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Nino could admit he was probably out of his depth, sneaking into the Pavillon de la Sirène’s main auditorium. He had taught himself some piano before applying to IMEP’s Open program , but his strengths were really in music production and there was a brewing dread deep in his gut that someone would be able to tell he was more of a Conservatoire student just by look alone. -No instrument case, no bag of sticks, just some dorky Algerian guy with a baseball cap and probably in need of a shave.
Still, Nino was curious. He’d just been passing by, really, or maybe he was hoping to work on something on his laptop in the foyer.
He stayed back by the far wall of the auditorium, hoping to blend in to the wall as much as possible. One of IMEP’s bands was performing, and the professor looked… unusually young. Hell, perhaps even a little attractive.
“Based on that last run, I think we could still serve to have more dynamic contrast,” the conductor commented to the band. Nino scanned over him: The messy blond hair curling under his ears and towards his jaw, long limbs extending to long hands gesturing with some sort of relaxed confidence. Green shirt, blue jeans, black oxfords that clicked against the stage’s waxed floor. “Uh, 2 measures before the figure in 29, please?”
Nino hadn’t heard the song before, but it sounded vaguely Latin. Afro-Cuban, specifically—The one girl with blonde pigtails playing the bongos made Nino’s guess feel substantiated. Then, rest of the band opened up, the blare of brass filling the shell of the auditorium. The conductor brought them through the main chorus, his conducting switching to count 4 measures in a 6/8 feel, before cutting them off entirely, shaking his head.
“Someone’s out of tune in the brass. Trumpets, down the row.”
From left to right, the conductor gave each trumpet a chance to play, the final being a redhead (so red, in fact, that it almost made the word suddenly seem inapplicable to anyone else), who was maybe 20 cents off.
“Ambre, you're flat. …You know, for someone who supposedly said Manteca is her favorite song, I’m surprised you’d disrespect it by being out of tune,” the conductor joked. “Now, let's take it from measure—“ He paused, going to look at his watch. “Ah, nevermind, just start from the top.”
The song began with the drums again, this time heralded by a solo (played by that same redhead) 15 measures in. The music, albeit impressive, wasn’t want Nino was focusing on: It was the conductor.
Those long arms of his swishing through the air with a controlled confidence, each swing driven with not just assurance… but command. He would switch between sharp, small movements of the wrists to keep the quarter note beat and larger sweeps to demonstrate half time. With every movement the conductor would seemingly pull the air out through the musicians’ bells, the volume growing and shrinking as the gestures waned and waxed in intensity. Yet, it seemed less like the work of a puppet master and more of a perfect conversation between conductor and band, a synchronized trade of signal and response.
Nino found his feet moving on their own, shuffling himself across the back wall of the auditorium to get a closer look at the conductor’s face. Here and there, he would drop conducting entirely to pace in front of the band (slack on the leash, or a willingness to let the band carry the tempo itself), and the conductor would smile to himself before flexing his jaw and jumping back in to cue another melodic hit.
Damnit. Nahima was going to be devastated at the prospect of Nino mentioning a boyfriend during Eid al-Fitr.
After the majority of the musicians has trickled out, Nino found himself standing alone outside the Pavillon de la Sirène. …Well, no. Not standing, nor entirely alone. He had noticed the conductor leave, and something had prompted him to follow. He could compliment him on the conducting, or compliment the band, maybe IMEP in general, if he wanted to feign some reason for trailing him.
Instead, Nino watched as the man lit a cigarette with a pocket lighter and put his back to the wall, taking in a drag. The words just tumbled out involuntary from there—A stupid attempt to come off as funny.
“Don’t musicians need their lungs?”
Dull green eyes looked up at Nino with a subtle surprise, quickly looking him over. “Huh, I appreciate the concern,” the young man replied. “But I play piano. …I’m guessing you were eavesdropping on the Jazz Ensemble?”
Nino’s eyes widened in embarrassment, his hand twisting around the strap of his book bag as he shrunk into himself.
“In my defense, you- huh, they sound amazing.”
“If you think they’re good, you should see the Big Band. —Not that I have any bias as their pianist, hah.” The young man joked. “I’m Adrien, by the way. Adrien Agreste.”
Adrien put his cigarette into his mouth to extend a hand to shake. Nino took it, his eyes drawn to the unusual amount of band-aids and blotches crawling up Adrien’s slender, well-manicured fingers.
“Nino Lahiffe. So you conduct and play for IMEP?”
“Not often,” Adrien confessed, taking his cigarette out of his mouth. “When the director’s gone, I get called in to help. They really could do a lot of it on their own, but someone up front is nice security and I do like the conducting practice.” Adrien’s eyes, green and somewhat dull in a way Nino found charming, glanced to his cigarette and he shrugged. “I should admit—I lied to you just now. I know some trumpet and alto saxophone, just to help my Jazz Aptitude Certificate, but they were just side lessons so I understand the technical aspects of those more. Helps with the pedagogy, I think. I wouldn’t be smoking if I still played them often.”
“You’re a Conservatoire student?”
“Mhm. Doubling up Aptitude in teaching Piano and Jazz, then IMEP on the side.” Adrien laughed, adding “As you can guess, I don’t get much sleep.”
Adrien did have fairly prominent eyebags, now that he’d brought the topic up. That, and the messy hair and the pale skin. …And his shirt collar being somewhat off-kilter. God, the auditorium lights really did have some magic quality to make people look more put together, didn’t they? Not like Nino cared.
“How much sleep have you gotten the past week, then?”
“That seems like a rather invasive personal question.” A small grin escaped Adrien’s lips. “I’d prefer you at least take me out to dinner before you start interrogating me on my health.”
“Huh, I- I didn’t mean it like-“
“Don’t worry. You can drop in and listen any time you like, it’ll be nice to have someone in the seats checking for balance.” Adrien then put a hand over the strap of his own bag and turned to leave up Rue Emilie Dubois. “Nice to meet you, Nino.”
Nino spent the night neglecting his music production in service of looking through any spots open in IMEP’S Big Band. It was definitely crazy of him to think he could get to any of their levels—But he’d once been completely lost on piano, right? He could save up to get a decent trumpet or a trombone, or—No, it looked like it was customary to start on beginner’s trumpets and work one’s way up from there. There was no way he’d be able to buy multiple.
Nino kept looking through pages nonetheless. Old brochures for performances, official IMEP Facebook posts, the like. Counting spots by hand. If the Ensemble had 3 trombones, and the Big Band had 4, then a spot was open in Ensemble—So on and so forth.
Xavier-Yves Roth - Jazz Ensemble, Percussion
Aurore Beaureal - Jazz Ensemble, Percussion
Ali Al-Saud - Big Band, Percussion
Jackpot.
For the next two months, Nino spent every free hour he had in the Conservatoire percussion studios, hunched over a drum kit with a pair of 5A sticks he’d bought online. He’d done the same sort of thing with editing, then filmmaking, then DJing, composition, and most recently piano. His family thought he was crazy for being able to do stuff like that—lock himself in a room for months until he stepped back outside an expert on the subject—but they never directed any concern to him, only Nino’s mom. Nino barely heard the door to the percussion studio open over the sound of Ralph Ford’s Vehicle in his ears, but when he saw it he took his headphones off immediately, worried that one of the actual percussionists was going to chew him out again for using their space.
Adrien looked almost shocked to see Nino in the practice room. Hesitantly, he stepped inside.
“I didn’t know you played kit,” Adrien said, his eyes widening right after as if he was shocked with his own admission. “You should've said something when we met.”
Nino’s gaze was thrown askance, and he shifted in his seat. Even with his headphones around his neck, he could still hear the faint sound of the track.
"I didn't play it when we met. I've been teaching myself."
"...With what?"
"I've just been listening to charts," Nino confessed, grimacing slightly. "Some videos."
"Ah, well-"
Adrien stepped closer to where Nino sat, his hands reaching out for a bit and then retracting. Instead, Adrien waited to circle around until he stood behind Nino, who suddenly felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Damnit, dude, he cursed to himself. Be normal.
"Can I, for a moment..?"
"Huh- sure."
Adrien put his hands over top Nino's, manipulating the sticks in his hands until the right stick sat further up in his palm and the left stick was nearly perpendicular. Nino fought the urge to swallow hard as Adrien's long fingers delicately shifted Nino's own over the barrel of the stick.
"Sorry," Adrien apologized, stepping back. "Dr. Benguigui is going to want you to use traditional grip."
Nino moved his arms about, finding it slightly unwieldy to hit the upper toms with his left hand now that its stick was at an angle. Still, it prevented him from making a fool of himself later.
"Thank you."
“Sure.” Adrien went straight to his phone, hurriedly typing something into it. “I’ll ask Aurore to send you over some charts to practice. Rudiment books, too, if you haven’t gotten into those. Have you?”
Nino switched back into match grip to play a flamadiddle on the kit’s snare, before fumbling his left hand back into traditional grip. For a moment, Nino worried it made him look like an idiot, but with the look of restrained awe on Adrien’s face and the way he smiled (and, most notably, the fact that Adrien had smiled at him felt almost like what Nino would assume a split-second of heroin would feel like) made him forget.
“Yeah. I-“ Adrien faltered. “I’ll talk to Dr. Benguigui. We have an alternate kit position open in the Upper Band, so you’ll be in the same group as I am.”
“Awesome.”
“…Yeah,” Adrien smiled. “‘Awesome’.”
Adrien left the practice room hurriedly. As soon as the door closed, Nino dropped his sticks to immediately bury his face in his hands, an embarrassing redness on his cheeks. ‘Awesome’. Real smooth of him.
I talked to Dr. Benguigui, he says he can fit you in for an audition at 14:00 on April 22nd. That gives you a few weeks to cram and isn’t too close to the next performance to fuck you over. Best of luck
Huh. Looks like I've been spelling your name wrong this whole time?
Sorry, hadn't gotten my legal name changed before applying. Keep forgetting to petition for a new email. Still Adrien
The next time Nino had entered the Pavillon de la Sirène, it was just to practice on his own and get a feel of the kit on stage and its acoustics. Even still, he had felt like an intruder, hunched over as he pushed through the doors at three in the morning.
He should’ve expected, with as little as Adrien slept, to see him there up on that stage. Watching Adrien conduct was one thing. Watching him on piano was another.
Never before had Adrien looked so animated than when he was playing. In any other case, the instrument was merely a tool for its player to wield. Yet here it was symbiosis, a single vivacious organism with no other purpose, no other want than to play. The color returned to his cheeks and under the light of the empty auditorium his hair had turned from a dull tawny blonde to a vibrant gold. Nino watched Adrien throw his head back, his upper body's movement becoming more energetic with the crescendo of tension, and Nino caught a flash of his glassy green eyes and the passion behind them.
If Adrien was walking head first into his own death (and, with a workload like his, the assumption only felt natural), perhaps it was with the intention of collapsing onto the keys of the Pavillon de la Sirène's piano, so consumed by his obsession that he found no better death for him. Every dance of his fingers across the keys felt like a setup for them to trip, but it never came—Adrien was balancing on a tense tightrope of rhythm, not missing a beat, not stopping for a moment, until-
He stopped.
“Nino,” Adrien exhaled. “You’re up early.”
“…I could say the same thing to you.” Nino set down his bag, suddenly realizing his feet had taken him right up to the piano bench. He hesitated, but then sat down anyway. “I guess this answers my question of how much you sleep, doesn’t it? …You don’t.”
Adrien winced, as if Nino had suddenly tugged a bandaid off of his arm. “Dr. Benguigui admires my commitment. He says the best teachers love to learn and practice as much as they love to teach.”
“Well,” Nino replied, “I don’t know about Dr. Benguigui, but I’m sure your mom wouldn’t be happy hearing you stay up all night playing piano.”
Nino’s mouth got dry the minute the sentence left—It was another awful, failed attempt to be funny. Nino couldn’t really even picture what Adrien’s mom might look like. He could only imagine Nahima, but.. uh. White and maybe with the same blonde hair. Fussing over her child going into music of all things and not choosing something more respectable, throwing his life away in exchange for art that would never pay the bills. Art that would never sound impressive when he was talked about amongst aunties, unless he was the best to ever do it.
Adrien’s response made it a million times worse.
"My mother died when I was five, and my father's practically been dead since then as well," Adrien confessed. "I was homeschooled, too, meaning the only people I ever interacted with were my tutors."
“Oh.”
Adrien broke out into a quiet chuckle. “No, it’s fine, you didn’t know.”
He paused for a moment, a watery gleam finding its way to his eyes. “Nadia was my piano teacher for seven years. I'd... hate to say she was in any way maternal, for what that implies about me, but I would've never fallen in love with piano if not for her. -We keep in touch, sporadically," he added, "But she's married and living her own life now. And I'm here, studying Music Education and working myself to the bone."
“Ah. Huh…” Nino swallowed, studying the stage floor to try and will a good response to show up in the waxy sheen. “If it means anything, I think she’d at least be proud that you’re still playing. I don’t know if she’d think you’re overdoing it, though.”
Adrien smiled awkwardly, his fingers tracing feather-light presses over the keys. “I don’t know what I’d do without music. It’s not just a part of me, it’s… I’m a part of it, maybe. I love music, I love learning, I love playing with other people.”
“Yeah. It’s not hard to tell,” Nino replied. “...You’re all people can look at when you’re on stage.”
Adrien looked away, his smile slightly wider and even more crooked. If Nino hadn’t also averted his gaze, he might’ve noticed the faint blush on Adrien’s cheeks. Adrien sighed, his shoulders finally relaxing.
“God, you’re right. I’m fucking exhausted.” His words were drawn out into a thin whine. “I don’t even know how I’ll be able to get home at this rate. I have class at 7:00.”
“I can walk you home, if you need.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
Adrien leaned over to grab his bag and stood up slowly, his hands barely outstretched as he got his bearings. “Okay, so I have a room in the Cité internationale des arts in Montmartre, right?” He began. “It’s fine enough, but I had to fight so fucking hard to get my dad to let me take residence there. I’ll tell you the whole story while we walk there just to keep myself awake, that man is an ass.”
Nino grabbed his bag and followed, making sure to lag slightly behind Adrien to catch the insomniac in case he fell.