Armin walked briskly in an effort to make up for leaving his jacket at home in the optimism of that morning. The wind pulled his hair into his eyes and he knew it had been too long since he had done anything about it. He tapped at his pants, an alternating rhythm to each step on the concrete as he picked up speed, trying to hold the notes in his mind. It was his own fault for leaving his pencil at home.
Yes, perhaps he had found his missing measures.
Once alone, in the stairwell of the building, he bolted up the steps. One foot hooked on the last. He caught himself on the railing, thankfully, and gradually drew himself back up before power-walking the remainder of the hallway. The staff paper still sat accusingly on his counter where he had tried in vain to resolve the same bar that morning. He scrawled notes across the empty section until it resembled, if just barely legible, what he had held in his mind.
"Ha," he exclaimed at the stack of paper.
This triumph was quickly extinguished by the far taller stack of untouched, empty sheets. He sighed and picked up the not-so-empty pages of a well-worn music score. His speakers buzzed when he turned the knob at the receiver and he resumed his attempts to pick the brain of yet another composer.
He slapped the scorebook onto the table and shut off the speakers with a dull click. He was as stuck as ever and out of time anyway.
Most people were already there when he got to rehearsal, the energy in the room buzzing as always. He unpacked quietly before taking his own seat and unfolding music across the stand. His fingers idly pressed notes into the fingerboard of his violin, nearly jumping out of his chair when Floch landed next to him, just a little too close.
"Did you see Marlowe's new bow yet?"
Armin almost had a chance to respond before Marlowe himself appeared as if summoned. Which he probably was if he had overheard Floch so much as breathe the word 'bow.' Marlowe slid into the chair to Armin's other side to immediately regale them as to the fine qualities, well-set inlays, and balance of what, even Armin had to admit, was quite a nice bow. At Marlowe's attempt to interest them in the details of the bow hairs, Floch said,
"Maybe they got the hair hank from the horse's ass."
Armin bit away a laugh while Marlowe remained undeterred.
"Maybe if the hairs on your bow came from an ass half as good, you would play better."
Floch pointed to the music on the stand.
"And that will help you here?"
Marlowe was quite content with the opportunity to inform Floch (or anyone else that might have the misfortune to mention it) of the many reasons why the first violin part was particularly challenging, particularly compared to the second violin part. It was a conversation that was cut blessedly short by Hitch.
"You're in my seat," Hitch said. She stared at Marlowe until he stood.
"Almost late again, Hitch."
"But not quite."
Marlowe's retreat was expedited by the fact that Levi had just begun issuing instructions to the rest of the first violin section. Armin tried to think of some useful instructions for the second violins, but, as he had since the beginning of the season, he continued to find himself generally lacking as a section leader. Floch had more valuable input more than half of the time and the only reason Armin did not consider the seating placement to be an outright mistake was that it had been Erwin's decision. Otherwise, he was wholly unconvinced.
The stage stilled.
"Good morning," Erwin said as he ascended the podium, plucking his baton up.
Most echoed the greeting back. The sound of pages turning whispered across the stands.
"As you know, we have a wonderful season in front of us. Last week's concert was very well received. And I expect the remainder of the season will only get better."
Armin let out a little puff through his nose and Levi lifted a single brow. Many around them missed Erwin's vague point entirely. They had done relatively poorly, as professional standards went, on the opening concert of the season the week before. Armin felt a pang of guilt. He had not contributed well in this regard.
Erwin concluded his opening remarks with a reminder that the ballet pit orchestra had reached out to request a few substitute players. Levi would end up slotted for it, Armin had no doubt, sure that their concertmaster was more than capable of perfecting anything even in so short a timespan. At a nod from Erwin, Pieck released the tuning note from her oboe.
Clusters floated in the hall after rehearsal. The viola and cello section were intermingled to the point of nearly blocking his path to the exit, Connie going on loudly about anything as long as it was not related to classical music. Armin turned abruptly and set his path toward a lesser-used door instead, almost reaching it before Erwin's voice did.
"Armin," Erwin called, catching up easily in three long strides.
"Hi, Erwin."
"How is your composing coming along?"
"Oh. It's coming."
Armin kept his face still in spite of a deep desire to grimace and run out the door. Erwin replied with his usual diplomatic tone, although Armin was sure he was suspicious in the way his eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly.
"Good. Yes, well, I look forward to hearing it."
Armin nodded awkwardly, not daring to vocalize at this point. It became apparent in the next moment, however, that Erwin had not really come to ask after Armin's personal endeavors.
"Do you have any interest in taking the substitute job for the ballet?"
Erwin watched him expectantly. Armin's surprise resulted in a response more candid than he would have usually intended.
"I don't really know. Why?"
"I hear you are familiar with the music."
"Everyone is familiar with Swan Lake," Armin said instantly, and maybe a little sarcastically, before silently chastising himself for giving such a response. And to Erwin Smith, of all people.
Erwin's laugh echoed in the tiny hallway.
"Of course. But not everyone has played it recently."
Armin's attitude shifted quickly from avoidance to confusion. Erwin studied the expression on his face, answering the unasked question with confidence.
"Levi said you were rehearsing it. It seemed to have made an impression on him."
At this, Armin's brain threatened to shut down. He tried to methodically consider the information. Yes, he had been rehearsing it. No, he had never performed it. Yes, he was familiar with the music, as were many, many people. Really, he had only been doodling around on a passage the other day, finding it nearly inspiring. And, at this point, any glimpse of possibly finding his lost creative spark would cause Armin to play just about anything. But, no, he still had not managed to get anything else written.
And that he had made an impression on Levi? Unrealistic and, frankly, unbelievable.
So much so, that he wondered if Erwin was being dishonest with him. For what reason, though, Armin could not think of. It was surely of little consequence either way. The ballet hardly needed him and there were more than enough willing violinists. Marlowe would say yes in less than a heartbeat, as would many others if given the opportunity. Armin continued to circumvent Erwin's question.
"What happened to their usual substitutes?"
Not that he needed to ask. Erwin's eyes gleamed at this.
"As I believe you may be aware, they are suffering from the same case of influenza as their counterparts."
Armin felt his face beginning to flush. He knew better than to stall with Erwin, yet here he was, having the story that they had all been circulating for the past two days explained to him. Half of the violinists of the ballet's pit orchestra had taken a group trip together out of the country. They had come back with a nasty flu, to say the least, and strict doctor's orders to stay in their houses for the remainder of their illness.
"I'm sorry," Armin said. "I'm just not sure."
Erwin nodded.
"I understand. If you decide you do want to do it, could you let me know by the end of the night?"
Armin agreed to this temporary truce, happy to finally be free to burst out of the side door and away from Erwin's odd behavior. Which, he supposed, was not odd if you accounted for Erwin's tendency to act oddly. It still did not account for the fact that he was being singled out for no better reason than Levi having heard him play a handful of lines. Allegedly. Besides, Armin knew better than to think that his playing was anything to such a degree that Levi should be impressed at all. Even if it were the case, which it was not, to be a pit orchestra substitute at the back of the violin section did not necessarily require individual excellence.
In short, he was skeptical.
Which was not to say that he was not interested in taking the job. He slid his violin case into the car and pulled a buzzing phone from his coat pocket.
"Hey. Are you still dropping off that keyboard for Eren today?"
"Yeah. I just got out of rehearsal but I brought it with me. I was going to go right now."
"Ok, that would be great. Thanks so much."
"No problem."
"Talk to you later."
"Bye."
Armin had not taken Eren for the type to show interest in playing music, but he was more than happy for his old keyboard to go to their house. Maybe he and Eren would have more to talk about. Although, he was not sure if that was what Historia envisioned when she suggested he ought to try making friends once in a while. Armin turned his car engine over, pushing the vents full of cold air away until they could warm up.
In his trunk sat the keyboard. It was well-loved, but he had finally pulled the trigger on a bigger, newer, all around better model earlier that year. He had brought the old keyboard stand, too, as well as a handful of novice piano books that had been gathering dust for far too long.
The whole of it was bulky but he was pleased with his success at getting it into Eren and Historia's living room without hitting a single door jamb. Hand back on the doorknob, ready to vacate through the side porch, a mewl came from the top of the steps.
Their giant hairball of a cat looked down on him.
"Hey," he murmured, outstretching his hand.
The cat flicked its tail. Armin crept up the steps slowly, beckoned into the upstairs hall before he could sink down to the carpet, one hand already nudged by the little pink nose. He grinned even though his coat sleeves were quickly being covered in long hair as the cat purred and walked figure eights, returning each time to rub against his hands and forearms.
When the walking puffball flopped down, Armin considered it as good a cue to leave as any. He stood and brushed off what hair he could when the unmistakably familiar squeak of the front door reached his ears. He turned toward the stair to make his presence known before his feet were swept from underneath him.