Act 4:

Beatrice was not happy. Not happy at all. She had been expecting a lie-in that morning, the first that she had been able to fit in all week, but of course someone just had to come trundling into the house at half four in the morning, causing all the floorboards to creak and bumping into pieces of furniture. With a groan, she turned over and pulled the covers back up over her ears, falling back asleep, then waking up a few hours later in a cold sweat.

An intruder had come into the house, possibly burgled them, and she had just slept through it.

Cursing her own stupidity over and over, she jumped out of bed, feet landing perfectly in the slippers sitting on the floor, before rushing out of the room, spinning around the corner, eyes quickly snapping from one wall to another. Nothing seemed amiss, none of the drawers in the hallway were open, everything was perfectly in order. Not a burglary, then. Well, maybe not. She still had to check the rest of the house to see whether that was indeed the case. However, as she rushed down the hall, she screeched to a halt when she got to Sherwin's room. The door was ajar, something which had very much not been so the day before. With much caution and footsteps now light, she rounded the door into the room, peeking in.

She blanched. There was someone there, in the bed, the regular lift and fall of the blanket covering them revealing a living presence. With great caution, she took a step forward, another, until she was just about close enough to peek over the edge of the covers to spot…

That was a very familiar head of curly hair that she saw resting there.

The screech was heard throughout the house, waking the two other denizens who had been sleeping soundly up until then. Mrs. Payne as well as her youngest son, Michael, were quick to burst out of their rooms and sprint towards the source of the noise: not many things scared Beatrice, but as a family, they were loyal to her never mind the kind of danger they were to be confronted with; they would try without fail to help her out, to the best of their extent.

It was only as they burst into Sherwin's room and saw the tall woman holding up said boy by the collar, who was looking drawn and waxy, as if ill, did they understand the situation. He was not supposed to be back home before today, and from his living corpse-like appearance, there must have been a very perculiar reason to this. With a huff, their mother took a step forward into the room and put a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder. The eldest promptly eased her grasp on her brother and set him down onto the mattress, the mix of anger and pained concern still fluttering across her face. None of such emotions touched Mrs. Payne's face though, only her usual tiredness.

"Right, all of you, go back to your rooms; Sherwin, we need to talk."

Beatrice stomped out, followed by the fearful patter of Michael's bare feet on the creaky floorboards. Coffee was what she needed right now, not rest.

The kitchen was as quiet as usual at this time of the morning, only the slow tick of the cheap plastic clock echoing throughout the room. She slammed the button on the coffee maker with more force than was necessary, needing to get rid of her nervous energy somehow. Her hands were trembling a little from the remains of the shock, and she tried to clear her head of the image of her little brother, her sweet, talented young brother Sherwin as sickly and pitiful as he had seemed then. The only way he could have managed to come back here at all last night was by foot, or else he had been picked up along the way and driven here, but… That was too dangerous, her little brother would have never had the guts to hitch-hike. She hoped, at least.

The whistle of boiling water cut through her thoughts, snapping her back to reality. As aggressively as she had earlier on, she slammed her finger down on the 'off' button and poured herself a mug, downing the boiling liquid in one gulp, adding no sugar nor milk to dull the bitter taste. On her fourth mug, her mother walked back into the room, the expression on her face enough to calm Beatrice down and to make her hastily serve up another cup of the brew as well.

They sat at the table, Beatrice waiting, hands fiddling with the mug's handle in anticipation of what her mother had to say. The older woman took her time, sipping at her coffee and getting up halfway through to add milk. After a while, her daughter decided that she could not take it any longer, and let out a needy: "So?"

The woman sighed, putting down the teaspoon she had been using to stir the milk into her coffee onto the scratched and worn wooden table, not caring for the extra coffee stain that would come to taint its surface. "He's tired, and needs all the rest he can get. I'm going to have to make a few phone calls, but later. Thanks for the drink by the way."

That was all she was going to say, the eldest child knew. She had questions, a lot of them, but there was no way her mother was going to answer any at this time of night. Stretching and letting out a wide yawn, she excused herself and put the mug in the sink, before heading back to her room. There was no way she was going to be able to get back to sleep now, but she was at least going to try and rest a little bit. As she passed by Sherwin's room though, she stopped dead in her tracks. Muffled sobs could be heard through the wood, hiccups and sniffs that would tear anyone's heart four ways. The temptation was great to push down on the door handle, enter the room and hug her little brother tight, to dry his tears and reassure him until he was calm and happy again. Her hand even came to rest on the cheap metal of the door handle, cold seeping through her palm and numbing her hand a little, but in the end she thought better of it and let her arm drop by her side. She set off to her own room, closing the door and getting under the covers, but still incapable of chasing away the sound of those mind-rocking sobs and the rage that they ignited in her gut. Whoever had hurt her baby brother was going to pay for it dearly.

Beatrice managed to rest up a few hours, although most of that time was spent regretting her actions. She had been a little angry, but scared too, when she had first seen her brother in that state, and maybe she shouldn't have picked him up like that, or woken everyone else in the house either. But still, what was done was done, and all she could do now was apologise when she was finally allowed to speak to him again. In the meantime, she might as well try and sort things out with Michael too.

When she entered the kitchen for the second time that day, she was in luck: her youngest brother was sitting there eating his cereals, a serious look on his face despite his usual insouciance. Their mother had just emerged too, carrying a platter of half-eaten breakfast foods, looking a little more defeated than usual.

"Is he sick, hurt?" Beatrice could not help but ask, the edge of worry insinuating itself into her voice.

"No. He just needs rest," their mother answered with a shake of her head, although there was probably more to it than she wished to reveal. "He'll be fine, don't worry."

Both the eldest and the youngest members of the family exchanged a meaningful look, although they didn't push any further. It seemed that they were going to have to spend the whole weekend worrying about Sherwin, or else they were going to have to break into his room and ask him directly. Although the second option would put their curious minds at ease, it might hurt him more than he was already, something that they definitely didn't want. It was known throughout that Sherwin was by far the least enduring of the life-hardened Payne household, holding his fragility despite all he had been through with the rest of them. He had to be treated carefully, and bursting in on him with probing questions was likely to just make the situation worst than it was already. They were stuck.

They all stayed huddled in the kitchen, a rare occurrence if ever there was one, as they would usually go their separate ways by nine o'clock and engage in their respective activities, but it was not to be today. Their mother went off several times to check on her middle child, and once to go and phone the school (a conversation that both her son and daughter listened in on intensely, trying to get a glimpse of what might have happened, but without success), but every time she returned to the kitchen and sat at the table with them. At one point, someone put the radio on, probably to try and break the silence a little, but that pop music only sounded like strained happiness to Beatrice. Still, at least the deafeningly slow ticks of the kitchen clock were muted.

It must have been about eleven when it happened. The sound of the doorbell cut through the silence like butter, awakening the half-asleep family. Michael jolted, Beatrice raised her head from where she had been laying on her crossed arms, and Mrs. Payne got up with a weary sigh, walking to the door with little to no eagerness. The sound of it opening caught Beatrice's attention, but she did not become concerned or even interested until she realised that her mother had been talking for over five minutes, her voice as well as a second woman's one rising and falling as they took turns saying what they had to. Beatrice got up, pacifying her youngest brother with a small wave of her hand, and made her way out of the room. Something whispered to her want that she must remain as silent as possible, like when she was a little kid: thinking back to that time long past, when it was necessary, she remembered the exact location of every single creaky floorboard, and somehow instinctively knew how to use her new weight as an advantage when creeping around rather than something that might hinder her progression. It was a little scary, but ultimately thrilling, especially when she was rewarded with what she had wanted in the first place.

She carefully settled around the corner, ears pricked like the cat-burglar she was re-imagining herself as, attention fully focussed on the conversation taking place on the other side of the wall. Despite this, she still had problems distinguishing some things which were being said.

"-he wanted to come here and apologise..."

"I've got no idea what he did, but I swear-"

A rustle, one which sounded like the one of cellophane, and their mother stopped speaking, cut short by something or another. There was nothing but silence, save the creaking of the house and the hum of the ancient fridge in the kitchen, and Beatrice was ready to step out of her hiding place to at last get at least a glimpse of what was going on. She held back though, giving herself a little more time, keeping her curiosity at bay for just a little longer.

"I guess that it's alright if you come in for a little bit," the older woman sighed, after what had seemed like an eternity to her daughter, and suddenly there were footsteps, more than one pair on the worn entrance mat, and the young woman only had a moment to retreat back to the kitchen, sit in the chair she had left and to put on a semi-bored, semi-stressed air which she had been harbouring earlier on.

Soon enough, her previous curiosity was satisfied: the people who had been present at the doorstep soon showed themselves, and an odd pair they were too, her renewed interest was glad to observe. The woman, tall and strict looking, was looking around the humble kitchen with a certain disgust tainting her figure; but yet again, it could have just been her default expression. There was no way to know for certain.

The boy, on the other hand, looked ruffled, to say the least. His hair was all over the place, with small strands sticking out of his attempt at a Pompadour, and the expensive clothes he wore were full of wrinkles, so much so that he might as well have slept in them.

"Alright kids, this is Miss..?"

"It doesn't matter who I am. Young lady, young man, this is Jonathan. There was quite a commotion yesterday evening surrounding your brother, as you most likely know, and… well, my apprentice was worried about his well-being. He's admitted to being the one who's responsible for your brother's current state."

All eyes went to the only person in the room that she could have been referring to, who immediately looked down, keeping his hands tightly clasped behind his back. Again, there was that mysterious sound of crumpled paper, of plastic paper, more precisely. To be perfectly honest, the boy didn't seem to be much of a threat, but Beatrice knew her little brother more than he could ever really suspect, as nosy as she was: she could see the pain in his eyes when she had asked him about his friends at the academy, as well as the distress when she had teasingly enquired about girlfriends. She may have been bigoted at one time, but she was no longer so; Sherwin was her little brother, as much as Michael was, and as the eldest it was her duty to protect and love them no matter what.

When her eyes swivelled to the brunet, she could therefore not really help the red from entering her vision. She got up from her chair, her big sister instincts taking over without her full consent, and had even started to bare her teeth in a feral smirk. No one would have been able to stop her, most probably. With the build of a she-bear and the viciousness of a wolverine, there was very little which could be done to hold her back anyway. She would have felt no pity if it had come to exacting revenge for her brother's current state, for making the young shoot of a man feel exactly all the emotional as well as physical pain that her brother had been through.

Beatrice was closer now, somehow managing to move her way past the boy's chaperone like an eel through the roping of a net, and was looming as a mountain would, a mountain filled with a fire from the very entrails of the earth, ready to let forth a surge of searing heat which would destroy anything in its wake: lie-apologies, half-kept promises of repentance, any form of possible, furthered prejudice…

"H-Hello..."

The sound was slight, nothing more than a whisper, but it filled all given space, as if it had been pronounced in the empty opera-house. All eyes went to him, to the cherrywood-haired boy standing at the threshold of the doorway, knees trembling, the only thing keeping him from falling being his hand pressed against the wall. He was pale, he was sickly, but he was there, and by his very presence he had buried the dangerous embers of a potential argument under a cool, pacifying amount of earth.

"Hi Winny," said Beatrice, slightly tersely but not enough to be sensed in the generally relieved atmosphere which had fallen over the small group. The boy that she had addressed did not look in her direction, not even once, as he was more or less completely focussed on the person that her tsunami of rage had been directed towards not even seconds ago.

Jonathan looked up, and his eyes met the other boy's. Something about the way they both reacted when they did so made Beatrice think that whatever had happened had not been down to a mere case of bullying, like it had been in the past. No, they both flinched, and surprisingly it was not his all-fearing brother who looked away the first. Sure, there was awkwardness and shame in the other boy's posture, repentance, which in itself was already not something Beatrice was sure to have ever seen in any of her brother's past tormentors before, but there was also some kind of… Sweetness. They were both scared, for sure, but Beatrice knew, somehow, that if they were in any other situation, they would have surely smiled.

A few seconds passed before Sherwin dared raise his hand and give a little wave, one which Jonathan returned almost immediately, gingerly shuffling his hands behind his back so as to keep whatever he was hiding there hidden. The dark-haired boy looked quickly in the adult's direction, not at anyone in particular, but with an expression on his face which asked for some sort of permission. The woman who had accompanied him gave a curt nod, giving her approval in a way that could be seen in the boy's peripheral vision. He gave a short nod back, the merest of vertical head-shakes, before turning back to Sherwin.

It was fascinating to watch, and somewhat painful too, as he closed his eyes and took in a few deep breaths. Finally, he braced himself, letting his eyes fall to the floor and bringing the hidden bouquet he had been hiding behind his back all this time in plain view. He swallowed nervously, and as gentle as a summer breeze, he offered the small bouquet to the redhead boy, trying not to take a step back as he did. Sherwin didn't make a move to take it. He remained still, his waxy features and immobility making him seem even more statuesque than he had been before. Again, Jonathan tried offering the flowers, seeming more desperate now, his brow scrunching up in despair.

Sherwin still didn't move. There was nothing that could be done, it seemed, to snap him out of his emotionless, static state. More time went by, and Beatrice was starting to get worried. The small movement she made, the very will she had to go forward and take her brother by the shoulders and separate him from the stressful threat of social expectations, seemed to be all he needed to make his own decision, however. All he needed was a little encouragement, the insurance that someone would have his back, no matter what.

He rushed forward, and not minding the floral gift, he tightly embraced the other boy. With his face covered by his hair, one could not judge his expression easily, however the slight quiver in his shoulders and the tiny darkened patches on the floor where tears landed were telling enough of his current emotional state.

"Well," started the well-to-do lady, her words the first to dare cut through the silence of the room. "Jonathan, maybe you and… Sherwin should resolve these matters alone."

Finally, the redhead looked up, although not enough to unveil his eyes, and gave a quick nod of approval. Hesitantly, clearly scared to have either damaged the flowers or the one gifting them, he loosened his grip and moved away, taking one small step back, moving towards the kitchen's exit. With his head held high and a kindly smile on his face, the boy named Jonathan followed, the flash of his eyes shining with tears telling of his own emotion in light of the reunion.

Soon, they were gone. The kitchen felt empty, and the silence had yet again fallen, as the adults looked at each other awkwardly, and Michael at the rough table's surface. Fortunately, his mum, as always, had a foil to this situation.

"Does anyone want tea?"

This was definitely not something that he had been expecting. His body was still weakened, still trembling, and the emotional stress of seeing Jonathan once more had not exactly helped his state. Sherwin was exhausted, yet he felt none of this in the slightest.

As much as his body and soul should have been a slow, melancholy and sleepy cello part, as it had been for the last few hours, he could not quite help but instead feel the bouncing, nervous feeling of col legno notes, although louder than they would have been if made by a single instrument. They only became stronger as he led Jonathan deeper into the house, away from any prying ears that could have potentially listened in on them.

However, as he stopped in front of his bedroom door, he wasn't sure exactly what they would have to say to each other. Everything had been shown in actions already, as far as Sherwin could grasp, but there was still a niggling feeling, an irritatingly out of tune string in the grand orchestra of his soul, that told him that there was in fact one last thing to be done. Something to tie the knot on this situation, a single conclusive chord to finish off this dramatic piece. Jonathan's mentor was right. There was a conversation to be had, thoughts and actions to be admitted, explained, owed up to.

This struck him like a bolt of lighting, or an unexpected clap of cymbals, rather. He had to explain his actions, admit to them properly and maybe offer an apology rather than running endlessly from his mistakes.

The room was dark and smelled musty. It was normal, considering he only ever lived in it during the weekends, but he had never really noticed it until then. It was embarrassing, but there was not much to be done about it now. He walked over to the bed and tried straightening the sheets, trying to push back the moment when he would have to speak to Jonathan. He gestured to the single, old and worn armchair in a corner of the room. It was covered in dust and looked out of place here, the carpet-like floral pattern more at home in a living room of mismatched furniture rather than a young boy's bedroom, but he knew for a fact that it was the most comfortable place to sit, and way less conspicuous than if he'd offered the other boy the bed he now plopped himself down upon. He blushed at the thought, his eyes forever downcast since they had left the kitchen. There was no way to back down now.

Again, the room went silent. It was so much worse than the kitchen had been, questions and tension in the air thrumming so much stronger than before. It was only them. Sherwin couldn't help himself: subconsciously, he started humming gently, filling the space between and around them with a small melody, a melody of before, holding the stamp of nostalgia despite the fact that it had only been… Weeks? Days? Since they had first met. It was but a few chords, but they resonated in him. They were a constant, something he could link to times filled with trust that had since been broken.

Jonathan's presence remained just as strong in the room, but slowly, Sherwin calmed down and learned to accept him being there. It was not the end. The gift of flowers were very clearly indicative of that fact. All it would take was a handful of words to clear the air and to, hopefully, restore what had been lost. Even just looking up from where his hands were held in his lap would be a step forward.

He couldn't. There was no way he could bring himself to do that. He had gone too far, and with his throat tied and his mind awash with heavy, suffocating guilt, he could not bring himself to open himself more to this incredible person; he had seen everything there was to see in him, he had come into his home and his sanctuary, made sure he was safe… He had only one thing left to offer, he only had to open his mouth and apologise.

Why was this so difficult?

His voice wavered, the notes becoming distorted, just like his vision. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled over. There was nothing he could do anymore other than hope, pray that this boy would have the kindness to let him go, to abandon him and to return to his career. It was for the best. Sherwin deserved to be forgotten.

A sound, the rustle of paper and the tap of footsteps on the floorboards, and he was by his side. He knelt before him and held his freckled, large and ugly hands in his own, with those callouses that he had somehow perfectly memorised the shape of from that one time he had held them in his own. Those hands squeezed his own tightly, then one, then the other slid up and cupped Sherwin's cheeks in their warm, interesting in their mix of softness and roughness. He looked up, surprised, not being able to stop himself from doing so. This kind of contact was as unexpected, it was tender and not of Sherwin's volition, but rather of Jonathan's. Did this mean that he still trusted him? That despite his… action, he still held him in a certain regard?

It was torturous, really. Jonathan could just as well be doing this to punish him. Feeling him so close, as close as he had been before, but still remaining so far… Just out of his reach… His eyes so blue, his skin so perfect, his lips so soft…

Tears started brimming again, and he tried to pull away. This was embarrassing, he was seeing Sherwin at his very worst, pale, sickly, blush ugly and patchy and bright from the pianist's presence. His heart was going wild, a drum roll, only becoming more intense as time went on, as if it knew the finale that was coming along, as if it knew what was about to befall him. Jonathan could probably feel his quickening heartbeat under his fingers too, as his smile gained that little tilt to it, the one that left Sherwin's mind as blank as were most of his sheet music.

"You really are the most amazing person I have ever met, Sherwin."

And with that, he closed the distance between them and pressed their lips together. Sherwin watched it coming without having time to process anything, all his thoughts, even his emotions halting between the moment those words were pronounced and a little after Jonathan's amazing, amazing lips touched his. Then, he realised two things: his whole body felt completely out of sync, as if all the instruments in the orchestra of his own were scrambling to make some kind of melody out of this new stimulation, this was the best moment he had ever experienced in his short, difficult life.

Jonathan. He liked him back. His heart sang a melody that coincided with his own. Sherwin had not been the only one to feel this connection, instrumental and yet needing no instrument to be conveyed, musical without any sound being transmitted through the air, beautiful without requiring embellishment. His heart eventually stuttered back to life, thrumming in his chest as if it wanted to escape his small ribcage, and he let the moment last as long as it will. Jonathan held his face as if it were made of china, not minding the sticky tears staining his perfect, cool hands. Hesitantly, Sherwin let his hands cover the other boy's, as gentle as he could. He had always been assimilated to an oaf, clumsy and awkward and not suited for this kind of delicate attention, but to his surprise, he didn't shatter Jonathan. Of course he was stronger than the triangle player was, but it was the moment in itself that was fragile.

They did part, eventually, and Sherwin was again surprised by how cold the world felt without Jonathan close. It nearly felt unnatural, to not feel their heartbeats line up and sync together as would a chord. His loss was quickly redeemed however by the entry of the twin sapphires in his own line of sight, beautiful and comforting and everything he had ever wished for.

His thumbs gently rubbed at the redhead's cheeks, pushing away the tears, wiping them from where they carved red, slightly puffy rivulets through the maze of freckles across Sherwin's face and that he had always hated, even in this moment. He tried to pull away, but he stopped quickly, reminding himself not to break the moment and simply relaxed. Those blue eyes pulled him in, becoming considerably less blurry as his tears dried up.

This revealed to him that the pianist's eyes also looked somewhat moist. His reaction was instantaneous: he brought his hands up to Jonathan's face and held his cheeks as he was doing to him. Those musician's hands fell from the now worried redhead's face and hung limply by Jonathan's sides, the smile that he had been struggling to maintain since they had kissed now wobbling and soon melting away to a desperate, tortured expression, filled to the brim with self-doubt and hurt more profound that Sherwin could probably never grasp.

He guided Jonathan to sit by his side, not caring for protocol any longer. His hands worked desperately, caressing Jonathan's cheeks and saying quiet, small and gentle words to reassure him. All Sherwin could do was try his best to console him. His intent had been to owe up to his mistakes, but it seemed that this was not the same issue that Jonathan had decided to visit him for. He had his own weight on his heart, and this was probably the reason for which he had decided to visit him in the first place.

"Please tell me, please Jonathan…"

The tears had ceased flowing as much. They both looked into each other's eyes, sitting side by side on this unmade bed in this musty bedroom, the contact between them as slight as the one of a clarinet's reed and the body of the instrument itself. Sherwin's hands now hovered Jonathan's cheeks, only able to feel the tickle of the boy's peach fuzz against his palms. Those eyes… He couldn't stand to see them filled with so much fear. It was so uncharacteristic of the usually self-assured boy, something that he very easily admitted shocked Sherwin.

"Why?"

He didn't pull away. Sherwin had expected him to, at some point, but that moment failed to come at all. Instead, he wrapped his arms around the triangle player's shoulders, pulling him closer.

"I'm afraid. This is not who I thought I was."

Those words went to Sherwin's brain faster than any music would, and struck him with immediate confusion. What could he possibly mean by that? He wasn't a pianist? He wasn't meant for music, had Sherwin been led along all this time, his emotions getting the better of him and showing him a connection that in fact wasn't there?

He was starting to panic a little now, his hands falling to his lap and twisting around each other. What had that... kiss meant to Jonathan? Was it an apology? A last "sorry" before he left him, abandoning what the redhead had thought they had created before going back to his career?

"Do you mean..."

He looked up to see the pianist shake his head. His eyes had turned back to their steady selves, but were still full of emotion, full of something that Sherwin now did not believe he could have doubted, even for the length of a single bar. There, beyond the perfect dark circle ringed with blue, he saw reflected there an orchestra of his own. An orchestra, that despite Sherwin's nerves and doubts and fears, spelled out exactly the same song that sung his own heart.

"I didn't know that I was so much like you."

Immediately, all the pain that had happened to each of them melted away, as did the final chords in an orchestra of thousands in their very last movement, and again they closed the space between themselves, in unison, eyes no longer needed and words even less so as they simply held each other, and let their music meld once more into their very own melody, the one of their hearts.