Guardian

Chapter 1John “I can’t decide if this is the nerdiest or coolest thing that’s happened to us since we’ve been in a band,” Robin said thoughtfully. John chuckled and slung an arm over Robin’s shoulders. He knew exactly what Rob meant, of course, but it was still worth riffing. “What, going in the stage door?” “Going in the stage door and being secreted to a box for the f*****g symphony.” Robin gave one of his signature silent giggles. He slid his arm around John’s waist. “Only with you, baby.” “Just this way, please,” said the overawed usher, opening a side door. Behind them, the street door flew open, and a very small but energetic hurricane followed: a slight, pretty young man in an impeccably fitted tux, carrying a leather violin case and rushing into the corridor. John recognized him immediately and smiled so hard it almost hurt. An unexpected treat, to see the star of the show face-to-face. John and Robin disentangled and flattened themselves against the wall to allow him to pass as he buzzed up behind them. “Am I late?” shouted the man in a delicate, sweet voice tinged with an almost-but-not-quite English accent. “No, sir, but they’re looking for you!” replied the usher. “Dammit! Thanks!” He smiled apologetically at Robin and John as he hurried past. Then stopped suddenly and turned on his heel, eyes wide. “Oh, my God. Are you…?” Robin smiled easily and nodded. “The Rade? Part of it, yeah.” “Yes! Wow! I loved your last album,” he gushed, taking another step toward them. “I loved yours,” John said with a grin. “That’s why we’re here.” “You c-came to see me?” John had the strangest, most compelling urge to hug the man. He was more than slight; he was tiny, maybe 5’6”, 110 lbs. soaking wet. There was something endearing about all that manic energy rattling around in such a small frame. Explained a lot about his recordings. John said, “S. Venkataraman doing Mendelssohn? Couldn’t miss it.” He stepped nearer and held out one long-fingered hand, dark eyes still wide. “Venkat. Or Vee. Wow. You’re John Taylor.” Okay, John really hadn’t expected that. Of course he knew classical musicians liked other kinds of music, too. But he hadn’t expected to be recognized. Which was why he thought the whole stage door entrance thing was silly. But…maybe not? He took Venkat’s hand, and it disappeared into his larger one. It was strong but soft, the right hand for bowing. His skin was a dark, warm brown, but he had a small, even darker, almost purple patch at his neck just beneath his jaw on the left side; evidence of violin hickeys past. Like a badge of honor. Venkat stared up at John for a long moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He was prettier in person. John had followed him on social media since he’d seen his profile in Gramophone last year, before the album of Beethoven sonatas had dropped. And— Oh. Oh, s**t. S. Venkataraman had a supernatural vibe. John sensed it on his skin at first, but then noticed it all around him, that faint, astral disturbance. He let go of Venkat’s hand and stepped back, shooting Robin a look. Rob had already noticed, though, because he was shooting the same look right back at John. He took Venkat’s hand and turned an actual smile on him. “Robin. Nice to—” “Robin Brown, yeah. Wow, so good to—sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to cut you off.” Another door opened way down the hall. Someone who sounded really, really annoyed yelled, “Venkat!” “Shit.” Venkat let go of Rob and turned again. “Gotta go. See you—uh—” “Across the street,” John said on impulse. “Argentinian place. After the show.” “Yeah! Great!” Venkat turned to wave. He nearly tripped over his own feet, though, so he righted himself and started walking faster. “See you there!” “Break a leg.” Rob had a crooked little smile on his face, half-amused, half-charmed. Venkat’s repeat shout of, “Thanks!” was almost lost as a group of people poured out of the door and herded him into the backstage area. The usher, who was still standing next to another open door waiting politely for them to follow, cleared their throat. John and Robin exchanged another look but followed them in silence: down a corridor, up a flight of stairs into a grand hallway with red carpet and elaborate Rococo-styling, and then through another door into the box. The other six seats were already full, and a few of them looked up to see who was arriving so last-minute. Smiles and nods were exchanged. The moment they slid into their seats and the usher shut the door behind them, Robin leaned close and whispered, “Vampire?” “Has to be,” John reasoned quietly. “Definitely not fae.” Robin hummed thoughtfully. “Too human-shaped to be anything but a vamp or witch, and he doesn’t feel witchy. So yeah.” “Wow.” John chuckled to himself. “Wonder how that affects his playing.” “Hopefully he just ate.” Robin chuckled. “Good thought about the Argentinian place.” John wasn’t sure how he’d even remembered it was there; it had just popped out of his mouth. But it wasn’t every day he got to meet a rising star in the world of classical music, so he was glad some part of him had been thinking fast. The first half of the show was the debut of a new composition, commissioned by the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra and introduced by the composer herself. It was melodic and atmospheric by turns, keeping half the audience on the edge of their seats with unexpected twists, turns, and sounds from the percussion section, but obviously boring the people who’d come just to see Venkataraman play. John tried not to let his own impatience interfere with his enjoyment of the first piece. Robin, on the other hand, was really into it. His eyes were dark, like they always were when he went thoughtful and pensive. He looked especially broody in the shadows, and for a moment, it might’ve been 1824 instead of 2024: a faux-Rococo theater box and a live performance. In the intermission, John said, “Thanks for coming.” Robin shrugged, eying his program. “Always up for a musical adventure.” “This one isn’t quite your speed,” John allowed. “No, but it’s cool, so far.” “And keeps you from being drafted into Wren’s deep cleaning rituals.” Their drummer, Wren, was currently at their home base in the Poconos cleaning out their costume trailer. It wasn’t going to be pretty. “Which makes it even cooler.” Robbie gave that silent giggle again, dark hair falling over his flashing eyes. He loved to hide behind it, especially when he was having a feeling someone might accidentally see. John bumped Rob’s shoulder with his arm. Rob bumped back but didn’t look up. “So, Mendelssohn only wrote one violin concerto?” “There might be an earlier one, like from when he was just a kid. But after Beethoven, most of the greats only did one.” And John launched into a quiet discussion of the program’s Mendelssohn biography until the lights went down again. The conductor came onto the stage without a word to thunderous applause. And then everyone went quiet as, again without a word, he held out one hand for the guest of honor. People whistled and clapped, as raucous as a Saturday night crowd at Heinz Hall was likely to get, as S. Venkataraman in all his lithe glory appeared from behind the proscenium. He picked his way carefully across the stage, violin in his left hand, bow in his right, nodding deferentially to the audience and the orchestra behind him. Dark, curly hair slipped out from behind his ear to fall over his forehead, adding a dash of the cavalier to his otherwise pristine appearance: tailored tux, shiny shoes, buffed and cleaned right down to his fingernails. His energy could not have been more different from The Rade’s frontman. Harper strutted onto stage, usually with his t**s out if not his ass, too, and demanded to be adored with every move, every look. Venkataraman moved as if he lived in a very small bubble, steps short, gestures brief and curt, but with that same furtive energy from the hallway vibrating within him. As if he knew he needed to keep it in check, or he’d end up flying off the stage. His eyes, large and dark as night, scanned the audience but probably couldn’t see anything. Stage lights were like that. “He’s hot, in a nerdy way,” Robin mused. John blinked and shot him a glance, then wondered how long Rob had been watching him. With a flush he chose to ignore but a voice full of irony, John asked, “Is he?” Robin patted his back. “Cute, Johnny.” Even rock stars could get carried away by a show now and then. “Our guest of honor needs no introduction for most of us. A rising star at the end of his triumphant, whirlwind tour of the US, we’re so glad to have him here with us today. I asked him earlier this week what the Mendelssohn concerto you’re about to hear meant to him. And he said, ‘I hope you’ll know after I play it for you once.’ And after working with this passionate, talented, and hardworking young man all week, I can honestly say, I did, and you will, too. Welcome, Venkataraman. We’re honored to have you here in Pittsburgh.” Venkataraman smiled at the conductor, bowing his head as if to a benevolent king, and then to the orchestra again as they clapped or tapped their bows against their music stands. The hush returned to the theater quickly, though, and the conductor raised his hands, bringing the orchestra to attention. If John hadn’t already known Venkataraman was a virtuoso from his recordings, the first few moments of the opening movement, Allegro molto appassionato, would’ve done it. It lived up to its tempo designation. His touch with the bow was rich and emotional, in a way John had never heard this particular piece played. He was mesmerized, leaning forward with both hands on the balcony rail. Venkataraman’s expression changed with his bowing, which was expansive, unrestrained, the opposite of how he’d walked across the stage. Everything he’d been holding back seemed to explode as the music swelled behind him, and he and the orchestra played back and forth as if dancing. He knew his part, he was comfortable in it, and yet he felt it like an actor doing his most cherished monologue; he captured it and, though someone else had written it, made it his. Then gave it to the audience. He led the orchestra through the slow bit in the middle, like a pied piper enticing all the children to follow him, tentative and expectant. And then the orchestra went utterly silent, the entire theater holding its breath. And Venkataraman tipped delicately into the cadenza, just him and his instrument, fingers tripping along the fretboard in a way that was at once intimately familiar and completely alien to John. John only remembered to breathe when the orchestra began to dance with Venkataraman again, winding their way back and forth between each other. His bowing became frenzied, his curls flopped into his eyes unchecked and charming. He rocked his slight weight from one foot to the other, then up on his toes as he ripped through the highest, soaring notes of the evening and into the dramatic finish. A being of absolute chaos, of frenzied energy, just like he’d been when he’d torn through the stage door and into the hallway earlier. But magical. John needed to sigh when the movement ended, but couldn’t because one long, mellow note from the brass section sustained all the way into the Andante movement. It was stately but still emotional, longing without becoming sappily tragic. Halfway through the movement, Robin leaned over and said, “Harper should’ve come. He’d be so jealous of this guy.” It was true, though. Venkataraman, in his starched shirt and tailored tuxedo, had the audience wrapped around his little finger as completely as Harper ever did in his corsets. John couldn’t help but chuckle, and then sat mesmerized once again for the rest of the Andante.