Work Text:
2017
“Again!” Petra blurted out from the backseat enthusiastically the minute Baby Shark came to an end, for what Lydia thought it was the hundredth time.
Too energetically restless to notice her surroundings, Petra missed her father’s eye-rolling perfectly displayed on the rearview mirror before her. Tightening the grip on the steering wheel, Tár took a long breath in preservation of her patience.
“How about giving Shark family a break, huh?” The blonde asked, clearly containing her dissatisfaction, turning off the audio system and beginning to enjoy the fancied silence.
“Nooo...” The 4 year-old whined, beyond decisive, as her faint eyebrows knit together above a bratty pout. “Again, again!”
“Petra—” Lydia’s attempt of calm parenting was overlapped by Petra’s beginning of a tantrum, those of which have become most common and recurrent in such phase.
“Agaaaain!” She cried out loudlier this time. From the rearview mirror, Lydia caught the vision of nearly weepy Petra waving her arms in the air and slamming her hands against the leathery car seat.
Followed by a deep breath, the maestro attempted to remain calm with locked eyes on the street, “Let’s not go down this road again, shall we?”
Lydia’s appraised silence was tossed out the window once the little girl’s tantrum finally materialized. The sight of her daughter’s scrunched up face while she open mouthedly cried caused the maestro to shut her eyes for half a second, looking for the strength to come out as the adult in the situation, like advised in the gentle parenting stack of books Sharon made her read.
“Look, Petra, I know you’re frustrated but—” Her tone was no match to the girl’s strong lungs.
Unexpectedly, Lydia jolted forward against her will, as the tiny feet met the back of her seat in a continuous thud-thud-thud. The grip on the steering wheel became tighter as the maestro locked her jaw, mentally and desperately grasping for her patience.
“Petra, that’s enough!” Although her tone was louder and firmer, Petra was still very much enveloped in her own outburst. “Stop kicking—”
Another wail was followed by another kick.
“Petra!” In a fuss, she turned away from the road for a moment, her voice taking on a much angrier edge.
However, the scolding was nothing more than pointless.
Lydia questioned if picking a fight with her own child was worth it, or if she simply decided to give in and put on the maddening infantile song, leaving Petra with the idea she can have anything by throwing a fit.
As the thunderous whining pierced through her sensitive ears, the maestro tried to focus on the road. Allowing Petra to live through her frustration seemed like the most sensible idea, she would grow tired at some point — hopefully soon.
Choosing absolute silence while her daughter remained on restlessly hammering the back of her seat was the only rational strategy Lydia had left. A strategy parenting books would probably refer to as co-regulating, though in a desperate situation such as being in a car in the middle of a busy highway seemed more like surrender.
While on their way to pick up the most needed head of the family, Tár merely let the storm run out its course.
For as long as Petra cried and she was constantly jolted forward, not a word was uttered.
In the meantime, slowly, the bratty kicks gradually lost their rhythm, the loud crying became hums, and then the hums turned into hitched breaths, until Lydia was able to get to know complete peace of mind again.
From the rearview mirror, she witnessed Petra’s tiny, once frail, frame sprawled over the car seat. Slumped to one side, some dark curls stuck to her damp forehead, falling over her heavy eyelids. Such an angelic sight she could never believe it was the same child turning to hell a forty-minute drive.
By the time she pulled up to the curb, Sharon stood there, casually dressed, overcoat floating with the wind, the hair pulled in a sleazy bun, some defying curls falling over her face. She was phone-distracted, yet composed.
“Hi.” Sliding into the vehicle, Sharon leaned in for a quick peck. Peeking over the shoulder, she meets Petra in the backseat, trapped in her peaceful slumber. “She never naps in the afternoon,” she started, astonished, “how did you—”
“Baby Shark deprival,” the maestro blurted flatly, the signs of exhaustion were everywhere. In her full masculine aura, she leaned back while her dominant hand rested over the steering wheel, ready to head home.
A huff escaped the German's mouth as she arched her eyebrows and reached for the seatbelt, “how long did it last this time?”
“I’d say twelve minutes.”
“She’s learning how to cope, last time it was up to forty.”
Smirking at the joke, Lydia met her wife with a slow side-eye just as the latest Porsche pulled back into the busy Berliner streets. The humming white noise of the vehicle did wonders to her estimated tranquility, “I’m glad someone is.”
Discreetly, Sharon giggled while naturally reaching for her husband’s forearm, absentmindedly caressing it, a collected gesture of affection.
“I swear on my dad’s deathbed, if I hear doo doo doo once more I’ll pen down a petition against children’s media.” She delivered with a stoic expression, eyes locked on the road.
Sharon’s snort filled the silence. “Yeah,” she started, amusement and disbelief dripping from her tone, “until she gives you those big eyes.”
“Yeah, well…” A most infamous pout rested on Lydia’s lips as she alternated her gaze between the landscape and her wife, “I’m no longer susceptible to big eyes.”
Amidst the comfortable silence, Goodnow’s lips displayed an amusing grin as she led the blue orbs towards her husband, in an act of mere defiance. “You sure of that?” Lydia’s gaze met hers for half a second, Goodnow’s eyes seemed bluer under the natural light, they held an exquisite glimmer that had swept Lydia off her feet years ago.
The sight was enough for an almost imperceptible smirk to appear on the blonde’s features. The violinist followed along, as the corners of her mouth tugged in a victorious grimace. No words were necessary for the recognition of Tár’s defeat.
In the meantime the vision of a blurred Berlin went past their windows, Lydia felt Sharon’s absentminded touch still lingering on her skin. Side-looking at the passenger’s seat, she noticed how her wife had been absorbed in her ocean of thoughts. Five minutes had passed and all she could hear were Petra’s tiny sighs and whimpers.
“Mind sharing?” She pulled Sharon out her reverie and soon the two pairs of blue eyes met.
“I just think it’s time for Petra to maybe try some activities—” Sharon’s voice betrayed a mild hesitation.
The pianist didn’t mind to hide her annoyed eyeroll, her wife was well-aware of her stance. “Not this again…”
“She could channel all this energy into something… practical.”
“We’ve already discussed this, Sharon…” Lydia clipped. “She’s too little, too frail.”
For a moment, the German threw her husband a sharp, scolding look, soon beginning to shake her head and smirking in disbelief. “She’s grown past the formula and reached the ideal weight. She’s stronger than ever and perfectly fine now.” Though whispering to not wake their sleeping daughter, her voice was as firm as ever. “If we never move on from the image of the little girl we first met, she’ll never do anything.”
While Sharon held a piercing, protective stare as she defended her child like a lioness, Lydia locked her jaw as she absorbed every word and listened to reason.
“She’s stuck in the world we built for her,” she added, softlier this time, “it’s about time she gets with kids her age.”
The porsche roamed steadily in the long Berliner roads, the once tense fingers now loosened around the steering wheel. Sharon didn’t miss how the faint eyebrows softened and exhaled little concern. “And what exactly do you have in mind?”
Sharon shrugged, her rounded eyes looking adorable as ever. “Ballet?” She suggested in excitement.
“Jesus, no.” With an ick, Tár discarded the idea, waving a dismissive hand in the air.
Sharon scoffed, leaning sideways in amusement, “you didn’t even think about it.”
“I have. And the answer is still no.”
“Why?”
“Do we want her on laxatives at twelve?” The violinist was taken aback by the sudden, rhetorical question. “It’s a toxic, hyper-competitive, gendered, harmful environment.” The maestro blurted firmly, her gaze locked on the occupied street.
With an eye-roll, Sharon mentally scrapped every word. “So is the music world, and look at us.”
2019
“Hurry, or we’ll get there by the end of the overture.” Sharon scolded Lydia’s unusual cautious driving, as she rubbed the mittens against the foggy glass window, revealing a smear of the blurry landscape of Berlin covered in colorful Christmas lights.
“I’ve conducted Tchaikovsky for two years,” Tár blurted in smugness, dismissing her wife’s sense of urgency, “I’ll survive.”
“Fahren!” (Drive!) she yelled in German, like she was used to when impatient.
By the time they reached the theater, the curtains had already slid open. The violinist tugged on her scarf nervously as she guided her spouse along the crowded rows on the way to their seats, dropping some Entschuldigungs while brushing knees and getting on the way.
Once on their seats, they had a privileged view of the humble orchestra and stage, showcasing the familiar living room of The Nutcracker. The audience watched the cheerful dancing of the Stahlbaum family in delight as the Christmas Eve festivity took place. The couple’s eyes skimmed as the children, dressed in dated clothes, jumped from one side of the stage to the other while playing games and dancing clumsily.
“How long until her scene?” Sharon slightly jolted at Lydia’s whispering, as she’d just begun immersing herself into the narrative.
“Soon.” At the reply, Lydia instinctively reached for her wife’s fingertips as an attempt to tame her own nerves.
“I just hope she isn’t eating all the prop cheese backstage.” Sharon smirked at her husband’s anticipation.
What easily went unnoticed by the rest of the audience, didn’t go past the heads of the BPO, as the string quarter wasn’t exactly cohesive as the bows landed fractions late, lacking the unanimity Tchaikovsky commonly demanded.
While Sharon’s reaction was nothing more than a frown, Lydia felt on edge, “How much weed did they smoke?” she scolded rhetorically.
Filled with movement, the stage was taken by twirling children and swaying adults nearby the lavish Christmas tree, in an almost well-executed waltz. As the act extended and the dim lights fell into place, the first-violin led the dreamlike transition of Clara sneaking back downstairs to take a peek of her new toy, before the other players could join in, adding to the piece’s grandiosity.
As the playing intensified, Lydia’s fingers curled around Sharon’s in anticipation for Petra’s big moment. Her right foot betrayed her, tapping against the hardwood floor as joy mixed with anxiety spread throughout her chest.
“You’re counting measures,” With an amused sidelong glance, Sharon blurted plainly, as Lydia’s gripped her fingers tighter,
“I’m just… Getting my bearings.”
Amidst the reverberant build-up, the maestro’s mind wandered to the image of her 6 year-old in the theater wings, probably completely engulfed by her costume, the mouse head sliding over her eyes as she heard Madame Dubois’ instructions for the twentieth time.
“Do you think she remembers her cues?” Lydia whispered.
Sharon sighed in fondness, “yes.”
“Her marks?”
“Of course.”
Tár turned to look at her wife. Goodnow glanced as the dim lights contrasted with her frown and how Lydia was probably more nervous than Petra herself.
“What about the sword? Last time she swung it and—”
“Broke our lampshade,” Sharon cut in softly. “Yes, I know.” As an attempt to ease her husband’s nerves, the blonde caressed her tense knuckles while giving her reassuring eyes. “We rehearsed past her bedtime last night, she’ll do just fine.”
As the drums joined the playing, the symphony now became a lot greater. The German noticed how her partner tensed beside her, shoulders squared, buttcheeks clenching over the seat, eyes wider as she sat straighter while searching for their little one’s figure amidst the darkening corners of the stage.
In anticipation, the build-up lingered, worsening Tár’s nerves.
“They’re late.” Lydia whispered at the sight of little Clara sprawled over the floor, the lights dimming above her. “They’re supposed to enter on the downbeat, after the modulation.”
Affectionately, Sharon rolled her eyes.
“You’re not the one conducting tonight.”
Apart from both musicians, once the entire audience trembled at the loud and sharp snap, the strings accompanied as the melody tackled on a more tenseful tone to match the narrative. The floorboard trembled as the army of tiny mice appeared from the right side of the stage in chaos.
Sharon smiled broadly now, her body composed and anxiety concealed.
Lydia, on the other hand, leaned forward, with both elbows against her knees; fingertips hovered over her lips, as she normally did when concentrated; with squinted eyes, she meticulously watched the stage, feeling her eyesight betray her when she couldn’t spot the little girl.
At the following downbeat, there was mice group no. 2.
Petra appeared from the left side of the stage, half a step behind the others, exactly as expected. Her mouse head wobbled for a terrifying second before she steadied it with both hands.
Goodnow felt as Tár’s nervousness and excitement increased once Lydia’s grip around her right hand tightened.
Scurrying into formation, Petra counted the tempo inside the mouse head at every taken step, stopping precisely when she had to. Her shoulders squared, chest lifted and posture nearly ideal.
Though there was a lack of sight, Petra looked in the distance and was able to spot them in the audience. Her gap-toothed smile and a radiant face hidden by the wobbly headpiece. Breaking through the moment, she waved adorably, causing both parents to smile fondly and quickly wave in return.
With the build-up, the battle scene gradually arrived. Petra wielded a prop weapon, almost too big for her. Slowly, the sword came up, followed by a surprisingly controlled swing, rather unlike how she’d practiced before in the living room, knocking over a lamp once or twice.
In another downbeat, the battle finally unfolded, amidst a series of near-misses and exaggerated falls. One mouse kissed the floor too early. Another one forgot to stay down. The overdramatization seemed to work, as it elicited laughter from some in the audience.
As the music took on a more monumental edge and reverberated throughout the theater walls, quietness followed. Then came the line:
“The cheese is ours!” in almost close unison, all the mice children projected.
As the mouse king appeared and waged a lost battle against the nutcracker, the army of mice retreated in defeat, and then Petra was gone.
Onstage, Clara knelt besides the nutcracker. The lights softened and the orchestra, very imperfectly, took on a rather gentler tone, almost dreamlike. At the end of the first act, the lights darkened and the curtains fell, welcoming the most-needed intermission.
The silence was filled by the cheerful applause. Engulfed in pride, Sharon peeked as Lydia remained still for a second longer; eyes locked on the red velvety curtains as if she had yet to process her 6 year-old’s doing.
The maestro felt as the violinist squeezed her hand, as a way to bring her back to reality.
“Everything okay?” Sharon asked softly, followed by a broad smile.
All she could do was nod, then rapidly wiping a single tear that dared to fall.
At the end of the second and final act, the couple watched as the dancers and crew celebrated the completed holiday production. Once the curtains fell for the last time, the backstage bustled with cheerfulness and clinking glasses.
Lydia and Sharon joined the group of parents waiting in the busied theater swings for their children. Some of them were well-acquainted, engaging in meaningless chit-chat with each other as they waited. The couple, however, were close enough to observe and distant enough to not join in.
Goodnow towered on the blonde’s side, as Tár leaned in and placed her head against her shoulder as they waited. Both content to wait in silence.
A burst of laughter followed as the joined dressing room flew open, the wings welcomed a crowd of children running to their parents, some half-undone and some still in costume.
Just as Petra emerged, they noticed as she refused to step off her costume as it swallowed her whole, the cheap rosy tail wobbling behind her. The moment they spot her, their wide smiles matched hers.
“There’s our minnie mouse!” Sharon happily announced.
Tár had barely time to react when Petra barreled into her. She laughed joyfully as her father took her fondly in her arms, swinging her gently, earning from her daughter a delighted squeal. Sharon watched it all in amusement, soon caressing the dark curls and peppering the little one in kisses.
“You were amazing, honey! Absolutely wonderful!” Lydia said proudly.
Gap-toothed, Petra grinned broadly and adorably. “You saw? I didn’t forget my steps!” She stated in pride.
"We saw everything, liebe!” Goodnow started warmly, soon her lips met Petra’s temple in one final kiss. “You were perfect.”
Staring at both their parents in a quick silence, the girl’s energy shifted when she puffed out as if she’d reached the point of exhaustion. “Can we go eat pizza now?” Very easily, Petra threw them those big doe eyes they hardly could say no to.