TW: panic attack. It's in the section after the first line break when Francis goes into the bathroom.
While I did promise a recap in the next chapter for people who may get triggered about chapter 26's content, I forgot that this chapter has a panic attack. For anyone who needed to skip the last chapter, here is the summary:
Gilbert bought movie tickets so that he, Antonio, and Francis can watch a movie together and be pacified. He tried to get Francis to go with him, arguing that Francis did not practise the entire day anyway, but Francis is mad that Gilbert did so without asking, especially with the audition date coming so soon. Francis explained that he had things go on in his life. But when asked about it, Francis refused to tell Gilbert what it was. Gilbert bitterly remarked how Francis was too paranoid to trust him even when he shouldn't. Antonio came back to the apartment and tries to resolve the conflict, but it is revealed that Antonio had been engaged with Roderich and had been hiding it from Gilbert and Francis. It is revealed that Antonio had been catastrophizing Francis' bad mental health, terrified that Francis would go suicidal if left unchecked. Francis and even Gilbert were disappointed in Antonio for letting that thought be the reason that Antonio regulated them so much. The commotion caused Arthur to come upstairs to check on them, and Gilbert, furious, left. The commotion also left a bitter taste in Francis' mouth and he had small outbursts at Antonio and even Arthur. However, he came to regret it and went to call Gilbert to apologise. However, his phone notified him that the audition was on the very day.
Please take care of yourself.
In the USA, you can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.
In the UK, you can call Samaritans at 116 123.
In Canada, you can call Crisis Services Canada at 1-833-456-4566.
In Australia, you can call Lifeline at 13 11 14.
"We can move to New York."
Lisa had mentioned it very shortly after they had woken up. Francis blinked, then yawned as he stretched.
"Lisa, cherie, isn't your family from Massachusetts?"
"What's that got to do with moving there?"
"If I move to New York, sure I'd have you, but I won't know anyone. I don't want to leave France. I've never even done so."
"Didn't you go to Germany to visit Gilbert?"
He chewed his lower lip. "That's different. Gilbert lives there with his family, and my dad had to visit his brothers there, too."
Lisa sat up, the bed covers falling off of her. "But don't you want to go there? You've got a lot of career opportunities. New York is such a global city, while Paris is only so big."
"I'm happy here, and my family's here."
She shrugged. "Moving around a lot is normal. There's something more in the world, and if you only stay in one place, you'll be blinded."
Lisa did have a point. But Francis hated to admit the notion that he was holding himself back. "Let's talk about it later."
Francis thought that it'd be just one instance that lasted for two days at the most, an open flame that could be smothered. It grew into a fierce wildfire.
"Francis Bonnefoy-"
"May I have a moment?"
Antonio and Arthur were staring. The auditioner was staring. Francis' chest constricted as beads of sweat washed over his forehead, ice cold.
The auditioner simply shook her head, then she called another name. A young girl followed the auditioner into the room where it happened.
They had been late. They had been very late. Luckily Francis' audition had been delayed, but now it was quickly becoming his turn. Did he remember to bring everything? Francis groped the front pocket of his saxophone case and breathed out a sigh of relief once he groped out the outline of his folder.
"Something wrong?" Antonio asked. Arthur was looking as well. Antonio and Arthur's eyes were glued to his every move. This room was too sterile, too quiet, too empty. All of these walls were industrialised, massed-produced grey plaster that was more of a factory-made box. The atmosphere was thick, and Francis was the sinkhole that it dripped into, drop by drop.
Francis stood up and marched to the bathroom. Antonio tried to follow him, and Arthur tried to as well.
"Stop it. Just, just give me some time alone, alright?"
"Francis, you can't do that anymore! Look at what happened the last time you were left alone, you had many issues-"
"I told you! Now's not the time!..." Someone was staring at the commotion he made. It was a young man who sat on his seat, the next one auditioning. Francis gulped. "I…" he tried to let out a laugh to lighten the atmosphere but it made everything worse. "We can't do this. We're in public."
Antonio marched forward. "Public or not, we can't let that…"
But Arthur put his arm in front of his chest and stopped him. Arthur's gaze was still on Francis, his mouth twisted into an uneven line.
"I'm sorry it has to be like this."
The sincerity made it hurt more.
His vision started to blur. Francis marched away to the bathrooms.
He had been splashing the freezing water onto his hot cheeks for a long time, desperate to wash away all the grief, all the confusion, all the disgust. Francis repeated his motion until his face was a little colder, desperately trying to cast away any emotion he had felt this week or any emotion he was feeling right now.
Focus now, he scolded to himself as he raised his head. He looked into the mirror.
He was a fucking mess.
Though the cold water did cool his face, the flesh was still pink and swollen. Under the neon white lights, he saw that his cheeks glistened with water. Francis did not brush his hair, so it was tangled into a pile of knots. Francis was careless with where he splashed the water, too, because not only were his front hair bangs wet, darkened and dripping, but so were his sleeves and shirt.
The shock caused Francis to stumble away from the mirror and bump against the toilet stalls as he buried his face into his hands, and the room spun. It was not meant to be like this. It was not meant to be like this.
He could not do this. He realised this once Francis realised his palms were wet with mucus, saliva and tears. Francis hoisted himself up at the sink again and turned on the water, then washed everything away. He washed his face, he washed his hands, he tried to wash his grief away and drown the beast.
Francis pulled away, but nothing had changed compared to the last time he had looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was array, his shirt was rumpled, and not only did his face look worse, but his eyes were pink, swollen and shining. A great sense of nausea was overcoming him.
He will have to come, and the auditioners will have to see him like this.
It was enough to make him sick again, but Francis bit his lip and stumbled towards the paper towel dispenser. This will have to do. He must do the audition, and he must do it now.
Francis' sleeves were still wet when the auditioner called out his number. He drew in a deep breath to stay calm, though inside was a raging hurricane. Then he marched out of the bathroom. He grabbed his saxophone case and marched into the room where it happened, to the point of no return.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Bonnefoy. It is lovely to have your acquaintance."
The lead auditioner was a stoic lady with hair impossibly smooth and stance impossibly refined, even after hours of auditioning other musicians. Meanwhile, the three other auditioners were arranging their papers and wielding their pens. The pressure of what was to come caused Francis to steer away.
"Thank you," he managed to choke out. Stand still, he told himself, and he shuffled his footing so that it was straight.
"What motivates you to audition for this position? The City of London Symphonic Winds is not an easy band to join."
Something inside Francis was tugged into an unnatural position. "I…" simply like to play the saxophone. Wanted a job. "I thought it would be a great challenge for me."
The lead auditioner nodded, then flipped through her papers. "It says here that you will be auditioning Camille Saint-Saens' Sonata for clarinets, adapted for the tenor saxophone. Correct?"
"Yes. I-I tried to practise as much of it as I could. It's still not finished."
She squinted "You seem a little under the weather today. We always have auditions open in the next six months-"
"It's fine. I can do well under pressure."
The lead auditioner raised her eyebrow. "You have a lot of determination, Mr. Bonnefoy. Most people would practise their pieces for at least 2 months before auditioning, whereas you only had 2 weeks. Fortunately, you only need to play the first three minutes of this piece."
Francis let out a breath of relief. That should cover all of the sections that Francis had practised. But then panic arose within his chest, because he was going to start it. He was going to start it, and he was a mess, and 5 professionals were staring, and-
"Alright," the lead auditioner started. "You can begin once you're ready, Francis."
Now? But as Francis gulped, he saw the auditioners scribble upon their papers. A cold sweat arose upon his forehead, and the beast was awake again, desperate to claw itself out.
Focus. Focus, He scolded to himself.
Francis stared at the music piece and tried to make sense of the notes, but the melody in his head seemed to blur away.
No. This was not the time for this. He needed to play, anyway. And so Francis started the piece.
The first note was out of tune. This was the first impression, the most important aspect of the music, and yet he had screwed it up! The judges will notice. The judges will notice.
Focus. Next segment. This segment should be at moderato, a casual, walking pace. And so Francis played, counting in his head the exact seconds needed for this.
Didn't Gilbert specifically mention to count for this section because Francis tended to forget the holds? At the thought of his friend, Francis couldn't help but feel queasy. No. No no no.
He hoped that Gilbert was fine. He did not mean to.
Francis was disgusting.
He widened his eyes once he realised that he had missed a beat, and he nearly stopped but he forced himself to keep on going, no matter how deaf the ringing in his ears and the growling beast inside his chest seemed to be.
The judges kept on scribbling.
Francis continued to play anyway. He messed this segment up so much, Saens himself must be rolling in his grave. Beads of sweat were dripping down his nose as the room closed in around him.
Francis was suffocating.
He will prevail. He must. Otherwise what good was it that his time was wasted?
Francis glanced down at the music sheet. Allegro.
He frowned. It was his time to give this piece everything he got.
As he drew in a deep breath, he played as hard as he could.
The faster segments were Francis' strengths. He figured out what could go well, then played it as much as he could. He gave his all for this one segment, he truly did, even though Francis could not hear anything. Because if he was one of the judges, he would have kicked him out by now.
This segment was his one strength, the allegro was his one strength. And if he played the other segments so terribly, what would the judges want him for? He'd be removed from the audition, for sure.
The thoughts welling up in his mind distracted him from the chromatics. Francis concentrated on the chromatics and finally, finally, gave in to the advice Gilbert gave to him. It glided like butter, and Francis thought what a fool he was that he did not accept it earlier.
There was another segment upcoming, and Francis widened his eyes. That was a page he practised a lot of. Finally! A light at the end of the tunnel! Francis grinned, drew a deep breath in, and-
"Alright, Mr. Bonnefoy, your time is up. Thank you," said the lead auditioner.
The last note out of his saxophone was forced out feebly. Francis widened his eyes. He glanced at the auditioner, then back at the music, then back again. It was done too soon, he could play more, the most practised segment was right there!
His jaw wobbled, wanting to ask for just some more time. Please, just a little more time.
"But…" But you do not bite the hand that fed you?
Francis bit his bottom lip and nodded. "Thank you," he choked out.
Then he marched out of the room.
The journey back to the apartment was a blur.
Francis decided that it was no use saying what he wanted to say if it'll only bring him raw misery like salt rubbed into a wound. So whatever Antonio and Arthur said, he agreed. Whatever Antonio and Arthur asked, he responded positively.
He was tired. They had their suspicions, but Francis did not want to bother with them.
After they went back to the apartment, Francis shut the door and went to bed.