Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Frank Langdon was seventeen years old when his orchestra director gave him the advice that would stay with him longer after the competition was over. Before the performance that would earn them first place in a competition, and earn him a full scholarship for the next four years at The Curtis Institute of Music. He was reminded of the most important thing about being a percussionist which was that they kept everyone together. Being the heartbeat of the orchestra, so to speak.

He could keep time. He could follow the conductor. He could watch the rest of the orchestra and know exactly when he was needed. Percussionists in orchestras had to be good at waiting, they frequently sat through silence (called a tacet, for a musical movement) and then he'd come in on time, patience was needed, something that had always been difficult for Frank, funny, considering his line of work depended on it.

There was comfort in being in an orchestra because there was always an answer. In an orchestra, the notes and the rhythm were either right or wrong. A conductor's baton came down for the cue, or on the upbeat, and Frank would know what to do.

The Curtis Institute of Music was where Frank learned how much there was to learn. In high school, Frank had played in almost all of the ensembles; jazz, symphonic band, orchestra, marching band (to get out of gym class, which was a plus) and each ensemble had a unique style. Frank had gotten into Curtis's orchestra, so he had to adjust quickly. Everyone at Curtis was talented, Frank was not special, as people like him had come from their small towns all over the United States just to play there. He'd been the best musician in his hometown, but everyone at Curtis had been the best musician in their hometown.

Frank was not special because he'd been playing the drums since he was five-years-old. Plenty of people at Curtis had been introduced to music as soon as they could walk. He was not special because he had a knack for timing. A goddamn metronome had a knack for timing. But Frank had remembered what his band director had said, that being a percussionist was not about being the loudest person in the room. It was about knowing when the other musicians needed you to keep them steady.

Frank was in the beginning of his second year at the Curtis Institute of Music when he first met him. At the time, Robby - though Frank would spend months too intimidated to actually call him that despite his insistence - was the principal percussionist with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra, someone Frank had admired long before he said a word to him. At the time, Frank was still trying to get his shit together, balancing honing his craft as a percussionist and having the guts to talk to that pretty new flute player who would, unbeknownst to him, eventually become his wife.

(And, years later, his ex-wife).

The principal percussionist of Curtis's orchestra had gone first. An arrogant motherfucker that Frank wanted to dislike but couldn't completely dismiss, because unfortunately the guy was good and was good and was section leader for a reason. Robby placed a passage in front of him to sight-read, and Frank did his best not to look like it was obvious he was reading it to get a head start on the rhythm. But Robby didn't listen to him for long, only ten seconds, before moving onto second chair.

"You, kid."

Which happened to be Frank.

Frank remembered sitting there with the mallets in his hands, trying very hard not to look like he was on the verge of pissing himself. Which unfortunately was difficult when the person standing in front of him was Michael Robinavitch - the principal percussionist of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. And well, at least Frank had time to look at the music, except that shit didn't matter at all, because Robby placed a new passage in front of him and fuck.

So Frank played the brand new shiny excerpt, and it was fine, which felt worse. He was so focused on not making a mistake in front of Michael Robinavitch, and he was positive that read all over his place as he played.

"You're thinking too much about it," Robby had said to him and of course he was correct. "The best percussionists don't wait because they're scared of being wrong. They wait because they what the music needs."

And this was happening with his crush in the room. Humiliating.

But then Robby nodded and crossed his arms as he said, "Again."

"Again?"

"Again."

So Frank tried again. It was cleaner this time, which was expected since it was the second time he played it. He tried not to think too much about it, tried to relax even though his crush and Robby were in the same room. Two people he wanted to desperately impress.

When Frank was done, Robby nodded once. "Okay. That's all."

Then he fucking left, with all Frank's dreams crushed in an instant. Except that they weren't, because three days later, Robby showed up to another rehearsal. And he knew Frank's name. And the idea that Michael Robinavitch knew who he was, was comforting as much as it was frightening. So, for the next two years, Frank worked his ass of. He'd beaten out the principal player for the spot within the next several months since his first interaction with Robby (that hadn't been pretty) but there was still that uncertainty that remained. What was he to do when he graduated? There was talk about moving to New York, to get a job as one of those pit musicians for broadway production, which was common for musicians to go. Percussionists were typically paid that highest in that setting. The pay was good, and on top of that percussionists were very versatile. He could go into a jazz band or a symphonic band (though those were few and far between), or join an orchestra.

Frank had just graduated from Curtis when he'd gotten the call from Michael Robinavitch two days later, which turned out to be the biggest break of his life. Robby had explained that Frank had probably heard that the conductor of Pittsburgh's Symphony Orchestra had passed, Montogomery Adamson, who of course Frank had known. It was a real tragedy in the Pittsburgh music community, and Robby had been named his successor. Which meant there was an opening for a percussionist and encouraged Frank to audition.

By that point, Frank was engaged to that pretty flute player, and the two of them were confronting the realities of choosing music as a career. They were in their early twenties; old enough to know that music was what they wanted to do for the rest of their lives, but young enough that they didn't understand how to build their lives around it yet. It was difficult to do so, from a profession built around uncertainty and there had been talk (though fights would be more accurate) on who was going to give up on their dream, and both of them were fairly stubborn people, and it usually ended with waiting until she graduated for them to have that discussion in full.

Of course this opportunity Frank couldn't pass up. Not many people could make a decent salary with benefits and the chance to do what they loved. A permanent position with a respected orchestra. Frank could see it all clearly, being married with a stable job fresh out of college, from a career that wasn't typically predictable. Eventually having children who would grow up learning music as he and his beautiful honey had; it was perfect. Frank aced the audition, and was told to come in the next day for his first rehearsal. He was twenty-two years old, engaged, and had gotten into one of the best orchestras in the country.

Frank had gotten married at the end of the year, though both of them wanted to wait a few years before they had children, when it was certain they had enough money saved up. His wife worked from home for a while, giving private lessons to children just starting out. She had claimed it was to get a feel for motherhood, but it wasn't quite the same. She liked teaching, but of course Frank knew she wanted something more, a better opportunity. (She'd get that, but more on that later).

Frank was twenty-six years old when the principal percussionist retired and Robby had pushed for hime to audition for that role. Principal players made a little more money, and Frank was expecting his first child soon, a little boy that Frank and his wife already had a name for, which was Tanner (Look... they both loved the Teen Beach Movies). Frank could picture him growing up in a house filled with music and laughter, something Frank had a lack of, and at least with a stable salary they could give him that. Two years later, Frank and his wife welcomed a daughter into the world, his little Penny (short for Penelope, Abby wanted to name her Carol after Carol Wincenc, but Frank would rather die than name his daughter Carol. But, you know, Tanner was fine). At that point, Frank had taken the principal position, quickly becoming a name people recognized in the Pittsburgh music community and the pressures that came with it - notably, being Michael Robinavitch's protege.

The pressure was a lot. Robby warned him. Frank had said that he could handle it. He couldn't and he didn't.

The first time Frank took unprescribed medication was a few months after Tanner was born, when Frank was surviving his first year as the principal percussionist. He'd had several panic attacks before and after rehearsals, which he usually solved by smoking some hash with the brass section (thank you, Yolanda Garcia) and that helped only for a while, and he knew how to get rid of the smell. Plus he was a percussionist, of course there was going to be marijuana. People who said musicians were goody two shoes didn't know what the fuck they were talking about. Anyway, one day, before a really big concert, Frank had been a wreck. He was a new father and the principal player of the section the entire orchestra needed to rely on, and he needed to chill the fuck out. For the first time ever, he was playing first timpani for a piece called The Rite of Spring, which had the most exposed timpani part in the whole orchestra, and Robby had been on his ass about it. One of the musicians, long gone now, had offered Frank a Xanax, and it'd been downhill ever since. At first it was only a once a month thing, then after Penny was born it was once a week, and then Frank couldn't remember the last time he'd gone a day without it.

Frank got caught at thirty-one years old.

How it happened was really pathetic. He was in a rehearsal with his section, and he had a new percussionist substituting by the name of Trinity Santos, and she had no idea what she was doing. Dennis Whitaker had been new and clueless too, but at least he was aware of it and didn't act like he knew everything. She'd change parts without Frank's permission, whether on purpose or not, on the fucking triangle of all things. Frank was entering withdrawal at this point and he snapped at her hard, to the point where it got the attention of other sections. Robby included. Santos looked near tears, and Frank felt a little bad about that, but she failed to understand that this job was everyone's livelihood, it wasn't just some hobby, a way for Frank to give his kids the childhood he never had.

So Frank had left, snorted some xanax in his bag when he thought no one was looking, Santos saw him, and ratted him out to Robby. The were expected to go on in an hour, Robby had searched his bag and found the remainder of the pills, and his reaction would be burned into Frank's brain for the rest of his life.

"Frank."

"It's not what you think," Frank had said immediately, like that would make it better. Robby started to pace back and forth but Frank was frantically following his every step as he tried to explain, "Can an addict do what I do for a living? You've seen - you've heard - how I play. Can an addict do that?"

"Do you think that because you're good at what you do you can't have an addiction?" Robby's voice came sharply. "You know the statistics, of musicians having high rates of drug addiction-"

"I'm not a drug addict."

"How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long have you been doing this?"

Frank couldn't lie to him. "...I take something when I need it."

"And how long have you been needing it?"

Frank didn't answer. All he could see was the disappointed anger in Robby's face, a man he'd idolized and wanted approval of, and the eleven years with a man Frank had built a good rapport with was smashed in a minute because of a bottle that wasn't his.

Robby let him play in that concert. You couldn't find a percussionist in thirty minutes before showtime, it was impossible. But Robby threw Frank out as soon as the concert was over, telling him he needed help, and Frank had to look his wife in the eye as their children were asleep upstairs that he needed to go to rehab.

Ten months later, Frank was divorced. Being in and out of rehab was too much for his then-wife, along with a lot of other things. He could only see Tanner and Penny on the weekends. He was sober, but he was trying to figure out who he was without the orchestra career, his marriage, and the drugs. He got a part time position at a performing arts high school, where he'd come in twice a week to give percussion masterclasses. Not to be an arrogant shithead about this, but Frank thought it was beneath him, but hell, he was a drug addict, nothing was beneath him anymore. And he needed to make money, somehow. The teenagers didn't know about the drug problem, in fact most of Pittsburgh's public eye did not, but it sucked when the teenagers he worked with asked why he wasn't in the orchestra anymore. Frank was positive that the orchestra he'd been in for eight years knew what happened. No one called him, no one bothered to check in, and he was sure his ex-wife wasn't making it any easier.

After Frank got back from the performing arts high school, his phone rang.

An incoming call from Michael Robinavitch.

Frank pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

There was a pause on the other end. It wasn't long, but long enough that Frank was transported back to nineteen-years-old, sitting in the orchestra at Curtis, waiting to see if he'd impressed Robby or embarrassed himself.

"Frank," came Robby's tired, rough voice. His name on Robby's tongue sounded like when he found those pills in his bag. "Quick question."

Frank sat down on the world's most uncomfortable sofa in his apartment. "Okay."

"...Are you ready to come back?"

He didn't even have to think about it.

So that's how Frank Langdon was back in Pittsburgh's Symphony Orchestra, at thirty-one years old, freshly divorced, with two kids five and under that he didn't see enough, and positive that he had less friends when he walked through the doors of Heinz Hall, where they rehearsed. The thing is, recreational drug use is common among musicians, but that was for things like pot, not the hard shit Frank was on. Plus they never did that before a concert, that was a no-no, stuff like that was reserved hours before a rehearsal so it'd wear off a little when Robby would raise the baton, or at home (the latter was more common).

Frank arrived at Heinz Hall three hours before rehearsal was set to start. Robby would say that early is on time, on time is late, and if you were late, you wouldn't be in the orchestra anymore. Still, three hours was excessive, but it gave him time to look over the music before anyone else got here. The last thing he wanted was to show up and everyone would just look at him in unison. Musicians, as you know, had impeccable timing. He could play this music in his sleep, baby parts he called them, but that didn't matter. None of it mattered, when the people who walked in knew what had happened, why he was gone for ten months, and they probably thought Robby was a fool for letting him back in. But the percussionist they had hired after Frank had been arrested because he catfished a thirteen-year-old, which was obviously worse than being a drug addict.

It didn't mean that Robby was happy to see him. He arrived fifteen minutes later after Frank did, and told him flat out that he was going to piss in a cup every goddamn week, which meant that Frank couldn't even smoke a little bit of weed anymore, which fucking sucked because what musician didn't self-medicate with weed? He'd have to attend NA meetings, which Frank was already doing. He wasn't the principal percussionist anymore, that was the puppy-faced Dennis Whitaker who looked like he was going to piss himself on his very first day. And Trinity Santos had joined them permanently which, great. So Frank was at the bottom of the barrel, given ridiculously easy parts because he had to work his way up again, and suddenly it didn't feel that great to be back. He still had his six figures, his benefits, but the joy that came with the profession didn't feel like joy anymore.

Other musicians followed around an hour later, and more than a few did double takes when they saw Frank Langdon in the percussion section. He recognized a lot of them, because most of them had come in a little after Frank had, there was a new resurgence of young musicians because many of them had retired all at once, so there had been many seat shuffles and changes throughout the eight years Frank had been there, at the point where he'd be considered a veteran. There were a couple of old-heads though, like Jack Abbot, who was concertmaster - first violin. Dana Evans who was the principal cellist. Baran Al-Hashimi the principal oboist, who had the daunting job of tuning the entire orchestra. There was John Shen who Wasn't really old, but he was a child prodigy that started as a violist in the orchestra fresh out of high school, and worked his way to become principal player.

Frank recognized the ones closer to his age, like Samira Mohan who was the principal player for the second violin section, Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker, his fellow percussionists that looked at him like he was the second coming of Ivan the Terrible, so Frank already knew sectionals were going to be very fun. Yolanda Garcia dabbled in a bit of everything, but her main instrument was trombone where she became a principal player the year Frank got caught with benzos; he had no idea why the fuck she didn't reach out to him. She was probably the closest thing Frank had to a friend in this place, well other than Robby, but that ship had long since sailed. Cassie McKay was on French horn, and Frank had spoken to her on occasion, she was one of the few musicians there that didn't start as soon as they came out of the womb, she started playing it in high school, which was late in the grand scheme of these things. But there were a few faces Frank didn't recognize, like a girl with slightly dark skin and pigtail braids that was in Dana's section, and a new clarinetist with a long blonde braid, honey-colored, with glasses.

Frank watched the clarinetist, usually musicians in the first year here liked to mingle - especially newer ones, in order to gain some sort of respect from their colleagues to show that you gave a shit, but this woman didn't seem to be focused on anything but the music in front of her, her finger snapping in time as she tried to sight read the complicated rhythm; but she wasn't playing. Not many people did it that way, usually diving in with their instruments instead of sight-singing. But she was listening first, feeling the rhythm first before she could play it, Frank found himself watching longer than he expected to.

Then-

"You never mentioned you were coming back."

Oh, God.

Frank didn't need to turn around. He knew that voice, had known it for twelve years. He did so anyway, coming face-to-face with the principal flutist of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra for the past two years. Abby Callahan.

Who used to be Abby Langdon.

Frank snorted, because god fucking forbid she start with a how are you? "Thought it wasn't important, thought I'd never come back, but here we are."

"You look well," said Abby, and Frank laughed at that. Her eyes narrowed. "What? I can't compliment you anymore?"

"You don't mean it though." And like, the last time Frank saw Abby was last weekend, where he went back to the house to pick up Tanner and Penny to take them to his apartment where they got pizza and watched Gene Kelly's Singin' in the Rain, because Tanner and Penny refused to watch anything that didn't have music involved, so that along with Mary Poppins were staples for them, as well as the Sound of Music, which Abby wasn't too keen on because of the topics later on in the movie and that maybe they should wait until they're older, but you're never too young to learn about how shitty Nazis were.

So it wasn't like they were reuniting now. Her words about him looking better didn't really mean anything.

"I'm trying to be professional," she said through gritted teeth, and again, Frank had to laugh. Not that she wasn't good at her job, she was admittedly (begrudgingly) one of the best flutists he'd ever heard, but she hadn't gotten to that point by being agreeable and polite. She had gotten there because she was stubborn and hard-working. Flutists were absurdly common, conservatories were overflowing with them, never a shortage, always an abundance. And the competition between them was brutal, and Abby learned quickly that she had to be absolutely ruthless, and it was only when Frank started dating her that flute players were undoubtedly the meanest people in the business because of how cutthroat it was. Abby was not exempt from this because she couldn't be. It was one of the things that had driven him crazy about her.

It was also one of the things he had once loved about her.

"You're laughing at me," snapped Abby.

"A little," allowed Frank, his laughter turning into light chuckles. "And I think I have the right, since I'm sure that everyone's asked you why I left and you no longer have a ring on your finger."

"Do you seriously think I spent the last ten months talking about you?"

Frank's answer was immediate. "Yes."

Abby rolled her eyes. "You know what, fine, be that way, asshole. And just so we're clear, I did not spend ten months gossiping about you." Then she smiled, venomously sweet. How very Abby. "I have a life outside your addiction, you know."

Frank couldn't keep the bite out of his voice. "Is that any way to talk to the guy that helped you get this position?"

"Fuck you, I had to audition like everyone else."

They were fortunate that people were setting up their instruments or had already done so and were warming up to overhear this conversation. Or maybe they were, because musicians had a flair for drama, and the confrontation between two ambitious talented musicians that were once married and were now divorced in the first rehearsal back? Who wouldn't be invested in that shitshow?

"I made the phone call," Frank said simply.

It was the wrong thing to say.

"Oh my god, like you didn't get here because of your connection to Robby. Musicians having connections, why I have never heard of such a thing! You think I got this chair because you vouched for me? The long, grueling auditions I had to go through-" Ah, vintage Abby. Spoken like a true flutist. Treated every fucking audition like it was a blood sport. "-with two kids I needed to take care of on top of that, that by the way, you weren't able to help with-"

"Woe-is-you, woe-is you."

"Shut up."

"Very compelling, Abs."

"Most people come back from rehab with a little more humility."

"And most people start conversations with hello."

"I said you looked well."

"Which is Abby speak for you look less like a trainwreck than expected."

"Oh fuck off."

For a moment, they just glared at each other. Twelve years of knowing each other taught them many things about the other, one being that they knew exactly how to get under the other's skin in just thirty seconds. Now both of them, divorced, hadn't lost this skill, in fact it was one of the few things that got better between them.

"...I'm glad you're sober," Abby said, softer this time.

Frank scowled. "Abby-"

"No, just shut and listen for a second. I mean it... you scared me," she admitted, rather guiltily. And she meant it too, because Abby was one of the most fearless people he knew, and for her to even admit that she was scared, well, it said a lot. She looked to the side. "I didn't realize how bad it was."

Frank considered accepting that. He considered saying thank you and telling her that the drugs and rehab scared him too, it was destabilizing, like he didn't know what kind of person he was anymore, that she didn't have to look like that because she couldn't have known, it had been hidden very well up until that concert when everything was just too much. This was the mother of his children, the woman who'd seen him cry and vice-versa. (Abby's parents said that she never cried. Like, ever. Frank had seen Abby cry a total of five times - their wedding, when Tanner was born, when Penny was born, when Frank told her about the drugs, and when those divorce papers were served). So Frank needed to get along with her, for the sake of the orchestra, and his little ones. It would've been the mature thing to do.

Frank Langdon had never been really mature.

"Wow. Way to make this about you. So you feel guilty. Great, now we're both miserable, which is probably what you wanted for me, so congratulations."

Abby didn't speak for some time. She bore him that cold, analytical expression that could make lesser musicians wet themselves, and cleared her throat in that calm little manner of hers that said that she was about to ruin his day. "This is your ninth year, yes?"

Frank didn't know what the hell she was on about. "What?"

"Your ninth year."

He stared at her confusedly. Then it clicked.

Oh.

Oh, fuck her.

Because musicians were superstitious.

"You're despicable," he spat.

Abby smiled at him, the kind of smile she'd give out to a rivaling flute player before she smashed their career into pieces. "Good luck," she added for good measure, which was another superstition (you never wished someone good luck, it would bring anything but), before nearly skipping away to the woodwind section. Frank watched her go, already aware that this rehearsal was off to a bad start and they hadn't even gotten the music out yet.

Fucking Abby, Frank thought bleakly.

Frank met Abby in the same conservatory where she was a flute player which should've been the first red flag. Enrollment was strange at Curtis; the school didn't accept a certain number of students each year, it all depended on who was leaving and those spots needed to be filled for the following year. At the end of Frank's first year, only one flutist was leaving a vacancy. One seat, for one of the most competitive instruments in music. A huge problem, because flute players were everywhere. There were probably hundreds of flute players that had to interview first, then hope they score the audition, narrowing it down little by little. Frank didn't know the exact number, but it sounded impossible. He'd been lucky that four percussionists were leaving when he'd gotten the call, and the competition between percussionists wasn't as brutal.

Abby had gotten that spot.

(And if the number of flute players on the day of that audition had suffered instrument malfunctions were unusually high, then no one would mention it).

But there was little left to the imagination of how talented she was. She was always practicing - she'd be the first one to reserve a practice room, and he'd see her. She had the kind of work ethic that made other people lazy by comparison, and she was really good at making you feel that way. She would spend hours fixing something, there was always something to fix, something someone wouldn't have noticed. And then she would walk into rehearsal like it'd been effortless.

It was infuriatingly impressive.

It was also unfortunately very attractive.

Frank had eyes too. And they could function very well, thank you, and yeah, maybe the first thing he'd noticed about her on her first day was her appearance. Her eyes were a piercing, startling green that she decorated with black eyeliner. She had long jet black hair - like Megan Fox, almost - down to her hips, which she put in a ponytail once she sat down in her chair, not wanting it to interfere with her playing. It belonged in a ridiculous shampoo commercial, which was unfortunately one of the first things Frank had ever said to her, and Abby gave him a look of disgust, and Frank liked that. He liked that she wasn't all that interested in him, that she wasn't blown away by his jokes, or his sense of humor at all really, and he had to work a little harder to get her attention.

Frank was nineteen-years-old surrounded by some of the most talented musicians in the United States, and he did not think of a colleague's playing when he saw her, no, he saw that she was absolutely beautiful, and Abby could sense that, probably. But it wasn't just about her looks - at the start, maybe - she carried herself very well. She could an average musician and project this air of perfection, her confidence - which Frank had a lack of, especially his second year - was incredible. Abby wasn't just a pretty flute player, that would've been too boring, and Abby was never boring.

Abby had sight read a passage perfectly her first rehearsal. Frank understood why she was there, when he heard, and when he watched her. She didn't play like she was proving herself as a worthy Curtis musician, like Frank constantly did, she played like she belonged there already. And that was far more dangerous than the hair. At first, Frank was curious. She was completely unaffected by him, it wasn't disdain, more like she didn't care (or more like she pretended she didn't care, which Frank would argue about years later. Abby was immune to most of Frank's comments, she would stare at him like he's Patrick Bateman or something, and then say something that made Frank wonder why he bothered talking to her at all, even though he knew why.

One day, Abby was passing by Frank's section, making a face on the way toward the brass section who emptied their spit valves right in front of her and her reaction was so ridiculously endearing he didn't know what to do with it. Then she glanced over at Frank's sheet music that he annotated thoroughly. She stopped right in her tracks, just to stare at it. She asked if he annotated everything, and he had responded why wouldn't he, and she had said that he was a percussionist and percussionists, from what she'd seen, only had to mark entrances. Frank had started to explain some of his notes to her, why he needed to focus on the brass section holding out a phrase and how he adjusted with the timpani, that if the violins were playing a certain way, he needed to learn how to shape his own playing to match theirs.

Abby stared at him for a while. Then stated: "You're serious."

"Yes."

She didn't speak for a bit, and for a second Frank wondered if he said the wrong thing to her, because he had plenty those stupid moments, then she said: "Okay." Then she added, "Your handwriting is illegible" before she walked away. And Frank had smiled, despite the insult, because (though she'd deny it) there was a mutual understanding in those stunning eyes of hers, and a hint of a smile. There was a subtle change in the rhythm that day.

Abby was warming up to him.

One night, Frank was staying late, on his own, to work on a passage he was struggling with. Abby could've left, could've gone out, to give herself a little break from music (but who was she kidding, she was a fucking machine), but instead she pulled up a chair to sit beside him. Abby told him point blank what the issue was, something about anticipating the entrance and Frank had argued with her, even though she was right, he just wanted the attention, and she knew that. She gave the attention to him anyway because "I'm tired of you playing that over and over."

Then he asked her if she wanted to go for a late night coffee run.

"You drink coffee at 9pm?" Abby had asked incredulously, which made Frank burst out laughing, and Abby failed to contain her own grin.

"Are you coming or not?"

She could've said no. She could've said she had to be up early tomorrow or some other excuse, to not be with him, of all people. But instead she had said yes. And to not look so damn happy, it's not a date, Frank. I don't have time to date, I don't have time for boyfriends, so this is certainly not a date.

Except that it was a date. They just took a completely platonic walk across campus, where Abby randomly decided to tell him a bit about herself, that she came all the way from Montana, a state that she really fucking hated, and was sure to tell him so, that nothing ever happened there, that her much older sister was into playing the flute as a hobby. A statement that made Abby so physically ill to the point where she was determined to make a career of it. So at age six she demanded her parents give her flute lessons, and they gave into it, thinking it was some phase, but it wasn't. The mental image of a first grader pestering her parents for a flute was too adorable, but it told Frank a lot about her. She was stubborn at the very beginning, not becoming a musician because someone told her to, but because she had a point to prove.

There had been more dates that Abby had insisted they weren't. On the second date, they went to see Whiplash which was still playing in theaters at the time, which had been Abby's suggestion because she "wanted to see if it was accurate" so it counted as studying. She didn't protest when Frank put his arm around her and didn't mind when Frank pointed out the inaccuracies. Some of it though, was dead on.

On the third date they went to an old record store, and Abby rolled her eyes, but she followed him inside anyway. That was the thing with Abby, she'd complain a lot. She'd complain while doing something, and complain while enjoying the same something. They spent two hours there, but Abby didn't get bored. She talked about her own interpretations of the music, and she laughed a little more with him, when she wasn't being so serious all the time, and when they left, Abby linked her arms with his as they continued their stroll, occasionally leaning her head against his arm, meanwhile Frank's heart was about to explode out of his chest.

She stopped pretending these weren't dates by the fourth one, after four months of knowing each other, where they went to a late dinner after a rehearsal, and after, she had leaned into kiss him.

That's when they had become official.

They had gotten married when Abby was in her final year at Curtis, and Frank was a few months into his time at the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra, and their wedding song was Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty Waltz, her favorite piece of all time. When Abby graduated, she was struggling to find a permanent position, and for a bleak moment Frank thought that Abby would give up on her dreams of playing full time, but no, Abby wasn't like that. She thought fast, and had taken up teaching private lessons for children in the meantime, even though she firmly believe in the those who can't, teach philosophy. She wouldn't admit it, but Abby loved children, she liked fostering their musical growth, who had that same passion as she did, and whether or not they'd take what she'd taught them with them to whatever they wanted to continue music or not was not her concern, even though that's what she would like from them. She took other gigs, here and there, performances that would hopefully make someone notice her, to hear what she was capable of, but unfortunately a lot of these situations involved luck or in other cases - connections, like Frank had.

She had taken a short break from teaching once Tanner had been born, and once again when Penny had been born two years later. Frank remembered how much she struggled with it; not because she didn't love her children, god, she loved them so much - but Abby had spent her entire life defining herself as a musician, and suddenly she had two children who needed her. Tanner was showing strong musical abilities already, and Frank couldn't wait for the day where Tanner decided if he wanted to be a flute player or a percussionist. And Frank had loved it, because it was his dream to have exactly this, a high salary as principal percussionist, a beautiful wife, two kids.

But Abby wanted more. And that opportunity arose when Penny was just three months old.

How Abby came to the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra was really funny. The principal flutist had been very old and needed to retire already, and finally she phoned it in last second without telling anyone, and Frank had gotten a desperate phone call from Robby, who had been well acquainted with the Langdon family, invited over for dinners after rehearsals, where he got to know Abby and the kids. Robby had told Frank, in his own words: I need a flutist that's not a fucking idiot, and Frank knew what he was trying to say. I know your wife plays the flute. I know that she's good. But I still have to get her to audition like everyone else, but let her come in. It sounded like another dream, both of them coming in with high salaries, giving their kids a beautiful life, that with their hustling and having their feet in the door gave Tanner and Penny a chance. Abby had said yes when they asked if she wanted to take the position because she'd be a fool not to. She'd risen to principal flutist quickly.

They weren't even in their thirties yet and they had it all.

And then Frank got addicted to benzos, Robby searched his bag, and everything went to shit within seconds. When Robby threw him out of the orchestra, Frank told Abby everything, getting down to his knees and crying into her legs. She was crying too as she leaned down to gather him in his arms, because she knew what this meant, she was all about statistics and the odds weren't good, which Frank honestly didn't fucking appreciate, but nonetheless. He went to rehab and couldn't see his kids for two months, could only see Abby once every two weeks, and Frank could see when things started to take shape, that he wasn't going to be married much longer, that he could see how Abby was dealing with the questions about Frank, what was going on, what they had heard, and what they knew. When Frank got home they had a huge fight two weeks later, and Frank relapsed not too long after, and he had to go back again for another two months. Little Tanner and Penny not knowing why daddy was gone for so long, and then returning, and then leaving again.

When Frank got back from rehab the second time, the divorce papers were on the table.

And Frank didn't even have the energy to fight for their marriage, because they'd do it for what, the kids? That's what his parents did, and they ended up being more miserable as the years went on. And Frank couldn't do that to Tanner and Penny, even though it fucking hurt that he wouldn't be able to see them as often, as she obviously would have full custody of them. She wasn't keeping them from him fully, which Frank was grateful for, because she could've said fuck you and made sure he couldn't get within fifty feet of them, but she didn't. He could be with them on the weekends, or any other day Abby would say was fine to do so in advance, and Frank had accepted that. It was better than being those deadbeats that didn't see their kids at all. Tanner and Penny hadn't taken it well, and their combined cries that day would be the word sound he'd ever heard in his life, and he had once heard two piccolos try to play in tune.

(Abby always hated that joke. Frank thought, especially now, it was hilarious).

So, yeah. Twelve years with the woman Frank thought he'd spend the rest of his life with. That he had to see every day for the rest of his life, well, depending if that ninth curse hit him (Goddamn it, Abby). He had to deal with a conductor watching him like a fucking hawk and a section that would rather not see him here, and is that new clarinetist still sight singing?

Frank glanced around the orchestra, people were still warming up, and Robby hadn't gone up to the podium yet, so Frank had time to kill. He looked around to see which member would not look at him like he was about to smoke crack in front of everyone. His eyes landed on Yolanda Garcia, or who he affectionately called Yoyo, and made his way over to her. Despite Garcia not visiting him once, or bothered to check in with him, she was all grins.

"Langdon," she greeted, and oh god, she was hugging him. And ow, because she was stronger than she looked, and pulled away after a few seconds. She looked a little sheepish, weird for someone so brash. "I'm sorry I didn't check in, I heard about what happened. I've been so budy, you know, becoming principal-"

"I get it," Frank said quickly, even if he was still a little pissed off with her, but whatever. He didn't have a right to be, maybe, since he had snorted before a concert, and he was grateful someone was sort of glad to see him. Plus he needed information Like that cute blonde that kept sight singing to herself. He looked over at her. "Who's the new clarinetist?"

"Oh, she came in two days ago actually," replied Garcia. "I think Robby said her name was..." She snapped her fingers a times. "Melinda? Melanie? Oh! Melissa. But then she said that everyone calls her Mel."

Frank had questions. Like did Mel know about him already after only two days?" Did she know of the sour taste he put in everyone's mouth? Would she look at him like he was some degenerate? Not that he cared, but it was good to know if he could make a new friend here.

"How'd she get here?" Frank asked instead.

Garcia shrugged. "I think Samira worked with her in an ensemble a few years back?"

"What happened to Collins?" inquired Frank, referring to Heather Collins, their former principal clarinetist.

"Oh, you missed a lot. Apparently word got out that Robby was dating her, which of course we all fucking knew, but someone ratted him out. I bet it was one of my new trombonists because Robby had pointed out three days ago that he was flat."

"I didn't rat anyone out," the new trombonist said angrily, who was sitting right next to Garcia.

"You did. Shut up. And fix your goddamn posture." The new trombonist, who Frank thought looked like a rat, grumbled but did what Garcia said. This time, Garcia kept her voice low as she addressed Frank. "Anyway, there was this whole talk about conductors not being able to get into relationships with musicians they're conducting, so Collins had left - heard she was planning to join Oregon's orchestra though. But their relationship still ended. I think that it was going to anyway, because I heard rumors that she had his child, and terminated the pregnancy, but again, that's a rumor, you didn't hear from me."

Frank grimaced. "Yikes." Then he looked over at Mel, who was still laser focused on the sheet music and smiled a bit. "Is she any good? Mel?"

"Oh she's... good, but I mean, the fuck do I know? I'm a trombonist, but the other woodwind players seem to like her. Abby is fond of her, in her own way. You know how Abby tries to scare off woodwind players, but she doesn't, with her." Frank held back a wince, wondering how much Abby liked her. Garcia caught that immediately. "No, I mean, Mel is getting along nicely with the people here, but she keeps more to herself. She's one of those. She was kind of awkward when I tried to introduce myself. But I think she's still adjusting, that's normal here, you know how it is. Why so curious?"

Frank was taken aback by this question, which really was normal, but still. "I wanted to find someone here that doesn't look at me like I'm an asshole, even though that's what I am, and she looks... friendly."

Garcia nodded understandingly. "You want someone you have a fresh slate with. That doesn't know about what happened. That doesn't know about the drugs, about rehab, about the divorce-"

"Hey," Frank cut in warningly, because did Garcia have to be so fucking blunt about it?

Garcia's face softened. "Frank, I'm not saying that to throw it in your face."

"Could've fooled me."

"I'm saying it because you keep acting like those things are the only things people see when they look at you. Like yeah, it's a shock right now, but it'll wear off. And I know you don't want to hear this and you wouldn't believe me, but Abby wouldn't talk about her ex-husband to someone she's known for two days. And I don't think Mel's the type of person that listens to that anyway. I doubt Mel even knows who you are."

Frank watched Mel carefully. She turned a page and made another annotation. Didn't look up once.

Frank survived drugs, rehab, and a divorce, and now he had to navigate an orchestra that was still shocked by his return, an ex-wife he was to see every day, a conductor that only let him back in because the last percussionist was a pedophile, and now he had to try and speak to a shy, cute clarinetist that scrunched her nose up when she realized she was counting something wrong, because maybe there was a chance she hadn't known about the rise and fall of Frank Langdon.

"Up the ass!" Abbot suddenly commanded.

That was the cue, only done at rehearsals where no one else but the orchestra was around (thank god for that), for Al-Hashimi to let out a tuning note on her oboe - which was always a Concert A, hence, you know, the profane cue, and that's when the rehearsal was about to start.

The first half of the rehearsal was fine. Like, it was okay. Whitaker and Santos seemed to realize that yes, Frank was still here, yes he was staying, this wasn't an early April Fools' joke. Frank kept up, naturally, and there weren't any complaints from his section, or Robby, for that matter. But that was because they gave him baby parts that should've been for Whitaker and Santos, though they'd improved after almost a year, which Frank would admit.

These rehearsals would be two hours and thirty minutes long, with a fifteen minute break in-between. Robby had called that break now, and Frank knew he should eat something. Usually Abby would pack them both something and they'd eat together, but there was no doing that anymore, obviously (She'd probably just throw the sandwich at him. Which, based on how he'd been talking to her lately, he'd kind of deserve). So instead of eating something, he stepped outside with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He walked out of rehab with a cigarette addiction, and if you didn't do that then what were you even doing?

The cigarette was in his mouth not even lit yet when he saw that clarinetist again, talking with someone over the phone. She had a solo for several of the movements in the pieces they were playing, which wasn't surprising because orchestras typically liked to show off their woodwind section. She was great, wonderful actually, but there was that timidness there Frank understood all too well, and once she spent time here he knew that'd change. Because she was fantastic. Frank had been around enough musicians to know the difference between someone who was good technically and someone who understood the music, and Mel understood it.

"Okay, I love you, bye," the clarinetist - Mel - said, before hanging up. She then sighed, and sat down on the front steps, resting her elbows on her knees and cupping her face. Frank put the cigarette away, and wondered what his first words should be to her. Something about how she was really fantastic, and she shouldn't beat herself up, and she sounded great during her parts and had nothing to worry about.

"You know, a year ago I saw a guy throw up in that exact spot you're in. So I wouldn't sit there."

The words left his mouth and immediately Frank wanted to remove himself from the situation altogether because what the fuck was wrong with you. He had been planning to make a good first impression on someone who didn't have a reason to think he was an idiot and instead he opened up with a warning about a musician vomiting on the stairs.

Wonderful.

Mel slowly lifted her head. "...What?"

Yeah, there was no way to recover gracefully from this. Might well get it out in the open now. "Uh, yeah. The guy - he was a violinist, it was his first year..." He gestured vaguely to the exact spot Mel was sitting in. "The steps, vomiting. Really gross."

Mel blinked, and at this point Frank would rather have said he'd snorted Xanax before a concert.

"...I was going to say that you sounded great," admitted Frank, unusually quiet. Mel's expression softened a little, so Frank went on, "But then I saw you sitting there and remembered the vomit thing."

Stop. Fucking. Talking.

"And somehow that became the first thing I said," Frank finished anyway. Mel stared at him for what felt like hours, but then something unexpected happened - she broke out into a warm, friendly (lovely) smile and got up slowly and was standing across from him.

"Was he okay?" she asked.

"What?"

"The guy."

Frank was honestly shocked she didn't try to make a break for it at this point that he struggled to answer fast enough. "Oh. Oh yeah, he was fine. I think he was just embarrassed, but he popped a Zofran in his mouth and kept playing. That's your first concern?"

She looked confused by this. "Shouldn't it be?"

Frank smiled a little. "Yeah. Sure."

"Well, um... that's good, that he's okay, and all..." Mel managed, fiddling with her fingers a bit. "...it's good to be okay, after getting sick... apparently on the steps I was sitting on, which you warned me about, so thank you for that. That was really kind of you."

Frank probably had opened up the grossest possible thing he could say in his first ever interaction with her, and, in her eyes, that was kind of him. Like, wow. And she was so earnest about it too. "No problem, but, I just wanted to tell you that you're great, I really loved what you did there, and you're very focused on your craft and you just made a good impression. That's all."

"And that turned into you talking about vomit," said Mel, but she was smiling.

Frank smiled back. "I'm sorry - I should probably introduce myself. I'm Frank. I'm Frank Langdon, I played percussion here for eight years, but then I went on a ten month leave... and yeah." He kind of hoped she wouldn't ask questions on that, so he was sure to add: "So I kind of know what I'm talking about when it comes to good musicians here, and you're one of them. I mean, everyone is good, but you're really good." It wasn't like he was saying that to make her feel good, it was true, but what was the saying? Two birds? One stone? (Why were birds being hurt in this idiom, it always made him weirdly uncomfortable).

Mel brightened considerably despite the vomit talk. "I'm Melissa King, but everyone calls me Mel. That really means a lot, it's been hard here, the past few days, and not everyone is upfront about that thing. I was on the phone with my sister Becca, she's special needs and had gotten into this great independent living facility in Pittsburgh, and she's still adjusting because of a last minute move and-" she stopped, and Frank wished she hadn't. "-I'm sorry. Too much information for a first interaction."

"Oh don't worry," said Frank. Then, because apparently Frank had no survival instincts whatsoever, he continued: "I'm divorced from the principal flutist because I developed a drug problem. That's why I disappeared for ten months. I've been sober for six months now, which is nice."

A beat.

"Also, I have two kids, Tanner and Penny," added Frank, like that would somehow soften the blow. Then of course he had to ruin it with, "I see them on the weekends. They're um, the children I had with my then wife Abby, who I don't know spoke about me, or not, but..." He trailed off and he wanted to bang his head against the steps - the steps, of course, that had vomit on them, in a distant past.

But Mel's entire face lit up. "You've been sober for six months?" she asked, and there was so much genuine happiness in her voice that Frank actually looked behind himself to make sure she was talking to him. "Oh that's wonderful. Congratulations, that sounds like a huge milestone."

What.

"Uh..." Frank started, feeling weirdly embarrassed. Nobody actually congratulated him on his sobriety here, and the first person to do so was one he'd spoken to for not even five minutes, on what was once puke-invested steps. "...Thanks."

"That must be really hard to do, and for you to come back, after everything... It must be a lot. You should be proud of yourself."

Rehab hadn't exactly felt like an accomplishment. It had felt like cleaning up a disaster he'd made himself. Like a firefighter that had started the fire just so he could put it out and play hero.

"I was the one that got addicted," Frank said honestly. "Kind of my problem in the first place."

"It's still impressive. You could've, um, not gotten help." Mel twisted her fingers together. "I've known people who were struggling and couldn't admit it. Or didn't want that help or were too scared to try. But you did, and I think that says a lot about you."

Then she added, almost nervously: "...in a good way."

Frank stared at her. He had pretended he didn't notice the looks he had gotten during rehearsal, especially when Robby had asked him to play out a part, which of course was fine, but Santos and Whitaker kept exchanging glances and didn't want to speak to him when Robby called for a break. Abby's lips had been pressed in a thin line like it always did when she was annoyed. So really, it felt weird when Mel complimented him.

"I wouldn't take it any other way," Frank finally said, his throat kind of dry.

Mel looked relieved. "Thank God. Sometimes before I speak, I tend to overthink what I want to say, and I try rehearsing it in my head because it doesn't always come out right, so I'm very grateful that you um, said last thing I want is to offend someone, even if it's unintentionally, because the cause is still there, and the hurt is still there, and I don't want that."

It was honestly very refreshing to hear someone that wasn't wishy-washy about their own thought process. Most musicians would make a fucking song and dance about it to the point where they should've joined theatre.

"Funny, because I don't think enough before I decide what I want to say, and I end up saying the wrong thing," chuckled Frank, and it true. It's something his therapist said, what Robby said, what fucking Abby said - all the people that he managed to disappoint because he took a prescription that did not come from a pharmacy. But according to Mel, he was a wonderful, stand-up guy.

"Well you've said nothing wrong to me," Mel said with certainty. "I like speaking to you. And you sound very good, by the way, I should've mentioned that earlier - but I didn't, and I should've, so I apologize for that-"

"Don't apologize," Frank said, then he winced. "Didn't mean to cut you off there, so I should apologize to you. But no, you have no reason to apologize. Thank you."

"A lot of people here are very intense," Mel admitted, twiddling with her thumbs again. Frank was picking up that it was a nervous stim of hers. "Which I expected, I suppose, Mira had warned me about the intensity that comes with playing in this orchestra. Before I played in a small orchestra back in Virginia, and the pay wasn't very good. She played with me back in Virginia four years back, before moving up to second violin here. She called me a week ago, saying that the principal clarinetist had to leave and Mira recommended that I audition. I guess Robby liked me enough that I'm here, but there was the matter of finding a good facility for Becca, and I was lucky that I got a facility close by where I live and work."

Frank listened, really listened, and maybe it was a combination of rehab, therapy, Robby, and Abby beating into his noggin that he had to listen to people more, or maybe because Mel wasn't trying to impress him, and she didn't seem (from this conversation thus far) like she was judgmental, which said more about the people that had known him for years than her."

"So," Frank finally spoke, looking toward the front of Heinz Hall. "You got here because Samira recommended you?"

Mel nodded. "Yeah."

"And Robby liked you enough to hire you."

She looked uncomfortable. "I suppose."

"You suppose?" echoed Frank, frowning. "You know they don't just hand out chairs here, right?"

"I know."

"Do you?" questioned Frank, not rudely, but he saw parts of himself in her, all the (what Frank thought) few good parts, naturally, however just one bad part, which wasn't really bad - just a common feeling Frank had - still did now, since his return actually. Uncertainty, fear, imposter syndrome - all the things Frank expected of himself, but Mel didn't deserve that self-doubt.

Frank tried to smile encouragingly. "You're in the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra."

"It's hard to get used to that," she admitted shyly, with a smile, and it occurred to Frank that when she did that she looked very pretty.

They'd work on confidence. Both of them would.

At that moment, Abbot, their concertmaster came outside to warn them that Al-Hashimi was about to give them the tuning note, so they departed to the building. Frank was left with three thoughts: he hadn't smoked a cigarette (which was fine), he had somehow managed to tell a complete stranger his life story in under twenty minutes (which was probably not fine, but at least she did that too), and Mel King was probably the nicest person he had met in a very long time. She had the kind of voice that got stuck in his head, playing over and over like the beat of a drum.

"So when do you want to have a sectional?" Santos asked Whitaker after rehearsal ended, with Frank sitting right there still packing up. She hadn't even glanced in his direction, which was probably the point, but he could do without the tone dripping with condescension.

"Tomorrow we can get here early, maybe two hours before the first downbeat," answered Whitaker. Frank's eyes went to Mel, who was taking longer to pack up compared to the other woodwind players - usually oboists and bassoonists took a while to get their stuff together. Everyone else had gone home, well, other than the two percussionists he was with, and Mel. Abby had told him ten minutes earlier that he hadn't lost his step, which was a genuine compliment, but of course Frank had responded that it must suck for her that he still had it so she told him to eat shit and the kids would be brought over to his place this weekend. So, yeah.

"Langdon?"

Frank blinked, snapping out of it. "Oh, oh yeah. I can show up two hours early. Yep."

Santos looked at him strangely. "Don't be late."

"Wasn't planning on it," Frank snapped coldly, which he immediately felt guilty about, then he realized he shouldn't because this woman ruined his life, but then, you know, accountability and consequences (the crap they talked about at NA) was suddenly hammered into his brain.

Fucking hell.

Whitaker and Santos told him they'd keep him in the loop and then left together, and before Frank could approach the one person that didn't make him feel like shit all day, Robby came into his line of vision, which didn't leave Frank with the best feeling.

"So..." he started, and Frank could hardly look at the man, the man he idolized, the man he worshipped before he could get a proper understanding of what being in Pittsburgh's Symphony Orchestra meant before it all went to hell. "How do you think today went?"

Frank met his gaze. Barely. "I mean, it was fine. I had trouble with the new parts for the first Carmen Suite, but I quickly adjusted, and I'm sure you heard that-"

"I wasn't talking about the music," interrupted Robby. "I know you're fine there."

Oh. Frank briefly glanced over at Mel, who was packing up slower, before looking back up at Robby again. "...It's fine. You know what they say, one day at a time, or whatever. Nobody threw a stand at me. Not even Abby."

"Abby wouldn't jeopardize a performance by breaking a stand we'd need."

Frank had to laugh at that. "Yeah, she'd wait until after the concert."

Though Frank knew that Abby was actually being nicer than he had expected, and beneath the overly competitive bitchiness that encompassed her as a human being, she was actually making an effort in her own way, and he probably should've appreciated it more instead of purposely provoking her. But that would involve Frank being the bigger person here, and he was still in that stage that when others went low, he dragged them to hell.

"...You're going to meetings?" asked Robby, but he knew that, he just wanted to hear Frank say it because Robby was insistent on making this experience as difficult as possible.

"Yes."

"You're working with your sponsor?"

"Yes."

"You're still seeing your therapist?"

Frank tried not to roll his eyes. "Is this supposed to feel like an interrogation?"

"No."

"Well you're doing a bad job."

Robby didn't even falter a little. "I'm just asking questions."

"In rapid succession. Maybe want to blare a flashlight over me too? Because-" Frank stopped, holding his tongue. He wanted to say it was because he wanted a fucking job here and to have his six figure salary back, and to find his love for music again. "-never mind. I'm doing whatever's expected of me. I'm getting along with Santos and Whitaker, we even planned a sectional tomorrow before a rehearsal. I still see my kids. I'm happy to be back. I'm fine."

Mel was still there, shuffling her sheet music around. Frank pretended he didn't notice.

Robby let out a long sigh. "Alright," he said awkwardly, "It's good to um, get along with people and all, and that's great. I'm happy for you." He said this in the least convincing tone ever.

"Thanks," Frank said, just as convincing, which was not at all, and then Robby left. Frank walked over to Mel, who had started to pick up her pace. "Sorry that you had to hear all that."

Mel blanched at this. "Oh- no, no it's fine. I wasn't trying to listen, it's that um, you're in the same space, but I wasn't quick enough to organize my sheet music, so I was just there, existing, in the same space you're in, where you spoke to Maestro Robinavitch, and er, others."

Frank let out a chuckle before he could stop himself (she was adorable, honestly). "That's Robby's love language, interrogate other pepole to distract from his own fucking problems."

She tilted her head a little. "That doesn't sound like a love language."

"There's a lot of things Robby does that doesn't sound like a love language, but trust me, it is."

"Okay, but I already do trust you."

She had said that like it was normal. Frank blinked once like that it would reset this situation, a time before Frank introduced himself to her, which was not even three hours ago and she trusted him?

"You-" he started, then stopped. "-you trust me?"

Mel frowned. "Well you haven't given me a reason not to trust you, have you?"

Frank stared at her like she was insane, though that wasn't the word Frank would've liked to use in regards to someone as nice as Mel, but this was, on some level, insane. He had disappeared for ten months, returned to the orchestra with a bad reputation barely held together like tape, introduced himself to her by telling a story about a musician vomiting, and at the same time told her about drugs, rehab, and divorce despite telling himself he wouldn't. And she, for some reason, trusted him.

Frank lowered his voice, and spoke almost fearfully: "You don't even know me."

Mel looked like she was considering his words, then nodded once. "You're right. I don't. But- I don't know, it's nice to meet someone that's kind of understanding, when we spoke during our break. You listened, and a lot of people didn't. I was cut off a lot at my old orchestra, even Mira's not that great with that. And I understand we're all busy, but you took the time, which meant a lot to me."

...Wow, Frank thought she should probably lower her standards for him. It would save her a lot of confusion in the long run. "Thank you," said Frank, which was the polite, normal way to respond to her.

"So I'd really like it if we could be friends," Mel told him, and there it was again, her voice when she said that. It echoed in Frank's head like the beat of a drum, syncing with something he was suddenly aware of in his own chest. She looked at him worriedly. "Frank?"

"Oh yeah. I'd love to be friend," Frank told her in a rush, which was weird for him.

Mel smiled, and it made Frank feel... floaty, somehow, in his ribcage. "Good. Friends exchange numbers, right?" They exchanged phone numbers seconds later. "It's nice to have a friend. I like Mira a lot, but she's been busy with... other things, at the moment."

Frank saved her the embarrassment of 'telling' him what other things were. Besides, Frank had an idea of what it was, because everyone knew that Samira Mohan and Jack Abbot had a thing for each other, and from the looks of it, it became official but had to be kept hush-hush.

She was done packing up now, and he started to walk alongside her out of the Heinz Hall. The sky was dark, and the air was much cooler, and his companion did not have anything but a t-shirt with short sleeves on, and Frank considered giving her hos hoodie, but that was too weird and he didn't want to creep his new cute clarinetist friend out on the very first day they met.

"Have you had your first woodwind sectional yet?" Frank wanted to know, before he could get to his car.

"...Oh, that's tomorrow. Baran has mentioned getting together at her place," Mel said, hugging herself and rocking on the balls of her feet. "Do you have any advice?"

Frank tried not to burst into laughter, he really didn't want to terrify her on the first day, but he also needed to be honest with her. He'd sat through these sectionals before, because he would wait for Abby before they could go home, and vice-versa. Those sectionals were run like the fucking navy, especially when Abby was in charge, something that was really hot at the time. Frank was honest to Mel about them, but told her based on her playing, she had nothing to worry about. He tried to keep his personal biases out of it, but he may have slipped that if Abby tried to complain about Al-Hashimi's "artistic intent" just assume Abby's hangry and ignore it.

"Oh," was Mel's response to that novel, which, fair.

"Are you headed off anywhere after rehearsal?" asked Frank.

"I'm going to pick up my sister," beamed Mel, and the sight made Frank smile all over again. "I love her. She's my best friend. She's been in independent living facilities before, where I'd pick her up and she'd spend the night. Some nights are harder, if the rehearsals run late."

Frank shoved his hands in his pockets. "Did you do anything else before the orchestra in Virginia?"

"I'm actually a licensed music therapist." Oh. Oh that was just incredible. "My sister's on the spectrum. I'd only meet with the orchestra in Virginia twice a week and we didn't have concerts as often, the pay was small, so I had to do something, and I thought of my sister and how she reacted to the music, how it was helpful, so I went into that profession."

Frank blinked. "Wow... that's... that's just amazing, Mel."

She looked a little embarrassed. "Thanks." Then she continued, "And mom - mom used to be a fantastic clarinetist, back in Virginia, she started me on lessons when I was about six and I fell in love with it. But she, um, passed from a brain tumor when my sister and I were eighteen. So I had to take care of Becca, and I knew that the pay wasn't enough in the orchestra I was in, but I was fortunate that we had relatives to help me. I found music to be an effective tool for those on the autism spectrum. I wanted to give back to her in a way, the best way I knew."

For a while Frank didn't know what to say. There was no mention of her father, and Frank wondered if that was intentional. He decided not to press on the matter.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," he said, and he meant it, because what else could he say?

Mel looked at him. "At least it sounds earnest, coming from you." Ha, earnest. Frank Langdon. Who would've thunk it. "Most people, I feel like, feign sympathy."

"They do," Frank said honestly, looking straight ahead as he thought about the day he had with the people that had known him for years, the people that should've had his back. "It's all a performance to people. Everything's a goddamn performance, like it's the fucking Truman Show. But no one is really watching that closely. The people you've known don't really see you, really know you, and you thought they did but they didn't, and you suppose it's your fault, but whatever. You're here to do a job. You're here to get a steady paycheck. The same reason as everyone else, and because you love what you do and can't imagine working those god awful nine-to-five jobs with stability, let's be honest, stability is boring."

Frank realized he had gone off-topic, and he probably looked like a mad man, and almost didn't want to see the look on her face. But he did so anyway, and saw Mel was smiling.

"I... liked that movie, a lot." Frank blinked at her, wondering what she was on about. Mel was still smiling as she reminded him, "...the Truman Show."

"Yeah, it's uh... it's a good one," Frank said quietly, shuffling his foot on the pavement. "Usually when I come off unhinged like that, people tell me that I should talk to someone, and before you ask, I do."

"Well I don't mind listening. Did it help?"

Oh, she was too cute. "It did," he chuckled, slightly aware his ears were turning pink. Probably the weather. Then he realized he looked kind of stupid, and he was keeping her here from her sister, very selfishly (even though he wanted to be a little selfish, as that was nothing new for him). "I'm gonna head back, it was nice meeting you, and good luck on your sectional tomorrow."

"It was nice meeting you too," Mel said sweetly. Like the beat of a drum.

Frank's sectional with Whitaker and Santos was fine as it could be, except it was Whitaker calling the shots, which Frank really tried not to be a prick about, but the kid still timidly told them what to do and Santos would try to suggest something, and then Whitaker would say something back, and Santos would joke, which left Frank feeling like a third wheel even though he was positive neither of them swung in that direction.

Then Frank tried to suggest something about an entrance and they looked at each other like, oh yeah, this guy has way more experience than us, but he's a fucking drug addict who got high before a concert so his opinion means nothing. Granted, that's not what either of them said, like, at all, but they might as well. This pussyfooting around irritated him, but they did follow the suggestion and the fucking eye rolling from Santos nauseated him and made him want to walk directly into traffic. And they needed to sound better because they had a shitload of performances coming up, which was usually during weekends where Frank was supposed to have his kids (How convenient). But then after Frank's suggestion Santos and Whitaker actually sounded better (How shocking).

Other musicians filed in after the sectional was over, and Frank found himself looking for a certain clarinetist. All the woodwind players had strolled in by this point, except her, which was strange. If Mel had the sectional, all the woodwind players would arrive at the same time. Weird.

Frank had gone up to Abby to ask if they were still on for this weekend and if they'd made arrangements for Frank to spend time with the kids outside Frank and Abby's scheduled performances. Abby told him that their babysitter was going to be with them and sit in the concert. It turned out, the babysitter they got when Abby joined the orchestra played bassoon in her conservatory, and hearing that she'd get free tickets if she accompanied the kids on some days, she jumped at the chance. The babysitter got paid really well during the summer, and Frank had no issues with her, but sometimes it felt like neither he nor Abby were raising their children during that time. Which made Frank certain would come up in his kids' future therapy sessions.

Their kids being asked to sit still during a concert, especially Tanner (the kid definitely inherited Frank's ADHD, another thing to add to the pile of guilt Frank had) sounded like a nightmare waiting to happen. After this performance, Frank would take the kids back to his apartment.

The conversation was painfully civil. Then Robby came in. "Hey," he started, and my god, was this what hell looked like? "Just wanted to check in if everything's okay here. And that there, uh, won't be any issues moving forward between you two."

"Oh everything's fine," Frank said quickly. "We're getting along very well, for the sake of the orchestra, because all of us are a team, like you said."

Abby snorted, and Frank was pretty sure the noise translated to you are so full of shit. Frank was about to tell her to go marinate in it when Mel walked in with her headphones on. Robby had moved on at this point, but Frank stayed behind.

"...How was the new clarinetist? I heard you had a sectional," asked Frank, referring to Mel. He knew he'd get an honest answer from Abby.

Abby blinked, no doubt thrown off by this question. She gave him an odd, suspicious look. "You never gave a shit about new woodwind players coming in before."

"Well yeah, but this woodwind player doesn't know-"

"She doesn't know you, or your history, or your degree in assholery," cut in Abby. Frank wanted to make a snide remark about Abby's degree in emotional warfare, which was a nicer way of saying she was a bitch, but you know, thinking before speaking, and all that.

"Sure, you could say that," was Frank's answer, which was honestly one of the tamest things he had said to her upon his return to the orchestra.

"She's fine," allowed Abby, which was a five-star review, coming from her. "She's unsure, but she's very very aware that she's unsure, which is good, because you can work on it. She'll fit in, but that mousiness is going to kill her here."

Frank gave a knowing, warning look. "Are you playing nice?"

"I always play nice."

It took everything for Frank not to laugh at that bullshit, and left her with: "Good."

Frank still had time left to spare, ten minutes before the tuning note, he made his way over to Mel who was there, her headphones off this time, sight-singing again like she was, even though he knew the passage she was working on was already perfect, and asked: "So how was the sectional?"

Mel looked up at the person who entered her space. "Oh. Hi Frank. Um, it was good. Just one thing..." Frank waited patiently for her to gather her thoughts, then she spoke, quite hesitantly, "...Is Abby always this intense?"

That landed with perfect accuracy and Frank didn't have to think twice. "If by intense you mean a woman with nearly perfect pitch driven by pure spite and having an affinity for making you feel like you're doing everything wrong, then yeah."

"Oh. Oh then makes sense," said Mel, not really grasping the jab at Abby, or maybe she didn't want to talk about another musician badly. Frank would spare her. "Baran had to step out for a bit and put Abby in charge, and she had us all play our parts individually, and she had something to say about almost everyone."

"Almost everyone?"

"I played my part. She asked for me to play the duet we had in the Intermezzo movement of the first Carmen suite."

"Was she being mean to you?" Frank asked, almost protectively, and then wondered why he was feeling like that.

Mel shook her head. "No, she just stared at me for a few seconds after I finished and then asked the bassoonist to play, and that was it."

So Abby liked Mel was what Frank was gathering from this. This could be very good, because for Mel to get on Abby's good side was not an easy feat and if anyone in the fucking orchestra messed with her Abby would bat for her like there was no tomorrow. However this could also be very, very bad, because if Abby liked her, then she'd probably tell Mel all about him, even if Frank did his fair share of telling Mel about his problems, and Frank would be up shit's creek. And then Mel would start looking at him the way everyone else did once they had the full picture.

"I... I was worried I did something wrong," said Mel, looking down.

"No you didn't. If you did something wrong, Abby would let you know. Trust me."

She smiled. "I do."

Life the beat of a fucking drum.

"I remember," said Frank, smiling back at her. Something about her made her easy for him to talk to, even though that was apparent when he had told her on the very first day about the steps. "Did your sister have a good day?"

"It was wonderful, thanks for asking," Mel said. "Becca's still learning that things don't always go as planned, it's... it's something I've learned too, being a musician, that things aren't always going to be perfect, but I try, and so does Becca."

Frank grinned. "Dealing with sudden change is important for a musician."

"Langdon, quit talking to Mel and get over here."

Jesus Christ. Mel looked down, flushing (which was too adorable) and Frank wished this conversation wouldn't have to end but Cassie McKay was calling him, for some reason. He bid Mel adieu went over to the french horn player.

"Cass," Frank greeted politely, even though he wanted to go back to talk to Mel. "What can I do for you?"

The redhead didn't respond at first, she just wrapped her arms around him, and Frank felt really weird about that; he was just used to people looking at him strangely from a distance. Nonetheless, he returned the albeit brief hug, then McKay let go.

"I wanted to speak to you yesterday," said McKay, looking a little sheepish. Weird for the normally brash, crude french horn player. Most french horn players were. "But there hadn't been time, and I was trying to help my newest player, Javadi. She's good, one of them child prodigies like Shen, apparently her mom used to play here as a pianist. Javadi's nervous, but she'll be good once she's broken in."

"What did you want to speak to me about?" asked Frank, though he had an idea. McKay's past drug use wasn't exactly hidden, she had spoken about being to heroin in her youth, but McKay didn't do what Frank did which was get high before a concert, but she'd been clean for years - compared to Frank's measly six months.

"If you ever want to confide in me, you can do that," said McKay. "I've even thought about coming to meetings again, for you, if you wanted that support."

Okay, so maybe Frank's return wasn't that shitty after all. It felt like he was collecting infinity stones of people who didn't stare at him like he was going to snort Xanax in front of a live audience, which was always a plus.

"Thanks," said Frank, a little unsurely.

McKay gave him a friendly cuff on the shoulder. "It's a good to have you back, kid." Then she looked over at the clarinetist Frank constantly stared at during rehearsal times. "I think you should hold back on trying to date though."

Frank snorted when she saw where she was looking. "What? Abby and I have been divorced for four months now. I'm not trying to date Mel, I'm just being friendly. God forbid I try to be friendly to new musicians."

McKay raised an eyebrow. "I can arrange for you to get to know Javadi, if that's the case-"

"No thanks," Frank said too fast, and damn it, he should've agreed to it. "I mean-"

"What I meant was what until you reach a year of sobriety. It's what the say, yeah?"

"I met this woman yesterday, Cass," said Frank, trying to laugh her off. Yeah, he'd only met Mel yesterday, and yet he'd spent an embarrassing amount of rehearsal time looking in her general direction, wanted to know more about her life, was enamored with what she told him, and enamored with how she reacted when he told her about his life. Which, now that he thought about it, sounded less like a friendship and more like the opening stages of a very pretty problem that was becoming impossible to ignore, one that thought his sobriety was impressive and didn't recoil when he mentioned it.

McKay gave him a knowing look. "Just be careful, kid. That's all."

Which was sound advice.

The day of a performance was always hectic. No matter how much you rehearsed, inside and outside of these halls, you never felt truly prepared and suddenly the conductor would walk up to the podium and your mind snapped to attention like a well-oiled machine. Not to mention it was Frank's first performance in a long time, not since, you know.

At least by the end of the concert he'd pick up Tanner and Penny. Now if his kids could remain quiet for the concert, that'd also be great. Abby and Frank had drilled concert etiquette in their children as soon as they learned to talk, and despite Tanner's obvious ADHD and Penny being well, three years old, they were better behaved than most kids, but Frank was already preparing for the ton of the energy that would escape that they had bottled up as soon as Frank took them back to his apartment.

The hours before a performance were their own special kind of insanity. Someone was inevitably having a last minute crisis over a passage they'd played perfectly for weeks. Someone would freak out trying to find a pencil that was in their hand the whole time. A double reeded instrument's reed could break and they'd frantically put one together an hour before showtime and have only a minute to test it out. A violinist couldn't find their 'lucky' rosin and would act like their mother died.

Several musicians - Frank included - would eat a banana before, packed with potassium, in order to calm the nerves. Whitaker looked petrified before every performance and Santos would roll her eyes wanting to get this going already, but Frank knew it was a cover up for nerves. Garcia told her new trombonist to get his shit together and McKay was trying to help Javadi go over things at the last minute. Dana was with her protege, Emma, who looked like a deer in the headlights. One of the violinists decided to get into an argument with Mohan and Abbot, which was stupid and told Frank this newbie wouldn't be here very long. Something about a bowing change, when there wasn't. All of this was normal.

Frank loved it. It was insane and dysfunctional, but they always managed to pull it off. It was like home.

Then:

"No. Absolutely not."

There it was. The mandatory pre-concert argument. There was always one, and Frank liked to bet with Garcia which section would it be, and this time it was coming from the woodwind section. Frank stopped unpacking and looked over. It was Al-Hashimi who said this to Abby, and neither of them looked pleased at the moment. Mel was sitting between them. She had her contact lenses in it looked like, which gave her a whole new appearance, and that wasn't a bad thing. Her hair was down instead of a braid, in little waves, and wore all black - which was concert attire. She looked very, very nice, unfortunately she looked terrified at the argument that was brewing.

"I am telling you," Abby said, tapping a measure in the score. "That's what Robby asked for."

"That is not what Robby asked for."

"Then you weren't listening. He asked for these to be accented, not staccato. God, I didn't know they accepted musicians at the Manhattan School of Music that couldn't tell the difference."

Oh shit.

Suddenly everyone within a ten-foot radius became very interested in whatever they were doing; string players adjusting their strings, mallets being organized, the brass section checking the order of the pieces, and when the new trombonist Frank didn't care to learn the name of tried to protest that they were already in order Garcia stomped on his foot. From the looks of it, nobody was listening to the woodwind debacle.

...Except everyone was absolutely listening to the woodwind section debacle, and there was a reason none of these people went into acting. A piss poor excuse of pretending they weren't invested in this shown. Frank felt terrible for Mel though, caught in the crossfire.

"You know," Al-Hashimi said irritatedly, flipping through her music. "There are ways to discuss musical interpretation without insulting the conservatory they came from."

Abby raised an eyebrow. "There are also ways to interpret a marking without turning a simple accent into a completely different articulation."

"I didn't turn it into anything. It's just you being ridiculously nitpicky-"

"You're playing it so peckish. Like you're a fucking duck, and last time I checked, Peter and the Wolf isn't in our lineup today. Robby has told us to accent it, not play it short. Clear? And telling Mel to just ignore out conductor is a hell of a way to ensure that she won't have a job here."

Mel shrunk in on herself.

"I wasn't telling her to ignore Robby," Al-Hashimi pressed heatedly.

"You were telling her that your interpretation mattered more than what the conductor asked for."

"I was explaining why I played it that way."

"Then explain it without making Mel question whether she's supposed to listen to the conductor or not."

Al-Hashimi turned to Mel who looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there. "Mel, what do you think? We've worked together before, in our previous orchestra-"

"Oh my god, really?" cut in Abby, with a groan. "You're using that as a leverage because you have a history of working with her that should influence her answer?" Mel looked between tme, visibly panicking. "Just because you have a history doesn't mean you can just override what the conductor wants. What the conductor says goes, and you went to a music conservatory, you should know better."

"Mel and I could just be having a simple conversation, and of course you just-"

"I need some air," Mel interrupted desperately. She stood up with her clarinet and briskly walked out. Abby and Al-Hashimi watched her go. The two of them immediately started arguing again.

"I wasn't asking her to pick a side."

"You literally turned to her and said, 'we've worked together before.' That is the most polite way possible to say, 'please validate me because we have a shared history-'"

Frank wasn't really listening anymore and went to follow Mel. He found her outside, not sitting on what was once the vomit-invested steps, which thank God because Frank didn't want to explain the history of those steps a second time, but instead she was standing off to the side near the entrance, her clarinet clutched to her chest.

"Hey," Frank said softly, leaning against the wall.

Mel looked over. "Oh." She looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave like that."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because I needed a moment... away from that. It was completely unprofessional of me."

"Santos disagreed with the conductor in front of the entire orchestra, and she's somehow here. Garcia had yelled at a trombonist before - who was principal, by the way - because he emptied his spit valve... right on her foot. Abbot once singled out a new violinist for not playing pizzicatos. Robby stopped an entire rehearsal because someone kept shifting in their seat uncomfortably... which may or may not have been me in my first year. I hadn't played for an hour and was starting to get restless."

Mel's lips twitched at that, which was nice to see.

"Those are examples of being unprofessional, Mel. You're not being unprofessional. You removed yourself from a situation. That's arguably the professional thing to do, to let them have their squabble."

"I should've had the courage to say what I thought," insisted Mel.

"Al-Hashimi and Abby have always had it out for each other, and that shit has nothing to do with you. It became personal very fast, and that would be the right time to leave, which is what you did."

"Oh..."

"Look, I think my point is that musicians are all a little insane." Mel smiled faintly. "Not in a bad way, I mean usually we aren't. But we care about things with what we do that other people wouldn't notice and because of that, things get a little intense, like you said before."

"You remembered I said that?" Mel asked, very enthusiastically. Then she checked herself. "Sorry, I'm not used to uh, people remembering things like that. Or listening at all."

Frank couldn't fathom why the hell people wouldn't listen. It made him sad in his chest, because she listened and she was one of the few people here that weren't arrogant shitheads hellbent on making Frank's return to orchestra miserable, so yeah, Frank fucking hated that Mel was apologizing because she was surprised someone paid attention to her.

"I like listening to you talk, and you shouldn't apologize," Frank said simply, ignoring the simmering anger toward whoever in Mel's life made her feel like her words didn't matter.

"Thanks," said Mel, with her fingers tapping against the keys - not absentmindedly, Frank knew what this was, she was still going over the fingerings for tonight's performance.

"Are you nervous for today?" asked Frank.

Mel flushed a little. "Yes, it's that easy to tell isn't it? I have a terrible pokerface, as they say."

"Oh I'm terrified too," Frank assured. "But you know what helps me? You think the people in the audience, even those that are musicians, really get it? Audiences listen with their eyes."

Mel looked unconvinced. "With their eyes? I never heard that before."

"Think about it," Frank continued. "You and I could hear an orchestra play a passage and immediately notice that the second violins are rushing through sixteenth notes, or the brass are overpowering the woodwinds when they aren't supposed to. Most people don't hear that. The strings actually have to work harder, because they have to look like they're in sync, with their bows moving at the same time or else people will think it's wrong, and they're right at the front. We're all the way in the back, so we don't have to worry as much."

Mel's lips curved into a smile. "Well you don't have a reason to be nervous, you're very good."

"So are you," Frank responded instantly. He knew he would have to say this frequently, because you know, the imposter syndrome that came with being a musician, but she was here, he heard her play, so that had to count for something. "Mel, you went from playing in a small orchestra in Virginia to ours. That means something."

Mel's eyes were shining, and perhaps it was because her glasses were off, Frank couldn't help but notice them (lovely and warm, like chocolate). "...Thank you, Frank."

Then again, Frank was starting to notice a lot of things about Mel this past week, attributed to gazing at her longingly during rehearsals. Like how yesterday she was twiddling her thumbs when Garcia had picked an argument with the principal trumpet player, and Robby didn't even object to Garcia's comments, just cleared his throat and said "let's move on." So Frank knew that Mel hated confrontation (so different from him, he fucking loved a fight). She was good at giving eye contact during a rehearsal, you had to in order to be cued by the conductor, but when anyone else tried speaking to her, her eyes would go off to the side occasionally.

Al-Hashimi came outside, apparently looking for Mel and Frank, and she looked a little embarrassed when she addressed Mel. "I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have acted that way."

Just like Frank thought, Mel's eyes went to the side, which made Frank grin. "Oh- oh no, it's okay, really, I mean I should be sorry."

Yeah, Frank couldn't help himself. "Nope, you don't need to be sorry. They need to be sorry."

Al-Hashimi looked between Mel and Frank skeptically, then turned to Frank. "Your ex-wife is a terrifyingly talented bitch."

Frank considered this. "Talented at being a bitch or a musician?"

"Yes."

Mel made a noise that sounded like a cough and a laugh at the same time, and Frank was pressing his lips together trying not to laugh at that accurate assessment, as well as Mel's reaction to that information. The three of them went back inside, for one final last minute run before the audience started to fill the seats.

Robby would always say you were only as good as your last performance.

He said a lot of things, actually, during rehearsals. That for the brass section not every problem could be solved by playing louder (that didn't stop them from trying). Telling a bassoonist that he was flat; kind of like his head (ouch). Thanking the percussionists after playing an excerpt for showing everyone the reason they're back there (that had been Santos' fault, totally). And well, at least they were all playing the right piece (Christ). He told Mohan that she was off, which prompted an exchange later that Frank briefly overheard between Robby and Abbot where he was like Robby, what the fuck. (A normal response).

But being told that you're only as good as your last performance was the one that stuck with Frank the most. More so now, because Frank's last performance with the orchestra he was under the influence, and he still played kind of good, so he didn't know how to feel about that. Now it was about proving that Frank could still play a concert sober.

Five minutes before they were supposed to take the stage, Robby went to speak with him.

"Packed crowd, huh?" Robby asked rhetorically, because though they were musicians which depended on sound, they all had fucking eyes. "Excited?"

Well, Frank was excited just as much as anyone else would be to play George Bizet's Carmen Suites and his L'Arlesienne Suites. Which was to say: moderately and professionally excited. Frank had played it so many times it was as easy as sleeping, breathing, eating - and as of recent events - popping pills, but Frank didn't do that last part anymore. Obviously.

"Sure," was what Frank told him. Sometimes Frank wondered if he should've gone into jazz instead, where mistakes could be made and you could frame them as 'artistic choices.' But who was he kidding, he liked the structure of the orchestra, and hell, he needed it. Because if he ended up in jazz, he'd probably end up trying heroin instead of Xanax.

"That was the least enthusiastic 'sure' I've ever heard," commented Robby.

Frank shrugged. "It's Bizet."

"Bizet is great."

"I didn't say he wasn't. A lot of um... good stuff in there."

"Good stuff? Jesus, Frank."

Frank looked at Robby skeptically. "I'm a percussionist. I don't have the right words for these things."

"Bullshit. I've heard you spend ten minutes explaining why the third movement of Brahm's third symphony made you cry." To be fair, it was fucking Brahms. "And I'm a percussionist too, you know. In case you forgotten." It seemed like Robby had forgotten, these days.

Frank sighed, and Robby took that as a cue to continue, "I think you're just nervous about this being your first concert back, you get the music. You'll be fine."

And then it was show-time.

Mel cast a glance back at Frank, which he was sure made his face go a little red, she gave a little smile and mouthed you'll do great and geez was this what it felt like when someone believed in you, actually, with none of that fake bullshit half-assed comments, that someone gave a shit knowing you were nervous but looked back to reassure you? It felt... it felt (Frank didn't want to examine that too closely).

You too, he mouthed back.

Abbot was the last of the musicians to walk from the wings to the stage, as was routine for the concertmaster to do so, and the audience appropriately applauded (the musicians on stage, however, applauded by stomping their feet). He gave his bow toward the audience and cued for Al-Hashimi with a nod of his head to give the tuning note. Woodwinds would always tune first, then Al-Hashimi would repeat the tuning note, this time, for the brass. This process would repeat for the strings, then everyone would quietly wait for the conductor.

When Robby started walking to the podium, all the musicians stood up and the audience clapped. He faced the audience to give his bow, then turned to the musicians. No one put their instruments up yet, into what was called playing position, you would be a fool to do so before Robby raised his baton. Like Frank had said, audiences listened with their eyes. The orchestra remained still.

A singular cough came from the audience. Robby irritatedly rolled his eyes, and it took great restraint not to smirk at that.

But hey, it was better than a baby wailing. One time, a few months after Tanner was born, Abby had brought him to one of the orchestra's concerts. In her defense, he had been changed, burped fed, the whole nine yards, really. Unfortunately, Tanner had decided during the fourth movement of Dvorak's eighth symphony that had a very quiet section later on was the perfect time to announce his very existence in the hall. Which resulted in a special announcement from Robby to the orchestra the following day regarding leaving their little ones at home, and he may have (as in - definitely) looked at Frank the entire time he was saying this.

Finally, Robby lifted his arms, and the orchestra changed with him into playing position, and so they began with the first Carmen Suite.

In the past, when Frank played this (with the exception of his first year at the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra) he kind of went on autopilot, but he couldn't do that for this concert. The prelude movement was very intense, and normally Frank would play timpani before switching to the tambourine quickly for the first movement, but right now he was on the concert bass drum (for one fucking note at the end of the prelude movement), and then he switched to triangle for the first movement (ugh). It was Whitaker and Santos on timpani and tambourine respectively (they were... okay, Frank could do better). Frank was resting for movements two and three completely. Abby opened up the Intermezzo movement with a thirty second solo, before Mel joined in a duet, and Frank had to pretend that this shit didn't move him. By the fourth movement, Frank moved to snare where he was accompanying the bassoonist's solo. The last movement was just an explosion of sound, and every percussionist was doing something instead of sitting around. Whitaker was on timpani, Frank had to hit a triangle on every offbeat (it was so goddamn boring) and Santos was on cymbals and Frank wished he'd brought earplugs because she was banging that shit just because and could she maybe fucking chill? Anyway, one piece down, three to go.

The second Carmen Suite started off gentler than the first one did, which it was supposed to. Frank didn't do anything for the first movement because Whitaker was still on timpani, so Frank was occasionally looking back at the music... then back at Mel, who was playing with such focus and rigor for that fun syncopated rhythm. She was one of those musicians that liked to move around a lot when they played, going back and forth in the seat. If Frank ever thought about picking up a woodwind instrument, then he'd probably be the same way. Sometimes, especially when you're very into a piece which she clearly was, it happens. The second movement Frank was blessed with being on tambourine and not triangle; that belonged to Santos, and they had to be in time with this. Their parts were the same rhythmically, just different instruments so if they were even if a hair off, Robby would notice. It was good, but then Frank was resting for movements three and four and he just ended up staring at Mel again. For the fifth movement, Frank had a cymbals solo and fucking see, Santos, how he wasn't just slamming them together recklessly? For the last movement, Frank was on triangle, and god, he had never missed timpani more than this moment. Whatever, though. Only halfway done with the concert now, and Frank realized he shouldn't have skipped dinner. Maybe he'd take the kids out for something late to eat.

The L'Arlesienne Suites were really cool, because oh my, we had saxophones in the orchestra now. Something that would make Abby recoil in disgust, making it seem like Bizet was a seer that knew this would annoy her and purposely put them in. It could be worse, they could Ravel's Bolero again (ugh, playing that same part on snare over and over had been permanently imprinted on Frank's brain... and not in a good way). Mel played a beautiful, stunning (much like her) solo. The thing was, Bizet's works were so woodwind heavy, well, a lot of orchestral pieces featured woodwind solo work, but Bizet more than usual. So Frank was getting a sense of Mel's playing and decided he liked it a lot. At least she looked like she was fucking into it. Most of the people in her section were like robots. Frank went on snare for rest of the beginning movement. Fucking Whitaker on timpani. Ugh. The second movement nearlly put Frank to sleep, the third movement was just strings, and the fourth movement he had nothing. Most percussionists would be tempted to check their ones on their stands at this point, but you did not do that during a performance (save that for rehearsals, and pray Robby wouldn't catch you). At the fifth movement of the first suite, Frank could play timpani, which fucking finally. He'd always liked the challenge of it, because timpani was required to be tuned and actual pitches were played, other than xylophone and marimba.

The second L'Arlesienne suite, though. Mel and Abby had the same part later on in the first movement, and it sounded great - and then, ow, the piccolo part came in. Frank fucking hated that instrument in the house, back when Abby was still on second and that came with more piccolo parts. Oh, the piccolo sounded good, but damn was that instrument high. The second movement was clean, you know, no complaints there. Then the third movement came and when it started Frank winced just like he did when they rehearsed it. This movement used to be one of Frank's favorites, up until six months ago. Because it was one of Abby's favorite flute solos to play, one of those excerpts where Abby would close her eyes once in a while and scrunch her eyebrows and actually move with the piece. But now, listening to her play that same part and do those same things, was kind of painful for Frank, even if it was absolutely beautiful as always. The last movement Frank was on cymbals, and this was the perfect time to play fortissimo, as he told Santos a hundred times, but he could do so without being at risk of breaking the instrument.

And that was it, and it only occurred to Frank after hearing the applause that the concert was over. His first concert, since that horrible day where Robby found his pills, was finished. The applause was loud as thunder, and Frank realized that he'd survived. Mel did too, from the looks of it.

After the concert, Frank immediately went over to Mel. Mel was flushed, but it wasn't her usual bashfulness or nervousness, no, Frank knew this was adrenaline. Exciting, thrilling, blood pulsing through the veins adrenaline that came from playing an hour and a half long concert that everyone gave their all in, Frank included. And all that rehearsal time they did with Robby making passive aggressive to downright mean comments made it worth it.

"How do you think you did?" grinned Frank, and based on that adorable smile on her face he could take a guess.

Mel opened her mouth, presumably to answer, but apparently decided words weren't necessary as she threw her arms around him, the hug so enthusiastically given that Frank had to take a step back. His heart was being really unhelpful right now, weird and fluttery, like the beat of a drum that seemed to be on accelerando.

Then she pulled herself away, embarrassed. "God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to tackle you."

Frank blinked. Partly because she had stepped away so quickly. Partly because Frank was still trying to remember how words worked.

"You didn't tackle me," he managed to say. Thump, thump, thump, like the beat of a drum.

"I kind of did," said a mortified Mel, bringing her hands to her face - which was such a cherry red that it was just too endearing to look at.

"No, you hugged me."

"Very aggressively."

"Enthusiastically," corrected Frank, and Mel relented and removed her hands from her face, revealing a shy smile. Frank smiled back at her. "See? You were great."

"So were you, and- and I know that it came from practicing, all my hard work, but I'd like to think that you're part of the reason why I did do well, because of your encouragement, so thank you. I can't thank you enough, really."

The thing was, Frank thought he hadn't done anything extraordinary. He'd listened to and encouraged her. He'd told her she belonged here because she did. Yet the way she was looking at him made it sound like he'd handed her the moon. And once again, that made something ache in Frank's chest.

"I didn't make you play at the concert, you did that yourself," Frank told her gently. "You did all of it, Mel. It was your first concert with us, a very woodwind heavy concert, and you played beautifully. Don't give me credit for that."

"Maybe a little credit, then?" asked Mel which made Frank laugh, she was just so unintentionally hilarious. "You were wonderful too, considering it's your first concert back."

Frank felt his smile soften. "Thanks. t means a lot. Coming back has been hard but-"

"-but you did it," finished Mel, beaming. Frank couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him without seeing the baggage first. It was almost unsettling, but in a weird, comfortable way that Frank didn't know what to do with. GOd she was just-

"Daddy!"

The chorus of Tanner and Penny's voices shouted in perfect unison, cutting through the thought before Frank could finish it. Honestly it was probably for the best. Abby followed behind them.

The sound was music to his hears. Better than anything they'd played that evening by a longshot. Tanner pummeled into him with a force much stronger than Mel's, which absolutely was possible. He was bouncing up and down once he let go, poor kid definitely was going to get that ADHD diagnosis. "You were awesome!" Tanner shouted, having no sense of volume control.

"Thanks buddy."

"You hit all the drums!"

"I did."

"And the cinnaballs!"

"I did hit the cymbals."

"And the other drum!"

Meanwhile, Penny was aggressively attached to Frank's left leg like a little koala. She squeezed tightly to get his attention. Frank looked down and smiled. "Hi peanut."

"Hi, daddy!" Penny gushed, and Frank helped her up. "You were very good!"

"I liked the loud parts!" Tanner exclaimed, and ow. Of course he did. "The quiet parts are boring!"

"Mommy's flute goes toot, toot, toot, and it's nice!" added Penny.

Abby gave Frank a look that said good luck. But Abby had always been good with children, especially the little ones, and very much especially when it was her own. It was probably one of the few instances where Abby would have patience in this world.

Then Abby realized Mel was present. Abby's smile toward Mel was genuine, which was great for Mel, terrible for Frank. "Mel," she began, "You kept up with me. That's good. You'll do."

"Er, thanks," Mel put awkwardly, because Frank could tell she was still processing the very small children placed in their midst, that were neurodivergent, like him. But, like, (and not to be a prick about this) he was sure Mel was neurodivergent, too. "I tried."

Abby nodded. "That's good. Keep keeping up, or else someone could replace you."

Oh God, here it comes. Abby's green eyes were brimming with the intense madness flute players were known for. "You could be replaced. I could be replaced. Anyone could be replaced. It could be tomorrow, or next week, or next month. It can happen to anyone."

Mel could only stare at her. Frank wanted to let Mel know that she should never hold a flute in her hand, because he didn't want her to catch what caused the insanity.

But Abby's intensity vanished as soon as her eyes went to her children and smiled warmly at them. It wasn't an act, Frank was sure that their children were the only ones that would be spared from her, you know, bouts of derangement.

"Tanner. Penny. Be good for daddy," she told them sweetly, and each of them hugged her, and then mouthed to Frank to not give them so much sugar. Naturally Frank immediately added ice cream to the itinerary as the last stop before he dropped them back off at Abby's.

Abby let go, and she departed.

"Daddy, who's your friend?" asked Penny, only now realizing that Mel was still here. Mel smiled nervously, suddenly looking much more anxious than she had been onstage - which was super fascinating to Frank.

"This is Mel, she plays clarinet, she's new," Frank introduced. Then: "Mel, this is Tanner. And this is Penny. My, um, kids. If you haven't gotten that." Like she was a fucking moron. God, Frank, stop. She obviously knew that.

"Do you play the quiet parts?" Tanner asked.

"Er, yes, I did," allowed Mel, smiling gently.

Tanner hummed thoughtfully, like he was some prestigious professor at a music conservatory, then nodded once. "I guess I can forgive you for that."

"Tanner-" warned Frank.

"I don't like quiet parts, but you did the quiet parts good."

"She did really good, daddy," agreed Penny.

Frank could see Mel ease up a bit. "Thanks, um, how old are you?" she asked.

"I'm this much!" Tanner yelled, putting five fingers up. Mel blinked at the volume and Frank tried not to laugh. "And Penny's three. And I'm going to Kinder garden soon!" Kindergarten, but you know what, close enough.

"Inside voices, buddy," reminded Frank.

"I'm going to Kinder garden soon!" Tanner repeated, whispering this time. Frank did this thing where he motioned with his hand where Tanner's voice was, which was all the way down there, and moved it up a little to where Tanner should be. He noticed this visual helped him.

"Do you have mascana on?"

Tanner reached a speaking volume, but at the cost of going completely off topic. Mel blinked so Frank sighed an explained Tanner meant mascara, so Mel told Tanner yes, and Tanner didn't register the correction of the world and went on:

"It's so nice and prettiful. 'Cause one time I put mascana on Penny when mommy didn't see me and it got on her nose. And mommy got really mad 'cause I could've poked Penny's eye and that would be very bad."

"I was okay," Penny said with the insistence a three-year-old's tone had. "But I had black stuff... the mascana... on my nose... and it was yucky. When I was with daddy we have ice cream and I got it on my nose. So I'm used to it."

"We were with daddy 'cause mommy and daddy got off course," Tanner added, generously providing Mel with the family situation even though it was completely unprompted.

"Divorce," corrected Frank, with a sigh, even though Tanner had the right idea.

Then Penny proceeded to get very close to Mel to the point where their toes of their feet were touching, and Penny tiled her head all the way back in order to look at her. "Your eyes are nice."

Mel was trying not to laugh. "Thank you."

Frank gently nudged Penny back as she continued: "Like, like... the Little Bear color."

"Brown," supplied Frank.

"Daddy doesn't have Little Bear eyes," Tanner told his sister, because apparently that's what they were calling it now. "He has blue eyes, like we do. And the water." He turned to face Mel. "I drank lots of water and got sick once."

What were we even doing anymore?

"Tan-Tan went bleck and it got on my flip-flops..." Penny said mourningly.

"Penny hit me with a flip flop," Tanner filled in for Mel.

"He bit me. Like, like his tooths- and you know, I um, I..." Penny trailed off, with a frown that told Frank she was trying to put words together. "...it the tooths that I have, I- I... chew food, not bite 'cause mommy says that's what tooths are for- and it- it... goes and- chew food is nice, I like to... chew Poptarts."

Mel looked at Frank helplessly.

He chuckled nervously. "Yeah, they had to sit still for an hour and a half, so it's all coming out now."

"Daddy asked mommy when is her uncle coming out."

Frank froze. Mel started to laugh. Tanner, sensing absolutely none of the fear, continued, "And mommy yelled-"

"Alrighty then!" Frank said brightly, clasping his hands together. "We should probably get going."

"But-"

"Do we want to get something to eat?" Frank interrupted Tanner.

At that moment, Frank had never been more thankful for Tanner's (obvious) ADHD. "Oh! Like... food-food?"

"Yes."

"Or snack food."

At this point, sure. "Either."

"Or dessert food?" Penny asked hopefully.

Frank knew he was outnumbered.

"Ice cream?" Tanner gasped loudly.

"Yes, buddy. Whatever you want."

Tanner and Penny let out cheers. Crisis averted, no more talking about clearly-in-the-closet uncles. Then Frank turned to Mel. "Uh, Mel, you're more than welcome to join us."

Mel smiled sadly. "I'd like to, but I promised my sister I'd pick her up after the concert."

"Oh." Frank hated how disappointed he sounded.

Apparently so did Mel. "Sorry."

"Hey, you gotta honor your commitments," Frank said lightly, with a grin. "We need to work on you apologizing less."

A small laugh escaped Mel. Another sound that was added to the list of things that was music to his ears, really. "I think it's going to take a while but..." she trailed off, smiling softly as she looked up at Frank. "...I think I'm going to like it here."

For several seconds, Frank wasn't sure if she was talking about the orchestra. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn't - but the way she said that made his chest all funny, because not that long ago, he was convinced that he wouldn't have a place here anymore. Not after everything happened with the drugs, rehab, the divorce. But tonight's concert made him feel... different, the kids helped, getting back into the music helped, the structure of the orchestra helped.

And Mel helped. A lot. Frank found himself hoping she'd stay, because within this past week, he'd realized that she had become one of the main things he was looking forward to when coming to rehearsals.

"You should," he finally said softly. "We're lucky to have you."

The smile she gave him then was enough to make his heart do something super unprofessional.

Fortunately for Frank, Tanner tugged on his hand. "Daddy."

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Ice cream."

Frank laughed. "Right. Ice cream."

"Now."

"Now."

Tanner nodded in satisfaction. Penny held up her arms. "Carry." Frank nodded and scooped her up onto his hip. She was getting a little too big to be carried, Abby said, but fuck what she said because Frank knew that there would come a time where Penny wouldn't ask anymore.

"Bye Mel," Penny said, waving with her free hand. Her head was already resting on Frank's shoulder. God, and Abby wanted him to stop carrying her.

Mel smiled and gave a little wave back. "Bye, Penny."

"Bye Mel!" Tanner added loudly. "You played the quiet parts good!"

"Bye Tanner."

Frank lingered for a second. "Good luck with..." he paused, then added stupidly: "...picking up your sister." Which was stupid because why would she need good luck with that?

But Mel was polite enough not to call him a fuckhead. She smiled. "Good luck with..." she gestured to his kids, and Frank chuckled at that.

"Thanks."

There was a moment where neither of them moved, and Frank was suddenly very aware of what was happening, what Cass meant, and oh my God, yeah, maybe. She-

"Daddy!" Tanner shouted, cutting through Frank's thoughts from several feet away and oh shit how did he miss that? "The ice cream is this way!"

"Coming!" Frank called as Mel laughed. There it was, the laugh that was music to his ears. Frank might be in trouble. He faced her one last time. "Goodnight, Mel."

"Goodnight, Frank."

They went their separate ways, but Mel's voice remained in his head, echoing like the beat of a drum. Frank was definitely in trouble. Penny was chatting about the violence (she meant violins) and Tanner was talking about what sprinkles he wanted on his ice cream.

Before they went outside, Robby stopped Frank at the front doors. Ice cream briefly forgotten, Tanner squealed. "Uncle Robby!" And launched himself into Robby's arms before Frank could warn him. Robby caught him and lifted him up once before setting him back down.

"Whoa, hello to you too, kiddo."

"You were conducting!"

"Yeah."

"With the stick."

"The baton," corrected Frank, eyeing Robby wearily. For all of Robby's shit talking when Tanner was a baby, he sure as hell loved him now.

"The conductor stick," settled Tanner.

Robby nodded seriously. "Yes, the conductor stick."

"Did daddy do good?" Penny asked hopefully and oh God kill him now.

The maestro of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra shot an amused look in Frank's direction. "Yes, he did very well at his first concert back."

Oh.

That was good.

(Frank could do without Robby mentioning that it was his first concert back, but he'd take what he could get).

Tanner nodded confidently. "Yeah. He hit all the drums and the cinnaballs." Cymbals. (Christ, they needed to work on this kid's speech).

Robby gave a clasp on Frank's shoulder that Penny didn't have her head on. "Good concert back. Don't fu-" he stopped here, realizing he was in the presence of children. "-don't screw it up."

Tanner gasped. "Daddy, Uncle Robby almost said fuck."

Penny lifted her head up. "What's fuck?" Robby snickered, putting his hand over his mouth. Frank shot him a look that said this wasn't fucking helping. But Robby apparently had no regrets.

"Mommy and daddy said it 'cause they had to play Bolero," Tanner explained to his sister.

Oh no. Robby's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Did they now?"

"No we didn't," Frank tried.

"But you said it was so long and you had to keep doing the same thing and mommy said-"

"Buddy, sometimes grown ups say things when they're frustrated," sighed Frank.

"Like fuck?"

Frank closed his eyes. Kindergarten for this kid was going to be fun, he could hear the phone calls home already. And why the hell was Robby still laughing?

"We don't say words like that. They're bad words."

Penny frowned. "But you and mommy said it."

"'Cause of Bolero," added Tanner.

"How about we get that ice cream now?" Frank asked, almost pleadingly.

The effect was immediate. Tanner's face lit up. "Oh right, ice cream! Bye Uncle Robby!"

And the conversation ended there. Frank smiled, because it was ridiculous; Tanner and Penny had embarrassed him multiple times in the span of a few minutes and exposed several things to others about his relationship with Abby, and cursed in front of his boss because of well, Abby and Frank cursing because of Bolero. Yet here he was, taking them out to get ice cream. Because Tanner and Penny were his everything, and because of the divorce and his job he couldn't see them as much; and his babies were just utterly perfect and very invested in what he and Abby did for a living. Oh, they'd never be those parents that would force music down their kids throats, but they'd been blessed in the sense that both Tanner and Penny were curious about music.

Frank knew that he and Abby would battle it out for which kid would choose what instrument to learn, flute like mommy, or percussion like daddy. Or they could pick another instrument entirely. The one thing Frank and Abby had in common, was that neither of them would accept if either of the kids wanted to be (shudder) classical signers trained in opera. They'd accept it if they were gay. They would accept it if their kid came home one day and said they had realized they were actually a daughter instead of a son or a son instead of a daughter (plus, you're in the music business, one of the least heterosexual businesses ever) But singers? In this family? Absolutely not. Because like, come on, there had to be standards.

Frank was finishing his ice cream cone when his phone beeped and grinned at the message, and tried to ignore that little flip in his stomach when he read her name on his screen.

Mel:

I just wanted to say thank you again for tonight. Also your kids are adorable.

Frank:

No problem. And thank you. They're also very good at embarrassing me.

Mel:

I noticed. I'm glad I got to meet them :)

Frank looked at the message, typed something, deleted it, then typed again... then deleted it. Finally he settled on sending her a message that was true, but at the same time, a problem:

Frank:

They like you a lot.

And it was very true which was becoming increasingly inconvenient, because so did Frank.