Da Capo Al Fine | Chapter 2: Making the Change
Title: Da Capo Al Fine
Pairing: Phoenix/Miles
Rating: Chapter 11 is NSFW but no actual buttsex. Rest are all general viewing.
Word Count: 57,345
Synopsis: After years of misery playing in the dingy orchestra pits of Broadway, Miles Edgeworth, professional oboist, has finally been given a reprieve. Having successfully auditioned for the Los Angeles Travelling Symphony, at last he can realise his dream of playing in a top orchestra. However, he is soon to find that he has joined a very eccentric band of musicians...
Chapter Links: Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Epilogue | Commentary
Author notes: A midi version of Air on G String is available here:
http://www.virtualsheetmusic.com/downloads/Bach/AirTrFree.html
You'll need it for later on in the fic ;)
On Wednesday Miles was there even earlier - this time he barely spoke to Phoenix, setting up his instrument in silence. Phoenix glanced up at him occasionally while buffing up the shine on his trumpet, already tuned with the intention to practice his solo before everybody else arrived. This was forgotten for the more intriguing occupation of watching the man sitting in front of him. Miles was warming up his reed and had the sheet music for his solo on the music stand, already covered with pencil annotations. Phoenix only recognised a few of the symbols - he had to get Maya to translate most of the formal markings on his own sheet music. Miles had been busy over the last few days, it seemed, and Phoenix was about to open his mouth to comment on it when Miles began to play.
The words died on his tongue unsaid as he listened, amazed. Miles’ solo was note perfect - the melody was soft but expressive and the longer notes thrummed with vibrato, something Phoenix had never thought a double-reed instrument would be capable of. He got out of his seat, crossing around to the front in order to get the full impact. Miles didn’t even notice - his eyes were on the sheet music, flicking from bar to bar and then back to the beginning of the next staff. There were shadows beneath his eyes and his brow was furrowed in concentration, trying to extract every last nuance from the notes.
“Have you even slept these past two nights?” Phoenix asked when the last note had faded away.
Miles looked up at him, but his eyes weren’t really on Phoenix’s face - they were distant, his thoughts elsewhere.
“Miles!”
“What?”
“You didn’t even hear my question, did you?”
“Yes, I slept.”
“Not much, by the looks of things.”
“And? Can I not choose my own waking hours?” he sounded annoyed.
“Well, it’s no good coming into rehearsals looking like a zombie,” Phoenix pointed out. “You should at least splash some cold water on your face or something. Why are you up late practicing anyway? You’ve only just got the sheet music and the concert’s not for another six weeks.”
“Six weeks goes by very quickly.”
“You’ll have it ready in a week, the way you’re going,” Phoenix shook his head. “You shouldn’t burn yourself out like that, it’s not good for your health. Maya stayed up all night practicing her first solo because she was so worried about it and-“
“But I’m not worried,” Miles cut him off. “I’m fine, I know what I’m doing.”
“...I see. So you do this a lot, huh?”
“Why should it matter to you?” Miles replied guardedly. “You’re a brass player, you have nothing to do with the woodwind section.”
Phoenix gave him an odd look.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked. “We look out for each other here, section doesn’t come into it. I’m just saying that, well, you’re a good player - that’s pretty obvious from how you handled our new songs yesterday; Lana barely got you to change anything. And going off that, why would you need to practice your solo so much this early on? I mean, it sounds fantastic already.”
“To an uneducated ear, perhaps,” Miles was dismissive, “but to one who appreciates the true capabilities of the oboe, there are still many changes to be made.”
Phoenix felt the sting of that comment and bit back an indignant reply. He was trying to help, but Miles wasn’t getting the message. Thinking he’d come across wrongly with his choice of phrasing, he tried a different tack.
“Okay, fine, so I’m no classical music expert. But all the same, I don’t think you’ve completely caught on to how things run here. I’m giving you advance warning, that’s all: it’s hard graft, playing in this orchestra, I’m not denying that - but it’s not a good idea to practice as intensively as you are right now because in the end it doesn’t do any-”
“Don’t you patronise me, trumpet player,” Miles snapped. “You don’t know anything about the oboe, so who are you to tell me how to rehearse?”
Phoenix was startled by the angry rejoinder, but was quick to extract its meaning and his face turned hostile. He stepped right up to Miles, standing over him with hands on hips.
“I might be a scummy trumpet player, Miles Edgeworth” he said hotly, “but I’m still a human being capable of picking up on things. I’ve seen how you play - you bury yourself in the music in order to produce that amazing sound. You barely said a word to me before then, you were that focused on setting up and getting to work. You’re a brilliant player, but if you practice day and night and withdraw into yourself like this, you’ll just be music and nothing else. That’s not how this orchestra works. That’s what I’m trying to tell you - if Lana sees you like this, she’ll send you home!”
As his last words rang out Miles paled.
“...Send me home?” he said in alarm. “But, she can’t-“
“She can,” was Phoenix’s blunt reply. “When Maya pulled that all-nighter before the concert, Lana sent her home from the rehearsal and cancelled her solo. Just like that. And she’ll do the same to you if you continue practicing like this and snubbing anyone that tells you it’s not a good idea just because they don’t play your bloody instrument!”
Miles felt sick to the stomach. He hadn’t been expecting this. When the conductor for The Producers had found out he’d pulled an all-nighter to practice, he had actually been congratulated for his hard work. And yet here, everything seemed to be upside down and none of the rules applied. To lose his solo...
“And I’ll tell you something else,” Phoenix continued. “Actually, scrap that... “ he reached across and picked up his trumpet. “I’ll show you. I can tell you think along the same lines of Franziska when it comes to brass instruments - loud fools, she calls us. I’m hoping the way you’re acting is a throwback from Broadway and deep down you’re a little more open-minded. I didn’t have any luck persuading her, but maybe you might change your mind once you hear this...”
Miles opened his mouth to protest, but Phoenix gave him a sharp look.
“Just listen, alright?”
He took a few steps back and raised the trumpet to his lips. Miles subconsciously flinched, pre-empting the coming assault on his ears.
Instead, the note Phoenix produced was barely audible at first, and though it rose in intensity, the sound was still a gentle one, and as he played the next few quavers Miles recognised it as Bach’s Air on G String. Though he was thoroughly familiar with the piece - it was one of his favourites - when coloured by the brassy timbre of the trumpet it sounded like something different entirely. Trumpets weren’t meant to play pieces like that, one part of him protested. It was alien. And yet, another part of him found it pleasing on the ear, in a strange kind of way. Somehow, though he was a lone trumpeter standing in a church hall, Phoenix was managing to replicate the additional harmonies one was accustomed to hearing when the piece was played by a full orchestra. Despite lacking the ability to sustain the minims that usually blended the piece together, in order to preserve the counterpoint, he succeeded in creating a melody that harmonised with the perception of the piece Miles already had. Involuntarily he was mentally filling in the missing bass lines implied by the rhythm, and though the minims didn’t carry on in his ears, they still echoed in his head.
Phoenix launched into the next section, normally performed by oboe or clarinet, jumping up an octave effortlessly. The high notes rang out clear, with none of the distortion that made Miles cringe when the trumpet players in his university orchestra attempted notes beyond their accustomed range without much prior practice. He had been holding himself taut, waiting for the inevitable sour note or burble that would spoil the tone, but it never came, and finally he relaxed. The unusual combination of Bach and trumpet was making him listen to the piece in a way he never had before, and it was odd. The biased part within him wanted to hate it, and yet there wasn’t anything overt to hate, and it left him conflicted, listening out for the rest of the notes to complete the strange trumpet-lead version of the song that was playing in his mind, while at the same time trying to push them aside. But they settled so easily within the comfort range his musical ear preferred that he found it hard. It was with relief that he heard the closing bars. Phoenix let the last note fade and lowered the trumpet.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Miles was still trying to shake off the peculiar feeling he’d been left with after listening. The whole listening experience had been akin to putting a square peg into a round hole, that was just the right size for a snug fit.
“Lost for words, huh?”
He looked up at Phoenix, who had a smile on his face. Miles knew there was no point criticising his performance now - his momentary inability to come up with a scathing comment had betrayed him.
“Bach did not compose that piece for trumpet,” he grumbled.
“Nope, but I like it, so I play it,” Phoenix said simply. “And it must’ve sounded halfway decent, otherwise you would’ve had your fingers in your ears by the third bar. Sure, it’s not really suitable for a single melody instrument, but I can adapt it to compensate.. That’s what I’m trying to say really: being in the Travelling Symphony is all about adapting to whatever is required of you. There’s none of this ‘keep to your own section’ stuff - we all pitch in and make our contribution wherever it’s needed. You’re right, Bach doesn’t write much for trumpet. So when we did one of his pieces last year, Lana transposed the oboe parts for me to play instead.”
He knew that would get a rise out of Miles, and the shocked look on the oboist’s face gave him a guilty flush of satisfaction. Then he pressed the point home.
“Of course, a trumpet isn’t meant to play oboe parts; that’s what you’re thinking, and it’s true. You’ve got your part to play in this orchestra, just as I have mine, and now you’re here our pieces are gonna sound even better. But if you’re always playing as if you’re alone, you won’t sound right when you play with the rest of us, and you’ll never fit in.”
Miles had no reply to this. Slowly he put his oboe on the stand next to his chair, then he abruptly stood up, Phoenix stepping back in surprise.
“I’m... going to wash my face,” he said, avoiding meeting the trumpet player’s gaze.
He moved to walk past Phoenix, but Phoenix’s hand shot out and caught him by the arm.
“Before you do, at least promise that you won’t pull any more allnighters over that solo,” he said.
Edgeworth wrenched his arm back, breaking the contact.
“I don’t make childish things like promises.”
“Because you know you won’t keep them?”
“Because people like you don’t understand why I can’t make them in the first place!”
“Oh, people like me, huh?” Phoenix turned away in disgust, walking back down the aisle. “Oh, of course, anyone who doesn’t play the oboe couldn’t possibly understand how you feel. I don’t know why I even bothered telling you those things - I should just stick to my section and mind my own business, yup, getting that message LOUD and clear.”
As the bitterness of his parting comment hit home, Miles realised what he’d just done. Two practice sessions with the orchestra, and already he had argued with someone and put them down - alienated them. In the back of his mind his first day with the Jerry Springer players was running its horrible course, the parallels flashing up - the synth player sneering at him as he walked in and the guitarists in a tight clique in the corner. The flautist had bothered to speak to him, but only because she felt just as alone, wanting to complain to someone about the others. And he had shied away from all of them, because it was easier to avoid them all equally than open up to someone and take a side. He had wanted to get away from all of that, and had only succeeded in recreating it in a different way - and this time, it was his fault entirely. His last outburst had been a knee-jerk reaction to the truth of the accusation preceding it. Phoenix didn’t understand how important the solo was, but he could still point out what he saw: that Miles was shutting himself away.
Phoenix was nearly at the exit of the church, and Miles felt an acute sense of something about to slip out of his grasp, and though he didn’t know what it was, he knew what he had to do if he wanted to keep it.
“Wait...”
Phoenix halted midstep, but didn’t turn around. Miles felt a sense of relief, but now he’d called out he didn’t know what to say next. The silence stretched and he felt again that sense of something getting away from him.
“I...”
Not even an apology would come out - it stuck in his throat. He didn’t know how else to convey it. Phoenix finally turned to face him. He still looked angry, and his expectant silence made it clear he was waiting for what Miles couldn’t say. Slipping away...
“Thankyou.”
There, he could manage that. He said ‘thankyou’ all the time. It was the polite thing to do, after every audition where they’d rejected him, where he’d failed to impress - it was as much an apology as it was an expression of gratefulness. It was the best he could come up with.
“...Thankyou?” Phoenix was a little bewildered.
“Thankyou, for...” Miles trailed off, words eluding him again.
Phoenix just waited. Miles struggled for phrasing. He still wasn't sure what he was trying to get at - the words he was after were there but difficult to pin down.
“For,” he continued slowly, “making me stop and think. About what I want, about what I joined for.”
And then he understood. What he’d been about to lose: the very thing that Phoenix had been offering him over the past two rehearsals, that he’d pushed away automatically without realising what it was. Friendship.
“I auditioned for the wrong reasons,” he said, speaking faster as it all began to make sense. “I wanted to get away from Broadway so I could just play and not have to worry about anything else. But I see now, that things are so different outside of Broadway. Now I know what it can be like, and-“
“-you can try playing with an orchestra instead of just being in one?”
Phoenix’s suggestion still had a bite of sarcasm in it, but Miles nodded, relieved that the trumpet-player was starting to understand. Phoenix was looking at him shrewdly, then he said,
“How many all-nighters did you pull for the audition?”
Miles blinked, the question taking him by surprise.
“Some,” he said warily.
“So that’s why...” Phoenix had a knowing look in his eyes now, walking back up to him. “That’s why people like me don’t understand.”
“Don’t under-" Miles broke off, remembering his snapped words to Phoenix earlier.
“Yup, I see now," Phoenix continued. "Your face is grey from lack of sleep, your eyes are red from propping them open staring at sheet music till all hours - you worked yourself into the ground to get here, and now you’re digging an even deeper hole for this solo. Why? You just reminded me of something Lana said: that solo was Mr. Gant’s choice, wasn’t it?”
And there he had it. Piercing blue eyes fixed on him, expectant, waiting for him to confirm or deny it. He nodded slowly, knowing he was answering more than one question, and felt something somewhere break, some coiled-up spring in the back of his mind that had been winding tighter and tighter over the last two sleepless nights. Phoenix’s eyes softened, then he cast them down, sighing.
“Miles,” he said, looking back at up him. “I think you need to hear this. The Travelling Symphony... I meant what I said when I called it a family. Once you’re here, if you don’t want to leave then you’ll never have to. The audition’s hell, I know - Mr. Gant made me prepare six different pieces and if you had as many I can only imagine how much work it must have been - but that’s over and done with now. You’re here, you’ve made it, and if you play well with us then that’s all Mr. Gant asks. This solo,” he tapped the music stand, “it’s not about proving yourself; you’ve already done that. It’s about showing off what you can do, and to do that you’ve got to enjoy it. You make it sound brilliant but it’s no good if you yourself are looking like death.”
Miles looked at the single page of sheet music on the stand. An array of notes, dynamic markings, slurs, ties - it told him exactly how the piece was to be played, down to the last semiquaver.
“What would you do if I took that away?”
The question stabbed him in the stomach.
“I wouldn’t let you,” was his immediate reply.
“Even though you’ve probably already memorised it?”
“That’s not the point.”
Phoenix opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, closing it again. He didn’t need to say it, really - the conversation immediately replayed itself in Miles’ head with the unsaid sentence included: You can’t feel a piece if you play it as written.
“I know,” he replied to it. “But at least I won’t make any mistakes.”
“You wouldn’t anyway.”
“I might,” Miles protested.
“If you play without it, you’ll know either way.” Phoenix had that expression in his eyes again. Waiting.
Miles knew there was no point stalling anymore. If he wanted to make a go of this, he had no choice but to try and adapt. He reached out and lifted the sheet music off the stand, holding it out, looking across the rows of chairs and not at Phoenix’s hand as the trumpet-player took hold of the crisp sheet of paper, tugging it out of Miles’ grip.
“Welcome to the Travelling Symphony,” Phoenix grinned, putting it inside his trumpet case. “In a couple of weeks you’ll feel like you’ve been here forever!”
“I suppose I’ll get used to it,” Miles said quietly, looking at his empty music stand and feeling a little lost. He headed off to wash his face, nodding to Maya and Pearl as he passed them in the aisle - they had just arrived.
“What are you looking at, Nick?” Maya asked as she took her seat and unzipped her violin case.
Phoenix was looking at the lid of Miles’ oboe case. The little engraved silver plate had caught his attention earlier and he’d taken the opportunity to get a closer look at it while Miles wasn’t there.
Miles Edgeworth,
Congratulations
for achieving your
oboe diploma
With love,
Father
Pairing: Phoenix/Miles
Rating: Chapter 11 is NSFW but no actual buttsex. Rest are all general viewing.
Word Count: 57,345
Synopsis: After years of misery playing in the dingy orchestra pits of Broadway, Miles Edgeworth, professional oboist, has finally been given a reprieve. Having successfully auditioned for the Los Angeles Travelling Symphony, at last he can realise his dream of playing in a top orchestra. However, he is soon to find that he has joined a very eccentric band of musicians...
Chapter Links: Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Epilogue | Commentary
Author notes: A midi version of Air on G String is available here:
http://www.virtualsheetmusic.com/downloads/Bach/AirTrFree.html
You'll need it for later on in the fic ;)
On Wednesday Miles was there even earlier - this time he barely spoke to Phoenix, setting up his instrument in silence. Phoenix glanced up at him occasionally while buffing up the shine on his trumpet, already tuned with the intention to practice his solo before everybody else arrived. This was forgotten for the more intriguing occupation of watching the man sitting in front of him. Miles was warming up his reed and had the sheet music for his solo on the music stand, already covered with pencil annotations. Phoenix only recognised a few of the symbols - he had to get Maya to translate most of the formal markings on his own sheet music. Miles had been busy over the last few days, it seemed, and Phoenix was about to open his mouth to comment on it when Miles began to play.
The words died on his tongue unsaid as he listened, amazed. Miles’ solo was note perfect - the melody was soft but expressive and the longer notes thrummed with vibrato, something Phoenix had never thought a double-reed instrument would be capable of. He got out of his seat, crossing around to the front in order to get the full impact. Miles didn’t even notice - his eyes were on the sheet music, flicking from bar to bar and then back to the beginning of the next staff. There were shadows beneath his eyes and his brow was furrowed in concentration, trying to extract every last nuance from the notes.
“Have you even slept these past two nights?” Phoenix asked when the last note had faded away.
Miles looked up at him, but his eyes weren’t really on Phoenix’s face - they were distant, his thoughts elsewhere.
“Miles!”
“What?”
“You didn’t even hear my question, did you?”
“Yes, I slept.”
“Not much, by the looks of things.”
“And? Can I not choose my own waking hours?” he sounded annoyed.
“Well, it’s no good coming into rehearsals looking like a zombie,” Phoenix pointed out. “You should at least splash some cold water on your face or something. Why are you up late practicing anyway? You’ve only just got the sheet music and the concert’s not for another six weeks.”
“Six weeks goes by very quickly.”
“You’ll have it ready in a week, the way you’re going,” Phoenix shook his head. “You shouldn’t burn yourself out like that, it’s not good for your health. Maya stayed up all night practicing her first solo because she was so worried about it and-“
“But I’m not worried,” Miles cut him off. “I’m fine, I know what I’m doing.”
“...I see. So you do this a lot, huh?”
“Why should it matter to you?” Miles replied guardedly. “You’re a brass player, you have nothing to do with the woodwind section.”
Phoenix gave him an odd look.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked. “We look out for each other here, section doesn’t come into it. I’m just saying that, well, you’re a good player - that’s pretty obvious from how you handled our new songs yesterday; Lana barely got you to change anything. And going off that, why would you need to practice your solo so much this early on? I mean, it sounds fantastic already.”
“To an uneducated ear, perhaps,” Miles was dismissive, “but to one who appreciates the true capabilities of the oboe, there are still many changes to be made.”
Phoenix felt the sting of that comment and bit back an indignant reply. He was trying to help, but Miles wasn’t getting the message. Thinking he’d come across wrongly with his choice of phrasing, he tried a different tack.
“Okay, fine, so I’m no classical music expert. But all the same, I don’t think you’ve completely caught on to how things run here. I’m giving you advance warning, that’s all: it’s hard graft, playing in this orchestra, I’m not denying that - but it’s not a good idea to practice as intensively as you are right now because in the end it doesn’t do any-”
“Don’t you patronise me, trumpet player,” Miles snapped. “You don’t know anything about the oboe, so who are you to tell me how to rehearse?”
Phoenix was startled by the angry rejoinder, but was quick to extract its meaning and his face turned hostile. He stepped right up to Miles, standing over him with hands on hips.
“I might be a scummy trumpet player, Miles Edgeworth” he said hotly, “but I’m still a human being capable of picking up on things. I’ve seen how you play - you bury yourself in the music in order to produce that amazing sound. You barely said a word to me before then, you were that focused on setting up and getting to work. You’re a brilliant player, but if you practice day and night and withdraw into yourself like this, you’ll just be music and nothing else. That’s not how this orchestra works. That’s what I’m trying to tell you - if Lana sees you like this, she’ll send you home!”
As his last words rang out Miles paled.
“...Send me home?” he said in alarm. “But, she can’t-“
“She can,” was Phoenix’s blunt reply. “When Maya pulled that all-nighter before the concert, Lana sent her home from the rehearsal and cancelled her solo. Just like that. And she’ll do the same to you if you continue practicing like this and snubbing anyone that tells you it’s not a good idea just because they don’t play your bloody instrument!”
Miles felt sick to the stomach. He hadn’t been expecting this. When the conductor for The Producers had found out he’d pulled an all-nighter to practice, he had actually been congratulated for his hard work. And yet here, everything seemed to be upside down and none of the rules applied. To lose his solo...
“And I’ll tell you something else,” Phoenix continued. “Actually, scrap that... “ he reached across and picked up his trumpet. “I’ll show you. I can tell you think along the same lines of Franziska when it comes to brass instruments - loud fools, she calls us. I’m hoping the way you’re acting is a throwback from Broadway and deep down you’re a little more open-minded. I didn’t have any luck persuading her, but maybe you might change your mind once you hear this...”
Miles opened his mouth to protest, but Phoenix gave him a sharp look.
“Just listen, alright?”
He took a few steps back and raised the trumpet to his lips. Miles subconsciously flinched, pre-empting the coming assault on his ears.
Instead, the note Phoenix produced was barely audible at first, and though it rose in intensity, the sound was still a gentle one, and as he played the next few quavers Miles recognised it as Bach’s Air on G String. Though he was thoroughly familiar with the piece - it was one of his favourites - when coloured by the brassy timbre of the trumpet it sounded like something different entirely. Trumpets weren’t meant to play pieces like that, one part of him protested. It was alien. And yet, another part of him found it pleasing on the ear, in a strange kind of way. Somehow, though he was a lone trumpeter standing in a church hall, Phoenix was managing to replicate the additional harmonies one was accustomed to hearing when the piece was played by a full orchestra. Despite lacking the ability to sustain the minims that usually blended the piece together, in order to preserve the counterpoint, he succeeded in creating a melody that harmonised with the perception of the piece Miles already had. Involuntarily he was mentally filling in the missing bass lines implied by the rhythm, and though the minims didn’t carry on in his ears, they still echoed in his head.
Phoenix launched into the next section, normally performed by oboe or clarinet, jumping up an octave effortlessly. The high notes rang out clear, with none of the distortion that made Miles cringe when the trumpet players in his university orchestra attempted notes beyond their accustomed range without much prior practice. He had been holding himself taut, waiting for the inevitable sour note or burble that would spoil the tone, but it never came, and finally he relaxed. The unusual combination of Bach and trumpet was making him listen to the piece in a way he never had before, and it was odd. The biased part within him wanted to hate it, and yet there wasn’t anything overt to hate, and it left him conflicted, listening out for the rest of the notes to complete the strange trumpet-lead version of the song that was playing in his mind, while at the same time trying to push them aside. But they settled so easily within the comfort range his musical ear preferred that he found it hard. It was with relief that he heard the closing bars. Phoenix let the last note fade and lowered the trumpet.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Miles was still trying to shake off the peculiar feeling he’d been left with after listening. The whole listening experience had been akin to putting a square peg into a round hole, that was just the right size for a snug fit.
“Lost for words, huh?”
He looked up at Phoenix, who had a smile on his face. Miles knew there was no point criticising his performance now - his momentary inability to come up with a scathing comment had betrayed him.
“Bach did not compose that piece for trumpet,” he grumbled.
“Nope, but I like it, so I play it,” Phoenix said simply. “And it must’ve sounded halfway decent, otherwise you would’ve had your fingers in your ears by the third bar. Sure, it’s not really suitable for a single melody instrument, but I can adapt it to compensate.. That’s what I’m trying to say really: being in the Travelling Symphony is all about adapting to whatever is required of you. There’s none of this ‘keep to your own section’ stuff - we all pitch in and make our contribution wherever it’s needed. You’re right, Bach doesn’t write much for trumpet. So when we did one of his pieces last year, Lana transposed the oboe parts for me to play instead.”
He knew that would get a rise out of Miles, and the shocked look on the oboist’s face gave him a guilty flush of satisfaction. Then he pressed the point home.
“Of course, a trumpet isn’t meant to play oboe parts; that’s what you’re thinking, and it’s true. You’ve got your part to play in this orchestra, just as I have mine, and now you’re here our pieces are gonna sound even better. But if you’re always playing as if you’re alone, you won’t sound right when you play with the rest of us, and you’ll never fit in.”
Miles had no reply to this. Slowly he put his oboe on the stand next to his chair, then he abruptly stood up, Phoenix stepping back in surprise.
“I’m... going to wash my face,” he said, avoiding meeting the trumpet player’s gaze.
He moved to walk past Phoenix, but Phoenix’s hand shot out and caught him by the arm.
“Before you do, at least promise that you won’t pull any more allnighters over that solo,” he said.
Edgeworth wrenched his arm back, breaking the contact.
“I don’t make childish things like promises.”
“Because you know you won’t keep them?”
“Because people like you don’t understand why I can’t make them in the first place!”
“Oh, people like me, huh?” Phoenix turned away in disgust, walking back down the aisle. “Oh, of course, anyone who doesn’t play the oboe couldn’t possibly understand how you feel. I don’t know why I even bothered telling you those things - I should just stick to my section and mind my own business, yup, getting that message LOUD and clear.”
As the bitterness of his parting comment hit home, Miles realised what he’d just done. Two practice sessions with the orchestra, and already he had argued with someone and put them down - alienated them. In the back of his mind his first day with the Jerry Springer players was running its horrible course, the parallels flashing up - the synth player sneering at him as he walked in and the guitarists in a tight clique in the corner. The flautist had bothered to speak to him, but only because she felt just as alone, wanting to complain to someone about the others. And he had shied away from all of them, because it was easier to avoid them all equally than open up to someone and take a side. He had wanted to get away from all of that, and had only succeeded in recreating it in a different way - and this time, it was his fault entirely. His last outburst had been a knee-jerk reaction to the truth of the accusation preceding it. Phoenix didn’t understand how important the solo was, but he could still point out what he saw: that Miles was shutting himself away.
Phoenix was nearly at the exit of the church, and Miles felt an acute sense of something about to slip out of his grasp, and though he didn’t know what it was, he knew what he had to do if he wanted to keep it.
“Wait...”
Phoenix halted midstep, but didn’t turn around. Miles felt a sense of relief, but now he’d called out he didn’t know what to say next. The silence stretched and he felt again that sense of something getting away from him.
“I...”
Not even an apology would come out - it stuck in his throat. He didn’t know how else to convey it. Phoenix finally turned to face him. He still looked angry, and his expectant silence made it clear he was waiting for what Miles couldn’t say. Slipping away...
“Thankyou.”
There, he could manage that. He said ‘thankyou’ all the time. It was the polite thing to do, after every audition where they’d rejected him, where he’d failed to impress - it was as much an apology as it was an expression of gratefulness. It was the best he could come up with.
“...Thankyou?” Phoenix was a little bewildered.
“Thankyou, for...” Miles trailed off, words eluding him again.
Phoenix just waited. Miles struggled for phrasing. He still wasn't sure what he was trying to get at - the words he was after were there but difficult to pin down.
“For,” he continued slowly, “making me stop and think. About what I want, about what I joined for.”
And then he understood. What he’d been about to lose: the very thing that Phoenix had been offering him over the past two rehearsals, that he’d pushed away automatically without realising what it was. Friendship.
“I auditioned for the wrong reasons,” he said, speaking faster as it all began to make sense. “I wanted to get away from Broadway so I could just play and not have to worry about anything else. But I see now, that things are so different outside of Broadway. Now I know what it can be like, and-“
“-you can try playing with an orchestra instead of just being in one?”
Phoenix’s suggestion still had a bite of sarcasm in it, but Miles nodded, relieved that the trumpet-player was starting to understand. Phoenix was looking at him shrewdly, then he said,
“How many all-nighters did you pull for the audition?”
Miles blinked, the question taking him by surprise.
“Some,” he said warily.
“So that’s why...” Phoenix had a knowing look in his eyes now, walking back up to him. “That’s why people like me don’t understand.”
“Don’t under-" Miles broke off, remembering his snapped words to Phoenix earlier.
“Yup, I see now," Phoenix continued. "Your face is grey from lack of sleep, your eyes are red from propping them open staring at sheet music till all hours - you worked yourself into the ground to get here, and now you’re digging an even deeper hole for this solo. Why? You just reminded me of something Lana said: that solo was Mr. Gant’s choice, wasn’t it?”
And there he had it. Piercing blue eyes fixed on him, expectant, waiting for him to confirm or deny it. He nodded slowly, knowing he was answering more than one question, and felt something somewhere break, some coiled-up spring in the back of his mind that had been winding tighter and tighter over the last two sleepless nights. Phoenix’s eyes softened, then he cast them down, sighing.
“Miles,” he said, looking back at up him. “I think you need to hear this. The Travelling Symphony... I meant what I said when I called it a family. Once you’re here, if you don’t want to leave then you’ll never have to. The audition’s hell, I know - Mr. Gant made me prepare six different pieces and if you had as many I can only imagine how much work it must have been - but that’s over and done with now. You’re here, you’ve made it, and if you play well with us then that’s all Mr. Gant asks. This solo,” he tapped the music stand, “it’s not about proving yourself; you’ve already done that. It’s about showing off what you can do, and to do that you’ve got to enjoy it. You make it sound brilliant but it’s no good if you yourself are looking like death.”
Miles looked at the single page of sheet music on the stand. An array of notes, dynamic markings, slurs, ties - it told him exactly how the piece was to be played, down to the last semiquaver.
“What would you do if I took that away?”
The question stabbed him in the stomach.
“I wouldn’t let you,” was his immediate reply.
“Even though you’ve probably already memorised it?”
“That’s not the point.”
Phoenix opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, closing it again. He didn’t need to say it, really - the conversation immediately replayed itself in Miles’ head with the unsaid sentence included: You can’t feel a piece if you play it as written.
“I know,” he replied to it. “But at least I won’t make any mistakes.”
“You wouldn’t anyway.”
“I might,” Miles protested.
“If you play without it, you’ll know either way.” Phoenix had that expression in his eyes again. Waiting.
Miles knew there was no point stalling anymore. If he wanted to make a go of this, he had no choice but to try and adapt. He reached out and lifted the sheet music off the stand, holding it out, looking across the rows of chairs and not at Phoenix’s hand as the trumpet-player took hold of the crisp sheet of paper, tugging it out of Miles’ grip.
“Welcome to the Travelling Symphony,” Phoenix grinned, putting it inside his trumpet case. “In a couple of weeks you’ll feel like you’ve been here forever!”
“I suppose I’ll get used to it,” Miles said quietly, looking at his empty music stand and feeling a little lost. He headed off to wash his face, nodding to Maya and Pearl as he passed them in the aisle - they had just arrived.
“What are you looking at, Nick?” Maya asked as she took her seat and unzipped her violin case.
Phoenix was looking at the lid of Miles’ oboe case. The little engraved silver plate had caught his attention earlier and he’d taken the opportunity to get a closer look at it while Miles wasn’t there.
Miles Edgeworth,
Congratulations
for achieving your
oboe diploma
With love,
Father