Chapter Text
Benedict: Check your voicemail.
Benedict: I mean it, Colin— NOW.
Benedict: and don’t do that thing where you toss your phone to the side and pretend like you didn’t get these. If you didn’t want me to know you’d seen them you should have turned off your read receipts.
Colin lets out an exasperated sigh as his eyes flit over the messages that have come in quick succession, cursing read receipts to hell while he’s at it.
His baby sister Hyacinth would call that a rookie mistake, and follow it up with some sort of sick burn about his age that would make him feel far older than his actual 24 years.
Hyacinth, however, is the least of his problems at the present because it’s Benedict who’s clearly on some sort of warpath. That’s usually Anthony’s domain as the eldest of all eight Bridgerton siblings.
General disappointment and vaguely threatening texts are sort of Anthony’s bread and butter.
That isn’t to say that Benedict’s never stepped in to set him straight before. Colin suspects there’ll always be a part of Ben that feels as though it’s his right as his big brother to let Colin know when he’s being a complete and utter dickhead.
Which is probably why the demanding tone of his texts is enough to startle Colin out of his stupor. So he sets his pride aside for now and hits play on the damn voicemail, figuring there’s no use prolonging the inevitable.
It only takes a second for Benedict’s voice to ring out into the empty flat, the sound of it making him jump after spending nearly two weeks cooped up alone and without human contact.
“Right, so. I’m not going to draw this out any longer than I need to. You’ve been locked up in that bloody flat of yours for too damn long Col— and don’t try to say you haven’t. If you didn’t want me to know you haven’t set a foot out of that building in two weeks then you should’ve turned location sharing off along with your read receipts.”
“So here’s what’s going to happen: You’re going to wash up, get dressed, and get out of the fucking house. I don’t know what the hell’s going on with you, but I know the fresh air will do you some good— don’t argue. I’m giving you until the end of the day to do it. If you don’t, I’ll know, and I’ll be forced to call in the cavalry.”
It’s infuriating to say the least. The fact that he’s 24 and his big bother is still lecturing him like he’s a child. There’s a part of Colin that wants to play into it. To throw a petulant tantrum. To pick a fight for the hell of it even though he’s explicitly been told not to argue back.
There’s also the fact that Benedict hadn’t minced words, and everyone knows it takes a lot for him to shed the laissez-faire demeanor that is his normal state of being. So Colin doesn’t call his bluff. Instead, he swallows down as much of his annoyance as he can muster as he hastily shoves the first pair of trainers he can find onto his feet before heading out the door.
His pride and stubbornness still win out a bit in the end though. And it comes in the form of the fact that he waits until he’s been aimlessly wandering the streets of London for about a half hour before he begrudgingly texts his brother back.
Colin: THERE. Happy?
Colin: *Colin has shared his location*
Benedict: Ecstatic.
Benedict: Good man. Like I said fresh air will do you good.
Benedict: Also call mum at some point while you’re deciding to be a human again. If you didn’t want her to worry you shouldn’t have skipped brunch and then gone radio silent.
Colin: *liked a message*
It’s right around this time that Colin also realizes he should have worn layers.
That he should’ve known better because it’s April, and the sun is setting, and it’s London, and London is still home even if he feels a little bit more like a tourist these days whenever he sets foot in it.
Of course he should have worn layers, he thinks, as he turns up the collar of his jacket and shoves his hands into the pockets.
The fact that he hadn’t thought to do it— to grab an extra coat or even a scarf before ducking out of his Bloomsbury flat with no real destination in mind— is just another glaring reminder. A testament to what his mother had told him when he’d flown back two weeks ago:
“You’ve been away too long, dearest.”
Colin had mumbled something in deflection at the time, feeling the guilt creep up his spine and into his throat at the sight of Violet Bridgerton’s watery, knowing eyes, and the feel of her warm, familiar palm against his cheek.
He knows his mother hadn’t meant anything more by it.
By all accounts, she’s been the most understanding of the fact that part of processing through the grief of losing his father had meant he’d needed to leave. Has always been there with a pointed look or a stern utterance of a name when Anthony or any of his other siblings start digging too hard into him.
So when Violet Bridgerton tells him that she misses him in not so many words, Colin knows that it’s simply a statement of fact.
It doesn’t absolve him of the guilt that’s far too easy to pile on his own shoulders though. Aided and abetted by the fact that he knows he’s spent more time on foreign soil in the last five years than he has at home.
Five years of treating London like a glorified pitstop, and one he doesn’t care to extend for longer than he needs to before he feels the familiar urge to be literally anywhere else in the world.
Five years on the road— seven, if you count the year and a half the label had him touring nonstop after his first album had dropped just in time for Christmas when he was 17—
The label.
Colin had been doing his best to banish all thoughts of the label from his mind for the past few days.
The problem is that all proverbial roads lead back to Regal Records.
They’re the reason he’d made the hasty trip back from New York in the first place, and the reason why he’d ended up holing up in the Bloomsbury flat he’d barely set foot in since he’d bought it. The same one he’d bought with the advance they’d given him when they’d extended his record contract to include albums two and three before the world went to shit.
He’s paused along the banks of the Thames now. Had thought he’d maybe walked enough to get Benedict off his back. But any thoughts he’d had of turning back come to a grinding halt when he takes in the sight of a seagull that lands on a nearby post. The bird’s sharp, beady eyes are far too reminiscent of those belonging to Regal Record’s Agatha Danbury. And that’s all it takes for thoughts of the label to come calling again.
Colin squeezes his eyes shut tight against the view of boats in the muddy water, willing the memory of his last encounter with the head of the A&R department away. When that doesn’t work, he soldiers on, turning away from the river and picking up the pace as he continues his aimless wandering through the familiar streets of London.
Trying to forget is no use now that everything he’s been avoiding has infiltrated conscious thought. It’s impossible to outrun the memories of that last meeting.
Impossible to forget how he foolishly hadn’t questioned the fact that they’d called the meeting last minute in the first place. Or the fact that instead of being led to Mrs. Danbury’s office as he normally would have been, he’d been led up to the top floor and into a conference room boasting a long glass table lined with record execs and investors.
It isn’t until the suits file out of the room and it’s just him and Agatha, her sharp eyes tinged with sympathy, that it really hits him: He’s got until the end of June to produce new music— enough for an album or, at minimum, a credible EP— or the label will be forced to dissolve his contract.
“I’m sorry, boy,” Danbury says gingerly. “I did everything I could to buy you time given the circumstances, but it’s out of my hands now. The label wants to see a return on its investment and what you’ve been doing these last few years— the appearances, the session recordings— it just isn’t enough anymore.”
Colin nods slowly. “Do me one favor, Mrs. Danbury? Just…I know you’re well acquainted with my mother but please, let me be the one to tell her.”
That he be allowed to tell his mum— to break the news to his entire family, really— had been the only request he’d made before he’d got up and left. And since he couldn’t bear to face her, or the rest of the family, he’d gone to the only other place he could think of to try and make sense of it.
The truth of the matter is that Colin isn’t a fool. Somewhere deep down he’d always known the life he was living wasn’t sustainable.
Regal Records had signed him at sixteen. Believed in his lyrics and in his music so much that they’d fast tracked production on his debut album, which had dropped the following year.
For a while, it’d felt like he’d gotten everything he ever wanted. And Colin had relished in it. The dizzying feeling of sharing his music with the world and knowing people were listening, resonating, connecting.
The exhilaration of life on the road as a touring musician— of nodding off on the tour bus in one city, and waking up to a brand new sunrise in the next.
The electrifying thrill of hitting the stage— of a thousand different voices singing his lyrics back at him for a thousand different reasons.
And then, his father had died and just like that, his entire world had turned upside down.
It had taken months for him to get through the thick of the initial onslaught of grief.
Of feeling like he wasn’t going break whenever he so much as breathed. Of slowly accepting the fact that Edmund Bridgerton was really gone. Of coming to terms with the fact that he’d never be able to pick up the phone and call him. Wouldn’t have the privilege of his sage advice at his disposal. Wouldn’t ever see the blue of his eyes, or the curve of his grin again unless he mustered up the sort of soul draining energy needed to look in a mirror.
He’d spent eighteen years hearing— knowing— that of all his brothers, he was the one who most took after his dad. Had heard others mention it to him so many times the sentiment felt more or less like a broken record catching on the same groove.
He’d loved it as a kid— still taken a special sort of pride in it even as a moody teenager who felt lost in a sea of Bridgertons and only ever wanted to figure out how to stand out. It was impossible not to when all he ever wanted growing up was to come out the other end of it having transformed into even half the man his father was: kind, patient, whip smart, and with love to spare.
In the initial aftermath of his death, the resemblance he’s known he’s possessed his whole life feels less like a comfort and more like a curse.
It’s a cut that won’t scab over. And one that splits open and bleeds no matter how many times he tries to stitch its edges back together.
The sting of it is especially sharp and impossible to ignore when he spots the way his mother’s eyes well up whenever he pulls a face that’s far too much like one his dad might of. Or by the way that sometimes his youngest sister, Hyacinth, stares at him for a beat too long— mourning, longing, desperate for just another moment with the father they’ve both lost far too soon.
He’s so adrift in the unforgiving waves of grief at first. So focused on simply treading water in an effort to survive that he doesn’t even realize he’s completely lost the music somewhere among the wreckage.
It’s not until he picks up his guitar months after the funeral, hands shaking as he tries to get them to cooperate between the frets and against the steel strings, that Colin even realizes the music is gone.
Music has always felt intrinsic— as easy as breathing. Cathartic in a way that makes him feel euphoric and alive like nothing and no one ever has. But after his dad, it’s as if his body physically recoils from it.
It’s too much. Too raw, too visceral to try and play even a single note. Feels wrong to even try on the old Gibson acoustic that still bores the initials ‘E.B.’ carved into the base of the neck. To try and force his fingers into the shape of chord progressions on the same guitar he learned to play on knowing the person who taught him how— who taught him what it truly means to love music with ever fibre of his being— isn’t around to hear it anymore.
Even after the music comes back to him— slowly and in its own time— the lyrics never do no matter what he does. No matter how much distance he puts between himself and the city that holds too much of his dad within its limits. No matter how hard he tries to search for the inspiration and ability to write again on foreign soil.
It’s been five years since Edmund Bridgerton passed and Colin hasn’t been able to write a single thing which, has obviously cast a fairly big shadow over his “highly anticipated” sophomore album.
He’s spent the last five years trying not to think about just how many strings Agatha Danbury has had to pull to keep him on retainer at Regal Records for this long. Knows that they enjoy parading him around at key industry events both for the Bridgerton name, and for critical acclaim his first record had wrought.
Charlotte Strelitz, the intimidating head of the label, had once given an interview where she’d called him a diamond. Colin prefers to put the music first. To let him speak for him, but he understands that it’s the nature of the beast. That its his job to shine bright enough to sell it.
For better or worse, he’s always been good at sparkling— at coming off charming and affable. But Charlotte, who’d been in attendance near the end of the meeting, hadn’t minced words when she’d narrowed her eyes at him and pointedly stated that even diamonds must do more than merely shine.
There’s no getting around it. His time shining on command is over. And so is his music career. A has-been at the tender age of 24 if Colin doesn’t get his act together in the span of two months. If he can’t figure out how to write something— anything— worthy of recording and releasing out into the world.
And maybe he should take it as a sign. The fact that his record contract has turned into a ticking time bomb.
He’s spent the last five years tirelessly willing the music to return to him fully. Has spent the last five years searching for it in nearly every corner of the world. Lately, it’s been inescapable. The feel of his soul growing weary as he continues on his tireless pursuit, fueled by the sheer notion that he knows deep in his bones that he and music have unfinished business.
But maybe whatever his bones feel is insignificant. Maybe music was always meant to be something that belongs to a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore.
Maybe it doesn’t matter that there’s a piece of him that still feels like he isn’t done with music. Maybe it’s the music that’s decided that it’s simply done with him.
Out of every thought that’s rattled through his conscious thought tonight and in the past two weeks, the fact that music might be done with him is the scariest thought of all.
Above him, the clouds break open and the first drops of a spring shower pelt down and pierce his skin.
Colin makes a run for it, hustling down a cobblestone alley in pursuit of a shortcut to the nearest tube station.
His first thought is to hightail it back to the flat before the rain has a chance to soak through the clothes that’s already been doing a piss poor job of keeping him warm against the chill of the gray London evening. But he pivots last minute, slowing in his tracks as he comes up on an awning for a wine bar he’s never noticed before.
There’s something inviting about the crimson trim. The way it pairs with the gold of the script spelling out “Mondrich’s,” and the warm glow he can see pouring out through the bar’s large bay windows.
The decision to divert comes easily enough when Colin realizes that stopping in for a bite and a drink sounds far better than going back to an empty flat.
Stripping off the thin jacket he’d been donning, Colin sighs, content as he steps inside and the warmth of the wine bar immediately begins to seep into his skin.
The space itself is an open concept, with a lush wooden bar just past the entryway on the left and a slightly larger dining space dotted with tables, most of which are already packed with patrons. Small, yet cozy— lived in, but in a stylized way with its singular, exposed brick wall and its deliberately mismatched aesthetic.
Despite the fact that it seems pretty full for a Wednesday, Colin hardly has to wait at the bar for long at all before the bartender sidles up to him from the opposite side.
“Looks like you got in just in time,” says the man. Colin must look a bit perplexed, because the man nods in the direction of the bay windows.
“Looks like I did,” Colin says, noting how the light shower has already transformed into a proper downpour. “Bloody April showers really do sneak up on you, eh?”
“Tis the season,” says the barkeep. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu yet?”
When Colin shakes his head, the man procures one from behind the bar and hands it over, continuing to speak as Colin peruses the options.
“We’ve got some seasonal wine selections on the left, and if wine’s not your forte, we’ve got a small selection of spirits back here. Happy hour specials for small bites are on the back if you’re feeling peckish,” he explains. “I’m Will.”
“Colin,” he replies, moving to shake the man’s hand when he stretches his own out toward him.
“Just give us a shout when you’re ready to order and we’ll get you taken care of.”
“Cheers,” Colin says.
He takes a few minutes to study the menu, stomach grumbling in interest as he reads over the offerings. By the time Will comes back over to check on him, he’s settled on the hummus and housemade flatbread, a small charcuterie board, and (with Will’s help) a glass of their seasonal Barbera.
“Feel free to grab a table,” Will encourages as he sets the glass of wine in front of him. “I’ll have the missus bring your order out shortly.”
Colin had been planning to tuck in at the bar, but he doesn’t argue, picking his way through the tables until he finds a smaller, unoccupied one toward the back of the room.
It turns out the missus in question is a server with a warm smile who introduces herself as “Alice, that one’s better half,” while simultaneously jutting a thumb in Will’s direction.
More importantly, she doesn’t judge Colin when he ends up adding on an order of the vindaloo meatballs (he can’t resist after he sees another waitress carrying an order over to a table not far from his own, his mouth watering as the curry spices waft over in his direction.)
“Coming right up,” she says.
It isn’t until Alice tells him she hopes he enjoys the show, tacking it on as almost an afterthought before she gets called away to attend to another table of patrons, that Colin spots the stage.
It’s a small thing really, nothing more than a raised platform jutting out from the exposed brick wall. But it’s clearly meant to be the focal point of the room, which is why he doesn’t understand how he could have missed it upon walking in.
There’s a well-loved upright studio piano positioned to one side of the stage, and dead center, there’s an A-frame sign with bold chalk lettering:
SPRING RECITAL TONIGHT @ 6 PM
DONATIONS WELCOME!
All proceeds go to the London Music Fund
Reading the signage is almost enough to make him leave despite the heavy rain still coming down beyond the wine bar’s doors.
It’s not that Colin is against funding music programs for children, and more of the fact that he doesn’t think his sour mood and jumbled head is up to the task of listening to someone’s beginner violin solo.
He’s already ordered more food though, and the wine Bartender Will had recommended really is quite good.
It would be a shame to leave before he’s finished his glass. So Colin stays, slouches into his seat and digs his phone out of his pocket, figuring he might as well catch up on a fraction of whatever he’s missed in the two weeks he’s willingly gone AWOL.
As he mindlessly scrolls, his ears vaguely register the crackle of a mic, a disembodied voice. Making some sort of announcement regarding the recital, but he hardly pays it any mind.
It’s more or less ambient noise. Not enough to draw his eyes away from the faint glow of the screen in his grasp. No different than then dulled sound of fragmented conversations coming from the tables around him, and the clink of wine glasses, and the scrape of cutlery connecting with the pretty cream colored plates adorned with mouthwatering morsels of food.
But then, the sound of that old upright piano on the stage slices through the void, and all it takes is eight bars.
Eight bars before Colin Bridgerton’s eyes snap up to the stage, trailing over the maple woodgrain of the instrument that suddenly feels like it’s the only sound he can hear at all, and over to the girl sitting behind it.
She’s a tiny thing— he can tell even though she’s sitting that if he hadn’t sat at this particular table, the most he might have seen of her is the top of her fiery red hair.
Around him, the rest of the patrons don’t pay her any mind. And why would they? She’s just an accompanist. Background music for the main event. Someone there to play something ordinary and palatable while the students get settled and prepped to go up on stage.
But Colin…Colin can’t bring himself to look away now that he’s looking at all. And as he stares openly and in rapt enthrallment, he finds himself regretting it immediately. The fact that he hadn’t been paying attention before. The idea that in his haste to tune out, he might have missed even a moment of her.
It’s probably a good thing that she plays like she’s thoroughly swept up in it, red hair catching in the glow of the candlelight whenever she moves in time with the music.
He’s convinced that if she saw him staring so openly he’d be asked to leave— forced to tear his gaze away from her before he’s good and ready. And god, would that be a tragedy. Because now, he’s so swept up in the music with her, that just the idea of looking anywhere else but up at her feels like it might actually kill him.
She falters just once— hits an extra key she shouldn’t— but she doesn’t fall. Doesn’t pause, doesn’t break. Just keeps on playing, the only evidence of a minor misstep to be found manifesting in a soft flush that builds like a crescendo across the apples of her cheeks.
It doesn’t deter him from her or her song. If anything, it only serves to draw Colin in further.
At first, he can’t make sense of what it is about her that’s elite such a reaction from him. What it is that makes his breath catch in his throat, and his heart hammer away beneath his ribs in time to each and every note she coaxes from the ivory keys beneath her fingertips.
He can’t remember the last time music made him feel so alive. But the funniest thing is, it’s not even just the music that’s doing it.
The melody she’s playing isn’t revolutionary by any means, but it feels raw. Honest in a way that makes the skin of his arms pebble.
Really, it’s her.
The way she plays like she’s quietly baring her soul to a room full of strangers. The way she plays like she’s got music coursing through her very veins. Like there’s so much of it she can’t help but let it bleed out and into the atmosphere.
There’s something about the way she plays that reminds him of why he ever wanted to make music in the first place. Like her honesty strips away everything that doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.
Strips away the the label and its deadline. Strips away all the frustration and guilt he carries over how he’s let grief stunt his creativity. Strips away the fact that lately, music makes him feel sad more often than not these days until all he’s left with is the unbridled joy of the one memory that truly matters. The reason for all of it. Why the songs exist in the first place. Why he’d ever felt compelled to bleed himself dry out onto the blank pages of a notebook until he’d had enough to fill an album— his first.
And suddenly it clicks. The realization that watching her is the closest he’s ever gotten to remembering what it used to feel like when music coursed through his veins, too.
His hands tremble at the realization of it.
The last time they were shaking this bad was the first time he’d tried to pick up a guitar after they’d buried his father. The only difference is that now, his fingertips feel like they’re vibrating with an electricity that’s pulling from something brighter than the darkness of the grief that still lingers in every fibre of his being.
This time, instead of running, Colin embraces the feeling as he reaches out for a pen someone had left behind along with their tab at a neighboring table.
And then, after hastily pressing out the wrinkles from the cocktail napkin that had come with his wine, he puts pen to paper, and he writes.
Just two lines.
Sentences more than lyrics, really.
But Colin stares down in awe at the cocktail napkin in his grasp anyway, eyes flitting between it and the girl that inspired the hasty scrawl as she wraps up her song. Breathless over the realization that this is the first thing he’s written in five years that actually feels like it’s come from somewhere real.
