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[Lance] : Good morning, everyone. I hope you’re all doing well, and I hope you all enjoyed your holidays. I bring you some news for the New Year.
[Lance] : After our yearly auditions in December, I’ve made the decision to promote Red to concert master. This change will take place at our rehearsal on Sunday, for our first meeting of the year. As always, it will simply be a welcome back social, with conversations centered around the future of the group. If you have any burning questions, feel free to post them, but otherwise, try to save them for then. See you all Sunday.
[Leaf] : congrats, Red!! :^) Yay!!
[Lorelei] : Lance, do you have any information on budget this year, and what to expect? If we have the money, we need to invest in some new stands, and I’m more than willing to pick some up prior to the meeting, if I’m able to expense it.
[Lorelei] : Also, congratulations, Red.
[Brock] : good job, red!
[Surge] : GOOD JOB, SON!
[Leaf] : hey, ur caps lock is on again lieutenant, haha
[Surge] : My bad.
[Lance] : Yes, congratulations are in order. It makes me happy to see you all being so supportive of each other.
[Lance] : Lorelei, I’ll make a note to ensure I cover it in detail at the meeting. It should be about the same as last year, but I’ll review the paperwork before then to make sure I didn’t miscount any numbers. I’ll let you know. Also, to everyone, I’d like to discuss potentially hiring and/or hosting auditions, as with Agatha retiring and Giovanni leaving, we need to fill the spot in the celli, as well as find a new pianist. I hope to have your support in this matter.
[Lorelei] : Understood. If we aren’t able to secure a permanent pianist, however, I’m sure we’d be able to contract one in a pinch.
[Leaf] : ^^^^
[Bruno] : greast joibn red
[Bruno] : *great job
[Misty] : yeah, congrats! And if we’re doing auditions again, I’ll make sure to post a flier in the community center in Cerulean! I’m sure there’s someone out here
[Lance] : Good idea, to both Lorelei and Misty. If we decide to move forward with it, I’ll draft some new fliers and applications to hand out, though I might need help with the social media aspect, @Janine. Thanks, all. Have a great day.
[Erika] : good morning, everyone! <3 and happy new year! It’s a beautiful day today. Congratulations on your new position, Red :)
[Janine] : No prob boss!! ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) and congrats red!!! ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ
What a thread to wake up to.
Blue’s heart sinks further and further to the bottom of his gut as his eyes flicker down the group chat, as more notifications of congrats pop up, as more and more members of their orchestra wake up and see the news, just like he did. And of course, Red doesn’t respond, and won’t, because he never does.
Blue’s been concert master for the last five years. He was the one to walk on stage with Lance and bow to the audience, he was the one to lead everyone in tuning, he was the one who conducted the damn orchestra when Lance was unavailable.
And now it’s over, with the news delivered over text. A mass text, no less. Might as well be spitting right in his face and kicking him in the balls while he’s on the ground in a crowded room, and Blue is decidedly not into public humiliation.
He hovers his thumbs over the screen, debating his choice of words. Debating if he should post it to the group chat, or if he should discuss it with Lance in private. Is he petty enough, to call it out in the group chat?
Yeah, he is. After all, Lance hadn’t even given him notice.
[Me] : hey, congrats red!! Finally made it to the hot seat! I’m sure you’ll just do such a great job leading us.
[Me] : Thanks for the heads up, Lance.
Leaf immediately reacts to both of his messages with a thumbs down. His phone chimes with a notification separate from the group chat.
[Brock] : did Lance not talk to you about that? The promotion
[Me] : no. Found out when you did. AKA this morning. Two minutes ago. I literally just woke up
[Brock] : damn, man. Sorry.
[Me] : it’s whatever.
[Brock] : is it? You seemed kinda...miffed
He wasn’t going to be petty. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.
[Me] : I just think its funny. You know? Lol. Lmao, even
[Brock] : I mean...I know you don’t want to admit it, but Red’s just as skilled as you. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it. And I mean that in the best way
And that’s the worst part: Red does deserve it. It makes him sick to his stomach to admit it, but yeah, Red is just as skilled as him. It’s not like Lance was just joking around, in promoting Red. Clearly, he saw the potential, as he should have.
It doesn’t make it any better.
[Me] : whatever. I don’t really see it lasting tbh. I know red, he can’t handle the spotlight
[Brock] : you never know!
Except Blue did know. They grew up together, always fighting for first chair in their elementary school orchestra, then their secondary school orchestra, then their university orchestra, and now, their professional orchestral group. Ever since Blue picked up his violin at the ripe old age of five, taking private lessons before he even stepped foot in a school, Red was right there beside him, keeping stride without breaking a sweat. Except Red never surpassed him, because Red knew better.
Because Red has crippling stage fright.
He huffs a sigh, clicks his tongue, scrolls through his messages. He taps on the single, red apple emoji, down at the bottom of his list.
[Me] : you see the news?
[Red] : yes
[Me] : ?????
[Me] : and?
Red doesn’t answer. Motherfucker. He groans a sigh, this time, and switches conversations to the swirling leaves emoji.
[Me] : wtf
[Leaf] : wtf
[Me] : you know. Don’t play coy. The thumbs down. Might as well just hit me with the “i’m So Very Disappointed in you, blue :(”
[Leaf] : maybe don’t liveblog ur meltdown next time.
[Me] : if I was having a meltdown, you’d know. Be real. That was nothing
[Me] : can’t handle a little sass? Sorry
[Leaf] : can’t u at least pretend to be happy for him? God
[Me] : I never said I wasn’t
[Leaf] : really.
[Leaf] : tbh it’s been a long time coming.
“...what?”
Blue’s so shocked he says it out loud. He stares at Leaf’s message, trying to understand what exactly she means by that. ‘A long time coming?’ What the hell does that mean? Did she think his skill was declining? That his ability to lead the orchestra was failing? Did she figure he’d fail to reclaim his spot for this season? Is that what she meant?
He’s speechless. He works his mouth and tongue around different letters and sounds, but nothing comes out. Blinking at the read message, all he can think is, what the fuck.
What the fuck. What the fuck. Blue thought she was his friend. But, maybe, apparently, her golden child twin brother comes first. Just like he always does.
Blue blocks her. He’ll regret that later today.
His phone chimes again, later, as he’s in the middle of brushing his teeth.
[Red] : samuel gerald mother fucking oak the third.
[Red] : did u block me?? are u serious?? I tried to call u and it said ur number is ‘unavailable’ I can’t fucking believe u
[Red] : look, I get it, ur mad.
[Red] : but do NOT block me. How dare u. I will hunt u down like ur a rabbit on the discovery channel.
[Me] : oh no. I’m so scared, all the way out here in viridian. What are you gonna do? Curse me?
[Me] : fuck off.
Blue blocks Red’s number, too, as soon as the three little dots indicate Leaf is typing again. Hey, while he’s at it, might as well block everyone! The group chat gets muted. Everyone is blocked, one by one. As a final touch, he puts his phone on Do Not Disturb. He’ll regret that later today, too (maybe, depending on how the rest of his day goes), but right now, he doesn’t really care. He’s pissed, and he needs to get his shit together.
It’s early in the morning, but he doesn’t care. His neighbors have already put in plenty of noise complaints over the years he’s lived in this complex, and they’ve all been thrown away or brushed off by management, because this is his job.
Or, it was.
Leafing through his filing cabinet, he skims through old notated sheet music. He spent the entire break looking up and considering pieces for this year. Sonatas, symphonies, etudes; classical, romantic, baroque; violin concertos, cello concertos, the rare viola concerto. He spent hours hunched over his dining room table, marking dynamics and practicing different bowings and fingerings, noting down particularly intricate parts where the melodies and harmonies needed to blend in just the right way, listening to recordings and trying to mimic the sound of his favorite ones. He stayed up past midnight routinely, trying to perfect everything before he turned it over to Lance for final deliberation.
He did it because he believed he had to, because it was what he was supposed to do, because it’s what he’s been doing for the last five years. It was expected of him, to have a full folder of scores for Lance to review at their first rehearsal, to bring it up for discussion, to see what clicked with the group and what didn’t. It was his job, as concert master.
None of sweat and tears he poured into these decisions and deliberations over the last month mattered, because he’s not concert master anymore.
His breath hitches.
He’s not concert master anymore.
Blue swallows shakily around the lump in his throat, and lets his fingers dance across the files until he pulls out a folder at random. Shostakovich. Sure. Whatever. It’s an old piece, one they performed a couple years ago with their sister orchestra, the Johto Symphonic. It’s one he recommended to Lance. He stares at the cover of the score, the words swimming around in a conglomeration of nonsensical squiggles, and flips to the first sheet.
He goes through the motions. Unzip the case. His violin is unstrapped and pulled free from its velvet prison. He inspects his bow; he just replaced his old one, after completely snapping the hair during a dress rehearsal last year, so it looks fine, only a little too pristine. Tighten it, rosin it. He inspects his strings; they’re due for a change, soon. Pluck to check for tuning. He frowns. Attach his shoulder rest. Tuck his violin under his chin. Remove it. Detach his shoulder rest. Adjust his shoulder rest. Attach his shoulder rest. Tuck his violin under his chin.
And with that, he drags his bow across the strings to tune, tugging and twisting the pegs and fine tuners until they all ring perfect in his ears.
Breathe.
Begin.
Red is not going to last as concert master. It’s too much work. As far as Blue knows, he barely knows how to conduct efficiently, unless he took some classes recently. He can lead the group, sure, but he’s too wishy-washy to make final decisions, and he struggles immensely with saying no. Usually, almost always, he gets Leaf, or Blue, to speak for him, because he won’t talk in public. His stage fright is so bad he pukes before every concert, and is always sweating buckets beside Blue on the stage, under the bright lights.
(He always gives Blue his honest opinion on bowings. He’ll practice them, and suggest different strokes that sometimes make more sense. He’ll notate places for page turns, because Blue doesn’t usually consider them, because he’s never the one turning it. He pulls Blue back when he gets too into a piece and accidentally rushes, because everything else fades away when he’s absorbed in his music, which Red wasn’t supposed to do, not really, because Blue is supposed to lead the orchestra in tempo, because he and Lance work in tandem, but he can’t deny that it’s handy.)
What the hell made Lance choose him? He’s skilled, sure – Red is the second best performer of their entire group, right after Blue. But with all the other issues? Really? Red is the best option? Really??
A loud, grating sound pierces his ears, and he flinches, nearly dropping his bow; he completely fumbled that run of sixteenth notes. How did he manage that? Staring in confusion, the page begins to swim, staff lines and notes and chicken scratch blurring into one hideous black and white mess. Blue blinks his eyes clear, and blinks again when they don’t.
This piece isn’t working. Time to find another.
Okay. Bach. Violin Concerto. This one, he has completely memorized. He puts his bow to the string, places his fingers, breathes, and begins.
Ever since they were kids, Red strove to beat him. If Blue did something, Red tried to do it better. If Blue memorized a piece, Red tried to memorize it faster. If Blue fumbled a run during a rehearsal, Red made sure he never did once. They’re competitive, and always had been. Blue would go as far as to say they’re rivals. But the one, single thing Red never, ever did, was become concert master, because it was off-limits.
It was an unspoken agreement; Blue was concert master, and Red was second chair. Red was still in the front, still important to the structure of the orchestra, but more on the sidelines rather than front and center. That was the way it was, and it worked for both of them. Blue relished the spotlight; he flourished under having everyone’s rapt attention on him. Red didn’t; he used to have recurring nightmares involving public situations. Blue would get asked for autographs and gifted bouquets of flowers that would wilt on his kitchen table. Red would be allowed to leave as soon as the concert finished to go home and play video games. That was the way it was. That was what worked.
What changed?
(Maybe he fucked up one too many lines. Maybe he said something wrong and offended someone important. Maybe his attitude just isn’t what Lance wants to be the face of their group. Maybe his skill is slipping. Maybe he just isn’t as good as he used to be. Maybe he peaked too young.)
(It was a long time coming.)
Blue’s bow shoots out of his hand and clatters on the floor, skating across the wood and sliding to a stop next to his couch. He’s breathing heavy – panting, really; completely out of breath as though he just ran a marathon, and completely coated in a cold sweat. Clenching his jaw, he keeps his violin held under his chin to look at his hands.
They’re shaking.
He places his violin down on the table as carefully as his trembling hands can manage, still jostling the vase of dead flowers into nearly toppling over, and crouches low to the floor, curling up into a ball with his fists tight in his hair.
He can’t focus.
Everything is spinning. Everything is spiraling. Pieces he’s never had problems with, he suddenly can’t play anymore. The act of picking up his instrument and practicing something to relax has been tainted, ruined by the fact that he is not as good as he thought he was. There is always someone better. There is always someone right behind him. There is always someone waiting to yank his collar back and throw him to the side.
A knock comes from his front door. Blue knows who it is. He doesn’t move.
Red knocks again. Then, his key scratches against the keyhole, and the lock clicks out of place. The winter chill blows in with his best friend, and Blue snaps shut the door before he can stop himself. Red does as he’s told. The door is forced back against the freezing wind, shut firmly with Red’s heel. “...why are you—”
“Don’t talk to me.”
Red does as he’s told. He’s silent as he slips his sneakers and coat off, he’s silent as he sets his bag and case down in the living room, he’s silent as picks up Blue’s bow from the floor, he’s silent as he pads his way over the Blue’s crouched form, he’s silent as he forces Blue’s fists out of his hair, he’s silent as he coaxes them open, he’s silent as he slips his hands into Blue’s. He’s silent as he regards Blue with his signature concerned frown. His silence shatters with one word: “Blue.”
Blue grits his teeth before taking a steadying breath. “Why did Lance promote you?” There’s a major tremor laced in his voice, one he’s unable to hide.
Red looks confused. He blinks, and his frown deepens. “...is that why you’re so angry?”
Is that why—
Is he joking???
“I’m not angry.”
“You seem angry.”
“I’m not.”
“You blocked everyone. Including Lance. I – we’ve been trying to call you for an hour.”
“I’m not angry.”
Red purses his lips. He shakes Blue’s hands thoughtfully. “...he said he mentioned it to you.”
“He said he was considering changing things up for the new year.”
“...did you not think—”
“Of course I didn’t think!” Blue explodes, making Red flinch away and fall back on the floor. The fire in his blood is making it difficult to feel bad for startling him. “No, Red, I didn’t think. How could I – how would I – when – what was – how am I supposed to react?! To being thrown under the fucking bus like that?”
Red doesn’t answer. He lets out a short breath from his nose, a small, frustrated sigh, and nods. He doesn’t mention the scattered sheet music all over the floor as he stands back up, he simply gathers it all and puts them back into their correct folders. Then, he sticks his hands under Blue’s armpits, and hefts him up back to his feet. Red’s hands are steady and warm on Blue’s shoulders as he says, “I brought over a new piece to try.”
“What?!” He spits, furious. “No, I’m not—”
Red doesn’t let him continue. He cuts Blue short with his quiet, firm voice. “It’s just for us.” There’s a short silence as he gauges Blue’s reaction, who’s so completely stunned he’s speechless for the second time today. “It has nothing to do with the orchestra,” he continues. “It’s for only two violins, no other instrumentation.” Then, he averts his eyes, and his face flushes. “It – uh...well, I mean, we could play it in a concert, if you’d like to. But, I really just wanted to play it with you.”
A duet, just for the two of them? “...really? With me?” Blue snorts to hide his rapid-beating heart, his laugh awkward and forced. “Not your demon twin?”
“No. And don’t call her that,” Red says, but his lips quirk up, just a little. “Yes, with you.”
As much as he would love to, there’s an elephant in the room that neither of them are addressing. “...I...don’t know,” Blue hems. He gestures to the room, at his violin sitting on the table, at the bow Red picked up from the other side of the room, at the sheet music that was just strewn across the floor mere moments ago. “I’m not at my A-game, today.”
“It’s okay.” Red’s smile is comforting. He gives Blue’s shoulders a little squeeze. “You’re just a little burned out.”
The pit in Blue’s stomach returns. He blinks. Burned out…? Is that what it is? Is that what Leaf meant, by what she said? It was a long time coming. He was going to crash eventually. Clearly, it was more obvious to others than it was to him. He opens his mouth, to argue and disagree, but he really can’t, because it’s true.
He’s burned out.
Red drops his hands from Blue’s shoulders, and immediately he misses it. He stands there dumbly as Red goes back into the living room, to rummage in his bag for the score and a couple of pencils. He watches Red unzip his case and pull his violin out, he watches him go through the exact same motions Blue did earlier. Red inspects his bow, tightens and rosins it. He inspects his strings, he tests the tuning. It’s totally whack, from the cold weather.
As he tunes, Blue finds his voice again. “Lower. Just a smidge. Lower. Low – you missed it. Higher.” Red shoots him an annoyed look. “...higher. Stop – right there.”
With his A perfectly in tune, Red fixes the other strings easily. As he’s tuning, Blue makes his way over to the score Red tossed on the coffee table. His eyes widen. “Ysaÿe? Wow, really?” Red hums in response, and Blue opens the folder to skim over the sheet music. Fast, elegant, exciting, complex, and in a minor key. It’s all his favorite things.
Red chose this piece specifically for him.
He frowns, and ignores the fluttering in his chest. “You didn’t have to do that, man.”
“I crossed a line.” Their unspoken agreement; Red’s acknowledging he broke it. Blue glances up to see Red return to a relaxed position, tucking his instrument under his arm. His eyes dart around, purposefully avoiding Blue’s. “...I told Lance I was...concerned, about you,” he confesses. “I said you needed a break, because he’s working you to the bone.”
Red falls quiet for a moment, letting the words settle between them. “...I’m sorry,” he apologizes softly. “It – he asked me if I’d hypothetically be okay with being concert master. I told him, ‘I guess.’ I only found out this morning that it wasn’t hypothetical. Otherwise, I would have told you. Promise.”
What a below-the-waist move; Lance knows Red can’t say ‘no.’ Blue didn’t think Lance was capable of that. “Do you...want to do it?” He asks hesitantly. Even though he knows the answer, he’s still afraid he’ll be wrong.
Red shrugs. Clear as day; it’s a resounding no. “We’ll bring it up during the rehearsal Sunday.” Red flinches. “...I’ll bring it up,” he amends. Red visibly relaxes. “You gotta learn how to say no, pal.”
He gives Blue a small smile that tugs at his heart. “That’s what I’ve got you for,” he says simply.
Blue smiles back despite himself, but he makes sure to roll his eyes as he’s doing it. “Not like I have any other choice.” He waves the score around a little, shaking it. “So...I guess since you came all this way, I might as well give it a shot.”
“Sure. And we’ll go get coffee or something after. I’ll pay.”
He blinks as Red takes the score from his hand and makes his way over to Blue’s music stand. He stares as Red moves the Bach score to the table, he stares as Red takes the vase of dead flowers and unceremoniously dumps them into the trashcan. He laughs a little. “Uh, okay,” he finally manages to say. “What, are you trying to get on my good side or something?”
Red shrugs again. “You’d know if I was trying to do that,” he says. Blue mutters, yeah I guess I would.
It would be something like picking out a piece of music that he knew Blue would love. It would be something like ignoring Blue’s minor crash out, and simply picking up the pieces like second nature. It would be offering to buy him coffee from his favorite cafe down the street. It would be revoking his concert master status mere hours after gaining it, because he never even wanted it in the first place.
It would be seeking Blue out, even though he clearly wanted to be alone, just to ask him to play a duet together, with just them, only them, and no one or nothing else.
He makes his way into the dining room, to where Red has set up the space for them. The stand is adjusted slightly to account for the extra body, as well as Red’s few extra inches of height. The sheet music is opened to the first page, the pencils are clipped to the shelf. He hands Blue his violin once he gets close enough, and slips the frog of Blue's bow into his ready palm, their fingers brushing.
“Ready?” Blue asks, once he’s raised his instrument up.
“Ready.”
“One, two…”
Breathe.
Begin.