hold your family close, put on a show
The silence is unbearably loud.
The spotlights refocus back onto the stage, and it lights the entire hall bright gold. Someone coughs once, and it is jarring and unwanted. The judges click their pens open for the final time. A bright black Steinway Piano gleams in the center, polished to the point of salivation.
A young man, suit black and dress shoes blacker, walks out, posture straight and proud. His footsteps echo on the wooden floor, and he bows once before adjusting the height of the piano bench. He sits.
Linden’s hands are sweaty. He rubs them on his pant leg, but the nervousness doesn’t ease. He bounces his leg silently, once, twice. His heart beats loud enough to be one of those really expensive metronomes they sell at Penders. He’s wearing his nicest clothes, he’s taken a different shift at Starbucks, and he’s styled his hair into a better bun. He’s ready, or at least, he should be.
Onstage, his younger brother starts playing.
His fingers unconsciously flex, whitening as his brother goes over that practiced crescendo. Linden remembers that back then, it’d be minutes before his turn to go up, and he’d sit in the hallway because the waiting room was too stifling, playing his concerto on his thigh and making his sheet music crinkle at the harsh indentations; he’d always study his sheet music before a concert, not because he was unprepared but because he didn’t feel prepared enough.
Linden wonders if his brother does the same. Idris looks just like his father always does before going off on another business trip, skin light and bright against the glare of the sun, suit-dry cleaned and shimmering. It was a hand-me-down of course, but Linden had always thought Idris looked better in the suit than he ever did.
It’s only natural, after all.
Next is a series of arpeggios. Linden winces a little when the crescendo doesn’t go quite as planned, and he knows his little brother will spend hours poring over it later, not in front of a piano but in the deep crevasses of his mind.
Part of Linden wishes he had the twins with him. They were always a welcome presence at events like this, even though they always made way too much noise with the flipping chair covers.
Oh well, it’s alright. Linden shifts restlessly in the seat as the final recapitulation starts, almost the same as the theme. He tries; he tries to feel the music without imagining he was in his brother’s place, the stagelights pricking his arms, the music bringing him to a euphoric high.
Idris sways with the music, back leaning over without hunching. His eyes are blown open, and his fingertips bounce almost painfully off every note. Linden doesn’t know what he’s playing for, what his muse is or what he’s channeling into every note, but he knows his chest hurts just from listening to him. He tries not to think about the possibilities or “what could’ve him”. He focuses on the growing tightness around his chest, surely provoked by the ringing music.
Linden’s fingers start hurting without reason. He blows some hot air on them and presses them to his cheeks. Something squeezes behind his ribcage. The music rises and then—
Idris’s face screws into a tight knot, and he tickles the last arpeggio, only to practically slam his fingers back into the instrument in a resounding final note.
Nobody breathes for the second after that.
Linden stands up first—he always does—and he’s completely unaware of the growing wetness around his eyes. It only takes a split second for several other audience members to stand up as well.
Linden’s palms hurt from clapping, and his little brother extracts himself shakily from the piano bench, pressing himself into a low bow. There’s a written rule against cheering aloud, but he almost wants to at that moment.
Idris walks off the stage. Linden excuses himself and exits the auditorium.
____
“You always cry at these performances,” Idris remarks teasingly. Linden glares at him, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
“Shut up and check the paper,” he snaps not unkindly. His younger brother rolls his eyes and flounces away to the newly posted preliminary results. Unrest hangs in the air around the crowd of well dressed participants and their guardians, even though Linden would bet his life’s savings that he already knew the results.
Sure enough, Idris cones back only minutes later, after having shoved his way through his competitors. On his face is a small but still incredibly self-satisfied smile.
“Made it,” Idris says, practically beaming. Linden’s lips break into a wide grin, and he reaches forward, playfully ruffling his brother’s hair. The boy breaks off with a screech, but there’s a gleam in his eye that alludes to something more.
“Good job,” Linden says warmly. He loops his arm around Idris’s shoulders, intentionally not creasing the suit, and they start making their way towards the exit, only to be stopped by a stern-faced woman.
“Ms. Feng!” Idris stumbles, shoving Linden’s arm off at the same time. Ms. Feng raises an eyebrow, coughing twice into her palm.
“You did well,” she says, that ever-appraising note evident in her voice. She scans over Idris’s form carefully, and he discreetly squirms under her gaze. “We’ll go over your mistakes next lesson.”
“Yes ma’am,” Idris nearly squeaks. Linden would laugh if he wasn’t similarly frozen. Ms. Feng’s eyes seem to track their way over to his frame.
“He is your brother,” she says to Linden, voice unreadable. Linden averts his eyes. With a final glance, Ms. Fend pads away, high heels clopping against the ground. Idris and Linden release a breath at the same time.
“I’ll make your favorite dinner,” Linden promises. Idris colors slightly.
“I’m not a kid!” He exclaims indigantly, all while almost salivating. Linden smiles and claps him on the back.
They walk home.
____
The next day, Linden fails history.
“Mr. Gbeho, like I said, there really isn’t any need for me to be-” he says exasperatedly, moments away from slamming his hands on the desk. The teacher simply hums and narrows his eyes at Linden.
“Linden, you’ve been on the cusp of failing for weeks,” he says starkly. “If something isn’t done now, then when will you improve?”
Linden doesn’t respond, clenching his fists at his sides. Mr. Gbeho takes that as a dull acceptance and waves him towards the back of the classroom. “Stay in the back. You can meet your tutor now.”
Linden’s eyes widen, and this time, he really does put his hands on the desk. “Mr. Gbeho! I-”
“It’s only for a few minutes,” the man says dismissively, promptly turning back towards his monitor as if ending the conversation. Linden seethes, stomping away and grabbing his phone from his pocket. He speed-dials the second contact listed, playing an F major scale on the side of his phonecase.
“Where are you?” Is the first thing that comes out of the phone, and Linden rolls his eyes.
“Respect your elders, brat,” he barks. “Where’s Idris?”
“Bathroom,” his younger sister replies vaguely, “What is it? Have you been arrested?”
“Why the hell would I-” Mr. Gbeho shoots Linden a dirty look, and he coughs, “Anyways, you guys have to go on without me. Something’s holding me up,”
“What is it?” Another voice shoves in, more boyish, and Linden sighs at the antics of the younger twins.
“Just... Stuff,” he says vaguely. Suddenly, the sharp sound of rustling blares through the phone.
“You’re still at the upper campus?” Finally, Idris’s reasonable voice filters through the mic. “We’ll meet you there then.”
“Wait I-” The call cuts off, and Linden hurriedly pulls up their group chat to type a rather angry message in. He heaves a deep sigh once it sends, leaning heavily against the wall as he fishes his earphones from his pocket.
Linden curses Mr. Gbeho in his head. Today was supposed to be a good day with his siblings. He didn’t have work, and none of them had any extracurriculars to worry about.
The music washes over him in waves, and he lets out a contented noise, sinking deeply into the instrumental part.
_____
The guy comes in a rush, and it’s only to Linden’s apparent misfortune that he can hear Mr. Gbeho spout praises for him over the sound of his music. Frustrated, he turns the volume up all while searching his peripheral for his siblings. When the guy—probably some studious freak, just like Idris—finally turns to look at Linden, he pretends like he doesn’t notice.
Linden won’t lie, the guy has one of the best resting b. faces he’s ever seen. He’d even be jealous if he hadn’t exhausted that tank already. The guy stalks towards him, and at this point, Linden is just straight up ignoring him. Maybe the Bon Bon Girls 303 blasting in his ears can save him.
It doesn’t. The prick taps on his shoulder, and Linden is forced to part from his precious earbuds. He scowls at the boy but receives nothing but that same look from him. It reminds him unnervingly of Idris honestly.
“You’re Linden, right?” The guy asks, voice pitching annoyingly at a low tenor. His vocal range is a little like Linden’s, but he probably hasn’t used it for anything “frivolous” like singing. Linden slides a little further from the close proximity, still refusing to make eye contact.
“Yeah, and yo-”
Something screeches down the hallway, and Linden whips his head around. Lo and behold, his siblings are there, scrambling down the hallways like the clear lowerclassmen they are. He sees the guy raise an eyebrow.
Suddenly, Lila, the older twin, trips over Idris, who was too busy marvelling over the upper campus’s hallways. Evander, who was walking far too close to Lila, falls with her.
They collapse in a cluttered heap. The boy beside him lets out a concerned sound.
Linden drags a hand over his face and curses.