Thanks to everyone who read. As always, reviews are appreciated.


As the last note faded into silence Roddy returned to himself, and then it was just the routine that the school had drilled into him that had him bowing to the audience and then gesturing to Bria at the piano for her to take her bow before making his escape. Exit. Whatever. The first was more accurate, but the teachers got pissy when he called it that.

Mrs. Menchik, the stage manager, was fluttering just out of sight of the audience as usual, but fortunately tonight's program was long enough that there was no time for her to try to force them back onstage for a second bow. As per usual for these concerts they were running behind schedule, and the three graduating seniors who'd won their solos still had to play before they'd all go back on stage for the final bows.

Roddy sighed. The music...the music he loved. With an audience, without an audience, it didn't really matter, when he was playing he belonged. To the music if nothing else. Even when he was just listening it made him feel good, and if he hadn't already heard Corrine play her piece a few dozen times this week he'd probably be angling for a better position from which to listen. But he had, and since tonight he had exactly those three songs before the music stopped and the hell in the form of the after-concert reception started, he'd take whatever reprieve he could.

For once he was glad that he wasn't a senior yet, even if he still didn't appreciate the remedial shit they'd forced him into that had ended up requiring a repetition of his freshman year. The graduating seniors were the ones who'd get most of the focus—not to say harassment—tonight, and after everything that had happened with Dr. Lawson and the quartet earlier this year the last thing he wanted was for more people to be focusing on him. But he had been a soloist, and he knew full well he was one of the best soloists the school had no matter what certain assholes might think, so he didn't get the option of hiding in a corner either.

Well, he could try, but past experience said that he'd fail. And then he'd get lectured ad nauseum by whichever teacher or administrator happened to notice that he wasn't schmoozing appropriately. It was all part of 'the deal' as Dr. Albert had explained in his first course on music theory. They couldn't just play music, they had to be able to go out and talk to concertgoers about what they'd played: the techniques, the history, the composers, the current trends, everything. They had to make their patrons feel that they were getting 'good value' out of their patronage, whatever the hell that meant.

It was bullshit as far as Roddy was concerned because the whole point of going to a concert should be to hear good music, but no one had ever given a damn about his opinion before this and he didn't see that changing anytime soon.

Devon was suddenly stepping out onto the stage with his cello, and Roddy realized that he'd somehow managed to miss both Corrine's and Greg's pieces entirely. Hopefully Corrine had played well. He didn't give a damn about Greg, but she was one of the few other scholarship kids at the school, and if they didn't support each other no one would.

Not that any of them had been all that supportive of him earlier this year, but whatever. He managed just fine on his own.

Devon began to play, and Roddy slipped back to the practice room to lock his violin away and do the requisite straightening of his suit. Which mostly meant making sure that the safety pins holding back the too-long cuffs weren't going to slip out of place when he started his walk around the reception hall to shake lots of hands and pretend that he was somehow enjoying himself, but whatever. Dad had already spent way too much on it for him to pay any attention to Mrs. Menchik's comments about tailoring.

He made it back to the stage in plenty of time to take his bows with the others, and then everyone was heading for the reception hall, and he let himself be carried along.

The reception itself started as every other one he'd ever been to had, a wave of parents flooding in to find and congratulate their respective offspring, and since Dad wasn't here he took advantage of the limited amount of time without eyes on him to inhale the contents of half-a-dozen of those tiny appetizer plates and snitch a glass of champagne before any of the faculty arrived to guard the table. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing, and it would be at least a couple hours before he'd be able to go home and dig around in the cabinets for something approaching a meal.

And was probably for the best that Dad hadn't come tonight, as much as Roddy hated feeling like that as he watched the other kids with their parents. Not that he cared that Dad didn't have a fancy suit or any of that crap, but Dad always felt even more out of place than he did at these things, and when it came to Roddy having to leave him alone to wander among the concertgoers and mingle per his teachers' directions...

Dad was happier with the rats.

Roddy would be happier with the rats right now.

"Great job with the Caprice," a voice said from beside him.

Roddy strangled a squawk of surprise that someone had managed to get that close without him noticing and then fought down an emotion decidedly stronger than surprise as he found himself staring up and up a little more at not-entirely-unfamiliar Blutbad.

"Uh, hello?" The Blutbad tilted his head. "Sorry, I don't know if you remember me, but we met during the whole..." He frowned as he trailed off, waving a hand vaguely.

"Y—yeah, sure," Roddy said. Because when a Blutbad shoved his way into your living room, it was the sort of thing that you remembered. No matter what else had transpired that night. And even if he hadn't actually done anything except alternately terrify and confuse the living hell out of Roddy. "It's Mr. Monroe, right?" Amazingly enough his voice didn't crack, but he was suddenly desperate for one of his teachers to show up, and he could count on one hand the number of times he'd wished for that before now. Generally only when he was being attacked by various asshole classmates, and wasn't that a fun thing to think about when he was standing in front of an apex predator?

"Just Monroe," the Blutbad—Monroe—said cheerfully. And then horror of horrors his hand steadied, and he seemed to expect Roddy to shake it.

Roddy took a careful breath, ordered his own hand not to tremble, and then forced himself to do just that. As much as he didn't want a broken hand, he also didn't dare insult the guy. Surprisingly enough Monroe's grip was just regular firm, though, with no claws making an appearance, and Roddy found himself able to breathe again as he let go.

"So did you pick the Caprice for your piece tonight or are those kinds of things assigned?" Monroe asked.

"Yeah. Uh, I picked it, I mean. I like it." It wasn't exactly the sort of intelligent, nuanced comment that he was supposed to be making according to Dr. Albert, but it was the first thing that sprang to mind, and hell, right now he should be getting some serious points just for being coherent.

"Me too."

His smile didn't look like the kind you'd give your dinner, and this was a public place—although someone should really be here by now to guard the champagne—and Roddy made himself take another slow breath. "Do you play?" It had sort of sounded like it before, but Roddy had still been working on getting his mouth to cooperate when Monroe had walked out the front door that night. He certainly hadn't been in any position to ask any questions.

"I do. Cello," Monroe said with a nod. "Not quite in your league, but one of the women I sometimes play with is actually the one who sent out an email about the concert here tonight."

Great. Lucky him.