Actions

Work Header

fugue in red

Summary:

the first time andrew saw neil, he was playing in the middle of a concert hall, bleeding red.

(all neil has is his mother's old violin, all andrew has is the cello that he doesn't care about. but maybe now they'll have each other).

[edit: ON INDEFINITE HIATUS]

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: how to bleed

Summary:

andrew reluctantly attends a concert with kevin.

Notes:

warnings: discussion of andrew's past in the beginning part

listen for full effect: schindler's list: what neil plays

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"Andrew isn't like other musicians his age," his previous orchestra director had told Bee after their final concert of the season. Andrew was sitting on a bench near the exit of the concert hall, absently tapping his fingers against his cello case as his adopted mother cast a glance his direction.

"How so?" Bee asked, rolling up the program in her hands. It wasn't a nervous tic; Andrew knew that she always liked to do something with her hands.

"He's very, very skilled," Maestra Schultz had said. "He has all this raw talent, I can tell. He just doesn't use it. Plenty of other musicians would probably kill to have half the talent he does."

Bee started to say something in reply, but Andrew very loudly kicked his cello case so that it rolled out from under him. Aaron jumped from where he sat next to Andrew. The noise echoed through the emptying hall, and his mother glanced back at him again.

She read whatever expression was on his face rather quickly, said something about talking to him, and then bid Schultz farewell.

Those psychiatry skills were really quite useful.

Bee asked him on their way home, "Is she right, Andrew?"

Andrew shrugged, staring at the street lights as they flashed by. Night completely encompassed the highway, car headlights like fireflies flitting through the darkness.

Bee asked again, ten minutes later, "Do you hate this, Andrew? If you do, I won't force you to continue."

That was a good question.

Andrew didn't pick up the cello until Bee adopted him, around a few years ago at this point. His childhood was a state of impermanence, transitioning between different foster homes and would-be families - he wasn't sure if he could even keep his name, let alone a bulky instrument to take everywhere. He was never sure what he could return home to: a figure crawling over him in the hushed dark, a social worker who was all-too tired of him, a disappointed "parent" with their hand raised or fists clenched.

His worst home had been the Spears - because he'd been so close. Sometimes he didn't know what was worse: the ghost of Drake Spear's figure standing in the doorway, ready to tear Andrew apart once more, or the ghost of Cass Spear's smile, warm and welcoming and kind.

Andrew had nearly torn himself apart to keep Cass, a pipe dream blown apart in the wind like smoke. Home was a fragile thing, an unfamiliar taste, and he'd thought the Spears were the closest he'd ever get to it.

Then he discovered he had a twin brother, named Aaron.

Then he discovered Drake's plans for them both once they were reunited.

Then everything went downhill at once - Andrew was rolling down a mountain and he struck his skull open at the bottom.

He'd been the one to destroy the brakes to Drake's car, leading the bastard to die in a fiery inferno as he was thrown into a ditch in the side of the road. He'd allowed himself to be taken away from Cass once more, the black tears running down her face matching her black funeral dress - only this time, he wasn't alone.

He had Aaron.

(Tilda was another story - she died of a drug overdose. She'd spent her miserable, pathetic life teetering the edge of addiction, falling off the cliff but dangling on with decaying fingers, and she'd finally let go).

It was Bee that finally stuck. She worked as a therapist, her warm smile but knowing eyes unnerving the moment she saw Andrew and Aaron. She reminded Andrew too much of Cass - her honeyed warmth certainly had to come with a catch. Sweet things always rotted eventually - even the most vibrant, beautiful flower would wilt, and Andrew wore the decayed petals as proof on the insides of both his wrists.

The catch never came.

Life with Bee had been difficult at first, between Andrew's apathetic suspicion and Aaron's timid silence. Bee was endlessly patient, and some days it felt like Andrew just kept taking from her already empty well. But she never raised her hand at them, never raised her voice, just spoke to them sternly and reasonably.

(Somewhere along the line, Nicky showed up. He'd heard of Tilda's death and had flown into the states to visit Andrew and Aaron, cousins he'd never interacted with. He'd thanked Bee, too earnestly to seem real, and constantly visited them).

As the years passed, Andrew stopped waiting around for the catch. He stopped waiting for the steel dog trap to close around his ankle, and he afforded a few more words to Bee at a time. She took anything he gave as a precious gift, never forcing him open or tearing him down. She treated Aaron the same way.

Things weren't perfect - of course not. Andrew still had his nightmares, days where he'd go without talking at all, nights where he couldn't sleep because it felt like there was a weight sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for when he let his guard down to pounce. His skin still sometimes crawled and felt two sizes too small, and his chest sometimes would ache with the pain of holding everything down.

Bee suggested music as an outlet for the both of them. Andrew knew she could tell when his bad days where (she had a job for that, after all), knew from the tight expression on her face that she wanted to help but understood that he wouldn't let her - at least not yet.

So she signed Andrew and Aaron up for the orchestra program at their school as an experiment. He'd chosen the cello on a careless flick of his wrist, while Aaron chose the viola since the program was short on players.

Music and reading were the only two ways Andrew allowed himself to escape. Sometimes he felt like Atlas, holding the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Sometimes he felt like buckling underneath it, bringing himself and everyone around him down. He let himself get distracted, because if he let himself spiral further he'd lose the control he'd always fought for.

He didn't know when anything became home to him. He didn't know when he last smiled genuinely. He didn't know if he'd ever become truly interested in the cello, in the way Aaron was in his viola. But he did know that things started getting better once Bee took them in, and he did know that the air tasted sweeter when he breathed.

(A drowning person comes up for air. It's never tasted so good before. They start hyperventilating).

Looking away from the scenery outside the window to his mother, Andrew watched the way the car headlights reflected in the lenses of her thin glasses. Her dark hair tucked into a bun, her formal navy blue shirt and dress that she'd worn to his concert, she couldn't look any more different from Cass Spear.

Perhaps that was a good thing.

Andrew glanced in the rear view mirror, where Aaron was taking a nap in the backseat. Then he looked back to Bee, sighing quietly.

"I don't care enough to hate it," he said bluntly.

Bee raised her eyebrow as they drove down a ramp. "Is that so?"

"I'm not a prodigy. Schultz exaggerates things," Andrew said, leaning back and fiddling with his dress shirt.

"Well, I've heard you play. She might be onto something."

"I thought therapists weren't hopeless optimists."

A small smile flickered across Bee's face. "No, you're right, Andrew. We tell the truth."

Annoyance flickered briefly through Andrew. He silently cursed Bee and her innate ability to shut down their arguments before they even started. He looked away from her, making a point to stare out the window again.

She left them in silence for the rest of the way home.

--

"You think you could practice for at least five minutes a week?" Kevin asked, glaring disdainfully at Andrew as he packed his cello away. "That's less than one minute a day."

"Let me think about it," Andrew said, loosening his bow. "No."

Nicky stifled a laugh into his hand, straightening up when Kevin directed a burning glare toward him. "You too, Nicky."

"Oh, come on," he whined.

"I enjoy watching the violists bicker," Matt mused to Andrew, not that he cared, leaning over his double bass. "It's like watching seagulls fight over food."

"Matt," Renee chastised, though she was smiling herself.

New York Symphony Orchestra, or NYSO, was founded and directed by David Wymack and Abby Winfield. It wasn't one of the better known professional orchestras, but it was one nonetheless. Andrew had auditioned after months of incessant insistence from the one and only Kevin Day, a rising viola star and prodigy, son of Wymack himself.

He met Kevin in their college orchestra. He told himself the only reason he bothered to continue playing the cello was because it was the only thing he was good at. Bee saw it differently, but she didn't bother to enlighten Andrew on himself.

(You don't need me - you'll figure it out yourself, she'd told Andrew the day before he graduated high school. She'd had this strange smile on her face. Nicky told Andrew it was because she was proud of him).

Kevin, the bastard, saw Andrew's apparent talent the day of their first rehearsal. He'd asked Andrew after the first week, "Why do you play cello if you don't care at all?"

Andrew had shot back, "Why do you play viola if no one cares about it?"

There was a smile, only half-arrogant, on Kevin's face as he replied. "That's why."

He'd insisted that Andrew joined NYSO with him once he graduated, and Andrew only gave in because he knew Kevin would never let him live it down if he didn't. Aaron auditioned and got in as well, and eventually Nicky followed.

Playing with NYSO wasn't as excruciating as Andrew thought it would be. The presence of his family along made it tolerable. Between his kind stand partner Renee, Kevin constantly glaring at him from his seat as principal, and Wymack who for some reason insisted on being called Coach instead of Maestro, Andrew would go as far as to say he slightly enjoyed playing with the orchestra.

(Not that he'd ever voice that to anyone, ever).

Years with Bee, settled in one place, with an actual family and home, had rounded out some of his harsher edges. There were parts of Andrew that he kept tucked away, hidden so that no one knew they existed - but for the most part, he was getting better.

He let others past his first walls - not far enough to get past his second, third, fourth ones - but one was enough.

Wymack returned from one of his meetings outside with Abby and other staff, waving his baton in a shooing motion at his remaining musicians.

"Get the hell out of here. I need to close up. Kevin, stop bitching about Andrew - as long as he's not messing up I'm fine with however little he practices."

"Coach," Kevin started, but Matt cut him off.

"That's our cue to leave! Anyone wanna grab dinner with me at the plaza?"

"I'll come!" Nicky said, too enthusiastically. Kevin snapped his mouth shut and glared at Wymack, who glared right back. "Andrew, Aaron, that means you two are coming by default. Right?"

"We're not a package deal," Aaron said, not looking up from his phone, "unlike Matt and Dan."

"He's acknowledged our presences," Dan said teasingly, slinging her arm around Matt's shoulders, carrying her trumpet case in the other. "I think that's reason for celebration."

Wymack looked pained, tossing his baton onto the stand. "Just get out of my sight, maggots. Remember rehearsal on Friday. Don't be hungover."

"Will do," Matt said dryly as he zipped up his case.

The plaza wasn't far from the rehearsal hall. They always went there as a group after exceptionally long rehearsals, and Andrew always got the ice cream from the shop next door to the diner.

It was nice to have a routine, for once.

After eating, they strolled through the plaza, watching the shops light up to fend off the night, illuminating the fountain with gold. Andrew stayed near the back with Renee and Kevin as Nicky and Matt got into a heated debate over who was more forgotten: the viola or double bass.

Andrew was fine with remaining quiet and listening to Nicky slowly lose his mind, watching as Renee, ever-so faithful, played the mediator. They eventually returned to the parking lot, Andrew waiting as Nicky and Aaron sat in the back, Kevin sitting down up front.

He made sure to turn the radio up whenever a raucous pop song came on just to spite Kevin.

They were only five minutes from Kevin's place when his phone rang. He made Andrew turn down the music to answer it.

"Hey," he said, turning away toward the window. He paused for a minute, before raising his eyebrows and smiling - which was a rare sight in itself. Andrew pulled over, turning on the emergency lights, and made a point to stare at Kevin through the rear view mirror.

Kevin glanced at him, rolling his eyes. "Yes. I'll be able to make it. Yes. That sounds good." Then he continued to say something in French for another minute, before finally hanging up.

"Who was that?" Nicky asked, practically hanging over the seat to gawk at Kevin.

"An old friend," Kevin said. Andrew swerved back into traffic when it was clear Kevin wasn't going to elaborate, rolling his eyes when Aaron let out a string of expletives from the back.

--

It wasn't until Friday's rehearsal that Kevin finally told Andrew he'd been invited to a concert by his old friend back from high school, Jean Moreau.

Andrew searched through his memory, eventually remembering that he'd seen Jean's name in the news before. Something about being one of the youngest violinists to play as a guest soloist at the LA Phil. Andrew didn't care at the time.

"I didn't know you had friends," he remarked as Kevin applied rosin to his bow.

Scoffing, Kevin replied, "For that comment, I'm making you come with me."

"Oh, no."

"The concert is next week. I get one free ticket, thanks to Jean. You're coming."

"You're mistaken. I'm booked fully on that day," Andrew lied.

"Like how?"

"Practicing."

"That's a lie," Renee chimed in, grinning meekly and winking when Andrew turned a death glare on her.

"Maybe the concert will actually motivate your lazy ass to practice," Kevin agreed. "I'm coming to your place. Be dressed nicely."

"You forgot the part where I did not consent to this."

"I'd like to come as well," Renee said. "Are the tickets all sold out yet?"

Kevin went on a spiel about the orchestra Jean was playing with and how there were only a few tickets left, while Andrew was tempted to chuck his cello out the nearest window. He didn't know what he did to deserve anything in his life. Maybe he'd gone on a murdering spree and killed fifteen children or something.

The thing about Kevin was, when he set his mind on something, he didn't let go. He was even more tenacious than even Wymack.

Andrew dressed in a black sweater and jeans in the same color. He'd moved out of Bee's place since he'd become a part of NYSO. His New York apartment was surrounded by bustle and noise, but it somehow felt lonelier without the comforting quiet of Bee's home. It would have to make do until her next visit.

Kevin knocked on Andrew's door loudly, as if to reinforce the fact that he was a complete and utter shit-bag. Huffing, Andrew shoved the wrinkled copy of his ticket into his back pocket and answered the door before Kevin could kick it down.

"That's what you're wearing?" Kevin asked, eyeing Andrew skeptically.

"I'm wearing something." Andrew looked past Kevin at Renee. "Good evening, Renee."

She beamed. "Evening, Andrew. Shall we go?"

The concert hall was completely sold out, full of the noise of conversations and muted anticipation. Andrew, Kevin, and Renee sat near the front where they had a rather good view of the orchestra - not that Andrew cared at all.

He just sat back in his seat, staring at the elegantly carved ceiling, praying that the stupid concert would be over soon.

The orchestra filed out twenty minutes later. The cacophony of musicians warming up overpowered the noise of talk, at least until the concertmaster stood up and beckoned with his head for the tuning to start. Andrew recognized Jean sitting next to him on stage, his dark hair glossed back as his eyes focused on his stand partner.

The program itself was sure to be interesting, but Andrew was too dulled to bother getting invested in the music. He let it turn into background noise, staring at the ceiling and counting the number of lights on it.

Eventually Andrew estimated an hour had passed before the program was finally drawing to an end. He focused back in, crossing his legs and wishing he had a cigarette to smoke.

He was wondering if he could somehow sneak out the back exit when the conductor turned around to finally address the audience.

"Thank you for coming tonight," she said into the microphone. "We so appreciate your continuous support throughout our season, and we certainly hope we've fulfilled your expectations tonight. Our music has been very focused on the classical era, with a little dip into film music inspired by the generations of composers from before us, but as a final farewell for now, we have decided to include a famous piece by the even more famous John Williams.

“For our finale tonight, as you can see, we will be playing the main theme of Schindler’s List, featuring our concertmaster Neil Josten,” the conductor said with a visibly proud smile. Andrew felt Kevin perk up beside him, leaning forward. “Thank you for coming to the final concert of our season, and we hope to see you returning for our other programs in the near future.”

She turned around, gesturing with her free hand, and the man sitting in the first row stood up. Andrew had a good view of the man’s face as he walked toward the edge of the stage, gleaming violin in one hand and his bow hoisted like a gun in the other. Dark auburn hair glossed back, with one stray curl hanging over his forehead. Large, unreadable eyes that glistened gold in the bright stage lighting. Scarred knuckles and long, graceful-looking fingers, the faintest ghost of a smile on his face as he lifted his violin and leaned his cheek against it.

Andrew didn’t have much time to think of anything else before they started playing.

He didn’t have much time to breathe before Neil started playing.

And oh, maybe Andrew didn’t ever have a real appreciation of music, not in the way Kevin or Renee did. He appreciated a pretty sound, he could tell an off-key note, and he bristled at a wrong chord. Nothing particularly ever struck him as truly beautiful, not in a breathtaking or heart-shaking way. No, his world was black and white, smudged with gray, with not a single splash of color in it.

Then there was Neil.

Playing like he was on his last breath, playing like it was the only thing that could keep him alive, Neil Unknown Josten was a dash of red in white snow. He bled, he breathed, he cried. Sunset red, blood crimson, rosy blush. Worn maroon, cardinal roses, stained cherry blossoms.

Colored with and lost in his sorrow, a silent and slow descent that he tore from his violin and echoed through the otherwise silent concert hall.

(The little girl in the red coat, standing in the rubbles of a monochrome, devastating world).

((Neil Josten, heart bleeding over his violin, swaying from the loss that wasn’t his, a loss that had uprooted everything)).

Red.

Andrew was transfixed, as much as he hated to admit it. He hadn’t heard genuine playing like that in a long time, the last person being Kevin. He didn’t include himself in the list because he’d never cared about cello. Yes, Bee suggested playing it as a way to grow out of his solitude, as an outlet, and Andrew had taken her advice - but he’d never let himself feel while playing it.

Or, he tried not to.

The music swelled, and Neil swayed along with it. His eyes flickered shut, his brows furrowed in concentration as his fingers danced across the fingerboard. If Andrew closed his eyes, he thought he could hear the sound of a violin not crying, but weeping.

He glanced at Kevin, who seemed just as mesmerized as he was. His face had shut down into one of pensiveness as he gazed at the soloist, the man who commanded the stage but seemed to forget he was even on it.

The piece only lasted for five minutes, but alone, it felt longer than the entire concert. Andrew stared as Neil gracefully transitioned into the climax of the piece, his violin echoing through the stark silence of the hall. Not once did he open his eyes, like he was afraid he'd see something terrible if he did.

Neil faded out like someone drowning: soft, quiet, and defeated.

The entire hall was silent for a long moment, before it erupted into applause. Andrew didn't clap or move or even bother to give a standing ovation - he just watched as a faint smile ghosted across Neil's face, as he took one bow before turning back to his orchestra.

"Holy shit," Kevin breathed. He didn't even bother chastising Andrew on his lack of practicing anymore.

He supposed he had Neil to thank for that.

Leaving the concert hall was an arduous process, with all the people trying to get out at the same time. All the while, Andrew stared at the program in his hands, at Neil Josten's name written as a soloist.

Neil Josten.

Andrew mouthed the name to himself, and wondered if spoken aloud, if whispered like a secret, Neil Josten could sound as beautiful as his violin.

Notes:

a/n: i chose the theme of schindler's list because it is genuinely a testament to how powerful classical/orchestral music can be, and it's one of the pieces that personally got me really inspired to keep continuing in classical music as well! i hope it was clear enough in my writing but if not, again, this part is not meant to trivialize the subject matter of the movie itself

writing this updated a/n now bc i wanted to make that apparent!

thanks for reading and hope you enjoy the rest of the fic x