Lucas Amadio stood up from the grey armchair in his childhood home, nearly getting caught on twenty different tears in its fabric. Dusting off his pants, he made his way towards the door.

“Lucas! Lucas, you’re not going to eat? It is a-- big meeting, no?”

His mother had scurried up behind him already, her greying black hair back in an audaciously tight bun, brandishing a wooden spoon like a very useless sword, wet from stirring rigatoni. A useless weapon, that is, to anyone who hadn’t buried her silver in the backyard playing pirates at the age of seven. She was a good bit shorter than him, (not that he was very tall in the slightest,) which came from a steady and intertwined rate of her shrinking and him growing. An off-white apron came down to her knees, as she studied him like a strange new bird, if the bird was very stupid and had no basic concept of the very basic fact that one should not make important descisions which risked your career on an empty stomach. 

“I’ll be late, Mama. There will be food there, And it’s very important that I’m on time–” He watched the floor, putting his coat on with a huffy, somewhat snarky look on his face, as though he was trying to explain for the tenth time why clouds weren’t really cotton.  “I won’t just be another intern if I play my cards right–” He looked up and grinned, eyes still wide. “And leave.”

His mother sighed, getting the salt out of the pantry, still eyeing her son.

“Ah, alright…But-You only just come back to this house! And you go so fast?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Goodbye, Mamma.”

“Goodbye, Lucas-”

He slammed the door, nervously rebuttoning and unbuttoning a big black…well, button…Of his thick brown coat, standing in the crisp new-autumn breeze for a second or two, before starting a good, long walk down the busy London streets, the traffic buzzing in his ears. Why couldn’t my grandparents just hop on board with the rest and go to a little prairie house in America? He thought profusely when a nearby car splashed him in the face with last night’s rainwater. Sighing deeply as he took off his hat, he hurriedly tucked a wet lock of straight. brown hair behing his ear. 

“Welcome,” A greeter announced dully, leaning against a wall, practically asleep. “Welcome,” He told the next. “Welcome–”

Lucas flashed a wide-eyed smile, the very ticked-off “Are you happy now” of smiles.

“Lucas! Come here, boy!” Said a squat, bald man, his grey suit struggling to remain buttoned around his gut. He gestured with a swoop of his hand towards three men, similar to him in age and apparent wealth. “This is Mr. Armadillo–”

Lucas sucked in his lips as not to laugh, still trying to look like a pitiful, perfectly awkward intern that you should give lots of money to. That charade had brought his annoyance towards the general aura of the entire city of London and its districts thereof to a perfectly normal level.

“Amadio, Mr. Myers, Sir. ”

Twitching his mouth, his patron scoffed. 

“Mr. Amadio. Yes. Well, he’s very good at- Graphing the– Triangulating– The–”

He turned around, squinting at the perfectly average-height (Well, that was what Lucas told himself and everybody else,) squirrelly man.

“What is it you do again, boy?”

Lucas blushed, blinking rapidly, trying to fain his complicated mix of emotions; pride that he was being considered for a promotion at the bank, annoyance at the city of London, and, though in the back of his mind, annoyance towards Milton Keynes, as well at Mr. Myers. Annoyance was really the main one.

“I sometimes assist Mr. Daniels with the overseeing of finances, sir.”

“And he’s bloody good at it, aren’t you, boy?”

 Lucas blinked again.

“I believe so-”

Mr. Myers turned yet again, face falling so much it was nearly on the ground.

“Rhetorical, boy.”

Lucas decided it would be best now to shut up and avoid eye contact. He was very good at that. As the four men grumbled on, he slowly melted away into the sparse crowd. The tall, yellow walls were very well lit by four shimmering chandeliers, ornate oak tables lining the walls, piled with food and drink. A stage stood at the back of the long room where a quartet of musicians played, themselves separate from the croud, though the music weaved in between conversations and the air above.

The violist was a short man with a mess of auburn hair, a stark contrast to Lucas, a tulip as a boutonniere, he seemed very contented. It was almost suspicious how happy he seemed.

 To his right was a much, much taller man on the vionloncello. It seemed he would be snapped in half like a twig if he held a note for too long, his thin white hair like a sheet of snow, his glasses nearly falling off. He played rather rigidly, frozen in automated motion. It was barely even music, Lucas mused in his head, although he did love the intricate structures it unintentionally created.

Was he a connoisseur now? 

But the violinists– one, he told himself, truly caught his eye– A tall woman with shiny, ginger curls down to her chin, eyes a blue as deep as the ocean. She stood out from the group of tuxedoed men in a tea-length ruby red dress, and a much brighter red lipstick. She had a passionate smile as she played, swaying to her own music, blissfully carried away. 

A man stood next to her, much taller than her, much taller than Lucas, or most likely anyone in the room. His chestnut hair was nearly all slicked to the left, catching the thousands of glimmers from the chandeliers above. His light, bottle green eyes were not of full hope– but content. His music flowed like the older man’s should of– elegant, yet sturdy. It was just the right pace for Bach. Sturdy like his figure, that of a young birch. Not wily like a willow, or stiff like a spruce. A birch, albeit, on a very windy day, for how much he was swaying.

And then the music stopped, and the musicians left the stage. And Lucas was alone in a crowded hall. He forced a smile for nobody in particular, and went over to a table and grabbed a cucumber sandwich- a useless sandwich, because it was finger food, and incredibly small. Barely a sandwich. More like a…there was certainly a quip to be made there, somewhere, he thought to himself.

“Lovely weather today, isn’t it?”

He winced, flinging his head around.

“What?”

It was the second of the violinists.

“Lovely weather today, isn’t it?” He ennunciated, a tad more passive-aggresive.

“Not really, no.”

The violinist poked his tongue around in his cheek, eyebrows knitted together like he could have sworn something had been right there.

“You’re right. I don’t know why I said that. Terrible weather, honestly. Nothing but rain. Not unusual, though. It’s the river, right? Or the chanel?”

Lucas sucked in his lips, contracting the dreaded puzzled expression. It wasn’t a normal conversation, but they were talking like it would be, and they would make it happen, No matter if the conversation liked it or not.

“I think the wind is a bit stronger than it usually is,” He said, verging on the edge of incoherent rambling.

The violinist smirked, the reality of the conversation finally hitting him. He held a hand out.

“Ryan Jacobs,” he said, smiling much more sincerely now.

“Lucas Amadio– Erm–” He peeked over Ryan’s shoulder, which was very hard given the height difference. His eyes finally fell onto the other violinist– She was laughing with the rest of her troup. Not a sweet, honey-like giggle that one of the books he had read raved about. It was a real laugh– a laugh like a deep, red wine. The kind of laugh that all the books he actually liked taught him sounded like true joy. He turned back to Ryan, starting to blush. “I– Is she– Your–”

“She's my sister, mind you. Emily.”

Lucas felt the Ryan’s gaze on him, and he realized he probably looked like a toddler gaping at a teddy bear in the toy store window. He didn't care. It was purely euphoric.

Ryan looked with him, then chuckled and nudged him with his elbow. 

“Still my sister though, yeah?”

“No– Not like that. Certainly not.”

Lucas chuckled too, but much more nervously. His spine felt like it had turned into a million wriggling earth worms. Big faux-pas, he was pretty sure. Was it? No? He wasn’t actually sure at all, but judging by this man’s reaction, it most certainly was. They both froze in place, trying very hard not to make eye contact.

“Well, I’d better be off–” Ryan whispered, one hand on his hip and the other scratching the back of his head. 

“Erm– Uh–” Lucas looked down, snapping his fingers, frantically trying to get his words from his brain to his mouth. “Drinks!”

Ryan scoffed, turning back to the other man.

“I mean–” Lucas said, squinting in the aftershock of embarassment. “We could grab a drink sometime. Down at the pub. And-” He said, tacking on an afterthought. “You could bring Emily.”

Ryan glanced up. “Which…one?”

“That one around the corner? Saturday? Eight?”

“Alright then, I’d really better be…”

He trailed off, joining the rest of the musicians, Leaving Lucas to wander around aimlessly near dozens of glasses of champagne. There was nothing to do besides talk to Emily Jacobs. Also maybe to try to get a promotion, because that was the whole reason he was there. He should probably be making first impressions and what not. Well, then, he did have something to do.