He offers the barista a half-smirk as she hands him the boxes of baked goodness and turns, nearly colliding with another patron on his way out the door.

His muffled exclamation mixes with the other man' s sharp apology, but as he shifts the box, his eyes are drawn up and over the shoulder in his line of sight.

Through the cafe window

Across the street

To the bistro on the corner.

Second table from the door.

It’s… her

It can’t be…

He blinks, looks again…and 

...and it is. 

His breath catches, struggles to maintain his hold on the box, forehead suddenly beading sweat beneath the mask because

It i s her.

She’s right there …

…and staring right back at him.

Chapter Text

Her

She is late.

She is never late.

Well, there was that one time when she got utterly lost on the subway after locking eyes with an enigmatic stranger with a mask, but she was very new to all of that and was also on her way home for dinner, so it didn’t really count…

…Except Madame lectured her about promptness and keeping others waiting.

As if she hasn’t heard that speech all of her life.

Her father, now Madame..

Her father…

I miss you, Dad.

Aaaaand now she’s sad.

Wonderful.

Now she was late and sad and mad because she is never freaking late,

For ANYTHING.

Until now…

..of all things! Of ALL TIMES!

When Madame asked her and Meg to remain behind, neither had any idea of the conversation that would follow. She knows nothing is certain- even what her answer will be.

But to think that she has even been asked..

It’s exhilarating, beyond flattering….

She’s absolutely petrified.

The only reason she did not flat out refuse was because she could feel the weigh of Madame’s stare on her skin, daring her to to turn down such an invitation without consideration.

She had been so close.

You were close once before…

To a different dream, a different what-might-have-been

Well..that’s over. It has been since she lost everything.

It would be foolish to think she could have it again.

Foolish and dangerous to dream it, no matter how it calls to her

Not her. Not now.

Not anymore.

The city soundtrack of honking horns, ringing bells and shouted expletives envelope her as she turns on to Spring Street, eyes scanning the blocks of SoHo for the tapas place he had suggested as a meeting place, heart thumping a little faster in her chest

He isn’t what she had expected to find, but she’s thrilled to be seeing him again after so long.

She checks her watch as she walk, frown. She hopes he is in a forgiving mood.

Her phone buzzes moment later and she slows to a stop when she sees the caller ID. Not now…

She shouldn’t. She’s already afraid she’s keeping him waiting.

But she can't ignore it either.

“Hello?” She answers on a sigh, barely looking up to dodge a couple with an annoying small dog that seems to appear out of nowhere.

Rude.

“Chrisine?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, thank goodness. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask a favor? This is Yasmine’s mom.”

She relaxes instantly at the pleasant tone- her favorite client.

“Absolutely, what can I do for you?”

A tired chuckle comes through the line and Christine has no trouble picturing what must be happening at the other end of the phone.

“Is there any way you might consider taking on a new pupil? Layla keeps trying to ‘help’ Yas practice which, I’m sure you can imagine, has the opposite effect and has led to a number of fights.”

When Christine hesitates with a weak chuckle, she continues, ”I know LayLay is a bit young, but she’s smart and eager to learn. We would compensate you, of course…” She’s fairly certain she detects a hint of pleading in the poor woman’s voice.”

“Well, I…” 

And that’s as far as she gets.

Because movement across the street draws her eye and she loses all thoughts of students, payment or otherwise.

All she sees, right across the street, looking right at her…

..is him .

No, not him.

Him 

Her subway stranger, the object of unbidden thoughts and late night waking dreams. Her personal project for the last few months.

He’s right there. Four lanes of traffic away. She steps forward, moving toward him, toward the meeting she’s wanted since she stepped on the cursed A train…

“Christine? Hello…?”

Yas’s mom’s voice accented by a particularly long blast jolt her back to reality and back on the curb.

“Sorry..umm…” She blinks. He’s still there. She hasn’t missed him. Yet.

“I’m so sorry, but I have to run. Can I let you know next week? Thanks.” 

She hangs up before the poor woman can answer.

She hopes she hasn’t lost a client. Maybe two.

Maybe right now, she doesn’t really care.

Because he’s still there. He’s still looking at her.

She moves forward..one step, then another.

“Christine!”

Her path is instantly blocked by him.

Not him .

Him.

The one she was rushing to meet.

She forces her eyes up, forces herself to focus on the bright blue eyes and smiling face in front of her. “Raoul!”

Her oldest friend, her first love.

He steps forward, pulling her into a crushing embrace. “It’s so good to see you. I can’t believe you’re in New York.”

“You too." The response is automated, of practice rather than sincerity. Voice monotone, arms circling, neither with an ounce of the enthusiasm she had anticipated. "I’m so glad you reached out.” She swallows hard, disappointment coursing through her veins as she returns his hug.

Because even as happy as she is to see an old friend, she finds herself blinking back tears as she glances over his shoulder, to the cafe where he had been moments before…

…is now empty.

And she has only herself to blame.

Chapter Text

Him

He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

After seeing her again..so close.

So, so close…

And then…she was not alone.

He should have known. 

A handsome prince for his beautiful stranger. It’s what she deserves.

It’s what he can never be…especially for her.

He’s perfect. She’s perfect. They’re perfect together.

What other choice did he have but to leave them to their fairytale ending?

Even if it driving him absolutely mad.

It’s been a week and he knows what he needs to do, what he should have done the moment he stormed into his apartment, raging in silence and scaring Ayesha clear from the room. The poor feline had hid for hours, daring only to reappear with a  tentative meow, a pathetic inquiry to if he, in his sorrow, would deign to feed her dinner.

He, of course, folded like a house of cards. When the Uber eats driver showed up forty minutes later with tuna tartar from the trendy little bistro down the block, Ayesha ate a dinner fit for the queen she was and he didn’t even blink when he added a $50 tip to the $80 bill, slamming the door before the courier even had the chance to exclaim his thanks.

Someone should have a decent night. It certainly wasn’t going to be him.

As the cat lapped up the last of the fish juice (disgusting, but who was he to judge delights of the feline kind), he tapped out a quick text to Nadir, rescinding his dinner acceptance with minimal apologies and powered down his phone. 

The internet was the last thing he needed.

And he really didn’t feel like fielding his friend’s attempts to lure him out of his brooding- no matter how good intentions had been.

He spent the next 36 hours completely holed up inside, shutting out everyone and everything. His phone remained off. 

The only thing that tempted him into submission was the piano near the picture window overlooking the city.

He ignored it.

On Tuesday, he had awoken to a pounding on his door, incessant and demanding. 

He ignored that too…at first.

Then the voices started. Nadir first

“Open this door, Erik. I know you're in there and we have a meeting.”

He blinked, taking a long draw of coffee while shooting a certain finger in the direction of the door.

Silence, followed by, “Fine. You bring this upon yourself.” The shout dropped to a quiet whisper, bringing with it another sort of banging, somehow louder and farther down on the door.

“Amo! Please open the door. Don’t you want to see me?”

Oh, so the pompous ass wanted to play dirty now.

Still, his feet moved toward the door on a growl and he threw open the door suppressing every urge to punch the smug expression off of his so-called friend’s face even as a dark-haired missile hurled itself at his knees, wrapping arms and legs around them like a pint-sized octopus. Ignoring Nadir’s failed attempts at hiding his amusement and with his own arms akimbo, his glare moved south to the green eyes staring up at him, tears brimming. “Why didn’t you come over, Ammo Erik? Daddy said you were and Mommy and I made your favorite.” A blink and a few stray drops cascaded down chubby cheeks. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

Damn, the kid was good. His gaze softened as all the fight left him and he reached down, lifting the little trouper into his arms. Something told him she had a promising career as a thespian. “My sincerest apologies, my darling Roxana. It is not your company I was avoiding,” A pointed glance at her father, who only shrugged in response. 

Little fingers trailed over the smooth porcelain of the mask, familiar, but not intrusive. “We’re going to get flowers for Mommy. Daddy and I think you should come with us.”

The visible brow rose. “Do you now?”

A single nod, serious and imploring, accented by a single sniffle. 

In the hall, Nadir held up a paper bag “And we brought fateer. Since you couldn’t be bothered to come for it yourself. Roxy insisted”.

He glanced back to the little girl, watching him expectantly and he knew nothing he said would get him out of this little errand. “Let me change.”

Which is how he had found himself walking down the streets of SoHo, a tiny hand in his as he allowed himself to be dragged into every flower shop within a five block radius. The flowers had to be “just right” per the direction of his tiny tour guide despite his earlier suggestion of sweeping them to his favorite flower vendor, an exclusive floral atelier that personally furnished all of the fauna in his penthouse, which had been expressly shut down.

Instead, Roxy seemed enchanted by vendors on the street, selling any and all varieties of flowers her little heart could imagine and, while the quality seemed something to be desired (but what did he know), the colorful bouquets of tulips, roses and the like seemed nearly overwhelming to the girl.

So, with little else to do but join Nadir is watching each exchange with thinly veiled amusement as the vendor regaled the smallest member of their group with fact after fact about all the blooms in his stock, he found his mind wandering even as his eyes scanned the array. What kind of flowers did she like?

Don’t do it. Not again.

He immediately saw Nadir’s brow furrow at his sudden fallen humor, but quickly looked away, feigning attention back to Roxy as she selected a mixed bouquet of daises and roses, then further down the street to more flowers sold by more venders, to more people browsing, to a bakery boasting the world’s best croissants (doubtful. He had been to Paris, after all), further still to another flower shop…

…where a woman emerged, arms full of bouquets

A woman with dark, curly hair and a certain spring in her step.

It couldn’t be…

…could it?

Are you going to find out or stare like an idiot like last time? 

His feet were moving before he realized he was.

The world narrowed

“Erik?” 

Blood pounded in his ears, Nadir’s voice an echo in the distance.

The block faded under his feet, drawing him closer to-

She turned. 

He stopped.

“Erik?” He heard Nadir approach, dragging a protesting Roxy behind him. “Erik, what is it? Did you find her?”

He panted out a humorless laugh. “No.” His eyes fell closed as he turned around and brushed past them. “Not before, not now. Not ever”

Nadir sighed, but followed as they returned to the florist to complete their transaction.

Not before, not now, not ever.

The words flow back to him now, days later, but the damage remains.

He knows he can’t go on like this, searching every subway train or city block in vain hope.

She saw him; he knows it. The second chance he never thought they would and she chose someone else. The handsome, noble prince she deserves. Not the freak in a mask desperately searching like a possessed madmen.

He exhales, stands, knowing what comes next.

What he must do…even if only for his own sanity.

He chased the dream, indulged in the fantasy.

And its left him cold and alone just as he feared.

He picks up the phone, opens up Craigslist, scrolls..scrolls

His finger hovers, then taps the screen and it’s done

Post deleted

He nods, puts the phone down with a resolute plop

Exhales. It’s done. Time to move on.

Beside the phone, his index finger taps, taps, taps.

He feels it…something…shifting…somehow…somewhere…

It’s gone. She’s gone. He’s done…

…but…

…why then, does it feel like it’s only just begun?

Chapter Text

Her

What has she gotten herself into?

When she moved to New York, she allowed herself to fantasize, if only for a moment, what lay ahead on her new journey to a new city, her new life. 

There was so much to be excited about! She would dance with the ballet, with no shortage of thanks to many years at the Grainger Academy, sealed with Madame’s influence and recommendation. 

She would teach violin to eager young minds, sharing a fraction of the knowledge her father had passed on with the hope that it would ignite a hunger for more than she could share. But that was okay. Planting the seed was enough.

Maybe…just maybe… she would….

She stops herself.

She hasn’t.

She won’t.

She can feel the sorrow gathering in her throat even as she forces it down.

She can’t.

Well, she has accomplished the first two, hasn’t she? They are activities that provide a livable income and a joy to her soul.

Most days.

Not today. Today is a struggle.

“Ms. Chris, do I have to?”

The question is more of a whine and she resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Yes, Layla. You have to play the scales.”

“But we’ve been doing them for years. They’re so boooooring.”

She will conceded (happily) to the fact that it does indeed feel like years instead of the three weeks that have actually passed since the phone call that coincided with her biggest regret to date. After bidding Raoul good-bye at the bistro, she had immediately returned the call to Yasmine’s mother and agreed to take on the younger girl, nearly dropping the phone when the woman offered twice her normal rate, citing the fact that her next student could be, well…a bit of a handful.

Used to Yasmine’s mercurial moods, she hadn’t hesitated to agree, confirming she was sure everything would be fine and she would be thrilled to teach another member of her favorite pupil’s family.

Three weeks on, she wonders, not for the first time, if she should have through it through a bit more.

At the first lesson, the girl’s mom had met her at the door with a tired smile and ushered into a beautiful music room complete with a Steinway baby grand that took every ounce of restraint within her not to touch. The desire must have been evident, because the woman just chuckled, hefting the baby higher on her hip. “A gift for my husband who has not touched it once in five years. We hope the girls will learn one day, but so far it’s just used when the girl’s amo comes by. Now he is someone you should meet one day.”

She had arched a brow. “Anyone I would know?”

The lady of the house shook her head. “I doubt it. He’s not one for socialization, but you’ve probably heard some of his work, especially if you follow modern classical.”

A composer? Interesting. But she only nodded, casting another longing glance at the piano as a pair of little feet pattered into the room. “I am here!”

If Yasmine is precise and dedicated, Layla is whimsical and uninhibited, a tiny tornado full of talent, albeit unharnessed, with just enough prima donna with a flair for the dramatic. Her experience with new pupil thus far had proceeded with the following incidents:

Week One: Layla had entered the room like an amphitheater, clutching a shiny new instrument and enough sheet music for a three-hour concert instead of a 30 minute lesson. Approaching her teacher, the girl beamed from ear to ear as she thrust the violin at her with so much vigor, she had been afraid it would be dropped. 

“Hi! You must be Ms. Chris! I’m Layla and this is Gwendalyn!”

“Layla! You will address her as Ms. Christine. She deserves respect and thanks for taking you on so young.

Her pupils' little brow furrowed. “I’m seven.”

The girl was a pistil and Christine liked her immediately. “It’s all right. My friends call me Ms. Chris and I think we’ll be friends in no time, right?”

Layla beamed up at her with a vigorous nod while her mother only sighed and looked up with a resigned smile. “As long as you’re okay with it, I guess it’s fine. Layla Collete- you WILL behave.”

Layla sobered instantly. “Yes ma’am”

An affectionate pat to the head despite herself before turning back to Christine. “If you need anything, I’ll just be in the living room. Feel free to find me if need be.”

She nodded, then glanced down at Layla who practically vibrated with excitement, clutching poor Gwendalyn (Oh God, now she was calling it that) by the neck. “All right. Let’s get started…”

Week Two: She knew the first lesson had gone smoothly. Too smoothly.

Layla plodded into the room as she was finishing up Yasmine’s lesson, causing the older girl to stumble over the last few notes and turn a glare that could melt steel on her sister.

The younger girl plopped onto the floor, resting the violin in her lap as she - wait, was she wearing a cape?-wrapped herself into a musical burrito.

“Hey Lay..” She crouched down to eye level, tone tentative and slightly placating. “Are you feeling okay?”

A shrug. “We’ve been better. I feel like Gwendalyn is having an existential crisis. Today is not her best.”

She blinked, forcing herself to find an understanding smile while simultaneously wondering how a seven year old even knew what an "existential crisis” was, let alone where she heard the words. Then again, these kids were frighteningly smart. “Do you think we can try?” Just one scale?”

Another shrug. “I’ll ask her. She suffers for her art.”

Alrighty then.

“Well, let's see if we can snap her out of it.” She offered her hand and a smile for the girl’s benefit. “I was really looking forward to our lesson today.”

Layla studied her for a moment, then blessedly set the violin on the ground and allowed herself to be hauled to her feet. She waited a moment, then picked up the violin and held it out to her. Layla took it, glancing between them with a calculating gaze. “She likes you.”

“Oh, well…I’m glad.”  I think?

Moving to pick up her own instrument who she was apparently not on a first name basis with, she brought it to her chin, bow posed and ready. “And let’s begin…”

Week Three: Today, where it seems to be a battle of wills….and scales. 

She tries again. “Alright, Layla, come on. Let's warm up with a few G major scales.”

Layla sighs dramatically, “G major again? Ms. Chris, we did that last week... and the week before that. G major is so predictable. Can’t we do something… emotionally charged? Like D minor?

How does she even know what D minor is? “G major helps you develop tone and bow control.”

Layla’s lips curl into a pout. “Gwendolyn says she feels uninspired by G major today.”

She exhales. “Gwendolyn is a violin, Layla.”

Layla scoffs at the audacity. Offense colors her tone, “She’s an artist”.

Good Lord help me.

She clutches her own instrument tighter, but salvation comes through the door before she can react.

“Layla Collette, I know you are not sassing Ms. Christine.”

The girl immediately sags. “No ma'am." Dark eyes flick to hers. “I’m sorry, Ms. Chris.”

She offers a small smile in response, relieved when her pupil returns it. “I forgive you. We’re done for today anyway. You definitely have a mind and passion of your own, but you have to learn the skills to play your best, right?”

“Right!” she chirps, hurling herself at Christine, who bends down to accept the hug. “See you next week!”

A chuckle from her left draws her attention as she begins to pack up her violin. “I did warn you, didn’t I. She adores you though. I really can’t thank you enough for agreeing to teach her.”

“She makes lessons interesting, that’s for sure. I see her talent- it’s definitely there albeit her…enthusiasm hinders more than helps at times.”

“Yeah…we’re hoping that tempers with time.” An apologetic smile. “Anyway, I’ll Venmo you for this week when I finish dinner if that’s okay? My husband should be home soon to corral the chaos and I have to feed the baby.”

“No problem,” she says, slinging the violin case over her shoulder. “Thanks again. I’ll see you and the girls next week, same time?”

A nod. “Maybe we can tempt you into staying for dinner. I know Roxy, my five-year-old loves to hear about her sister’s lessons. I think we’re secretly hoping you’ll teach them all one day,even this little monster,” she laughed, hefting the baby higher.

She can’t help the chuckle that emerges. “Sounds good. Thank you for the invite.” She moves toward the door with a smile and a wave. “See you next week, Mrs. Khan.”

Dark eyes sparkle as Mrs. Khan holds the door for her. “Christine, you’ve been teaching Yas for almost six months and agreed to teach (read:entertain) Layla against your better sanity. You’re practically family at this point.”

She leans closer, smile wide. “Call me Rook.”

Chapter Text

Him

The apartment is quiet in the way only a city apartment can be — full of distant life but hollow at its core. Muffled sirens somewhere. A truck groaning up the incline on 9th. A faucet that dripped with irritating irregularity. And beneath it all, the piano, waiting.

He hunches over the Steinway, back stiff, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. The lamp casts a buttery halo across scattered manuscripts and stained coffee mugs. His fingers hover over the keys, unsure whether to strike or surrender.

The uncertainty is rare, nearly implausible. 

And it’s driving him mad.

The Philharmonic has commissioned a new piece. A full-length orchestral work from the enigmatic genious. He’d been flattered. Honored, even. 

He had agreed without a thought.

But then came the invitation.

They’d also asked him to guest conduct for the first time in years — a rare, meaningful nod to his legacy. He should’ve felt triumphant.

Instead, he felt… hollow.

Perhaps that was why he has yet to give them an answer.

In the meantime, the sonata beckoned and he was long overdue to submit.

Every draft felt like architecture without air. Impressive but inert. He had written hundreds of pages over the past three months. Torn up nearly as many. Polished motifs, dazzling counterpoint, elegant phrasing — but none of it lived. None of it mattered.

He presses a simple C major triad, then nudges the top note upward — E to F. Something about the interval makes him pause.

He shifts again. G to A♭.

That felt closer.

His fingers move on their own now, sketching a phrase without thinking. Four bars. Just a flutter of melody — a skip, then a lilt, then a turn back.

He stops. Waits. Considers.

Plays it again.

C - E - G - A♭ — then a light trill, like a stifled laugh.

It’s hers.

He doesn't know her name. Barely heard her speak. But the shape of that melody is just hers.

The girl on the Uptown A. Twice now he’s seen her, beheld her — once on that fateful subway, violin case in hand, once again less than a month ago across the same street. 

And then she was gone again. The first time.

The second time, he walked away, dejected and disappointed

That should’ve been it.

He should have moved on.

But she’s stayed.

She is everywhere in his head, in the sacred places that used to belong only to him — in the chords he discarded, in the key changes that didn’t feel right. She is there in the ache behind every measure.

He picks up a pencil, scrawls the fragment onto a fresh page of manuscript, and writes the title without hesitation:

Spring Street.

The rest of the composition lay in pieces. The Philharmonic wants something grand — lush, bold, resonant. He’s been trying to deliver that. Big moments. Sweeping brass. Complex meter. He had sketched a dozen climaxes and discarded each one like a bad idea.

But this? This four-bar fragment had a voice.

A fragile, radiant voice.

The melody isn’t even showy. It doesn’t try to be. It just is — like her, like that moment when he caught her smiling at him across the street. On her phone, eyes coupled with his as  sunlight slipping through the clouds,  catching on her cheekbones.

He doesn't know her laugh, barely knows her smile.

But this is what it might sound like, in music.

He playes it again, and again, and then folds the idea into a fuller texture — violin, then clarinet, then cello. A ripple of harmony around the center.

A knock interrupts him.

He doesn’t look up. He can’t afford the distraction

The door opens with its usual creak, followed by the soft thud of careful steps. A throat clears behind him and he scowls at the sheet music in response. “SUblety never has been your strong point, old friend.:

Nadir chuckles

“You’re still at it,” he responds, not a question.

He doesn’t answer immediately. He’s been rewriting the transition between the second and third bars — softening the dissonance, giving it more lift. The pencil behind his ear dropped to the floor long ago, unbothered and unnoticed.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says at last. “It finally came to me.”

Nadir drifts toward the armchair without asking. He never does. His presence has always been tactful — like a conductor keeping perfect time without ever lifting the baton.

Taking a seat, Nadir glances at the open page on the piano stand.

He gives a small nod.

Nadir tilts his head. “You’re calling it Spring Street?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like a person,” Nadir tents his fingers, brows arched, studying his mercurial companion. The implication is there. He doesn’t need to speciify

He hesitate, feels the weight of the other man’s gaze. “She’s… no one.”

Nadir waits, but he doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn't need to

Nadir leans back in the chair, folding his arms, eyes closed. He doesn’t speak again. Just listens as he begins to play again.

The melody come back. C - E - G - A♭. The phrasing is delicate, slightly asymmetrical, like something overheard rather than composed.

When it’s over, the silence feels like part of the music.

“She’s not nobody,” Nadir says eventually. “Not if you wrote that.”

Erik can’t look at him. “We never spoke. I just… saw her. A couple times.”

Nadir opens his eyes, studying him now. “I know.”

“You know she was on the train. And again… crossing the street. Near the bistro on Spring. She was smiling like she was in a different world, even on the phone. It stuck with me. Even if I wish she weren’t”. His fingers depress the keys, frustration evident in the discord

“And now she’s in the music.”

He sighes, a begruding acknowledgement. “I didn’t even mean to. She just… slipped in.”

He feels foolish saying it aloud. Like a teenager confessing a crush. But it’s not a crush, not really — it’s so much more. it's deeper. It's an impression. A fleeting image. A soundless presence that has taken root in his memory without permission.

Nadir stands and walks slowly to the piano, peering at the score.

“You’ve been at this for months. I've seen you rage and whine over this piece countless times since you agreed to the commission.” He glances down at the masked musician. “But this… it’s the first thing you’ve written that actually breathes.”

“I don’t even know her,” Erik says again, more to himself this time.

“That’s why it works,” Nadir replied.

He blinks up at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not writing to impress anyone with this. Not the orchestra. Not the donors. Not even her. You’re just trying to hold on to something you didn’t get to keep. That’s what makes it real.”

The truth of that settles slowly, like dusk.

He finally states the obvious, “You know they’re expecting something bigger than this,” .

“Then build around it. Let this be the heartbeat. Let the rest of the piece chase it.”

He looks back down at the score. The melody seems different now. Not heavier, not lighter — just inevitable. As though it has always been waiting for him to find it.

“She could be anyone,” he murmurs. “She probably is.”

“But she isn’t. Not to you.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder, a comforting pressure that lets him know that it’s good, exceptional even and he appreciates the quiet, steady presence that his oldest (only) friend brings, even when he does his best to push him away. 

He exhales, glances up at the other man’s encouraging smile for a moment before wrenching away with an indignant huff. “And I do not whine.”

Later that night, he plays the fragment again with the window open. The city hums beneath it — traffic and wind, footsteps and sirens.

He imagines her somewhere out there. Maybe walking home from a bookstore. Maybe from practice, dance or violin he isn’t sure. Maybe laughing at something small and perfect that no one else notice..

He still doesn’t know her name.

But the music...

The music does.

Half sentient and sure, somehow even astute.

It knows who she is, where she is.

Even when he doesn't.

He hopes maybe it will tell him one day.

Bring them back to each other in an atypical triumph.

He swears the keys warm under his fingers, a vow, a promise in C major.

Yes, the music knows

He’s almost certain of it

And for now, it’s enough.