volta subito

Sitting (well, standing, but she pinches a stool when she can) behind the horns has given Nia a steady enough diet of percussionist jokes for a lifetime, and they're starting to taste rancid.

Zeon and Alexandria don't bicker, quite, but they rarely agree on anything, so the fact that they duet on needling Nia and shouting down her most carefully attempted technique is certainly a smack, and not a timely one. Valdi's sweet enough, which is the real kicker: Alex never beats up on him when Nia's there. Instead, somehow, he becomes her perfect angel.

And she'll herald him, with crashing cymbals. How's that, for righteous?

But all of that's just overture - natty prelude, rather.

When Nia gets to cross the depth of the stage and leave the other instrumentalists behind, she feels true triumph.

Just now, she's got Melia sitting prim as can be, which isn't very, underneath her (so in this case, her section's storied drooling won't be much help at all determining the stage's level), faced away from the ghost of an orchestra while Nia looks on as if director.

As if. But Melia is still, however unfortunately, in charge.

"Let it ring," she's whispering, crash-thin, into the very core of Nia's ear. Nia shudders, successfully avoids whimpering, but has to exhale in the same fashion as she might in a transition to piano, lento, maestoso, grave.

The instinct arises that she should trot herself back to her section, because whatever the maestra demands is law, but oh, she's not givin' up that easily.

Melia's fingertips tap neatly on Nia's rear, the buttons on Melia's cuffs pressing their own characteristic pattern further up on Nia's hips.

Soon enough, they'll have to skedaddle, because they can only reserve the stage for so long before or after rehearsal, and Monica'll probably be rolling in soon with her own stool (probably out in the parking lot now, chatting with Crys, who doesn't want to, but has to take what he gets for arriving early, for once)--

"Give me eyes."

O-oh. So it's like that.

Nia leans back, praying for the back bar of the podium, and gives eyes.

Melia's are sparkling.

"I love doing this with you."

Nia fidgets, unwillingly. "You mean, this, or...?" pointing alternately to director's stand, where only a shuttered baton case and no scores lie, and back curtain, as if Melia can even see.

(But, then, maybe she can.)

"Whatever happens in this hall," Melia replies delicately, "I love. It's as simple as that."

Nia colors in a rolling flash as she untangles herself from Melia and drops off the podium to dart in the opposite direction from Monica, trundling up through the curtain stage right.

It's undignified, isn't it? Except, it can't be, because nothing ever is, under Melia's lead.