The DJ and The Cellist

Chapter Two

***

"So, where's the popcorn?"

Octavia took a nervous look around the spacious hall stuffed with grey-suited men and black-dressed women, and teenagers in jeans and shirts, who obviously didn't know a thing about proper etiquette, hoping that they wouldn't notice Vinyl's question. "Vinyl, for the love of all that's holy, they don't have popcorn here!" the cellist hissed into her friend's ear. "They didn't have popcorn when you were here last, and they won't have it when you come again!"

"But whyyy?" Vinyl wailed in fake despair. Or was it real? With Vinyl, you could never tell. "How else can I sit through the boring classy gig?"

"Performance," Octavia corrected her, her eye twitching as she dragged the cello case towards the ever-so-familiar set of glass doors, leading to the chamber hall. "Not 'gig', Vinyl." She opened the door, stumbling into the little set of wardrobes, fit for the guests and musicians. It was only obvious for the discrete part of the concert hall to have such a cosy interior, for there were only thirty guests - thirty listeners - per performance.

Octavia took off her furcoat while Vinyl undressed herself  from the overcoat that she had decided on for tonight, "classy as those 40s films", and picked up her cello case again, directing her feet through the small chamber hall, past the tiny stage, towards the door leading to the room where the musicians could prepare for the concert.

Vinyl shrugged. "Yeah, well, whatever."

Octavia didn't even try to argue. She knew it was pointless. "Vinyl, could you please take your seat while we prepare?"

"Sure thing, Tavi," Vinyl replied, not without taking a peek into the musicians' room and waving her hand cheerfully - a gesture that was barely returned by the quartet.

Octavia shut the door behind her and leant against the wooden surface with a heavy sigh. She could still see the grinning DJ, even with her eyes closed. The woman massaged her eyelids gently.

"Vinyl's been giving you a hard time again?"

Octavia opened her eyes, looking at a smiling blonde man, just a little older than her, who, contrary to the other musicians in the room, did not have an instrument. Because, apparently, pianists don't need to rehearse. The cellist sighed. "That's all right, Freddie. She's my best friend."

"I wouldn't mind Vinyl giving me a 'hard time'," Harpo, the quartet's harpist (and, occasionally, lyrist), remarked with a sly grin. "If you know what I mean."

Octavia blushed as her brain inconveniently supplied images of a very naked and sexy Vinyl giving her, Octavia, a 'hard time'. In Harpo's sense of the word. Not that she'd agree... But if Vinyl tied her to the bed and... And stopping right there, Octavia! The cellist frowned. Why was she thinking of Vinyl in that way? She didn't even know if Vinyl was into women... She didn't even know if she, Octavia, was into women... Argh. Just focus on the performace!

"Am I not good for you any more, Harpo?~" Beatrice "Beauty" Brass, a gorgeous brunette, emerged from the corner, her tuba lying on a cushion, her sultry eyes flattering their long eyelashes at the poor harpist, who had turned a fine shade of pink. "Do you really think we need another girl to sate our wild needs?" she whispered hotly into his ear, loud enough for everyone to hear, though.

"I-I-I-I I need to take a shower!" Harpo yelled, stammering.

"There are no showers here," Frederic observed flatly, watching the usual exchange between the two lovers with mild curiosity.

Harpo breathed slowly - in, out, in, out - but still took off, quick on his feet. "Any toilet with a sink would do!"

As soon as the harpist disappeared, Beauty giggled. "Did you see his face?"

Octavia groaned as she unpacked her cello, the instrument greeted her with warm energy emanating from the wooden surface - the kind of energy only see, as it seemed, could perceive. "Beauty, I don't really think you should be torturing poor Harpo." She sighed. "No matter what he says about Vinyl." Because she is sexy. Objectively. ...Objectively. Yes.

"It's not about Vinyl-" Beatrice began, but, suddenly, froze in a place as a realisation dawned upon her. A sly grin appeared on her face. "Oh, but it is about Vinyl! Isn't it?" Immediately, the tuba player inched closer to her cellist friend, placing her hands on Octavia's shoulders. "It is. You are mad about the girl. You are molesting her with your eyes every time you see her leaving shower. You desperately want to-"

"I don't want to fuck her into oblivion till she cannot stand, okay?!" Octavia snapped, freeing herself from Beatrice's grasp abruptly.

The little room feel silent for a moment.  Frederic stared at the raven-haired woman evenly, arms crossed, eyes lingering. There was some unspoken sadness to them, something that Octavia could not fully get a grasp on. Beatrice dropped the grin, but in her eyes were dancing wild fires of mockery and mischief, even though surprise was evident too. Damn. Now that wasn't a nice outburst. Octavia sighed and closed her eyes with a hand. Her bandmates could easily assume that she did have a sexual longing for Vinyl. Which she did not have. Because she didn't.

Harpo returned to the ensemble, eyeing his colleagues curiously. "What's the matter? Anything wrong?"

"Nothing, dear," Beauty replied, coming to her senses. "It's just that Octavia-"

"It's just that Octavia thinks we all need to take the stage and perform," Frederic interrupted her swiftly, with Octavia tossing a thanful look towards the pianist. "It's time."

With no instrument at hand, he was the first one to leave the room.

***

Vinyl yawned loudly, covering her mouth with a hand. Need to be classy in a classy place, she reminded herself.

If anything, she did know a thing or two about proper manners. Maybe almost as much as Octavia did. She just didn't want to show it. Just because she liked to see Octavia fume about it. She has such a cute frown when she's furious... Vinyl smiled, Octavia's face before her closed eyelids. Indeed, the cellist was a sweet, beautiful woman... But Vinyl knew that Octavia wasn't interested in her. She could not. She, Vinyl Scratch, was a DJ, a woman of simple needs leading a simple life. Octavia Philarmonica was a lady of elegance, fine taste and... And not into women. Vinyl sighed. At least she had Octavia's friendship. Although she certainly wouldn't mind becoming more... acquainted with that sexy body...

But then... Then wouldn't the magic of their friendship die? Vinyl was not ready to date Octavia. This was not a commitment she was ready to make, for anyone. But simple sex would ruin the-

"Could you stop groaning, please?"

Vinyl turned her head to the left, the source of the disapproving grunt being a fat black woman in a dress so tight that it was impossible to guess just how she managed to breathe. Her hair was made in such a whory fashion that Vinyl could only scrunch her nose. The woman's husband, apparently, looked rather nice: a bald black businessman, if the Brioni suit was any indication, the kind of self-made man who got everything he could want - except for nice, good women.

"I'm very sorry, ma'am," Vinyl said in a sickly sweet tone, gifting the woman with a sour smile. "It's just that the cellist is my girlfriend and I was thinking of how I'll be stuffing her with a long thick dildo after the performance." Vinyl grinned as the woman seemed to have chocked on thin air. "Thus the groans."

Satisfied, Vinyl refocused her attention on the empty stage. There was no use considering her future with Octavia, Vinyl concluded. It was clear. They would remain friends. And that was it. And she was glad. And she was happy with that. And she did not seek anything greater than that. No. Yes.

The musicians took the stage, Freddie taking his place at the black grand first - the leader of the quartet, from what Vinyl had gathered; followed by Octavia, who took her cello professionally, not even casting a glance at her, Vinyl - not that the DJ was deeply hurt by that, but... And then came Beauty with the big trumpet-thing... 'sousaphone', they called it?, and her lover Harpo, dragging his enourmous harp with him. Why not leave the instruments on stage in advance? Vinyl wondered. Not like anyone would steal them. She rubbed her chin. Not like anyone would need them.

"Vivaldi, Concerto in A minor, arranged for cello, tuba, harp and piano. With variations. Arrangement by Frederic Horoshevski," the pianist announced in a clear voice, as if it was not him who had made the arrangement: no hint of pride. Professional fella. Vinyl nodded to herself. She took a look about the audience. There were about forty seats in the small chamber hall, and barely fifteen were occupied. Evidently, there were few people who would want to listen to arrangements for such a peculiar quartet. Seriously, though, couldn't they have chosen weirder instruments to match? But Vinyl knew that the music would be good, if a little strange, compared to the classical recordings she was used to. She mustn't know, Vinyl reminded herself. If Octavia learnt that she, Vinyl Scratch, did in fact enjoy some classical music... to some extent... Well, she did want to keep some secrets from her. For some reason. She just so loved... Vinyl looked at the cellist, the beautiful features of her face lost in the music, and the music... It flowed freely, and delightfully, and it ripped her soul apart, every touch of her bow actoss the strings. Vinyl felt her eyes tearing up involuntary as her mouth fell open slightly. I... Love...

The piece ended, and the quartet remained silent, letting the audience give them an applause. "Fantasia in B minor, composed for solo cello. By Harpo Parish Nadermane." The harpist bowed his head with a tiny smile. Vinyl raised a brow. She didn't know Harpo was a composer too... I wonder if it's any good...

Octavia closed her eyes and began to play. It was good. It was better than anything she'd ever heard. The music was not flat; by far not something Vinyl was expecting from a solo cello. The beautiful, haunting downstreams of notes followed barrages of scales, and elongated moans, and tiny accentuated eighths, and tear-jerking halves. Vinyl was openly crying now. She was cursing herself for not attending Octavia's performances more often. She cursed herself for not telling Octavia what she needed to tell her. She cursed herself for not... But she had never heard Octavia perform solo... Now that the cello was not muffled by other instruments, its splendour shone in its full glory. But I can't tell her! No, she couldn't. Octavia finally glanced at Vinyl, upon finishing the piece. Her eyes, those beautiful pools of lavender, locked with the red of Vinyl's eyes, shocked at the tears veiling the DJ's gaze. No, I can't tell her. Vinyl knew it. She had to smile and wave. And so she did.

And, as everyone stood up in a thunderous applause, Vinyl stood up, too, mouthing, as she made sure that Octavia could not see it, what she so desperately wanted - needed - to say:

I love you, Octavia Philarmonica.