Chapter Text
You’re seriously telling me there’s no one else?!” Crowley paced the small amount of space in front of his agent’s desk.
His agent, Beezus, “yes, like the children’s book character!” they’d snapped, they first time they’d met, pulled their beetle brows together. “Well, there are a couple music school students who’ve expressed an interest. They’ve good references - “
”From whom?” Crowley spat. “Their academic advisors?!” He knew he’d fallen in the music world but he hadn’t thought it was quite this bad. Who knew that getting into a violin bows sword fight with Joshua Bell, five years ago, on stage, could have diminished his star this much. The alcoholic spiral might have something to do with that, you dumb lug.
”This young lady,” Beezus thrust a resume and headshot his direction, “was invited to play her Senior recital at Carnegie Hall.”
”Middle school choirs from Podunkville, USA get invited to sing at Carnegie.”
”Iztak Perlman played Carnigie last season. As did Yo-yo Ma.”
Beezus had a point, but neither of those men were in their prime. “Yuja hasn’t. Neither has Michelle Cann.” Crowley wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but he was capable of noticing how women of color who played with rock n roll passion for their instrument, hadn’t been invited to play Carnigie’s hallowed stage. The current artistic management of the venue weren’t particularly impressed with production value.
Crowley flung himself into a chair that rocked unsteadily before righting itself as it should. The girl - Lucy - had impressive education credentials at least. Interlochen, followed by four years at Julliard, now in the second year of her Masters at NEC. As performance majors went, she’d taken all the right steps. He glanced at the recital program from Carnigie. If Lucy had an ounce of brains in her skull, she would have performed at least once piece written by a woman, preferably written in the second half of the 20th century. Crowley could name half a dozen composers who fit that bill off the top of his head and he’d played with two of them. And piano’s not even my bloody instrument! Instead, her entire program consisted of works written by old white European men. There’s more bloody music in the world than fucking Lizt and Taichovsky! He all but threw the paperwork back at Beezus. “Absolutely not.”
”We’re only hiring an accompanist, Crowley! You’re not actually sharing the stage with her!
”Beezus, you’ve been managing concert musicians since before I was born! You know that’s not how it works!” Crowley jumped to his feet and reached for the door.
”This is your comeback concert, Crowley! You’re picking the work, the venue, the accompanist. Everything! It’s your concert, start to finish. The person who sits at the piano is a non-entity.” Beezus sighed and ran a hand through their spiky hair. Today it was some sort of not-quite purple, not quite red color that clashed dramatically with the shimmery purple waistcoat they wore over a white button down and a black kilt.
Speaking of which - “Why the bloody hell are we going to Eau Claire of all possible places in this entire country?”
”None of the major concert venues will touch you, Crowley. If you can get through this performance without melting down, that will change, but for now, you’re on the outcasts list everywhere I’ve inquired. EC has a stunning fine arts center. Regional theater, gets the B cast of national tours. The university in town has an excellent music program, nationally ranked. There’s regional interest in musicians of your caliber. You can comfortably sell out Eau Claire and gain back credibility. Unless you want to be a washed up music camp instructor until you’re eighty.” Beezus narrowed their eyes and frowned at him.
”And my best bet for accompanist is an equally washed up hack who teaches second rate music school students how to play their ABC’s and 123’s!” He knew he wasn’t making a fair assessment of the university in question. He’d played professionally with graduates of the program. They were easily as good as musicians who’d attended schools with far fancier names. The problem was how galling it felt to say that his next concert was going to be in Eau Claire, and the way people squinted at him in response and asked where that was. “It’s near the Twin Cities,” he’d taken to muttering. “Why aren’t you playing in the Twin Cities?” was the usual follow up. Bastards. You know why.
”Why don’t you take a breath, and then tell me what’s really going on with you?”
One of the things Crowley appreciated about Beezus was that they didn’t give in to his tantrums. “Fine. But we’re getting out of this airless office. You should buy me coffee while we’re out.”
”Me! Buy you -!” Beezus sputtered. “You’re the one throwing a fit in my office! You should be buying me coffee as apology!”
They were right, but Crowley wasn’t quite ready to cede the point. “I’m a penniless musician, haven’t you heard? I can’t afford to buy myself a black coffee, much less one of the frothy things you like.”
Beezus rolled their eyes. “I have it on good report that you paid your own damn way to rehab, not your parents. Was it the trust fund, or your own earnings that got you through?”
Crowley had been in a downward spiral long before the Joshua Bell incident. Pressured by his parents and teachers and social circle to push harder and achieve more, he’d taken to having a glass of wine before concerts to steady his nerves. A glass had become two and then three and over the course of years - so gradually that he barely noticed until it all fell apart - he found himself drinking a bottle - or two - nearly every day of the week, and possibly more than that before performances. He couldn’t say exactly what had precipitated the sparring match in the middle of the most staid of violin works - one of Bach’s violin duets - but something had led him to poke his duet partner with his bow. Bell had ignored him, so he’d done it again. Bell swatted at him and from there . . .
The next morning, Crowley unplugged his TV, smashed his computer to bits with a meat mallet, and called rehab facilities until one - in the middle of fucking Nowheresville Colorado - said they had a bed open, if he could be there in twenty-four hours. Crowley had paid for the last minute airfare, and three months at the facility, without blinking. Pulled from his own personal savings, thank you very much. He’d smashed his phone too, before leaving for the airport. As far as he was concerned, the trust was blood money. He knew where the family’s generational wealth originated and all of it was tainted as far as he was concerned. “Savings,” he muttered.
“Poor boy.” Beezus shrugged into their coat and gestured towards the door. “Rehab must have wrung you dry.”
It hadn’t been nearly as expensive as a stay at, say a Ford clinic or similar. It’d been the hardest three months of his life and truth be told, five years later Crowley was still working on the lessons he’d learned out there. The rehab program had basically been a ranch that primarily catered to local people - ranch families struggling with addiction and other mental health issues. He’d had to learn to ride a horse and rope a cow - no, a steer. There was a difference. He’d been teased relentlessly about being a city slicker but it turned out that the horses liked him and he liked grooming them almost as much. Conditioning leather during group sessions hadn’t been half bad either and riding fence lines looking for repairs had a strangely meditative quality.
Crowley was doing alright with the income from summer music camps and teaching private lessons and he thought he could be moderately happy doing that for the rest of his working life. But the truth was, Crowley missed performing. He missed having a reason to pick up his instrument and practice every day. He missed verbally sparring with a well-matched accompanist or duet partner during rehearsals. He missed the synergy between musician and audience. And, fine, he missed the adrenaline of rousing applause at the final bow. His current therapist encouraged him to take pride in how that felt. “It wasn’t that bad. I can buy you a coffee anyway.” He held the door like the gentleman he was. Beezus kicked at his ankle on their way through.
”Listen to this while we walk.” They handed him an mp3 player and wired earbuds in the elevator. Crowley eyed the device cautiously. “Take it, promise it won’t bite. All you have to do is press play.” There was an actual “play” button located under a tiny monochrome screen.
”This thing actually works?”
”Don’t question my methods, Crowley. Earbuds in, press play, I’ll stop you before you run over a barista.”
Crowley rolled his eyes as he slipped the earbuds in. He lost himself in the music faster than he expected and blinked in surprise when he realized they’d entered a coffee shop and a tall blonde barista was asking him for his order with the sort of impatience that suggested he’d missed the question the first time. “Uh, six shots, straight up.”
”You want six shots of espresso.”
The kid couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-one at the outside, and if ever there was a face that belonged next to the definition of ‘twink,’ his was the one. Pretty. Built. Knew how to make the shop uniform work for him. A man could make a feast of the kid’s chest alone. Too bad Crowley felt distinctly uninterested.
”What I said.”
Whatever. It’s your funeral.” The barista punched in the order. Crowley added one of the cranberry muffins he knew Beezus liked before tapping his card to pay.
”So. What did you think?”
”What do I think of him?” Crowley nodded back to the counter. “Boring.”
”Letch! That’s not what I mean!”
”Oh, you mean the coffee.” Rilling Beezus up was far too easy. “It’s ok. Three out of five.”
”Crowley!”
”Nice place. Good ambiance. Do they have live music in the evenings?”
He tipped his sunglasses down his nose so he could get an unfiltered peek at Beezus.
”Anthony J. Crowley! You know I’d like your opinion about the pianist you listened to on the walk over here!” Beezus sat across from him, visibly fuming.
”Then why didn’t you say so?”
”That was your washed up hack who teaches second rate music school students, if you must know.”
Crowley winced. He'd suspected this might be the case, even before he pressed play and disappeared into a world of Enaudi, Glass, and Corigliano for ten minutes. The person playing was good; thoughtful in their interpretation, passionate but not hysterical, controlled yet somehow free. When I grow up, I want to be this musician. “That was Fell?”
”Yep.”
”And he’s local.”
Beezus rolled their eyes. “As I said before you started carrying on like a two year old, he’s an instructor at the university. Ph.D in piano pedagogy. Has concert chops, as you can hear on the recording, but prefers to stay out of the limelight. His interpretation of contemporary concert work is a good match for your own. And not that you need coddling or special snowflake treatment, but he has a bit of a soft spot for people who’ve experienced bumps in the road along the way to achieving their dreams.”
”Oh, God. You found me an academic soft boy?!
They kicked him in the shin. “This isn’t two thousand twelve Tumblr, Crowley. Behave!”
”Behave isn’t in my working vocabulary.”
”He’s familiar with your work pre Joshua Bell and is very interested in being a part of your comeback.” They took a long slurp from their whip cream topped monstrosity. “You should at least go out there and spend an hour together in a rehearsal room. If it doesn’t work - “
They avoided Crowley’s eyes and looked past his shoulder, out the window.
”If it doesn’t work out, you’ll start calling Juilliard students.”
”NEC students know better than to answer my calls.”
”I guess I’d better book a ticket to Eau Claire.
Beezus looked insufferably smug. “Already done. You’re flying out tomorrow morning at 10:09 am. I paid the extra fee for your violin to have its own seat.”