They say sunrise in Montenegro is beautiful. In reality, sunrise in Montenegro is botched, unnatural, and too swift. Octavia had almost forgotten the way the sun began to crawl out from behind the mountains. It peeked out, giving the flat earth beneath a glimpse of its rays, quickly retrieving them as it rose. Then, in a moment, it was already high above, over the top of the mountain, not quite rising, not quite descending, but not in its zenith. It was just lazing there, like Octavia Philarmonica was lazing in the garden chair, her back to the villa - and to the rising sun.

Then she smiled as she saw what she had been waiting for, the very reason why she had come here, leaving Vinyl in bed in those wee hours of the morning: the not-so-distant sea lit up with specks of gold, and the roaring waves rushed to the rocky shore like a giant rainbow blanket and smashed against the rocks, creating the wonderful percussion which Octavia was so used to, and which reminded her of her childhood. The good parts of her childhood, that is.

A deep, chilly wind blew over from the sea, making Octavia shiver blissfully. Was this happiness? She looked up, gazing into the barely blue sky that she just-risen sun had lit. Angel Octavia came out yawning from her shoulder abode and nodded. Value every moment. Happiness is to be savoured. The cellist looked at the other shoulder, expecting Devil Octavia to say something along the lines of, Happiness never lasts, or, Reality is gonna crush you more when you’re happy - but the demon was asleep in her shoulder room.

Octavia shrugged and closed her eyes, savouring the moment. There was a time and place to philosophise, but this was not the time and definitely not the place. Everything was going fine - more than fine, actually: she was on a vacation with her beloved, and her beloved was cute and nerdy and sexy and wise (And damn good in bed, Octavia added mentally, much to the disapprovement of Angel Octavia, who had sat on the shoulder to enjoy the moment too), and they would soon return home, and they’ll get Neon’s blessing and live together and Frederic would come by, and they would work on the song… and why was there this terrible, unpleasant premonition haunting her?

It wasn’t as though there was something wrong. It wasn’t as though that she felt that something was, or was going to be, wrong. But there was this unpleasant itch in her soul, an itch that prevented her from enjoying herself fully and completely. When she was with Vinyl, the itch was not present; but now that she was alone with her thoughts, it intensified.

“Tavi?” came the meek voice of her girlfriend from the side, making Octavia open her eyes and divert her attention to the source of the voice: a beautiful, hair-dishevelled source, wearing Octavia’s shirt, which was baggy on her but barely covered her ass. The ass which Octavia didn’t wait to slap lightly. “Ouch! Tavi…” Vinyl blushed and looked away, stepping from foot to foot. “W-what are you doing?”

“I’m tapping dat ass,” Octavia said, dragging Vinyl by the T-shirt, almost making the woman stumble. “Did you take my shirt?” the cellist purred, grabbing Vinyl by the waist. The DJ eeped and landed on Octavia’s knees. Octavia felt unusual warmth on her knees. Wait a moment… The woman gasped. “Vinyl… Are you naked beneath the shirt?” Devil Octavia suddenly woke up and crawled out onto the shoulder, eyeing Vinyl very carefully.

“N-no!” Vinyl whispered loudly, looking around, as if anyone could see them. “I have, you know, beneath?” She made a somewhat dignified attempt to get up, but Octavia dragged her back in her lap.

“What do you have beneath the shirt, Vinyl?” The raven-haired woman leaned in and kissed Vinyl on the neck playfully, with a tiny bite. Vinyl actually moaned, making her seek help on her shoulders. Alas, both Angel Vinyl and Devil Vinyl were apparently still asleep. “Tell me, Vinyl~” Octavia teased, breathing hotly on her lover’s ear. “Tell me, what do you have under the shirt?”

Vinyl averted her eyes, trying to muster up the courage. Mornings didn’t exactly do wonders to her self-confidence, even though she had become more open and, well, bolder when she was around her lover. “P-panties.” She looked back at Octavia, catching her approving glance. “Um. I’m wearing my panties. Wh-which are… wet,” she said in a tiny voice, shutting her eyes. “B-because I’m with y-you, uh, babe?” Angel Vinyl, who had strangely emerged out of the divine bedroom accompanied by Devil Vinyl, winced. Was worth a try. Vinyl opened her eyes slightly. Um. Angels and devils can’t really?.. Devil Vinyl tsked and shook her head disapprovingly. Racist. Homophobic racist.

Octavia found it incredibly hard not to burst into laughter. She snickered and kissed the cute DJ on the lips breezily. “Vinyl, I can feel your panties. And they are dry. And,” she lifted her finger before Vinyl could say anything, “it would be gross if they were not. You’re sitting on my knees, after all.” Now, Octavia released her grip, allowing Vinyl to get up, but the blue-haired woman clung to her girlfriend instead, making Angel Octavia ‘aah’ and Devil Octavia ‘eww’. “Also, love?” Vinyl reddened at the form of addressing. “Never say the word ‘babe’. It sounds silly.”

“Okay,” Vinyl quickly agreed, making herself comfortable in Octavia’s lap. “You know, Tavi, it’s kinda weird that your T-shirt is so big. I mean,” she elaborated, placing her chin on the cellist’s shoulder, “You’re a bit chubby, granted, but-”

“You’re calling me fat?” Octavia’s brow lifted quizzically as the cellist feigned offence. Then her face brightened in mock-realisation. “Ah, you must be saying I’m fat. I understand now, dear. I understand.”

“No!” Vinyl blurted out, getting up from Octavia’s lap hurriedly. “No, you’re not-”

“Or,” Octavia put the tip of her index finger to her lips, “you must mean my ass is fat?” She smiled innocently, entirely content with how pink the dialogue was making her DJ. “You’re basically saying I have a fat ass.” The woman stood up and looked at her behind critically. “Ah yes, I see where that’s coming from.”

“N-no!” Vinyl backed down a little, stepping on the garden grass, feeling her bare feet brush against the dry, saturated ground. “Your ass is just, uh, it’s perfect!” Angel Vinyl nodded sagely. Indeed, it’s perfect. Devil Vinyl wrapped her arm around Angel Vinyl’s neck and kissed the angel on the cheek. Just like your ass, babe. Vinyl blinked.

“Or are you implying that I’m too heavy to top?” Octavia advanced on the trembling woman, licking her lips lustfully as she giggled inside her mind at how embarrassed she was making her girlfriend. “Maybe…” She stepped on the ground, the grass tickling her fingers through the flip-flops. “Just maybe…” Octavia grabbed Vinyl by the waist, dragging her into an embrace and leant over a little, her lips ever so close to Vinyl’s reddening ear. “...you would like to top next time we have sex?” Devil Octavia nodded eagerly, wiggling her brow at Angel Octavia, who pretended not to notice anything, reading a book titled Angels and Demons: Relationship Problems.

“No!” Vinyl exclaimed, almost falling down, but for Octavia’s arms holding her. “I-I mean, maybe?” Seeing the cellist’s surprised look, the DJ nearly collapsed in her embrace. “I mean, w-we could try, right?” Devil Vinyl glanced at Angel Vinyl: I second that suggestion. Next time, you top.

“Vinyl, you are so adorable.” Brushing her lips against Vinyl’s ear, Octavia slowly kissed her way to her woman’s lips and sealed them in a long, thoughtful kiss. “You do realise how much I want you right now?” she asked playfully, her hands sliding down the spinner’s back and grabbing the ripe, barely-shirt-covered ass.

“Tavi,” Vinyl rejected her girlfriend meekly, taking Octavia’s hands off her behind with a tiny smile. “I’m really not in the mood. Too sleepy. Too hungry.” Catching Octavia’s mischievous glance, the woman deadpanned. “No, Tavi. I am not ‘hungry’ for some of, uh, your ‘meat’. I just wanna have breakfast.”

Octavia raised her hand like a student always ready to reply to the teacher’s question. “Can I be the breakfast?” she volunteered with a grin. “Or dare I say… the dessert?”

“No,” Vinyl replied with surprising firmness, almost pushing the woman away as she stepped once more on the concrete garden path. “Maybe later. Sorry, Tavi, I’m really not in the mood.” Angel Vinyl nodded resolutely, while Devil Vinyl laughed and waved her hand in the air: Puh-leese. You’re always in the mood, you naughty naughty thing~

“All right…” Octavia replied with what seemed like solemnity. “I guess I’ll just go and rub myself off…” She pecked Vinyl on the nose. “To that naked picture of you I took last night.” Devil Octavia perked up, looking at Angel Octavia sultrily. Pics or didn’t happen.

“What?!” Vinyl exclaimed, backing down onto the grass-and-ground once again. Devil Vinyl prepared to exchange pictures with Devil Octavia. Vinyl found this bond very weird. “Y-you took a picture of me… naked?! While I was sleeping?” Somehow, the DJ didn’t feel offended, or, well, offended enough, but she tried to make her voice steely anyway. Naturally, it just came out weak and embarrassed.

“Just kidding, love.” Octavia put her hand on Vinyl’s cheek, chiming with laughter. “I haven’t used my phone since we came here. Which reminds me that I probably should charge it.” The cellist stroked the cheek a little with her thumb, feeling the soft texture of Vinyl’s skin, the most pleasant skin to ever touch her fingers.

“Can you make breakfast first?” Vinyl suggested with a smile, placing her hand on top of Octavia’s. “I’m a little hungry.” Devil Vinyl immediately put on a fedora: Good. Women should be in the kitchen. Angel Vinyl blinked in bafflement.

“Sure…” Octavia tickled Vinyl’s cheek, then put a pondering expression on her face. “Hmm… It will be hard, cooking with one hand, but I think I’ll manage.” Octavia beamed with a radiant smile that immediately made Vinyl a little weak in the knees.

“W-why would you be cooking with one hand, Tavi?” Vinyl wondered cautiously, kissing her girlfriend’s fingers with delight.

Octavia’s smile didn’t falter for one moment. “Well, one hand will be cooking, while the other hand will be in your panties~”

“TAVI!”

***

“Dammit, Octavia, don’t you ever pick up your phone?”

Frederic paused, phone in hand, anger boiling within him. No, it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t irritation. It was fury. Painful, feral, igniting fury. But not blind fury, no. He knew the reason, and he was furious with everyone who played a part in this ridiculous carnival.

Meet Neon the protagonist, who, by trying to commit suicide, had not only scared the shit out of Freddie the Jester but also probably lost any hope of regaining his sanity. Now our hero was in a mental asylum, where he had been dutifully taken by the court jester Freddie, refusing to speak a word and just lying in bed staring at the ceiling. No attempts to communicate with him had been fruitful so far.

Meet Vinyl the protagonist’s sister. Once meeting something that scared her, something that could lead to serious considering and, probably, a serious talk with the aforementioned protagonist and her lover and maybe even the jester, she decided to take her lover and flee God knows where, leaving our hero disoriented and without a shoulder to lean on.

Meet Octavia the sister’s lover, who had taken the sister away from our batshit crazy hero, and who had never considered the hero’s emotions, or anybody else’s emotions, for that matter. Except, of course, for her own emotions and her own stance on things, and her own problems. Hooray for such a wise, thoughtful lover!

Meet Frederic the jester, who hadn’t seen signs of insanity early enough, who had played along with Neon’s crazy agenda, who hadn’t tried to be part of this whole thing, to stop Octavia from monopolising Vinyl, because he knew how important love and relationships were to her, oh yes he knew how fragile she was and thus how possessive… And he hadn’t done a damn thing!

Frederic really felt like hitting the wall, and the only thing stopping him was the fact that he was in the corridor of the mental facility, waiting on the doc’s visit, as the day prior. He took a few deep breaths, trying to visualise his fury, and comprise it to a dot, then banishing the dot out of his head. It didn’t work. Frederic looked around.

The walls were a soft, near-transparent pink, an awful colour that only existed so as not to leave hospital walls white or paint them that terrible shade of yellow. No patients were outside; but then again, why would they? This was a wing for dangerous patients. Those who had tried to hurt themselves or hurt others. Neon was classified as having hurt himself. But no doctor would know how much he had hurt another. The poor jester Freddie. Then again, those wings were a joke. They just put patients in free wards. “Rooms,” Frederic corrected himself mentally. They liked to call those wards rooms. Which didn’t change the fact that they closed on the outside.

Frederic looked at the door. The plain number stated “56”. He blinked, eyeing the handle. There was actually no lock. Had he been mistaken? Hard to say. Two days without sleep did not exactly contribute to a clear state of mind. Had it ever been so hard? His mind shifted through earlier, happier times. Dating Octavia. Trying to help her. Helping her overcome. Earlier. Studying music. Recognising, after all those years of labour and practice, the real meaning behind those evasive notes. Earlier. Side by side with his parents, clinging to his mother as she took him to church, his father in that ushanka of his, a wonderful, laughing Russian Pole, his cheeks red, steam escaping his hot, smiling mouth.

“Do you have a minute?”

The doctor was a plump, stately gentleman, with bald head and wise, thoughtful eyes. Frederic could never get used to black people around so he froze a little before reminding himself that now it was the other way round, he was more of a tourist here than this man, that this was different from his birthplace. “Of course, doctor.”

The shrink checked his glasses in an automatic gesture. Once more Frederic marvelled at how mundane our lives were. Get up. Brush your teeth. Have a coffee. Catch the bus. Automatic. Go back home. On the couch. Play the tunes. Drink some wine. Automatic. “We usually tell information regarding patients’ health only to family members…” The doctor looked over spectacles. “But, given the circumstances… ahem.”

Frederic just looked at him in expectation. Let him clear his throat. Just another automatic gesture. He isn’t nervous, no. He’s seen many patients in his day. But he was, once, a nervous medical student, an intern, unsure whether he had chosen wisely. Maybe neurosurgery was his calling, not psychiatry? Then he had his first patient. It was hard, and he was cautious. He consulted all the books, and tried different techniques. He controlled the patient’s medicine intake personally, calling him every evening to check. Then came more patients. Such tight control was no longer necessary or even possible, but he tried to do it anyway. Then he got his own medical practice and got a place in a hospital. Patients became faces to him. They became diagnoses. It was never Jim the Happy Puzzle Solver, it was That Autistic Guy. It was never Joan the Avid Reader, it was That White Chick with OCD. It was never Peter Who Made the Depressed Boy Happy With His Jokes, it was That Dangerous Schizophrenic We Better Keep Him Locked Up.

He just stopped caring. Like many of us do. Any job deforms you, makes you a fractured part of your former self. A lawyer stops believing in justice. A doctor fails to see the soul of the patient. An artist does not recognise morality or order any more. And notes stop being a magical train into the unknown. They become ordinary, plain telegraph spots between one paycheck and the next, between the previous symphony and the next you’re gonna add to your portfolio. Frederic sighed under his breath. Such thoughts were not making this any easier.

“We have checked Mr Staccato,” the doctor began, “and we can say that we haven’t found any neurological reasons for his silence. Apparently, the reasons are strictly…” The black man lowered his tone, explaining in a slow voice usually reserved for explaining things to students. “Strictly on a psychoemotional level. In short, your friend Nigel refuses to speak. Which, of course, is a direct effect of his suicide attempt and, ahem…” The doctor looked at Frederic knowingly over the glasses, adopting a confidential tone. “An indirect effect of his sudden marriage, and his sister… I didn’t quite get what is the problem with his sister. Since Mr Staccato does not wish to communicate, maybe you will enlighten me with your perspective on things?”

“Of course, doctor.” Frederic nodded slowly, readying himself for a talk. God. I wish I could just fall asleep and sleep for twelve hours… “Shall we talk here or-?”

“I need to sort some papers.” Of course. The perfect excuse. The doctor’s feet shifted, facing the direction of the corridor. He probably hadn’t even noticed that. “Meet me in my office in fifteen minutes. Then we can talk.”

“Of course, doc.” Frederic didn’t even shrug. Though, it would have been a nice, automatic gesture. He got up and watched the black doctor in his white gown disappear down grey tiles along pink walls. It could almost be a symphony. If this were music. Why do psychiatrists even wear those? Wouldn’t it be more natural for a doctor who works so closely with patients’ emotions and feelings to wear something cosy, something that wouldn’t scare the patients? Eh. “Patients”. Frederic chuckled as he opened the door to the “room”. Nowadays, shrinks called their patients ‘clients’ and the wards here were ‘rooms’. Which didn’t change the fact that patients remained patients and wards remained wards.

“Hi, Neon.” Frederic waved weakly at the man lying on the single bed on his back, staring at the ceiling. He was wearing a tracksuit, into which Frederic had helped him previously, which reminded the pianist oddly of his childhood. Even though Neon didn’t look Eastern European, he could pass for a Balkan man, what with his Italianity. “Hanging there, buddy?” Neon didn’t even look at him. Frederic sighed and eased into the armchair. The ward was indeed very cosy, albeit simply decorated: a single bed in the corner, a wardrobe, a desk with a chair, and an armchair. It looked like something between a cell and a hotel room. “You’d wish for a private bathroom, wouldn’t you?” Frederic laughed, looking at his longtime friend, who looked at him once: a long, thoughtful look - and smiled. “Ready to talk now?” the Pole asked hopefully, maintaining a decent edge in his voice, trying not to give himself false hope. Neon shrugged and shook his head. “Okay, buddy. I’m here for you, always.”

At least this amount of communication was nice. This was something. And he could roll with something, right? He could. He had helped Octavia. He could help Neon. He just had to try harder. Do better. Not fall asleep now. “Neon, I’ll leave you for a moment.” He got up from the armchair with difficulty. “Have to take a ferocious shit.”

Neon laughed and nodded. Frederic smiled. This was good. This was progress. He could do it. He just had to help. Do better. Not fall asleep. That’s what he had to repeat to himself. He walked into the corridor and braced his eyes against the pink. Then his phone rang.

Frederic was quick to grab it, even with his sleepy reflexes. “Hello?” he said nervously, realising he hadn’t looked at the screen to see who was calling.

“I just charged my phone and there was a bajillion calls from you,” Octavia’s dry, haughty voice erupted from the device. “What the fuck, Freddie? I’m having a nice vacation here with my lovely girlfriend, and you wanna interrupt it?”

That was it. Frederic had been about to burst, but now his fury began to leak, which was far more dangerous than bursting, to think about it. “Oh, you know, nothing. Keep having fun with your lovely girlfriend,” he practically hissed, his voice dripping with venom. “Just don’t forget to tell her that her brother tried to kill himself and now he’s in a mental asylum refusing to speak.” Frederic was about to crush the phone against the wall now, but kept it - because he ached to hear Octavia’s response. He wanted to see her hurt. He wanted her to suffer for what she’d done. He wasn’t a bad man. No. But he had had enough.

“What?” Octavia’s voice was flat, lacking understanding. Of course she didn’t get it now. But she would, in three, two, one… “What?!” Ah, now it’s clear, Octavia, isn’t it? It’s clear that you shouldn’t have been so fucking possessive, you whiny bitch?! Is it clear that you are a bloody fucking egoist who has no compassion for anyone but you and no needs are put higher than, or on the same level with, your needs?

“What you’ve heard. I’ll send you the address of the hospital as a text message. I suggest that you book a plane ASAP. Let’s see if you have any humanity left.” He hung up and pondered whether to slam the phone into the wall now. It was fun, how in times of fury, you have a clear vision of what you are going to do next. It feels as if you are possessed - and later you remember the time of fury through a haze. You feel like you had no control over your actions. Which is partly true. But while the fury lasts, you know what you are doing. You are just… a different you.

Frederic carefully placed the phone in his pocket. He stood there in the corridor, taking deep breaths, watching the pink. Then he roared and slammed his fist against the wall, against that fucking pink who even put it there what a fucking stupid colour to paint the fucking walls with fucking octavia who does she think she is fucking bitch taking another fucking bitch away from my fucking friend who has gone fucking insane and the worst bleeding fucking kurwa who is unable to fucking do anything is ME!

He stood there in the corridor, taking deep breaths, watching the pink that was slightly marred by the red. It gave off a beautiful, eerie impression. The corridor remained silent. The staff were used to crazy people yelling. In fact, he was surprised why nobody was yelling. Nobody but him. Just another crazy person yelling. Frederic sighed and entered the “room”.

He waved weakly to Neon upon entering when he realised that his hand was actually bleeding. The fury was gone - which was not always the case when he’d hit something - and the desire to take a dump was still going strong for him. Neon glanced at the hand but said nothing, instead pointing simply at the desk.

Frederic neared the desk, eyeing its simple, woody structure. This fascination with wood that people have. Everything wooden sells so much better now. Wooden radios. Wooden vinyl players. Vinyl… And the instruments made of wood. Pianos. Guitars. Cellos… Frederic sat on the chair heavily, closing his eyes tight. In the wake of his anger, he realised that yes, Octavia may be wrong, and Vinyl may be wrong, and Neon was definitely wrong… but most of them, he, Frederic, was in the wrong. Because he had failed to notice Octavia’s selfishness. Because he had failed to notice how distant from her brother was Vinyl growing. Because he had failed to notice how mad this whole thing was making Neon, Neon who could never recover from his father… Something to tell the doc, for sure.

But he could still make things right. Help Neon overcome his daddy issues and help him become well again. Or, well, as ‘well’ as possible. Help Vinyl see her brother needed her so badly. Help Octavia realise that, having been helped, she needed to help too. That she needed to learn to take others’ feelings into consideration. Yes, he could still make things right. He just had to do better. Not fall asleep.

He barely opened his eyes for a moment, knowing that they would close for a few good hours. For a moment, a thought crossed his mind: I should probably get to the armchair. But this thought vanished when he saw a simple note written in felt-tip pen, the only means of writing available here:

I knew you’d catch me.

With a laugh, Frederic got up and tried to say something to his friend, wanted to assure him everything was going to be all right, that he was always there for him; but he tripped and landed conveniently into the armchair, where he almost immediately fell asleep.

Next Chapter: 2. Fixing Fences Estimated time remaining: 2 Hours, 22 Minutes