Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Oh motherfuck," Patrick mutters, as the stabilizers come on line and the transport ship judders downwards to Drummeril, letting itself be caught in the planet's gravity again. The plasticized armrests are slick under his palms and the material creaks as he clenches. He looks across the aisle but everyone is staring out the windows to watch the ground approach, something he's decided to avoid for the sake of his sanity.

He's too old to be doing this for the first time.

With a series of mysterious and terrifying clanking sounds, the ship touches down and people begin unbuckling seatbelts and turning on their comms. Patrick fumbles in the storage compartment for his bag and guitar case, and stands up on shaky legs to queue for the exits.

The air is the first difference. It's not only hotter than Mith, but heavier, thicker. Deliberately, he breathes in deep through his mouth, tasting fuel fumes and the last of the canned air, as well as a hint of something distant and smoky, and maybe that's the real Drummeril, under it all. Patrick is suddenly a whole lot less sure that this was a good idea. For weeks now, he's been carefully hiding any signs of enthusiasm about the assignment, knowing he wasn't supposed to be eager to leave the Academy. And it's not like he's glad to be gone, or anything. It's his home, for better or worse, and he knows how lucky he is to be there. Just - maybe the idea of seeing something of the rest of the galaxy appeals to him. There's nothing wrong with that, he's sure, even if he knows to keep quiet about it.

No fear of over eagerness now, though, with the dull throbbing of a headache from the two-day trip pounding around his skull, and the curious, watchful eyes of the shuttleport crowd making it abundantly clear just how little he fits in here.

"Hey, Patrick!"

But there's Joe, right where he said he'd be, hair longer and crazier than it had ever been at the Academy, clothes tighter and brighter than anything Patrick has seen him in, but the general impression of laidback warmth is still just the same.

"How was the journey? Fuckin' amazing, right? I nearly puked the first time, but from, like, excitement."

Patrick grins, taking in everything as they push through the port and over to the ground shuttle for transport into the city. They get outside and the night is tangible around them, the orange haze of Shanco's lights warming the sky in the distance. It feels vast, disorienting, and Patrick clutches the handle of his guitar case and tries to ride out the dizziness.

On the platform, people see the Academy insignia on his guitar and move back to let him pass.

"How's Gabe?"

Patrick pulls back from the shuttle window - "he's never seen anything like the hard cracked earth of the Drummeril plains, used to the foggy lush green of Mith, and it keeps catching him off guard - "and blinks himself back into the conversation.

"Gabe is - I'm not sure, actually. He took off about three months ago. Haven't heard anything yet."

"Huh. Him too. I wonder if he'll show up here sometime."

Patrick stays quiet, glad that could be taken as rhetorical. "What about Alex?"

Patrick grins. "Alex is good. It's a recent thing, though. His voice broke about six months ago."

Joe's eyes widen and he coughs out a laugh, "Oh shit. I thought it was never gonna happen. I swear he was holding onto that soprano by force of fucking will. No way he was giving up first soloist position without a fight."

"You fucking know it. I'm pretty sure he kept his balls strapped for the last couple of months. The things that dude would do for the limelight frighten me."

"Was he pissed?"

Patrick drops the smile and stares at his fingers tracing the edge of his guitar case. "He was... yeah. He had to leave the choir, and they were pressuring him to stop singing altogether," - at the academy, a lone singer was of little use - "but he wouldn't. He found... I don't know how he did it," Patrick swallows, "but he got three guys from string and percussion and they made their own collective." He shrugs, still not sure how it happened.

"He got a band together? And they - do they, you know, work?" The amazement in Joe's voice is clear. The respect is less obvious, but Patrick can hear it. And understand it. Finding the right people for a collective out of the thousands of tunnel-visioned musicians at the academy is a rare achievement.

"It's early days. They got preliminary sanctions from the masters, though, so there must be something there." He tugs at his hat and shrugs.

"That's - well, that's cool," says Joe. "I'm happy for them. It didn't work for me, but I'm glad he's doing well." Patrick's happy to be able to believe him. "So what about you, dude? Any prospects?"

And Joe doesn't know that he's probably the closest Patrick ever got to finding something you could call a collective, so he's trying not to let the question bother him. It must show on his face, though, because Joe jumps back in.

"Hey, sorry, no, man, whatever. I'm sure you'll figure it out. There's no one in the place who wouldn't give an arm to play with you, anyway. It'll be cool. I'm just happy you're here, you know?"

A sudden screech cuts through the mechanical hiss of the train and Patrick winces along with everyone else in the compartment. Then a voice comes over the intercom system, halting conversation.

"This is a service announcement."

The voice doesn't sound like any official Patrick has ever heard. It's fast and breathless and weirdly sarcastic.

"This train will arrive at Shanco Central in 7 minutes and 37 seconds. Please remember to keep your belongings with you at all times, to proceed in an orderly fashion to your nearest exit, and, oh yeah, one more thing-" and Patrick can hear the voice pausing to take a deep breath, "FREE YOUR FUCKING VOICES! FREE THE MUSIC NOW!"

Everyone in the compartment seems frozen solid as a wave of sound comes through the intercom system, resolving after a few seconds into a driving backbeat and at least two guitars thundering through a clashing rhythmic song - well, Patrick's not sure it can be called a song, but it's something. Without conscious thought, his knee starts to bob along with the drumbeat, and he jumps as Joe's hand clamps down on his leg. Joe is shaking his head, warning with his eyes. Patrick frowns and looks around the compartment, where every face is pale and scared, eyes pointed down at the floor, or darting around looking for the source of the music.

Over the intercom, the music suddenly fumbles to a halt, and sounds of hasty breathing and the clang of fingers on strings blare into the train. Then the same voice, whispering and elated.

"Don't forget. Don't live in silence. Free the music."

Then quiet.

The train speeds onward, and Patrick turns to ask Joe what had just happened, but Joe shakes his head once, definitively, and keeps his head down. It doesn't keep Patrick from seeing the tiny smile he's hiding, though.

The rest of the ride is silent, everyone staring out the window or pretending to read the endless election posters covering the walls, and it's only once they're off the train and pushing through the crowd at the station that Patrick gets a chance to ask again.

"What the hell was that? Since when is unsanctioned music turning up on the fucking public transport network? And where did they get instruments?"

Joe just smiles, leans close, and tilts in toward his ear.

"Things are changing in the world, Patrick. Welcome to Drummeril."

"Thanks for letting me stay, Joe."

Joe's rummaging in the closet for extra blankets, so Patrick tosses his bag on the floor and then sets his guitar down with considerably more care.

"It's no problem, dude, you know it. We go way back, right?"

Patrick grins, remembering a much younger, much scrawnier Joe from their first days at the Academy together. "Oh, yeah. I remember your old hair, for example."

Joe flips him off, grinning back. "I don't think you want to get into a conversation about changing hairstyles there, Patrick. How many hats do you have in that bag, anyway?"

Patrick narrows his eyes and glares, and Joe laughs unrepentantly. "There's the Stump Glare of Death! I didn't miss that one at all."

Joe throws him a pile of blankets and Patrick dumps them on the bed.

"I guess I'll leave you to unpack and stuff," says Joe, leaning in the doorway. "And you know you can stay as long as you like, right?"

Patrick unbuttons his jacket and throws it on the bed. "Thanks, man. I'm here 'til the Solstice and then I'll be out of your way."

Joe nods, but says again, "As long as you like, Patrick. I mean it." The words sound strangely heavy, and Patrick stops unfolding blankets for a minute to stare back at Joe. There's something more than hospitality in the air, here.

"So hey," says Joe, when Patrick gives up trying to figure out a response, "why are you staying with me, anyway? Why aren't you in one of the Academy houses in the city?"

Patrick drops his gaze and works at carefully smoothing the last blanket over the bed. Truth is, he's not sure. There were plenty of official Academy guest houses in Shanco, and Academy musicians were rare enough on Drummeril that he would have been treated like an honored guest, but still, when the time came to choose, he'd refused the official accommodation and explained that he had a family friend in Shanco who would be happy to house him. No one thought anything of it, unfamiliar enough with his family history not to question his claims. It wasn't much of a lie, really. With his parents dead, Joe was one of the few people Patrick even knew outside the Academy, the closest thing he had to family, even if it wasn't that close at all.

So no one questioned him, and he didn't really question himself, just deciding that he'd like to spend time with an old friend while he could, before he became part of the Academy forever. Not much of a rebellion, really.

He grabs hold of a pillow from the floor and flings it at Joe. "Guess I just missed your pretty face, Trohman."

Joe flutters his eyelashes and hurls the pillow back onto the bed. "Come on, then. My pretty face has some beer in the fridge and the Academy boy probably needs a drink."

Patrick throws an arm out from under too many blankets, a messy ineffective flail toward the trilling sound disturbing his sleep. His fingers graze over his comm and he wakes up with a jolt as it clatters onto the floor. He lurches over the side of the bed and grabs it, shoving it haphazardly toward his ear.

"'lo?"

"Patrick. This is Director Karolan. Do I find you well, Musician?"

Patrick jolts upright, heart thumping. The elegant, clipped tones of the Academy's overseer push him immediately back to Mith, and his training kicks in.

"Lady Director! I - I'm fine, ma'am."

Patrick is not fine. Patrick is hung-over and foggy and suddenly utterly convinced that the Director will know exactly how much he had to drink last night. Oh god.

"That's good to hear." The Director's voice sounds warmer over the comm, warmer than it ever did in person, and Patrick is struck by a strange sense of homesickness. He'd always been in awe of the Director, of her cold, calm tones and shrewd insights, never really understanding what she could have seen in him. "I have a request to make of you, Patrick."

Patrick sits up straighter, waiting for whatever would come next. Technically, he's on leave and free of Academy duties until the first of the ceremonies in two days, but they both know that a request from the Director is a request in name only.

"There's a confirmation ceremony today in central Shanco and the musician we sent to officiate became ill in transit. We were hoping you would lend your skill for the afternoon."

Patrick frowns, confused. "Lady Director, ma'am, is Shanco not abundantly equipped with musicians for just such an occasion?"

There's a brief pause over the comm as Patrick realizes he hadn't immediately complied, as he would have automatically before.

"You are correct, apprentice. But it is my express wish that you should attend this ceremony. The family are known to me, and I wish to send an envoy worthy of the occasion."

Patrick stares at the Joe's living room wall, going very still.

"I - I'm very honored, Director," he says, cursing himself. Honored? Is that it? After what she'd just hinted, he should be on his knees.

"I take it you will be able to find some time to attend the ceremony?" He can hear the smile in her voice. She sounds pleased, if not surprised. Only a fool would resist the path she's just opened for him.

Patrick isn't a fool, so he has no idea why he can hardly draw breath to speak his consent.

"Of course - of course I'll do it."

"Very well. I will have the documents and keys sent to you immediately. Play well, musician. I have sent word of your potential." Patrick hears that loud and clear. Don't make a liar of me, she's saying, and Patrick gets it even as he realizes that things had been arranged long before he'd been approached.

"And Patrick - you will make sure to continue your training while you are on Drummeril, will you not? I may have particular need of you around the time of Solstice."

She hangs up without waiting for his reply, which is just as well, because he doesn't have one. The Solstice will mark the inauguration of the new government on Drummeril, and while Patrick doesn't give a shit about politics, especially ones as pre-determined as the Drummeril elections, the inauguration ceremony will be the most important musical and ceremonial event in a decade.

What the Director hinted... it's one step closer to confirmation of something he'd begun to suspect three months before. While he's always been slated to participate in the ceremony - most of the elite rung of the Academy will be present to perform the official musical rite - he's pretty sure Karolan was talking about something far more involved.

Patrick slumps back against his pillow and wonders why he's not as excited as he'd have expected. His heart is pounding, though, and he takes a few deep breaths and waits to calm down. He's still breathing in concentrated gasps when Joe pokes his head around the kitchen door, rumpled and woolly haired, waving a wooden spoon and what looks like a pair of boxer shorts.

"Pancakes? We're going to Preshy's. Home of the seventeen syrup flavors, dude, it's irresistible."

Patrick breathes deep one more time and pushes off the last of the blankets.

"Not today. I've got to go into the city."

The ceremonial hall is nothing like the cathedral spaces of Mith.

At the Academy, the halls were conceived to maximize the majesty of orchestral music, created to extract every hint of resonance, every chord. Centuries of devotion to the art of perfecting sound had gone into the halls of Mith, and they arched into the sky with a kind of justified arrogance that Patrick had always loved. They knew they were awesome and awe-inspiring, and he always felt humbled anytime he got to play inside them. It's like they connect him to something bigger than himself, to something more important than his own life, and when he plays in them he can become part of it, part of that history of dedication and craft.

Looking at the Shanco neighborhood hall in front of him now, Mith seems very distant. There's no majesty to this architecture, no evidence of care and investment. The halls of Mith are vibrant and proud, built to capture just the right light, to echo just the right sound, to produce just the right effect. The hall in front of him, though, seems entirely free of any such aspiration.

It's... functional. In good repair, and well looked after, which is hardly surprising given the wealth of the neighborhood it services. Patrick feels the beginnings of something profoundly unsettling wash over him. Whatever else, he knows viscerally that he doesn't belong here.

Inside, the hall is quiet, only two or three people moving around quietly at the center point, under the arch. Patrick grips the handle of his guitar case - useless here, where the ceremony calls for the harp, and he can't quite decide why he brought it, except for the comfort of having it in hand - and moves forward.

A small, robed man turns at his approach and bows in what Patrick is shocked to recognize as deference.

"Musician."

Patrick nods, years of protocol lessons kicking in. "Master of Congregants. I am here to witness the confirmation of a new member of this hall."

The new member chooses that moment to emit a startlingly powerful wail, and Patrick turns to greet a well-dressed couple carrying a baby wearing the ornamental robes of confirmation. He straightens up and then bows slowly toward them.

"Mr. and Mrs. Gennet, greetings. Director Karolan of the Academy at Mith sends her regards. I am bid seal the confirmation of your son as part of this congregation, member of the halls of Shanco."

The official words spoken, the couple nod seriously, and Patrick can't help but smile as the mother tries to shush the squalling baby. He comes closer and sees the kid is maybe nine months old, curious and uncomfortable in his formal robes.

"Musician," says the Master of Congregants, "if you follow me, I will bring you to the instruments."

Patrick nods, still off-balance, and agrees to follow. Off to the side of the center section, he spots the harp casing pretty quickly, a decorative box almost taller than him, curlicues of metallic ornamentation covering every inch of its surface. There are two more cases beside it, more workmanlike instruments inside. It's likely they're much more regularly used, by more routine players for more routine ceremonies, but Patrick has trained since he can remember to handle the most delicate of instruments, and he knows what is expected of him.

The Master leaves him to prepare, and Patrick pulls out the key shipped to him from Mith to unlock the case. The lock itself, he discovers with a dull kind of shock, is covered in dust.

He pulls back the casing and reveals the instrument inside, burnished and glossy in its cushioning. It's beautiful in its own way, though he knows it's unwieldy and old-fashioned. Moving carefully, he carries it forward to the center section and starts to pluck gently at the strings, tuning as he goes. The sound is rich and mellow, and when he glances up, the two Gennet parents are staring openly, transfixed. Patrick is confused - it's only a few notes, no tune - and then gets it. How long since they last heard music?

Tired, suddenly, of the pomposity of his duties, and with the Master of Congregants nowhere in sight, Patrick smiles at Mrs. Gennet. "What's the baby's name? He looks like a bright kid."

Mrs. Gennet recovers quickly. "His name is Ian, after his dad," gesturing to the father and coming closer to let Patrick see the kid through the voluminous layers of fabric. Ian is still fussing, understandably enough, and Mrs. Gennet hoists him up on one hip so he can look around and pull at her hair.

Patrick reaches out a hand and gets one finger clamped by a small imperious fist, and he smiles genuinely for the first time since the phone call from Mith. "How old are you, kid?"

"He turns one next month," Ian's father chimes in, coming forward and wrapping an arm around his wife. "We're a bit late with the confirmation ceremony, but he was sick for the first few months, and we weren't sure - well. We're grateful the Academy could send someone to officiate."

"Oh, hey, it's no problem," says Patrick, trying to put them at their ease, prizing himself free from Ian's sticky fingers and feeling like a total idiot now he's off script. "Uh - all part of the service."

They all turn, then, as the Master of Congregants comes into the center and nods to the parents to signal the beginning of the ceremony. Patrick takes a breath and runs through the anthems he'll be playing in his head.

In the still silence of the hall, a deep, clear note suddenly sounds.

Beside him, Mrs. Gennet gasps, whipping her head around to see her infant son leaning out of her arms and grasping at the strings of the harp, open joy on his round pink face, ready to make more noise. Patrick sees the panic in Mrs. Gennet's eyes and darts a glance at the Master of Congregants, who hasn't quite the view of events he'd like and can't confirm what just happened. Quickly, Patrick pulls back and plucks at the same note again, then again, trying to look as official and musician-like as he can and hoping like hell the Master thinks it is some new aspect of the ceremony.

Just then, the deep sound of a bell echoes above them, and the doors to the hall open as a small crowd begins to stream in for the ceremony. They're obviously some of the wealthiest families on Drummeril, nothing like the world his family came from. Their clothes whisper as they move up the aisle, heavy and crisp, and Patrick is suddenly grateful for the plain dark cloth of his official robes that helps him melt into the background.

People begin picking out seats and Patrick moves back behind the harp, getting settled. In the front rows a few feet away, the Gennets are joined by another family, two parents and three adult children. Two of the kids look somewhere between dutiful and bored, but the third, the eldest son, Patrick realizes in shock, is glaring directly at him. Patrick stares back in astonishment at the guy who has his eyes locked on him, beaming resentment from the front row. Patrick doesn't have a clue what to make of him. He can hardly see him, really, the dark-colored ornamental clothes he's wearing covering him from the high collar of his coat to the tip of his brightly shined boots. But there's no mistaking the look of anger in his eyes, even if it's the first time Patrick can remember anyone directing that kind of antagonism in his direction, never mind someone he's never even met.

The Master clears his throat to begin, and Patrick shakes off the stranger's glower and bends his head to start.

Patrick plays where it's required, plays what he has been taught to play, effortlessly and by rote, unable for the first time to lose himself in the music. It sounds good - it sounds perfect, like always - but in his mind, instead of the usual misty images he gets when he plays - images of the Academy halls, of hundreds of musicians moving in time, of his mother's proud face - other pictures fill his head. He pulls at the harp strings and he sees the blank and boxy walls of the hall, the dusty keyhole on the case, the look of open glee on the Gennet baby's face when he played his first, and probably last, note. And he sees the dark angry eyes of the strange guy in the front row, the guy Patrick knows is still staring as he does his Academy-sanctioned duty and plays the old notes of the ceremonial songs.

Eventually, the Master speaks the last words of the ceremony and Patrick holds the final chords as the congregation claps politely. Taking a deep breath, he tilts the harp back into position on the floor and risks raising his eyes to look at the guy in the front row.

The anger's gone. Patrick's not sure what's replaced it. The guy is still there, though the rest of his family are moving off up the aisle, and his stare is still leveled right at Patrick. It's just as intense, in its own way, as the resentment from before, but now Patrick finds it completely unreadable. He raises a hand, stupidly, to wave, and the guy shakes his head as if to clear it, then turns and hurries off down the aisle. Back at his instrument, Patrick stands for a second with his hand in the air.

He's exhausted and jittery after the ceremony, and he goes back to Joe's and collapses into bed, only to spend most of the night twisting himself up in his sheets, his heartbeat refusing to calm down and let him pass out. When he finally drops off, it's almost dawn, and he ends up sleeping through most of the next day, only waking when Joe comes in at sunset to announce that they're going out. Patrick is willing enough, ready to shake off the fog of tension and too much sleep.

He drags himself to the shower and then pulls on some of his few casual clothes, pulling them out from underneath piles of different ceremonial robes. All his day-to-day clothes are the same neutral colors, soft browns and creams, comfortable and shapeless. He looks at himself in Joe's bathroom mirror and sees, without his glasses, a fairly formless beige blob. Pretty much standard, really, and he shrugs and pulls a cap over his head, heading off to find Joe.

Who stares at him and frowns for a second, before punching his shoulder and pulling his own shiny green jacket tight up his arms. His hair looks even wilder, if that's possible. Patrick decides it must be against the guy code to talk about each other's clothes, and doesn't say anything about Joe's eye-searing coat or about how his outfit would have been received back on Mith.

"Come on, man, let's get a drink." Joe leads them toward his local shuttle port and they hop on quickly enough and sit back while they're sped into the city, the 'scrapers growing taller and taller as they approach until finally they're looming all around them, shiny and impenetrable and making Patrick's neck hurt. "We're going north a bit," explains Joe, strolling ahead once they're off the shuttle, and Patrick is happy to stroll along with him, though he'd thought the shuttle went pretty much everywhere directly in Shanco. "Nah," says Joe, "only the rich stuff is serviced, the fuckin' malls and shit. We're going somewhere a bit more real."

By 'real,' Patrick is pretty sure Joe means 'creepy,' because the streets are getting darker and more narrow as they walk, the streetlights dwindling in frequency, and suddenly there are other people on the street, heading the same direction they are in ones and twos and bigger groups, quiet enough but somehow urgent. Patrick feels Joe pick up the atmosphere, getting primed for something, brimming with stored energy he remembers from their first performances together as kids. But Joe left the Academy over a year ago, and there's no sanctioned music outside of it, so what the hell - "Joe, what the fuck is this?"

"Patrick" - and Joe slings an arm around his shoulder, squeezes him tight and solid - "this is what we on Drummeril like to call fun."

And that's when he starts to feel the vibration.

At first, it's just a general hum, a rumble like an underground shuttle passing by, but all the shuttles in Shanco are overground and the rumble doesn't stop, doesn't fade away. Instead it gets stronger and more distinct as they get closer to the place everyone seems to be heading, a set of rusted double doors in an anonymous-looking brick building up ahead. Suddenly, Patrick can feel a distinct pattern to the vibrations... and then he realizes that it's not a pattern, it's a goddamn rhythm.

His feet stutter to a halt and Joe's arm judders from around his shoulder. "Joe, Jesus. What the - you know we can't -"

Joe turns and glances around, waving once at someone in the growing crowd, and then looks at Patrick, eyes intent. "You're not at the Academy anymore, Patrick, you're not even on Mith. This is the real world. Like, literally. And it's not what you think, anyway. Listen - do you hear any music?"

Patrick can't really hear anything over his crazy breathing, but he forces himself to tune in, training his ear toward the building and the air around them, and Joe's right, there's no tune, no melody, nothing but a driving beat, suddenly familiar. The downbeat and the totally unique ostinato -

"That's the drumfill from Fallah Lymni! It's - none of that is supposed to be played outside the ceremonies, Joe, you know that as well as I do."

Joe actually fucking snickers. "You haven't seen inside yet. It's plenty ceremonial, believe me."

Patrick feels his fingers curling into fists, shock turning into anger. Joe seems to recognize the look and drops the smirk, but he doesn't back down, and that's new. "Listen, dude. Just - fucking listen, okay? I know what they taught you. I know, I was there. Ritual musicianship, the art of interpretation, traditional variations, blah blah blah. And I know that you're probably going back there, and maybe you should, because it's still the only place they'll let you really play, and you should always be playing, Patrick, you've got more talent than anyone I've ever met. But seriously, fuck them. They took my guitar the day I left, man, they took my guitar, because why the fuck would I ever need it if I wasn't playing Shannos for the Counsellors, right? And that's just part of the bullshit, the way they think they're the only place you can feel music, make music. I got my hands on a new guitar two weeks after getting here, because you can find them if you try and because I'm not me without one. I mean - you get that, right?"

And under the complete confusion - he doesn't think he's heard Joe sound anything close to this earnest before, and it's kind of freaky - Patrick does get it, knows that no-one could part him from his guitar, that he'd agree to anything the Academy asked to keep it, to be allowed to play. He just hadn't realized that anyone outside the Academy could actually feel the same way. Joe seems to sense him wavering and grabs his arm, heading in toward the building.

"So, come see. It's pretty fucking cool, even with just the drums. And don't worry, okay, they don't give a fuck what we do as long as we stay away from the shiny places."

There are a lot of people inside, and to Patrick's ears it seems like every single one of them is shouting. He looks around, dumbfounded, and there are hundreds of people crushed close, yelling into each other's faces, gesturing wildly to make themselves heard, flushed with body heat and alcohol. More than that, every single one of them is swaying, a shifting of hips or nodding of heads, all moving with the rhythm of the drums. Patrick feels at sea, almost literally, like the ground isn't solid beneath him anymore, and it's only the feel of Joe bumping and swaying beside him that lets him know he's standing still.

He tilts his face toward the ceiling, looking for a breath of air that isn't full of sound and sweat, and stares up past the shoulders and heads around him to the roof arching way above them. It's only then he recognizes the building's shape, feels the way the acoustics are being formed, how the sound has become so rounded and full. This isn't a warehouse, it's an old church, one of the cathedrals of Danan. Patrick thought they'd all been torn down when the new city was founded. The arc of the ceiling is perfect; even through the steam and noise, Patrick can tell that much. These people, whoever they are, have somehow found the one building in Shanco properly designed for the performance of music. He wants to get closer, check out the types of sound produced in the different parts of the room, listen to the echoes, maybe stroke the walls a little bit.

"Patrick, man, you want a drink?"

Joe is plastered up against his side again, yelling in his ear over the din. Patrick winces, both at the yelling and the way Joe is standing on his foot, but nods readily enough in agreement, and Joe grabs his wrist and drags him off toward the nearest alcove.

For an underground illegal warehouse-cum-cathedral party, they have a pretty impressive selection of booze.

"Whaddya want?" shouts Joe, muscling his way toward the makeshift bar. Patrick stares at the huge collection of half-empty bottles and the weird bulbous bladders that probably hold the infamous Shanco ale that kids at the Academy used to boast about drinking. It all looks pretty dubious, frankly. It doesn't matter, though, because Joe has already abandoned him and disappeared into the crowd, pushing his way to the front. Patrick steps back, finds a nearby wall to lean against, and tries to look for the source of the drumming. It's actually pretty good - frenetic and steady at the same time, a mix of discipline and fervor he recognizes even though he's never heard anything like it before. He taps a counter rhythm against the wall and his toes flex in time.

Joe shows up with an extra mug in his hands, and Patrick grabs it and takes a huge swallow, happily blotting out the strangeness of feeling momentarily at home in a place so alien.

"Blargh!"

When he comes back to reality, shaking his head and reeling from the burn in his throat and the heat in his brain, the drumming has stopped, and the voices around him are suddenly distinct. For just a second, they sound like a different kind of music, an orchestra of babble, and Patrick takes another drink. Then the crowd in front of them pushes back, pressing him tighter against the wall, and he can see a flow of people moving toward the bar to his left. A gap appears and Patrick sees - Patrick sees some seriously crazy looking people.

They're all soaked with sweat, for one thing, covered in it, male and female, more than even the humidity of the room would account for. They're all dressed differently, but they each have a single strap of black cloth tied around both upper arms, and they're all breathing like they've just run a race, like they've just won a race, laughing and pulling at each other and bouncing on their feet. His own heartbeat speeds up in sympathy, and beside him he can feel the same thing happening to Joe.

"Who are they?"

"The drummers? They're just - they're everyone. People take turns." Joe shrugs and turns to shout closer. "They're not a group, not a collective or anything, just - people who have to play. Who can't - who just have to."

Patrick looks at them again and realizes that he's looking at people just coming off a serious performance high. He knows he's felt something like it, but he finds it hard to believe he ever looked anything like the bright and beaming people around him. He turns to Joe, wide-eyed. "Do you do it? Have you played with them?"

Joe shakes his head. "No. I haven't really been around long enough, I guess."

Patrick doesn't quite get that, but nods anyway.

"Trohman."

Patrick jumps and sloshes some of his drink. At his side is a short, slight guy with old-fashioned glasses, long hair, and more tattoos than Patrick has ever seen in his life.

"Andy, hey. You guys sounded good."

And Patrick notices the cloth bands on his arms, and follows his gaze down brightly inked skin to see at least three pairs of drumsticks tucked into the guy's pockets and tied onto his belt.

The guy - Andy - nods, and Patrick quickly realizes that there's nothing casual about it. Some of these guys might just be taking turns, like Joe said, but Andy's not one of them. Drumming is it for him, and some part of Patrick gets that and feels weirdly at ease. When he looks away from Andy's serious eyes and colorful body, he sees that they suddenly have room around them, space where the crowd has pulled back, and he knows it's sure as hell not because of him. Beside him, though, Joe is relaxed and friendly, and Patrick stifles the urge to press further back into the wall.

"And hey, am I right in thinking we heard some of your stuff on the train the other day?"

A glimmer of humor crosses Andy's solemn face, but he keeps silent. Joe laughs and punches his arm. Patrick winces and wonders if Joe is about to get his ass kicked, but Andy just smiles a little bigger. Joe hasn't lost any of his talent for making friends. And then Andy's tugging at the bands on his upper arms and holding them out to Joe.

"Here. You should take a turn later."

Patrick can't decide whether he's scared for Joe - this shit is so, so illegal - or as jealous as all hell. Joe doesn't seem to be as torn; he's already pulling off his jacket and holding out an arm. "Holy fuck, Andy. Thanks, man."

While Joe is busy spazzing with glee over the armbands, Patrick looks up as five or six people from the nearest clump in the crowd stagger outwards, pinwheeling arms and grabbing at each other for balance.

A dark-haired guy wearing tight black pants and not much else pushes through the irate crowd, tripping over the feet of several of them before crashing into Andy's back and throwing his arms around his shoulders.

"Motherfucking hippoisie!" The dude shouts back at the crowd who are throwing filthy looks in his direction, then grapples with Andy in what Patrick hopes is play fighting.

"You're the fucking hipster emperor, Wentz," says Andy, apparently undisturbed by the way he's being climbed on. Personally, Patrick would be worried about the six or so pointy drumsticks hanging about his person, never mind the fact that Andy is obviously some kind of guerilla warrior. The new guy slides down his back without incident, though, and settles with one arm thrown around Andy's waist before turning his head back toward the crowd.

"So they should show me some damn respect, no? I'M YOUR KING, ASSHOLES!"

As he yells, brash and strident, Patrick sees his face for a flash in the light of one of the braziers, and feels a kick low in his gut. The guy's face is illuminated, edgy in a spark of brightness, his features outlined in black and silver. His face is like a shout, like sound and movement are alive inside his skin. And then the light flickers and softens, and he turns back toward Andy and Joe, and Patrick sees that he's small, not much taller than him, and has improbable hair and a goofy grin that's turning into an even goofier laugh.

Nevertheless, Patrick finds himself thinking that the emperor title wasn't too far off, somehow. The guy breathes like he's doing air a favor.

"Hey," the guy says, nodding at Joe, "Trohman, right? You're playing later?"

Patrick, mesmerized, moves a little closer. And then he sees, with a shock that robs his breath, that it's the guy from the ceremony.

To his left, Joe is nodding enthusiastically. "Yeah. Yeah, Andy gave me his bands. I'm no drumming maestro, or anything, guitar's more my thing, but -"

"You play guitar?"

Patrick's new, but he's pretty sure that's a very loaded question, right there. Both Andy and Wentz are watching Joe carefully now, but Joe has obviously decided that discretion is the better part of chickenshit, and he smiles back at them, shrugging.

"Yeah. I'm ex-Academy. Wasn't for me."

Patrick gasps a little at that one. Only Joe would be casual about rejecting an institution most people would kill to get into and few even understood. He regrets it pretty fucking quickly though, because it makes Wentz's head swivel toward him and Patrick can feel himself reddening.

"Patrick just came from there, though. Fresh off the boat."

Peripherally, Patrick can see Andy nodding hello. He's pretty much stuck in a staring match with Wentz, though, who doesn't seem to be interested in looking away. This is becoming something of a pattern, Patrick thinks. And - woah - he's suddenly a lot closer. And still staring.

In his own way, the guy seems as shocked as Patrick. He tilts his head and seems to be considering what to make of him. Patrick watches warily, waiting for - and sure enough, there comes the anger flooding back over the guy's face.

"So, the Academy boy decided to do a little sightseeing, huh?"

Patrick sees Andy's head swivel round to take in the conversation, and Joe steps closer.

Patrick has no real experience with hostility like this, but he knows something about being challenged, and he realizes that's exactly what's happening here.

"You saw me at the confirmation ceremony," Patrick says. The guy nods, eyes narrowed. "I saw you, too. You were in the front row."

"Yeah, I was there. But this is where I belong. What do you think of our humble abode, Academy kid?"

Patrick scowls at the name - the guy can stop calling him a kid anytime now - but sees that oddly, he does seem to genuinely want to know. "It's like -" Patrick looks around at the space. "I've never seen anything like it."

Wentz tilts his head so he can catch Patrick's eyes again. The anger is gone, replaced by the same strange look he'd given Patrick back at the hall. "I've never heard anything like you," he says.

Patrick blushes like an idiot.

"Pete." It takes a second to realize that's an introduction, and Patrick wonders if he should stick out a hand. Doesn't think he wants to risk that much coordination, though, and with how close Pete is standing, he'd probably just push his hand into the guy's chest, which is right there.It's more skin than Patrick has seen on another person maybe ever. It's making him uncomfortable, prickly with heat and nerves. He swallows and drops his eyes downwards, trying to generate a little calm from this freaky situation, but isn't helped by the sight of Pete's chest narrowing down to a pair of pants that seem to be made entirely from strips of old leather tied tightly together across his hips and legs. He hadn't noticed the tattoo before, either.

"So this whole thing must be weird for you, huh."

Patrick jerks his head back up, narrowly missing hitting Pete in the face with the brim of his hat. Oh, smooth, Stump. Pete ducks back and laughs. Patrick finds himself smiling in response, like a dork, and he bites his lip to try and get it under control. Pete's eyes drop downwards and his laugh stops, just like that. Patrick closes his eyes and fumbles for an answer.

"It's - really hot in here."

Oh for - that's what his brain came up with? And Pete's grinning again, and then nodding decidedly, and - shit, grabbing his arm.

"You're right. We should go outside."

And Patrick's getting pulled unceremoniously through the crowd, Pete forging through and Patrick dealing with the filthy looks in his wake, like slaps from rebounding branches. He ducks his head and hurries after Pete.

Outside, the street is quiet, but Pete leads him further around the corner where it's even more silent, only the rumbling vibrations as the drums start up again making any sound in the night. That explains where Joe went off to, anyway, though Patrick can't honestly say he noticed him leave. He spares a second to worry about how he'll find him again later, and then Pete is pulling him down to sit on a stone bench recessed in the wall and huddling up beside him. It's summer, so it's still pretty warm, but Pete presses close all the same. Patrick thinks it should be easier to breathe out here away from the crowd, but he's still having difficulties. At the same time, the warmth up and down his right side where Pete is sitting against him feels somehow comfortable.

"So - what was it like? At the Academy? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Patrick raises his eyebrows at Pete's super serious tone. "Uh, no, that's okay. It was just like a big school, I guess, mostly."

Pete snorts. "Sure, a school."

"Well, yeah. We had, like, classes, and practice, and rehearsals and - learning stuff." Patrick shuts his eyes against the memory of long hallways, huge rooms full of music, and the safety of a lifetime of routine.

"Learning what they told you, right?" says Pete, once again close and intense. "Learning to repeat the same songs, over and over and over. I heard that they make you spend days and days just working on one section of one song, trying to make it sound whatever way they tell you it's supposed to sound."

Patrick frowns, unsure what kind of response Pete is looking for. Sure they'd had long practices sometimes, but the way Pete said it made it sound -

"What did you play? What instruments?"

Patrick looks away, back out toward the light of the main street. He shrugs and tugs at his hat. "All of them."

Pete grips his shoulder to turn him back. "What? Are you serious?"

"Well - yeah. It's not so hard, really, when you class them as groups and get the basics down - a lot of stringed instruments are similar, and with most of the wind instruments it's just a case of developing a good... embouchure..." He trails off, his lips pursing automatically into the right shape for the flute and then reaching up to cover his mouth when Pete doesn't stop staring, the black lines around his eyes exaggerating everything.

Pete reaches up and pulls Patrick's hand away, moving it down to rest against his thigh. He can feel the rough edges of the leather strips of Pete's pants under his fingers, and the heat of Pete's body beneath.

And then Pete huffs out a breath of surprise and his face blazes into a smile that makes him look about eight years old, and brightly, unrestrainedly happy.

"Patrick! Holy shit! Dude, do you know what this means?" And Pete lurches forward and presses a warm, messy kiss to Patrick's cheek.

Everything stutters to a halt in Patrick's brain, and his hands flail out 'til they somehow find themselves pressed against the warm skin over Pete's ribs as Pete pulls back slightly to beam another crazy grin into his face.

"We have to play together, Patrick. It's going to be so awesome. I just know it."

"What?" Patrick might still be dizzy from the - from the heat. And travel, too, the travel.

"We're gonna make a band, oh man. You used to call them collectives, at the Academy, right? Well, fuck that, it's a band. Andy will totally drum. I don't know who else is free right now, but -"

Patrick shakes his head to try and clear it. Because even though what Pete is saying is madness, is totally fucking crazy, not to mention illegal and terrifying, Pete means every word, he can see it, and somehow, for some tiny part of Patrick's brain, that makes the impossible suddenly... not so impossible.

Which maybe scares him more than anything else.

He pulls his hands off Pete's chest - have they been there the whole time? - and jumps up from the bench, putting some space between them so he can think. Pete is still talking, hands flying around in increasingly manic gestures while he comes up with ideas for other possible members, and lyrics he's written, and fuck, names for the band. Patrick laughs a little hysterically against the opposite wall.

"Pete. PETE. Stop - just stop a second, okay?"

Pete goes quiet, and sits back on his hands, smiling recklessly. Patrick is smiling back before he can help it.

"You don't even know me," he points out. Pete just grins wider. Patrick sighs. "Look - it can't - don't be dumb, Pete. It can't happen. For like, a million reasons. I can't believe you even - you don't even know me."

Pete gets up and comes closer, again. Patrick is beginning to have doubts about his grasp of personal space.

"I do know you, Patrick," and wow, he's really, really close now. "I know you and you know me. It's fucking crazy awesome and it's true. I know you've learned how to play ever instrument there is. I know you have a seriously perfect... embouchure. I'm pretty sure you feel music like most people feel temperature." Patrick's sure his gulp can be heard all the way in the street. "I know you stuck it out at the Academy so you could learn, and god knows that can't have been easy, and you got out of there as soon as you could, and I know our band is going to -"

"Wait, Pete - what?"

"Our band, Patrick. It's going to be amazing."

"No - no, Pete. I didn't - I didn't run away from the Academy. I didn't - I'm only here - I'm here because they sent me. I'm probably going - I mean, I'm going back. It's my home."

And then Pete steps back, eyes glittering and shocked in the light from the street. "You're going back there? You think that's where you belong?" He sounds horrified, outraged.

And abruptly, it all gets to be too much. Pete's face, stunned and aghast, already backing away when seconds ago it had been so close, and the disconnect between everything that had happened tonight as opposed to every other day of his life, it all cascades down and suddenly Patrick is furious.

"What the hell would you know about it, anyway?" This time it's him stepping forward, reaching out for Pete. Pete, still shocky, stands and lets him. "You know me all of five minutes, Pete. I've lived at the Academy forever." And all the doubts he's had about it, about his life there, seem very far away, now, in the face of Pete's obvious disgust. "If they hadn't taken me in, I'd be, god, I'd be no-one. Without music - " His throat is suddenly too tight to continue, and he reaches forward and shoves hard at Pete, pushing him up against the opposite wall. He can hear the air oof-ing out of Pete's lungs, and he feels it on his face as he comes right up to him, hands flat against Pete's bare chest. His own breath is coming just as fast, and every muscle he owns is tight and trembling.

"It's how the system works, Pete. It's how music works, and I have to - I need to be part of it."

When Patrick lets him go, Pete sags back against the wall, but Patrick doesn't stay to see if he falls. He can see the street lights at the mouth of the alley, and that's where he's heading.

Rapid footfalls behind him let him know that Pete is following, but he still starts in surprise when Pete grabs him and pulls him back into the shadow of the church.

"You don't have to be without music, Patrick. They don't own it."

Patrick chokes, incredulous. "Says who? Of course they fucking own it, they're the only ones allowed to play! You can't even - god, I had to get a special dispensation just to bring my guitar off Academy property. They have it locked up, Pete. All of it. And it's all I know how to do." He hates the note of pleading that enters his voice at the last. Hates how his hands are clasped around Pete's arms, and hates the desperate, frantic hope that's still in Pete's eyes.

"Patrick, come on - there are other ways to -"

Patrick cuts him off, suddenly angrier than he's ever been. "No, there really aren't. And you might be happy pounding sticks against the floor twice a week and calling it music, but I can't live like that. I won't."

God, the shame of it.

"So that's it?" And Patrick's got his eyes closed again, but it doesn't matter because Pete's hands are suddenly tight around his head, fingers pushing into his hair and lifting his face to the light. "That's really what you want? To go back there and play the notes they tell you to play in the order they tell you to play them, and not one note more? Lock yourself up in a damn tower and do their bidding? You'd sell yourself that cheap?"

Patrick's eyes jump open and he stares direct and unflinching into Pete's furious gaze. For a second, they breathe in tandem and Patrick can feel Pete everywhere, pushy and strong against him, daring him, provoking him, asking too goddamn much.

He wrenches himself out of Pete's grasp. "Fuck you. You judgmental asshole."

Pete makes a move to come closer, and Patrick's hands curl automatically into fists. Pete stops when he sees them and holds up his hands.

"Fine. Enjoy the rest of your vacation, Musician."

And then he's gone, whirling off away from the city and into the dark. Patrick stands alone in the street, shaking quietly with the beat of the drums.