Academy Shorts

Violin Issues

A/N: This is for PerfectlyPoppy. It's not centered around humor, but I did try to slip a couple giggles in there. So far in the canon (after The Other Side of Envy), we don't actually know very much about Mr. Blackbourne, so I decided to tackle him and an aspect of his character I do understand, and that's the classically trained violinist in him. 

Violin Issues

Mr. Blackbourne parked his BMW and pulled on the hand brake before turning the key to the off position. In front of him was the purple condominium where his best friend lived. Sean would be clocking out from his shift at the hospital soon, and the pair of them would partake of dinner together to discuss the recent happenings of their family and Academy business. At least, that was the plan.

Instead of immediately opening the driver side door after unbuckling his seat belt as he usually did, the still-technically-a-teenager paused for once in his busy lifestyle and sat back in the seat. The fingertips of his left hand tapped a rhythm of triplets at the top of the steering wheel as his grey eyes narrowed at the violin case leaning against the front passenger door. The poor thing had been so neglected recently, he could practically hear it calling out to him for attention.

He grabbed the handle to the case and pulled it across his lap so he could carry like it a briefcase with him as he swung his legs out the door. I should have just left it at my home, he thought to himself. Right now, the violin was just extra baggage he took with him. Another liability he had to keep responsibility and inventory for as he went about his business for the day.

*

A couple weeks prior, he pulled out the stringed instrument for his daily practice, eager to start on the Jascha Heifetz violin and piano arrangement of Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun, originally by Debussy. The sheet music was fresh out of the mailbox, and his ebony violin was tuned and ready to play. Mr. Blackbourne warmed up with the rudimentary scales and arpeggios, attacking them harshly with martelé and staccatos, giving the sequential and strictly patterned pitches an aggressive voice. He wanted to start off in the opposite style than the piece he wanted to practice, which was legato, serene, and delicate. The airy, impressionist piece depicted precisely what the title implied. He found he could better focus on the lighter styles once he loosened up by sawing at the strings first.

Unfortunately, as the horsehair of his bow attacked the fine instrument, the bridge slipped. The thin sliver of maple succumbed to the immense pressure between the body and the strings, knocking off and flying across the room. The resulting cacophony from the strings suddenly losing their tension was discordant and startling. The thickest of the four strings did not survive the trauma.

Normally, the issue was a quick fix. Mr. Blackbourne simply picked up the little piece of wood that normally supported the strings up and off the black fingerboard of the instrument and tried to wedge it back into place. From there, he just needed to replace the broken string and retune, then practice could commence. Yet, there was not a spare G-string. He had yet to stop by his favorite music shop and purchase more as a back stock, and he was paying the price for his unpreparedness.

Mr. Blackbourne made mention of his lack of a G-string in the company of several of his brothers, but that resulted in crude jokes about undergarments from Luke and Gabriel, which in turn made Kota and Victor blush.

Normally, he devoted his undivided attention when it came to sweeping the condo for any security compromises. However, that day his mind split itself between concentrating on finding any hidden bugs or signs of unwelcomed entry, and just how busy his life had become and affected his music practice. With the assignment at Ashley Waters and the complications from Volto, various family issues among his brothers, and Mr. McCoy's obsession with Miss Sorenson, he had not been able to make the time to stop by the music store. He could have easily ordered his favorite brand of strings online, but he preferred to spend his money on the local establishment to keep them in business and to stimulate the local Charleston economy. Even if he did have a functioning instrument, he was still too occupied taking care of his family and evading tails stalking his car. He had not fulfilled his promise to teach Sang how to play the elegant instrument of yet either. Their designated class time together was devoted to preparing her with vital skills for her own survival within the mission at the public school, along with guiding her to blossom into being her own beautiful individual.

Instructing her to make music at this point was a luxury, he reminded himself. As was his own practice of the instrument. Despite this, he still kept his hands well-manicured more out of habit so his nails would not impede his fingertips and how they pressed the strings to the fingerboard.

*

Sean's condo was clean. Mr. Blackbourne had to double check himself since he knew he wasn't paying full attention to the detailed spots the first go around. He sent another glare at the violin case on the floor and tucked up against the side of the living room sofa. It wasn't the instrument's fault, but he didn't want to focus his frustrations on himself at the moment. He wanted to play. Two weeks was much too long to go without drawing the bow across the strings. Those precious few moments he managed to do so was the time he used to unwind, the only opportunity he afforded his busy mind to relax and get lost in music. The lack of doing so was taking a toll on him, both mentally and physically. Just that morning he had to shoo Gabriel away from trying to apply concealer to the dark circles under his eyes.

Not like Mr. Blackbourne could have practiced at Sean's condo anyways. The unit next door contained a stereotypical crazy cat lady with a dozen felines, and she came knocking to complain about the noise every time he played. The vibrations through the walls were not received well by the cats, and they would wail and annoy the woman.

He pushed his glasses further up his nose before shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over the back of one of the dining chairs. If dinner was going to be ready at a decent hour, he had to get started on its preparation immediately, else Sean was going to have chili dogs to eat. Mr. Blackbourne's nose wrinkled at the thought.

Once inside the kitchen, Mr. Blackbourne realized he should have done a third sweep of the condo for compromises, for he completely missed what was waiting for him on top of the island counter. A lined index card sat on top of a square, paper envelope. The card was adorned with Dr. Green's messy handwriting. The Good Doctor always denied it when asked, but their brothers were convinced medical school had a course devoted to making one's penmanship completely illegible as a prerequisite to becoming a doctor. Nonetheless, Mr. Blackbourne was always able to decipher the hasty scribbles and chicken scratch from his best friend.

Owen,

You play. I get to bring home pizza. Fair tradeoff.

Sean

P.S. Fuck the Cat Lady (not literally).

He felt the corner of his lip lift in what Miss Sorenson called his millimeter smile. Sean, ever observant to the wellbeing of his best friend and brother, noticed just how stressed out Mr. Blackbourne had been of late, and knew exactly how to remedy it. The envelope underneath the note contained a coiled string of his favorite brand.

Evening was nigh, but that faun was about to take an afternoon stroll.