Sonata (Harry Styles FanFiction)

33. Wish And Command

Darien Grace

My shift passed in a blur of drunk socialites and expensive champagne. My fingers were aching and I was just ready to get out of that place and change. Amara had already made three trips over, only to head right back; her tray still full of whatever drinks were sent my way.

"One of these days, I'm going to accept these on your behalf," she grumbled, shaking her head as she walked away.

"Fine, then you get to be the one on her knees in the bathroom fifteen minutes later," I laughed, continuing to play the now stale classical pieces. The manager, Sebastien, had refused to let me change the lineup. He was driven and far too preoccupied with moving up the social ladder to give a shit about my sanity.

"Monsieur Bouland a personnellement choisi ces compositions. Il n'y aura aucune variation," (Mister Bouland personally selected these compositions. There will not be any variation,) he huffed, puffing his chest out in an attempt to extend his scrawny form.

"Il les a choisi il y'a huit mois déjà. Elles sont à mourir d'ennuie, et je ne vais pas m'asseoir là à jouer les mêmes trucs chiants pendant les quatre prochains mois!" (He made these selections eight months ago. They are tired and boring and I'm not going to sit here and play the same shit for the next four months!)

"J'ai vingt-quatre musiciens qui meurent d'envie d'être à ta place. Tous plus qualifiés et bien plus professionnels. La seule raison pour laquelle tu travailles encore ici est que. Dieu sait pourquoi, Monsieur Bouland et Monsieur Malik se sont attachés à toi". (I have twenty musicians all dying to be in your position. They are all far more qualified and more professional. The only reason you are still employed is that for some ungodly reason both Mr. Bouland and Mr. Malik have taken to you.)

"Peut être que tu devrais faire de même," (Maybe you should follow suite,) I'd hissed, taking a step forward. I hadn't had time to change out of my black faux leather leggings and my new flannel. I'd had to be at that piano in ten minutes or else my ass would have been grass. Sebastien was always a fan of wasting my time— it was one of his pathetic, half-baked ideas to get me fired.

"J'ai eu ce travail parce que je suis l'un des meilleurs pianistes de la ville, chose que certains avec des connaissances et une expérience aussi limitées que les tiennes ne peuvent comprendre. Je connais la musique, et si je dois jouer cette merde un autre putain de soir je vais démissionner." (I got this job because I am one of the best pianists in the city; a feat which someone with your limited knowledge and experience cannot begin to comprehend. I know music and if I have to play this shit for another damn night, I'm going to quit.)

"Démissionnes et tu perdras accès à toute personne qui pourrait faire quelqu'un de toi." (Quit and you lose all access to the people that could make something of you.) His threat was empty; his whining accent giving me a migraine.

"Je vais changer la musique. Donc , tu peux soit me virer et subir la fureur de tes supérieurs, ou tu peux installer ton joli petit cul de français dans un coin et profiter de la soirée la plus productive depuis des mois." (I'm changing the music, now, you can either fire me and deal with the wrath of your superiors or you can set your skinny little French ass down in the corner and enjoy the most productive night in months.) I quirked an eyebrow up at him, daring him to challenge me. He was silent. When it came right down to it, he was more paranoid about losing his job than I was. I didn't need this job, I just liked working here. I wasn't like most kids in this city. I didn't have a massive trust fund to fall back on and that didn't bother me. In fact, if it wasn't for my scholarship I'd be in a fuck load of debt. The McKenney's were insistent about my not needing to work, but I wouldn't— no, I couldn't allow them to pay my way. I liked working, it made me feel like less of a freeloader.