January

[Congratulations to Nick, as he wins his first argument. Happy Friday, everyone.
Beta, please, whenever/if you have time, Lucy.]

It took Mike only a second to realise that something’s different about Nick’s side of the room, the perfect maple-hued geometry of student furnishing broken by tidal drifts of papers and pens. It took him a little longer to realize that the ‘something’ was a violin case propped against the corner of the desk, its uncompromising dark contour inexplicable against the bright patch-work of Nick’s bedcovers.

He prodded it, gingerly. The thing was hard and had a certain rakish-air in the defeated scratches that marred its battered surfaces. It spoke of use, but also of musicianship, which made Mike immediately curious, and therefore suspicious. “Is there actually a violin in there?”

“Of course,” replied Nick, looking up from his computer, puzzled. What else could be in there? His face seemed to ask. Mike considered the possibilities and decided he’d rather not think about it. He tried another question.

“Nick, why do you have a violin in your room?”

“I brought it back with me from France because I thought I should practice.” He had the grace to look momentarily guilty. “Occasionally.”

Mike considered what he knew now about the guy who called himself Nicolas Lucille. He considered the violin case, impeccably respectable even when it was propping up the pages of an economy textbook that Nick had abandoned earlier. Something fundamental in Mike’s perception of his friend had gone very much awry and the equation didn’t add up, no matter from which way he looked at it.

“You play the violin?”

“What’s wrong with me playing a violin?” Nick looked even more bewildered.

“Nothing.” Mike considered this new development. “It’s just…wow…okay.”

“I can play it for you right now, if you want,” said Nick defensively, laying the case on his bed and taking out the violin.

It was indeed a violin, Mike noted. Complicated looking thing.

“No, it’s okay, I believe you,” said Mike, just a bit too hastily. He was, he admitted, astonished with this whole violin-business. He wanted time to reconcile the idea of it it with Nick who was, frankly, the one person he’d never thought to associate with a violin, after himself, of course. He also didn’t want to find out just what degree of ‘playing-the-violin’ he was going to be subjected to. At least, not yet. “It’s okay.”

“It’s okay.” Repeated Mike, grey eyes filled with something akin to alarm as he began to edge away none-too-subtly. Nick looked at him.

“You don’t think I can play it?” He asked, secretly hurt. Mike was a great friend, when you get down to the ideal thing that meant friendship, but there were times, parfois—and more frequently, Nick guessed, than he himself could possibly keep track of—where Mike would underestimate him. It was an incident that bore repeating and sometimes Nick would give over to wondering whether the fault was his own or whether Mike made all his friends feel that way—a thought that he’d immediately feel guilty for even considering. Then there were the other times, throwing leaves at each other, Mike bringing up, with a wicked grin, a particular joke that made Zach look oh-so-horrified and Gary surprised, eating ice-cream in December while waiting from the rain to pass, and he’d think that it didn’t matter.

And then there were times like these again.

He put the violin under his chin, placing his fingers carefully, but with great familiarity, into position, the bowstring a pale beam carefully balanced. He saw Mike cringe out of the corner of his eyes and thought that for once, just this once, he would like to prove to Michael Reynolds that… …well, that he was himself, with his own flaws, but also abilities.

So he launched into allegretto, into a piece that was meant to be a triple with viola and cello but sounded just fine with only the violin, and played with cold wind blowing on the back of his neck from the open door which meant, he guessed, that someone had left the building door open again. He did not pay conscious attention to his hands, but to the notes cascading around him, and from long years of practice he made minute adjustments in pressure and angle so that the notes flowed together into something richer than the individual sounds could ever be.

Music was the right tool for this, he realized as he played. It was the perfect thing for someone who was never eloquent when it came to making points and was still struggling with the finer parts of English grammar. Music didn’t need grammar, it spoke for itself across cultures.

He looked at Mike as he played the last notes, guessing that he probably was wearing a rather defiant expression, but not caring very much since he couldn’t have helped it even if he tried. Sudden applauses greeted him from the door way, and he whirled around, startled, blinking at his unexpected audiences who had appeared out of thin air.

Quand ils…?

“Bravo, Monsieur!” Exclaimed Gary, grinning broadly.

“I thought someone was playing a CD,” Zach gave him a two-fingered salute. “I concur, Nicolas, there’s indeed hidden depths to you.”

Beaming, pleased, Nick carefully returned the instrument to its case and performed an exaggeratedly elaborate bow. “Mille merci.” He gave Mike a sideways glance. Mike, he decided gleefully, was recovering. It was not often that he could make Mike speechless (well, the right kind of speechlessness, anyway), and he enjoyed the moment, attempting to guess at what was happening in his friend’s head, underneath all that far-too-independent hair.

“This’s a really nice violin, Nick,” Gary had entered and was examining the instrument with the practiced eye of someone who grew up around valuable things.

“I know,” Nick smiled at the memory. “My father bought it for me when I went to lycée, and Adeline used to cry because I wouldn’t let her touch it.”

“Aww.”

“But as soon as she turned five she decided she doesn’t like violin after all and went for my mother’s flute instead.”

“Nick,” said Mike, still sounding, slightly, as if he had been traumatized. He looked at Nick. “How long have you been playing this?”

Nick thought about it. “I’m not sure, I’ve had lessons for a while. Definitely by the age of ten, I think.”

“That,” said Zach, “is a long time.”

“I liked it.”

“You weirdo,” said Mike, recovered and entirely himself again, but Nick had seen his face and knew that he had won this particular argument and, he thought happily, I didn’t have to argue a single word!

Bringing over his violin was definitely a good move.