Hi there! Just a disclaimer, I do not own Mozart in the Jungle! If I did, it'd be all Gloria, because that's how it should be. So to cope, here is the beginning of hopefully a whole series of short one-shots. Don't hesitate to let me know what you think!
Enjoy.
He's decided he likes living with Gloria.
She's nice, fun even, when her face isn't scrunched up in stress and frustration from bureaucratic nonsense and red tape.
He doesn't understand how someone who walks so lyrically in high-heeled shoes can deal with such mind numbing business factors like subscribers and demographics and curtains.
Though that last one might be a hobby.
Frankly, he can't see the appeal.
Nevertheless, Gloria is a good roommate.
Housemate?
Town-housemate?
Either way, she's pleasant.
Perhaps a tad too conventional in her living habits—hummed show tunes now replace the hum of his beloved didgeridoo; and his little gatherings are just that, little gatherings, where the guests are required to keep all their clothes on—but it's more than manageable.
Most nights are filled with bejeweled hands to shake and donor's cheeks to kiss and orchestras to conduct, but on the rare occasions when they are not busy, they stay in.
Late night take-out and chitty-chatting, shop talk kept to the bare minimum.
It's good, it's companionable, and he's almost proud to say he's learning more about the esteemed Gloria Windsor than just her living habits.
And then, he starts to notice.
It's little things.
She watches movies more—though never at home—and in between the texts that make the little corners of her mouth crinkle in annoyance, there are a few that keep her still.
It seems like any normal thing, but he's observant, and not averse to staring.
It's her eyes, he realizes...they brighten a little more at the mysterious messages on her phone, even as the rest of her appears nonchalant.
No one else would notice, they've got unions and breaks and budgets to worry about, but he is content to keep her secret eyes to himself.
Because, when they start to glow, chocolate eyes melt into songs.
What songs, he's not quite sure, they're too fleeting and hidden and Gloria's, but he's sure they are beautiful.
And he knows without a doubt, if her secret is revealed, those songs will stop.
So he doesn't say a word, not until her songs map out for him like notes on a page worthy of Mozart.
They haven't yet, but he can be patient.
He can keep quiet.
He can't, however, keep his eyebrows from raising at the extra wineglass in the sink.
She's seeing someone.
And not as in seeing someone for small talk and asking about their children, as in seeing someone with more than just the eyes and ears of an old friend.
As in seeing someone with the eyes and ears and lips and hands of a lover.
Not that he's physically seen this.
He's seen extra plates and extra silverware littering the usually immaculate counter, he's heard Gloria's quiet murmurs on the phone, a gentle caress of whispers he can't decipher, and he's seen a pair of black boxing gloves that he knows aren't Gloria's.
It's not exactly proof, but it is evidence enough that she's got a certain someone who visits.
He decides to roam the streets more often at night, giving Gloria and her someone more room for wine and seeing each other.
If she notices, she doesn't mention it.
But her smiles—though she complains they stretch out her cheeks—widen, contrasting perfectly with her gold-spun curls.
She looks happy.
He approves.
He's happy for her too, until one night, while stealing past her room for the kitchen, he hears her utter a name that stops him cold.
Edward.
As in Edward Biben. As in board member Edward Biben. As in Edward-shark-snake-cold-ruthless-Biben.
What's worse, she'd said the name sweetly.
Suddenly, he does not approve quite so much.
She's in the kitchen, humming something hinting of Sinatra when he decides to confront her.
"Good morning, Rodrigo. Breakfast?"
She sets a plate before him, eggs and vegetables still steaming from the cream-white porcelain.
He hesitates. Gloria grins ruefully.
"Don't worry, I didn't make it."
He digs in. It's excellent.
"Delicious," he says around another mouthful.
"I'll send the cook your regards."
"Who was the cook?"
She turns to put away recently dried silverware and decidedly changes the subject.
"Do you have any plans for today other than rehearsal?"
In this instant, he is reminded of his grandmother's kitchen, her wrinkled hands on her hips as she warns him to stay out of trouble.
And this time, like every other time, he ignores the warning.
"Is Edward Biben your lover?"
He might as well have thrown a bucket of icy water in her face from the way she sputters in shock.
"Wha—no. Why would you even think that?"
He leans in close, eyes narrowing, studying her like an I-Spy picture book.
"You have taken quite a lot of calls from him lately," he's not accusing, this isn't accusing, he doesn't do that.
"For work," she replies, seemingly calm, but the hand putting away the sharp cutlery tightens.
He leans back.
"But so late at night?"
The hand not holding the knife opens a drawer forcefully.
He leans back further.
"Rodrigo de Susa, have you been eavesdropping on me?"
"What's this? There's no eavesdropping, I don't eavesdrop. I just heard a snippety of conversation last night, and I was curious. That's all. No eavesdropping."
She looks less than convinced, but finally puts the knife where it belongs.
Away.
"If you must know, I was convincing Edward not to visit you today. He's determined to someday find you make a mistake and kick us both out."
The last part is tinged with bitterness, and yet all he registers is his own relief that the knife is gone.
"So, you are not interested in him," he says, just for clarification.
"Definitely not."
"So you do not dream of him in the sweet hours of night?" He teases, fingers drumming the marble counter to give tempo to his jest.
She smirks, lips in a wry twist, hands now clenching a four pronged fork.
"Believe me, the only dreams he's involved in are the ones where I get to stick him with something pointy. Maybe then I'd finally get a break from his pointing fingers."
She pauses, eyes glinting at the picture playing in her mind; Rodrigo's fingers still, subtly folding together under the counter, out of sight and out of potential harm's way.
Then she shakes the moment off, smiles sweetly at him, and focuses on returning the rest of the dishes to their assigned shelves.
She goes back to humming.
She's nowhere near any sharp pieces anymore, but Rodrigo keeps his hands under his legs.
Just in case.
She's more careful now. Nothing extra litters anything, and he hasn't heard a single whisper at any time of the day.
He's almost concerned.
He hopes she hasn't stopped seeing her someone because of him, he'd sooner find somewhere else to live than have her give up this new happiness.
Her eyes still sing though; he is relieved, and goes back to solving the mystery that is her secret someone.
However, he stops asking questions.
He spends longer evenings out and about, resolute in giving her space.
It's not fair, to feel the need to sneak around in one's own home.
So he stays out until he cannot anymore, until he's nearly crawling to bed before slipping under silken sheets and falling into the abyss of unconsciousness.
It's actually not so bad.
Dreamless sleep is refreshing.
But tonight, tonight he is tired.
He is so tired, he barely notices bumping into Pavel as he's walking in the front door and Pavel is walking out.
He stops. His eyes twitch, then blink.
Pavel.
In Gloria's home.
Pavel.
He turns around. He stares.
Pavel is still there, staring back at him.
He must be sleeping.
He pinches his own arm.
He's not sleeping.
Pavel is buttoning his rumpled shirt, smoothing his mussed hair, smiling like he's heard a private joke only he knows.
"Gloria is sleeping," there's warmth in his low voice. Too much warmth to be merely innocent. "Try to not wake her, she has an early morning tomorrow."
So much familiarity in his tone.
Rodrigo only nods.
"Have a good night, my friend," Pavel says, mouth twitching in amusement as Rodrigo's still gapes open.
He closes it with a snap as the words register.
"Yes. Yes, ok."
The door closes. Pavel disappears.
Rodrigo stands alone, his face a stone chiseled from surprise.
Then, a smile cracks, spreading slowly from one side of his mouth all the way to the other.
He's found Gloria out, he knows her secret someone, he knows it's Pavel.
What an unexpected surprise.
The day's rehearsal is a bit messy.
Edward had insisted on watching this one, so the rest of the board had been there as well. The orchestra ends up performing to an audience of eight.
Union Bob is sure to be sending his bill already.
Rodrigo wouldn't mind—his orchestra needs to be kept on its toes—if not for the self-satisfied smirk glued to Edward Biben's face.
"Impressive, maestro," he says, though sounding anything but. "However, I think your crew needs another shot of espresso."
He jerks his head in direction to a violinist. The woman is leaning her face against her instrument, glasses askew as she takes a cat nap.
"And after that rendition of Haydn, I might just need one too."
Rodrigo forces a smile, knowing Gloria relies on him to be nice. It turns to one of sincerity when he sees Pavel walking his way, telltale Starbucks tray in hand.
"Well then, it seems Pavel's timing is perfect. There you go, drink up."
He stares at the auditorium—the lights, the red velvet drapes around the stage, the now snoring violinist—anything to avoid connecting gazes with the smug businessman.
Copper strands catch his eye, Gloria's alight and glowing as Pavel hands her the caffeinated beverage.
"You are a lifesaver."
Her voice is light and appreciative, but Rodrigo knows the undertones now. He sees her dancing eyes, her fluttering lashes, her lingering smile.
No man can stand a chance against such a combination, and Pavel fares no different.
Edward follows his stare, not noticing the same significance; Rodrigo's amused focus is broken.
"She may be losing me money," Edward says, eyes drinking her in like his mouth drinks coffee. "But at least she looks good doing it."
"Pardon?"
He jerks his head in Gloria's direction; Rodrigo bristles at the motion, finding it distinctly unpleasant.
Regardless, he studies her figure.
Balancing on high heels—always the heels—she is milky alabaster poured into a dark green dress. With her hair a burning gold, she is ethereal, she is flawless, she is resplendent.
In short, she is attractive.
"See what I mean?" Edward says, interrupting Rodrigo's thoughts.
"Hmm? Oh...yeah," he answers vaguely, dazed.
Then he notices something else, something that quirks his lips.
She has yet to break Pavel's gaze, even though he's halfway across the room, their private joke continuing through silent signals and invisible smiles.
"This might pop the bubble," he says, ignoring Edward's confused look, too busy remembering Gloria's musical eyes and Pavel's messy hair and extra dishes in the sink. It's living poetry, and he's a hopeless romantic.
"But she is not interested," he finishes, smiling as he claps a hand on Edward's shoulder.
Edward is mystified.
"So? Neither am I."
He just laughs, thinking of hands clenched around pointy forks at the mere mention of Biben's name.
"Nevertheless," he says over his shoulder as he strolls off in her direction, teasing on his mind, a pleasant bounce in his step.
"She is definitely not interested."
