tattletale!

"Shit --sorry, sorry..." he mumbled, already aware that his face was turning red. Berlioz was a bit impressed that the girl had managed to pick him up that easily --though then again, he wasn't that heavy in the first place.

Berlioz immediately frowned, too. "Well, um, no. My mother had better things to do than teach us how to swim, like... useful things." He might have come across as a little defensive (well, maybe a bit too defensive), but her comment just made him feel a lot more awkward than he felt before. Besides, he felt he needed to defend his mother, even if it was just for what she did not do.

She smiled, though, so that calmed him down a little. "Yes, I can dip my feet. That's not an issue." That was basically the extent to which he could get in the water. Maybe ankle-deep, if there weren't too many waves. Berlioz just wasn't the type to enjoy summer that much, or lakeshores, or beaches. For a myriad of reasons, but not knowing how to swim was one of them, for sure.

"That's the name of the band?" Berlioz asked, rather confused. "I mean... it sounds like a rock band name. Right? That's what they're like, right?" He was so out of his depth. But there was an undeniable appeal to this sort of loud chaotic music. Berlioz could feel his head bopping to the beat, almost unconsciously, as if he just needed to move to it, following the pace.

"Hey, are you alri- ?" Anna began to ask. She was interrupted by someone crashing into her as she was distracted. Anna nearly lost her balance but she caught herself. Then, she pushed herself back to the tall, lanky guy. She noticed that he started moshing as well. "Wow, that was crazy!" Anna shouted over the music.

Berlioz wasn't a professional where mosh pits were concerned (he only knew of them because of a meme he was once shown ages ago) but he did feel like this was probably a lot tamer than what he had seen. At least nobody had accidentally punched him in the nose or something.

Still, he wasn't sure he wanted to be there right now. After all, he had to take care of those pianist hands. He was not made to be shoving and hitting and flailing, he was made to stand in corners or sit on piano benches. Berlioz looked around and tried to find a way out of the crowd, before it got properly, well, brutal.

"I mean, they're not bad," Berlioz argued, though he didn't know for sure if he had it in him to defend this band too much. "They're just a bit... noisy, right? But I guess that's the appeal."

Anywhere else over-stimulation would bother Anna and trigger a panic attack. Being in the audience for the band was the right kind of sensory overload she needed. The loud music blasting through her eardrums, the colorful lights from the main stage, and the tight feeling of being in a crowd moving like she was made Anna feel goosebumps all over. "I hope the crowd starts a mosh pit!" she exclaimed.

Berlioz had to be honest. This music wasn't half bad; not his usual thing, but it was fun, in a weird, imperfect, noisy sort of way. in any case, it was obvious that the girl who had just answered him was having a hell of a time.

"I, uh..." Berlioz looked away, unsure of why he was so embarrassed. "I... I don't know how to swim." So what? A lot of people, adult people, did not know how to swim. There was nothing shameful about that.

Berlioz glanced out of the window. The day was grey and cold, not particularly asking to be spent outdoors. "I've been out there 'exploring' the world for a while --I just missed home," he insisted. He missed everyone, really, that had to do with home. Weird that, really. For so long he had missed touring and playing piano at his favorite cities in Europe --and when he finally got his wish, all he did was wish his family was there with him.

Following closely behind, Toulouse stuffed his hands in his pockets and thought for a moment. "Well... There was the wedding, and the unfortunate scandal in the aftermath of another poisoning. They say they caught the one responsible after that, but... I dunno. I can't help but feel like something's off." With a shrug, he let out a sigh. "Let's see, what else... Mom closed a pretty significant deal on a house, there's that," he explained. "Marie tried to give me advice for my sex life, which was mortifying," Toulouse laughed at the memory, remembering how embarrassed he'd been.

Berlioz sighed quietly, and made a little face of resignation. "Right. I heard the RHPD caught a guy who's responsible for all that –so that's good, right?" he said, tryinc ti be hopeful. On his time away, that was one of the things that made him the most anxious. Not that his concertos would catch him making a mistake, or potentially tough crowds with sky-high standards, or dinners with unpleasant snooty musicians ready to laugh at his family's choice of home. No, it was receiving a message, one morning, of someone he loved having been poisoned.

"Oh, hey, mom didn't tell me that. I got to congratulate her," Berlioz said, happy to hear some good news. At his next comment, he scrunched his face in disgust, and laughed a little as well. "Jesus, Marie... I guess it came from a well-meaning place." It had been a while since he had a conversation with Toulouse about Rachel. In all honesty, he felt like he barely really knew her –in person, one-to-one, at least –which was odd, since she was certainly a pretty long-term girlfriend for his brother. And Toulouse did talk to him about her –he just wished he could talk to her, actually, and know more about the girl his brother was so smitten with.

Berlioz glanced out of the window. The day was grey and cold, not particularly asking to be spent outdoors. "I've been out there 'exploring' the world for a while --I just missed home," he insisted. He missed everyone, really, that had to do with home. Weird that, really. For so long he had missed touring and playing piano at his favorite cities in Europe --and when he finally got his wish, all he did was wish his family was there with him.

Slinking into the room, Toulouse leaned up against a wall, hands in his pockets. "Are you trying to win the longest time spent in a bedroom award, or what?" he lightly teased.

The piano tour Berlioz had been in for the last few months had gone for a lot longer than he had thought it would. Or maybe it just felt like it; he was definitely not used to spending that long of a time away from his family, especially away from his siblings. Saying he had missed them would be an understatement.

Still, it wasn't something he would say outright. There were appearances to keep, after all, and a spotless reputation to maintain. So, back at home in Redwood Hollow, Berlioz kept acting as if nothing had happened, studying his notes and listening to newer artists and pianists, determined to widen his horizons.

The song Berlioz began to play next was something cheerful, and Tiana leaned further over the piano to watch him do it. His hands were so steady, so sure; when he began to repeat parts of the song, Tiana had a suspicion about what he was actually doing. “Improv,” she said before she even thought the word. She listened as Berlioz made beautiful music, and she pondered what he’d meant when he’d said that he knew his own passion. Did he know it enough to wield it like this? Or was it making its mark on the music through his imagination, his flexible stylings? He was either taking on this piece of music very boldly or very ingeniously, and Tiana intended to ask him exactly which it was, once he’d ended the music and looked up.

"Oh, big concerts, for sure," Berlioz chuckled. "Big orchestras, concert halls... The whole nine yards." He was helped every step of the line, and he fully recognized it. He had a passion for music, ever since he was very, very young: and that passion was properly nurtured, and cared for, and he had everything he needed to become successful. To become the best pianist he could ever be. But now that he had reached the summit (rather, he had reached it three to four years ago), where could he even go?

He finished playing. The song had become rather repetitive, which basically meant that he had to recognize his own lack of creativity. Berlioz huffed. "Yes, I guess so." There was still too much of the original melody to truly call it improv, in his opinion. Exactly where did 'performance liberties' end and 'improvisational skills' begin was not clear enough to him yet.

And then he stopped, and Tiana did, too. Immediately Tiana rose from the drum set and said, “So is that how a pro does it? I told you, Berlioz! I told you you could do real jazz!” She approached the piano and leaned over the back of it. “All right, that was probably the best music I’ve heard in a long, long time. So I’ll offer you this: I can keep playing my drum kit and you can play along with me, or…you can play something you actually love to play. Not jazz, literally anything.” She grinned. “I’m a fan now.”

Tiana added, “I know passion when I see it. You’ve got passion, and you’ve got something else, too… I just need to hear more to know what it is.” Empathy, she wanted to tell herself. The way Berlioz was playing, the way he was building off that base she’d made, told her he had empathy in some way. That empathy had to go her way right now, had to incline him to play her just one more song… Or, if it didn’t, it had to incline him to tell her how he’d done what he’d just done. That jazz had been masterful. Tiana would be more than pleased either way.

Obviously, he smiled to himself when Tiana complimented him. That really was how a pro does it, even though it wasn't as 'pro-ish' as it could have been. "I know I got passion," Berlioz frowned, staring down at the keys. "I've been called a prodigy, you know. And I was one... I was."

Anything he wanted? Well, he wanted to impress Tiana even further. He could have gone with something really complex and difficult, something to show off. But there was also the option of practicing a bit more of this 'improvisational jazz' thing. All he needed was a stron base.

Berlioz began playing Dvorák's Humoresque in G Flat Major, a basic exercise he used to play when he was about four or five, as a warmup. He added a few little flourishes, a little bit of 'extra flavor', but nothing too radical. Certainly nothing as rhythmic and, honestly, fun as the song Tiana had played for him. He tried stopping and resume playing periodically, over and over, in an attempt at making something of a fixed rhythm: first slowly, then picking up the pace. Hey, this was actually fun! It sounded weird, yes, but it sounded different from what he usually did. Realizing he could produce music so different from his usual fare was a strangely satisfying feeling.

“Oh, Berlioz,” she told him with a smile. “Did you hear? Did you hear that little number?” Tiana played her improvisation again, making sure to add feeling this time. Heavy E-flat, light G and B. Again. Heavy B, a D, a heavy E-flat. “That’s something I just came up with! I thought, these are the notes I want to play, and what do you know? They sound good for real!” She wanted to do more. What could she do in the music store that would build on her achievement just now, in improvisation and in music itself? “Berlioz, why don’t you try doing improv on the piano now? I warmed us up—let me go over to this drum kit here…” Tiana snatched the mallets sitting on the little stool beside the drum kit and played the kick drum a couple times as she sat down. “Okay, now go.”

She didn’t know what Berlioz would do—if he’d insist on holding back, or if he’d go for the same feeling that Tiana had gotten from her little melody she’d made. But as Tiana started to play the drums, she hoped he’d at least try to have fun. After all, fun was what made music what it was for Tiana; she wanted to share that with her new friend, if he was open to feeling the things Tiana felt when she sat down with an instrument. She prayed that he was.

How did I end up here?, Berlioz asked himself, automatically going to sit on the piano stool. How on Earth did he end up being led to a music store and convinced to practice improvisational jazz with a woman he had never met before? This is exactly what stranger danger was all about. He was lucky he wasn't being kidnapped and drugged for his organs to be harvested and sold in the black market, or something like that. Though Tiana seemed nice enough to trust.

Most importantly, now he had something to prove. There was little faith that he could do something to really wow her, but at the very least he had to try. After all, he had to prove he was a 'music person'. Hell, if Berlioz wasn't a 'music person', then he was absolutely certain nobody in the world was.

He put his hands on the keys and pressed lightly, having a feel of the piano's sound and tuning. It sounded alright. Berlioz played the simple chord Tiana had played, slowly, trying to think of something to build off of it. He invented a little melody, more or less alright, to go with the chord he continued playing on a loop with his right hand. Where to go from there?

Tiana marked the tempo. That was at least something. He continued that little melody, adding a little more movement, moving a little farther. He felt like a child, ignorant as to how to read partitures, just pressing keys to giggle and laugh in delight at the basic sound of standalone notes. The embarrassment made him falter, slow down, and finally stop. He played the chord a couple more times, but whatever initial, weak enthusiasm had been there was snuffed out by the sudden, self-conscious awareness of how amateurish he looked.

When Berlioz protested her improvisation suggestion for him, she only held up her iPhone and said, “Ray didn’t do nothing on this track that you couldn’t do, Mr. Beaumont! He played without a score, without another person’s base, without knowing what would be coming at him next. You can hear it in the intro—that’s improv, baby!” Tiana started the song over and nodded firmly. “If you can’t do this, Berlioz, then you’re not a music person!”

Then Tiana had an idea.

“Follow me into the music shop,” Tiana told Berlioz, making her way between the shelves toward the small side door. “I’ve got a plan.” Without checking to see if he was following, she entered into the music store—guitars, giant speakers, and sheet music galore!—and she sat down at the nearest piano, a small upright one. “Now this,” she called behind her, “is what improv is all about.”

Tiana realized too late that she agreed with Berlioz completely. She was arguing on the wrong side. She played the first note—an E-flat, she knew from playing the xylophones in high school band—and then she played a G, then a B. Well, that wasn’t beautiful at all. She played the notes again, for good measure; then she took her little chord up the keyboard, because she felt like it. B, D, E-flat. Actually, wow! That was a great base! Tiana was startled, proud, and intrigued in one swift blow.

Tiana realized next that she had also promised herself she would never, ever try to do improv herself. Because she’d fail miserably.

She laughed. “Oh my God! I did it! I did something impossible!” She looked behind her, checking to see if Berlioz had actually followed or if the insistence of someone who liked way different music than him had been far too difficult. “I actually…did the impossible…”

"Okay, okay, I didn't mean to undervalue Mr Charles," Berlioz apologized, raising his hands. "I just tried to remember where I knew him from! Sheesh..." But he listened to the song Tiana played on her phone. He played close attention to the piano style, the rhythm, the speed. It didn't sound too difficult to play, though he had to admit the feeling the music gave him was unlike what he had ever played before. It was smooth, a little playful, and most importantly, it made Berlioz want to tap his feet. He half smiled, nodding along.

"Hey! What do you mean, I'm not a music person?" he said with a frown, just short of shouting. Her words had Berlioz increasingly incensed, so when she said to follow her into the music store, he only debated on whether to walk away of the situation entirely or make the effort to show her exactly how much of a 'music person he was' for a couple seconds.

Tiana sat by a little piano while Berlioz looked around himself. He had never set foot in the music store, mostly because there was already a beautiful, expensive grand piano at the Beaumont mansion, and because he already had books, folders and boxes full of all the sheet music he could ever wish for. He turned his attention back to Tiana when she began playing, first a few scattered notes, then a simple chord. Out of a sudden Tiana seemed overjoyed. Berlioz then became sure there was something he missed.

"Huh? What did you do?"