A Cold Cup of Tea
"You've been practicing as much as you can. Now all you can do is wait."
"Even if the letter hasn't come in, I'm still going to try my best to master the songs! I don't care if I get in," he lied before truth burned the edges, "I still love music. I still love my piano."
"You should practice," he told himself.
He should, so why did his body ache? Why were his fingers so heavy?
He couldn't seem to move himself from his position at the table. He lay his head down over his arms.
It was moments like these Roderich felt at peace. He didn't need to keep up appearances. He didn't need to show that he was dignified and confident. He was Roderich Edelstein, and he didn't need to be anything for anyone other than himself. At least right now.
Right now, he felt at peace.
Roderich entered the practice room and started to play softly. It wasn't like him to be so nervous, yet his wavering hands stood as proof themselves. The notes tentatively skimmed the surface of the heavy atmosphere, easing his mind only at the smallest amounts.
He'd been told he could do this. He knew he could do it, yet part of him was hindering all confidence, forcing it under salty waves with a milestone chained to its throat.
"You're so great," they told him.
"You're the best pianist I've ever heard," they said.
"You'll definitely get in," they assured him.
Roderich slid his chair back reluctantly. He had to practice. He hadn't missed a day since he was twelve. The squeak of the tile made him cringe, fighting the urge to cover his sensitive ears at the sound.
He felt so sluggish. He hardly had the will to move, however the will to practice overcame such defiance.
Chords did not melt his tense features. He tried various methods, yet he couldn't stop himself. He just wanted to lose himself—not that he wasn't already lost. For so long… For so long he…
Roderich stepped into the room. Not a soul could mistake that the cool faces were easy judges. Though he'd played various instruments, Roderich preferred to dance with his favorite: the wooden keys of ivory and black.
Roderich pushed himself away from the instrument. He just couldn't do it. He couldn't dare lay a finger on the object. He revolted himself…
Roderich staggered across the tile floor and fell onto the nearby wall, hardly catching himself. He started to fall to the ground and weep. The tears stung his eyes and burned his cheeks. He hadn't cried since he was twelve.
The sounds of pens marking each mistake clawed at Roderich's ears. He most certainly did not get nervous… He never got nervous… Roderich Edelstein wasn't nervous… He definitely was ner—not. Definitely was not nervous.
He'd only been waiting for this day his entire life.
Why on Earth would he be nervous?
"R-Roderich," a voice was entangled among many thoughts. "I know how you must feel but it isn't the end of the world…"
"Shut up…" Roderich whispered. "Just be quiet… You have no idea how it feels…"
Three faces studied his every movement.
"I can probably… imagine…" came the lame words.
"Leave me alone," his voice hadn't moved above his soft, broken tone.
"You can go now, we've heard enough," came words that disrupted the flow of harmonies.
"Roderich, I care about you. I can't just stand by and—"
"Yes, you can, Gilbert," he spat out. "You can. And you will."
"I can't do that, Specs," Gilbert sang and picked him up. "You need to stop moping around."
Roderich thrashed in Gilbert's arms. He pushed at him and yelled to be released. His cheeks were dusted over with a red paint brush at the indecent action, and he pounded his fists into Gilbert's shoulder twice more before he let up. His head fell onto the shoulder of the larger man as he was carried to who knows where. Gilbert didn't mind that his shoulder was damp.
"You don't know…" Roderich said nearly inaudibly. "You can't possibly know… They all… All of them…"
"Shh," Gilbert ran his fingers through brown locks once.
Roderich stood from the piano chair with the same stoic features. He bowed stiffly before turning heel and exiting the room, glancing at the next man whom passed him and shut the door behind him. It was only then that his façade shattered and he put his face in his hands.
He'd never been more anxious in his life.
Roderich found himself under the covers of his bed with a familiar silverette beside him. He didn't care to inquire why he was there, he simply lay still. His amethyst eyes closed themselves as he turned away from the figure. The wall was much less judgemental, Roderich concluded.
"You can always talk about it you know," Gilbert said when he saw Roderich finally moved.
"I can't."
Weeks passed and Roderich was hardly sleeping at all.
"What do you plan to do then?"
His mailbox remained barren.
"I don't know what to do with my life anymore."
He remained at his table with a cold cup of tea.
"You can't seriously be so worked up over one audition."
He found a letter with a familiar seal on it tucked away inside his mailbox.
"You don't understand!" Roderich lashed out.
Thank you for auditioning—
"All of them were capable!"
—but we regret to inform you—
"My father, my father's father, everyone before that—"
—that you were not selected as the pianist for the Austrian Philharmonics.
"—they were all capable… Talented enough to be chosen…"
We'd like to thank you for your time.
"I was practicing for this moment… since I was a child. And now it appears I still am one."
A thin sheet of silence fell over the two. There were no words to be said, inside of the mind or out. They were already sitting gawkily on the violet comforter. Gilbert tried to touch each letter, yet they were so hard to grasp. He didn't know which part to look at, to grab, afraid of the glass and that it may break in his palm.
"I'm…" Gilbert stuttered on his words, "I'm sorry… I don't know what to tell you."
Austria smiled. At least he wasn't saying "It's okay anyways" or "It doesn't matter that much" or even "You're still the best pianist I know." Such lies were spouted from the moment he'd received the envelope.
"Neither do I, Gil, Neither do I."
"Papa, why do I always have to practice?" Roderich asked his father.
"Because, son, you're going to be in the Austrian Philharmonics, like me someday. Twelve is a wonderful year to start practicing for it," his father ruffled his hair.
"Do I have to?" Roderich whined as he set down his action figures.
"Yes, you do," he was pushed towards the keys. "And I just know you'll make us proud."