A/N: I don't even know what this is... It's a drabble that I wrote while listening to Andrey by Thomas Pradeau (the song is in French by the way)
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"Alright everyone, head home for the day. Remember to practice your pieces for tomorrow night's performance."
Roderich sighed. He hadn't been able to concentrate today. Whenever it came to his important solo violinist's piece, he flopped. Sure, the notes were all right, but the feeling behind the music was entirely lost.
As everyone else chattered and put away their instruments, the famed violinist and pianist quickly placed his prized violin away and walked out of the theatre through the back entrance where the small staff and actor's parking lot was.
The world outside of the dim theatre was bright with a sun dipping down behind the tall skyscrapers of a bustling city. He walked across dirty cobblestones to the parking place that had been reserved for bikes while quickly checking his watch. Only 7:25. They'd gotten out earlier than usual.
The Austrian unlocked his own cheap street bike and placed the violin case carefully into the basket. With a quick adjustment of his glasses, the musician started to peddle off toward home. As he rode down the quiet alleyway, Roderich checked his watch once again; 7:26.
Off down the road; he glanced across the street to the small shops that lined Fredrickstraße. The street was busy with evening traffic, but the bike-lane was relatively empty. Cracked sidewalks were alive with business men and delivery boys. A girl in a plain dress hurried around a corner as the violinist came to a stop on a red light. He took the chance to look down at his watch another time; 7:29. Any second now.
The minute hand ticked over the number six and the red light changed green. Off down the grey streets once more.
Two blocks later the brunette's phone rang with the melody of Mozart. He quickly flipped it out with one hand from its spot in his London coat's waist pocket.
"Guten Abend, Herr Edelstein speaking." He said with an aristocratic Austrian accent.
"Prinzessin! Hey, I just got home!" A loud voice came through the speaker, causing Roderich to swerve for a brief moment.
"That is good. Have you cleaned out the dishwasher?" He asked politely.
"Nein. I'll do it later," there was static and background noises before the voice returned, "Specs, where did you put the chips?"
A smile gently tugged at the corner of the Austrian's lips. As child-like as always. "Where they always are when you don't have them; in the pantry next to the biscuits."
More static before the familiar voice came back, now muffled from eating crisps, "Awesome. How was practice? Did you finish that one piece you were complaining about yesterday?"
A voice shouted out behind him and the violinist remembered where he was and that it was starting to get dark. He shook his head, peddling forward while talking, "How many times do I tell you not to eat with your mouth full?"
"Every day."
"And when are you going to learn?"
"Never, but that never stopped you."
This time he did grin slightly before sighing and answering the before mentioned questions, "Practice went horribly yet again. The percussionists were arguing once again, and one of the trumpets was hitting on a flautist."
The all familiar static interrupted as more crisps were gobbled down, "You'd think the two would have gotten laid by now."
"Gilbert! Don't be so vulgar!"
"Keseseseseseses~ We both know it's the truth!" the cackling voice grew a bit more serious, "So, your piece?"
Another sigh and a turn right out down a road that would lead the brunette out into the country, if he road far enough, "Well, I still couldn't focus. All of the notes were right, but there wasn't any feeling! One cannot play music without putting their emotions into the piece! I don't know what's wrong, but nothing is coming," he shook his head in frustration and despair, "I put my bow to the strings and everything evaporates into thin air."
"You'll get it, Specs. Just keep trying."
"But what if I don't?" Roderich was almost to his destination now. He could see the small lawn from his bike. There was home; the small cottage house on the left.
"How do you know you won't? Have you screwed up a piece yet? Nein! You're too awesome! I'm sure you'll get it by tomorrow night. Just keep practicing."
He drove up the gravel path to the front door. "How do you know?"
The door opened before the Austrian could grab the handle. The bicycle was balanced against his hip and one hand held the phone to his ear while the other was still outstretch to where the doorknob had been.
A tall, pale man with white hair and red eyes stood in the doorway. He smiled and whispered into the phone.
"I don't, but trust me. You'll be perfect."