Author's Note: Hello, you who's reading this. If you've made it this far, please allow me to extend my thanks and congratulations. I don't have a lot of reviews and that's fine, but thanks for reading – or trying to, anyway. Please know I appreciate your effort a lot :)

AFTER THE ONE WITH RACHEL'S PHONE NUMBER

His mouth is dry when he purses it shut and he takes a second. Clamping his teeth lightly onto his lower lip to draw the blood and scraping back. He swallows, purses his lips again, and opens them slightly to blow out a note. It hangs in the air, suspended for a good half-minute, his fingers running across the keys to find the chord just before his lungs empty out.

Mike closes his eyes, indulging himself. The piano bar will be empty for six more hours. And though ideally he would prefer to be with Phoebe before spending the rest of the night catering to a mostly grateful – later drunken – audience, she had a client and he knew he'd be a distraction. She will be there tonight though, he hopes, so for the meantime he can content himself with thoughts of her in his head and Liebestraum through his fingertips. A travesty if Liszt were alive to hear him, he's sure, but it's been forever and it sometimes is nice to remind himself he still remembers.

His hand hovers above the key just as he finishes and he refuses to open his eyes immediately, choosing instead to let his mind's eye linger over an imaginary concert hall. A long forgotten illusion that has resurfaced only about four months ago. The first time Phoebe begged him to play for her. Once after the piano bar was already closed.

"No, that's unfair," she giggled, guitar slung over her shoulder as she sat down on the bench next to him."You can't play just that one part and say you don't remember anymore. Obviously, you do."

"I can't," he felt himself smile weakly at her. "I'm not a huge Chopin fan."

He remembered how uncomfortable it still had been for him then – playing Chopin to his new girlfriend. Especially when he could feel his heart practically give way whenever she was around. The last thing he wanted to do was give Phoebe any reason to believe he wasn't completely over his ex-wife still, because he was. But if he played Chopin, he wouldn't do any of the pieces justice. The right feelings wouldn't accompany his hands. Not anymore. Not when memories of his ex-wife had forever imbued themselves in the notes. She loved Frederic Chopin, and she said she loved him, too. Until she said she didn't anymore and he realised maybe he never really felt that way about her either.

"How about I play you something else?"

"Okay, like what?"

He remembered himself kissing the top of her head as she fell asleep on his shoulder, at the fifth straight Franz Liszt piece he played from memory. Liebestraum. He could barely move his right hand when he finished, his arm bearing almost her entire weight.

"Mmm…that was good…" she murmured softly, lifting her head up slightly before snuggling closer once more. "…is it over?"

He remembered gently draping his arm around her, knowing full well she wouldn't know if he answered or not. In a few minutes, they would go back home to his apartment to spend the night. And in that span of time, he closed his eyes along with her and drifted with the chords to places he had gone to before, skipping past the last nine years in his memory.

The metal chimes by the door jolt him out of his musing.

"Mike?" Ross calls out, stepping into the piano bar. "Mike?"

He stands up from the bench and makes a start for the door. "Hey, Ross. What's going on?"

"Oh, hey. Erm, sorry, I just… you forgot this at my apartment."

Ross hands over his multi-tool knife quite awkwardly, and Mike remembers they had used it as their beer cap opener the night before.

"I tried to call but you weren't picking up. Anyway, Phoebe said you'd be here so…"

"Oh," he whispers, smiling back weakly as he reaches into his pocket for his phone. He flips it open, 3 missed calls on the screen. "Sorry, I must've hit silent. Thanks, man."

"It slipped my mind to give it back to you this morning."

"Right. At the coffee shop. Yea…"

"Yea."

"Yea-"

Mike nods once at Ross before trailing off. They stand quiet for a moment, neither knowing what to say. Again.

"I—I was actually just playing…" Mike attempts, pointing a thumb over his shoulder to the piano. "Do you want to er…hang back? Maybe—erm—maybe you could play some of your… material?"

"Oh no no," Ross exhales sharply with a slight laugh, voice cutting through the air. "That's okay. I'm just… I'm gunna go."

"Right. Yea. Okay. Well, thanks for er- bringing this back," Mike says, dangling the army knife from his fingers.

"O-okay," Ross sputters, stumbling toward the door. "Bye then."

"Yea… okay… bye."

Mike smiles and shuts the door as soon as Ross steps out and exhales audibly in relief, not bothering to wonder why his mind automatically goes blank whenever Ross is around now. He walks over to the piano, poses his hands over the keys, but bows abruptly, letting out another breath instead.

The door opens suddenly again and Ross storms in.

"Can I just er—can I just ask you something?" his voice reverberates inside the empty room, something less than anger but much more than curiosity flashing in his eyes. "You knew about it, didn't you? They told you, right?"

Mike stands up from the bench, his hands tucking themselves into his pockets almost involuntarily.

"What—what are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about?" Ross lets out a weak laugh, turning his face away defensively before staring at Mike straight in the eyes. "The guy from the bar. You were trying to stop me from answering his call, right? They put you up to it. That was why. That was why!"

He begins to pace between the tables and Mike steps down from the stage, a little wary seeing how upset he is.

"Okay, you need to calm down, Ross," Mike slowly walks toward him. "Just please… just… take a breath."

Ross continues to pace without a word for a good long moment. Mike doesn't move from where he stands. Just carefully, silently observing as the distress in his face slowly fades.

"I'm sorry," Ross finally breaks the pause, "I'm not mad. I just—I don't know what…"

His breath catches in his throat and he exhales sharply, as if to rid himself of it. His hand clutching on his chest.

"I don't know… how to feel about this."

Mike clenches his jaw, watching Ross grab a chair and sit on it while staring blankly into space, defeat all over his face. He walks back over to the piano bench, a moment too long after. His mind blank except for a few words. He stares at his knees—Ross still hasn't said anything—takes a breath, and gambles.

"I'm sorry about what I did-"

Ross shifts his eyes from the floor toward him, and he continues.

"I can't say I know exactly how you feel but I think I have some idea," Mike runs a hand over the side of his shoulder. "At the very least, she tried to keep you from knowing because… well… clearly, she didn't want to risk hurting you. That's saying something, I think-"

He waits for a reaction but Ross just turns away from him again.

"I don't think I'm the one you should be talking to about this."

Mike bows, expelling the pent up air in his lungs, finally. There are no more words in his head. Maybe not until Ross speaks, then he can decide if he has something more to say or not.

The chair creaks as its legs scratch back quickly over the hardwood floor. He doesn't look up. He just listens to Ross, as he stands up and puts the chair back up over the table. His shoes scrape against the floor as he walks away. Over to the door, Mike presumes, and the chimes clang lightly to confirm this. The hinges groan as it opens. Then, it closes again.

Mike coughs, takes a moment before looking up. He sees Ross grabbing a chair again and setting it down on the floor. This time, a little closer to the stage.

"I thought you—"

"You don't mind, do you? It's just… it's real quiet here. Could I just erm—" Ross coughs with a weak smile, "—hang back a little while?"

"Of course, yea. But er—I was…" Mike points to the piano, a little uncertain.

"No, please, just… I—I'd really like to hear you play."

"Okay," Mike lets out a relieved laugh, placing his fingers over the keys.

He pegs his eyes onto the piano, hands moving effortlessly as he plays from memory. Charles Mayer's Le Regret. It reproduces itself from his fingers without his own volition, but when the chair squeaks back against the floor, he doesn't look up. Nor does he look up when the hinges groan and the door opens and closes again. He only looks up after he finishes and just as he thought, Ross is gone.

Mike sighs and reaches into his pocket for his phone to call Phoebe. She should be done with the massage appointment by now. The screen says two new messages and he presses the button to read the one from Phoebe and the other one from

"Ross?" he whispers. Curious, and then pleased. He snickers, reading the one word message.

'Thanks'

Author's Note: (cont'd) So, apparently, I come up with more depressing than FRIENDS-like material, it seems. And this story is largely taking on Mike's POV as I continue, if you've noticed. If you've managed to read through this chapter completely, thank you, and I'm sorry but I can't promise the next chapters won't be as gloomy. I rarely approve on explaining my own work, but I couldn't really think of any angle after this episode other than this so here's what (perhaps) my best effort looks like. Thank you so much for reading!