Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every day on the walk from the Hackney tube station to work, Johnny Martin walks past a flyer that had been posted on the dry brick wall. It’s wrinkly and isn’t a strong contender as the winner of best advertisement, but its message is simple: The Soronprfbs are looking for a new keyboardist. Especially one able to play various chords and arpeggios in the keys of C Sharp Major, E Flat Major and B Minor.

There is an identical flyer posted on the grimy alleyway walls that lead down to the gambling den that Johnny has tried to escape -- its gravitational pull too strong to resist. On most days, Johnny ignores the poster and goes on his way. He has long since learnt to not stick his neck out. As it is, the bills are piling up and he is facing eviction. Joining a band just isn’t in the realm of possibility, especially a gig that might not even pay. It isn’t feasible to consider auditioning when he has so many issues to deal with. But the flyers are tenacious as they are persistent, and one finds its way into The Creaky Leg where Johnny works.

Johnny can’t afford to break free from the routine: janitorial work before the bar opened and then a part-time bartender at night before spending all of his free time in places that he had promised Penelope he would never visit again. Not that she would ever know he habitually set foot in those smoke-filled halls now that she was jet-setting around the world with her newfound confidante and friend Annie.

But on a particularly terrible evening without Lady Luck by his side, Johnny found himself standing in front of the poster, the rain pouring down in heavy sheets around him, and thought that perhaps joining a band was just exactly what he needed.

Chapter Text

Hyde Park is an iconic landmark located in the centre of London, its greenery divided in two by the Long Water and the Serpentine Lake. Most (sane) people visit Hyde Park during the daytime hours to enjoy the parklands under the seldom blue sky. But The Soronprfbs cannot be categorized as ‘most’, and sane is merely a suggestive label that doesn’t apply to them. Instead, they lie upon the grass to stargaze. Frank finds the activity pleasant and inspirational, often pondering about the cosmos. They would have been successful too were there stars in the sky to stargaze at, but the night is still young.

The past few months has been tough, especially with Dom’s passing and the snafu with Jon. It didn’t take much convincing from Clara before they all returned to the United Kingdom, making the unanimous decision to stay in London with no immediate plans to return to Ireland.

"We don't need a new keyboardist or anyone else," Clara says, breaking the silence. She adjusts the blanket around her shoulders when the wind picks up and tucks her bare feet between the warm space of the picnic blanket and Frank’s thigh. Frank threw heat off like a campfire, and it’s no surprising that he’s in the middle of the blanket, being cuddled from all sides.

The search for a new keyboardist thus far has been fruitless. There are some candidates, but no one seems to click. One had been a fanboy, another had been too creepy for their tastes, and thirdly there had been one that hadn’t even been able to find Middle C. Baraque slowly begins to lose hope that they'll ever find another keyboardist as the date slips past like sand through the gaps of his fingers.

Or, perhaps, it is because Clara’s list of very specific criteria forbid anyone to click. Look at what happened when Dom allowed a random to join without consulting the rest of the band. Jon had filled Frank’s head with all sorts of lies and then left them all after their shocking split at South by Southwest.

It was in all their best interests that if — and that is a very big if — they got a new keyboardist, that person would have to live up to Clara’s expectations. All in the name of Frank’s best interests, of course.

Baraque exchange a long and meaningful look with Nana, dreading where this conversation is going. To anyone with eyes, Clara is the most protective member of The Soronprfbs when it comes to anything dealing with Frank, especially after what happened with Jon.

Clara will ensure that nothing like that ever happened again. Hence, the creation of her list for the perfect keyboardist that so far included: a) be as poor as a pauper and not expect much in the way of money, b) be a composer that rivals the genius that is Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff, c) have the ability to play like the sun is coming out of their ass, and d) be able to fit in well with the group which may or may not include understanding Baraque. So far, none have managed to go four for four; Clara is secretly pleased by the results, counterintuitive as it is, judging by the way she smirks all the time.

"We can make it on our own," she insists, speaking over Frank who is listing constellations underneath his breath to the tune of 'God Save Our Queen'. “We don’t need a fifth member of The Soronprfbs. What if we get another Jon?”

"Je n’ai pas d’opinion," Baraque says, reaching for the bottle of beer resting against his boot and bringing it to his lips. He pitches it away in disgust a moment later when he discovers it is woefully empty, the glass thumping on the grass.

“Look!” Nana points, breaking through the sounds of the leaves rustling and the pounding feet of a late night jogger. Her finger illuminated by the paltry light offered by the nearest lamp post. They all look skywards and catch a glimpse of something bright racing across the sky. The sort of event that is a blink and you’ll miss it. “A shooting star! Make a wish everyone.”

Frank shifts on the blanket, his carbon fibre head scratching over the woolly picnic blanket. It’s hard on a good day to know what goes through Frank’s mind.

“Que la bière qui coule continuellement être,” Baraque says, and quietly wishes to himself that they would find exactly the person that would fulfil Clara’s list. No one said his wishes had to be realistic.

How does one begin to describe The Soronprfbs?

Johnny isn’t sure how to answer that question. Firstly, he has little information about them aside from their name and their rise to fame a few months ago on the internet. And secondly, he’s undecided about whether he should audition at all. Would their music tastes be compatible?

On his day off, Johnny visits London Library, and with his earphones plugged in, watches all of the videos he could find about Frank. There’s a certain charm in the chaos that is the music the Soronprfbs play, some stroke of genius to his method of madness.

But even having spent an entire afternoon using up valuable library resources on YouTube isn’t enough to convince Johnny to audition. He spends the Tube ride into work considering all his options. The music that they produce is eclectic but still strangely… addictive.

He spends his shift asking his customers if they know or have heard about The Soronprfbs.

By the time it's half seven, Johnny has serious doubts that he could farm any information out of his clients. The night is looking bleak right up until someone finally recognizes the name.

"The Soronprfbs? Yeah, I've heard of 'em. A bunch of weirdos. Their music is even weirder… and may I order a Cosmopolitan, please?"

"I can't say I've ever had the pleasure of listening to a full song myself," Johnny admits as he reaches for the bottle of vodka and a glass. "But I am intrigued. The Soronprfbs' creative process fascinates me."

"They are a bit of a strange sort," the woman agrees, "but the lead singer Frank - he's the one with the head - I hear he's the brains behind the whole operation. I’ve seen a few of their videos. A little strange but still somewhat endearing."

"He's got these amazing arms too," her friend pipes up when she finally looks up from her phone. "And no one's ever seen his face. Totally makes me wonder why... Could you make mine a Mojito please?"

"I'm sure he has his reasons," Johnny says with a small grin, tucking that information away. He hands the ladies their drinks and bids them both to enjoy their night.

He's still undecided - nervous -  about whether he ought to go for the audition. The advertisement hasn't said anything about pay, but Johnny supposes that there is more to The Soronprfbs than meets the eye.

The only real way to get any solid information about The Soronprfbs, Johnny thought and decided as he began preparing the next order, was to go meet them in person for himself.

With his heart finally set on a decision, Johnny picks up the phone in the hallway of The Creaky Leg and dials the number.

How does one begin to describe Johnny Martin?

Clara's first thought about the man that walks in through the door of their mixed dormitory hostel room is 'aesthetically scruffy but somehow surprisingly pleasing to the eye and somehow manages to fill the first criteria'. Baraque, on the other hand, takes in Johnny’s swagger and American accent when he introduces himself and sports a smile that rivals the Cheshire cat. Nana is ecstatic but that’s mixed with worry about Johnny not taking care of himself judging by the days’ worth of stubble on his chin. That and Johnny looks like a stiff wind could just break him in half; Nana vows to plump him up. ‘Perfect’ is the only word Frank can use when Johnny’s fingers caress hard plastic keys, playing a wondrous melody that sparkles and dances right in front of their eyes.

“Welcome to The Soronprfbs, Johnny. You’re hired,” Frank says once the song ends, bouncing off the bottom bunk and onto his feet, sticking a hand out. Something — a gut instinct perhaps — tells him that Johnny Martin is The One True Keyboardist that they have been searching for.

Johnny stares in bewilderment at the hand and then back up at Frank’s face, a sentiment that resonates with the rest of the band. “Was that it?” he asks, bewilderment changing into amusement. “No democratic vote?”

Clara looks up from where she’s braiding Nana’s hair, her lips pursed. “If Frank thinks you’re our guy, then you’re our guy. I trust Frank’s judgement.”

“So do I,” Nana declares as she attaches butterfly clips into her hair with a mad grin. “And you’re pretty. You’ve got my vote.”

“Thanks for that,” Johnny says with a wry laugh. He turns to Baraque, the final member who still hasn’t had a say yet.

Baraque’s eyes flicker over the top of the French GQ he’s reading before settling back down onto the page before him. “Vous allez faire,” he answers casually, turning the page with a disinterested air about him.

“Well. That was… easier than I thought it would be,” Johnny admits, and then shakes Frank’s hand firmly. His skin is warm and callused, a hand that’s seen much hardship but can coax the brightest music out of (fake) ivory keys. Frank can already feel the back of his mind roar and howl.

“When do we start rehearsals and how often? And where? I feel that… this isn’t the best locale for practise. And I should probably make plans to take—”

Ah! Just the topic that Frank wanted to bring up. “How does tomorrow sound?” Frank asks eagerly like a puppy. It isn’t at all an unreasonable request that one should get to know the new guy, right?

A frown creeps over Johnny’s face like a dark storm cloud. “Tomorrow? I think that can work...”

“Tomorrow at Cambridge it is then!” Frank exclaims, still refusing to let go of Johnny’s hand as he swings it from side to side. “We’re performing during the lunch hour.” And then he pauses awkwardly before he adds a bit sheepishly, “Do you know how to drive, Johnny? It’s just we’ve got a car, but we end up taking the taxis here, and the only one that does is Baraque but he refuses to drive on British soil.”

Baraque sneers something under his breath. “Les Britanniques sont l'écume et l'odeur de thé,” he says louder when Nana asks him to repeat himself. The corner of Johnny’s mouth twitches when he tries to hide a smile.

Frank grins broadly underneath his head - fruitless as that endeavour is - at having another member who knows how to communicate with Baraque. He adds another tick to Clara’s list and finally relinquishes Johnny’s hand.

“I don’t have a license, so I won’t be of much use to you in that department,” Johnny says. “I prefer using the Tube since it’s so convenient.”

“Well then,” Clara says as she ties off Nana’s other braid, “looks like we’ll be taking the train like plebeians. We’ll meet you at 7 o’clock sharp at King’s Cross Station. If you aren’t there by then, we’re leaving without you.”

“Are you sure not driving to Cambridge is a good idea?” Nana asks. The band combined had a lot of shit and far too many cases to lug around. The van would come in handy.

“We’ll be fine,” Clara reassures her, moving on to paint her nails in black nail polish.

Johnny nods politely, not bothering to point out the fact that it only takes about an hour by train, an hour and a half by bus tops to get to Cambridge but wisely keeps his mouth shut lest he piss someone off. “7 o’clock. King’s Cross Station. I’ll be there.”

King’s Cross Station is packed at seven in the morning, full of busy commuters rushing to work, and tourists looking for Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Johnny groans to himself when he arrives, standing upon the bridge and looking down at the bustle. He realizes that he hadn’t asked specifically where they would be meeting, and it’s only by a stroke of cosmic luck that he spies Frank buying what appears to be a small army’s worth of juice sippy boxes from the M&S. With his battered suitcase in hand, Johnny tails Frank until he finds the rest of The Soronprfbs surrounded by what appears to be a sea of black hard plastic cases.

“You found us,” Clara says by way of greeting. She’s wearing a pair of Ray Bans and an all black number that makes camouflage amongst the goth scene possible. Unless, Johnny thinks, she is already a part of the goth scene. He doesn’t find the courage to ask. “And you’re early too.  I was beginning to wonder if your ticket would go to waste.”

“Good morning. No need to sound so disappointed,” Johnny says with a playful smile. “I wasn’t sure I was going to make it either. Frankly, I’m lucky to spot Frank when I did.” He’s beginning to suspect that the members of The Soronprfbs manage their money about as well as he did, between the extravagance that is their taxi rides and the minute savings they make by staying in a mixed dormitory hostel room. The prospects for being paid are looking bleak.

“You bet your ass you are.” Johnny’s smile doesn’t waver at Clara’s hostility. He gets the distinct feeling that she is the protective mother hen of the group.

“He’s a little hard to miss,” Nana pipes up with a fond smile, accepting an apple and blackcurrant box from Frank and popping the straw through the seal to take her first sip.

Frank digs through his bag of goodies, the plastic rustling, and pulled out a turkey pastrami sandwich. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Frank says matter-of-factly. The head is a little disturbing, but Johnny tells himself that he’ll get used to it. Another apple and blackcurrant juice box is pressed into Johnny’s hand.

“It certainly is,” Johnny replies with a smile as he falls into step next to Frank, walking towards the platforms where their train awaits.

“Shall we go then now that we’re all here?” Nana asks.

Baraque jumps to his feet, tucking the same French GQ Johnny saw yesterday into his bag and pulls out the tickets from the inner pocket of his leather jacket. “Je dois encore les billets!”

“You better still have the tickets,” Clara threatens casually over her shoulder as she wheels one of the trolleys through the shuffling morning crowds with Nana on her tail.

Frank spends the entire train ride to Cambridge staring at Johnny. At this early hour, they manage to take up all the space in the area designated for luggage (and then some) and find a four seater with a table. Clara, deeming the hour far too early, sat across the aisle from them with her Ray Bans on and earphones plugged into her ears. Presumably to drown out their noise.

Johnny claims one of the window seats, sitting opposite Frank who has a kick for travelling backwards. The journey with the ever changing scenery is a good source of inspiration and Frank always sits by the window if he can.

Baraque pulls out a deck of cards from his travel bag to pass the time away and begins to shuffle. “Un jeu de poker, Nana?”

“Baraque’s been teaching me how to play poker,” Nana says as she leans across the table to take the deck out of Baraque’s hands to shuffle it herself. “I’m not very good yet,” she confesses in a dramatic stage whisper.

“Je triche,” Baraque says with a handsome smile and a wink, stealing the deck back from out of Nana’s hands and then begins dealing out four hands.

“I know you cheat,” Nana says with a roll of her eyes. “Why else do you think I’m the one doing the shuffling? Do you play, Johnny?”

“I— ” Johnny pauses, a finger hovering over a corner of the blue filigree-patterned cards. There’s a hidden gleam underneath the dark fan of Johnny’s eyelashes is something... interesting. Something dark and haunting that Frank can’t help but feel drawn to. “I know how to play. What are we wagering?”

Frank pulls out a bag of Skittles and four plastic cups, pouring the packet into approximately equal proportions. There’s a squabble to even the handicap when Nana steals a few skittles from Baraque’s cup. “The green apple flavoured Skittles.”

Johnny’s grin turns nefarious as he picks up his dealt cards. “I hope you’re prepared to lose them and the lemon flavoured ones.”

Johnny knowing how to play poker is like saying the sky is blue and he wipes the floor with them to claim ownership of all the green apple flavoured Skittles. The Soronprfbs sit in stunned awe as hand after hand Johnny decimates them for all their Skittles-worth. Their moods are improved when Johnny magnanimously shares his hard-earned loot.

It’s going on half eight when the train pulls into Cambridge Station, and then another half hour to organize their luggage into the back of two taxis. Nana complains the entire time about how she wished they had driven to Cambridge instead of the nightmare that is negotiating her precious drum set into the trunk of the taxi. She grouchily glares and squeezes herself into the available space with Baraque happily taking the passenger seat, leaving Clara, Frank and Johnny to handle the second taxi.

It only dawns upon Johnny a while later as he’s exiting the taxi that the little studio he’d been expecting The Soronprfbs practise in isn’t a studio at all. In fact, it isn’t even a pub or a building. “When you said we were practising at Cambridge,” Johnny says slowly, blinking up in disbelief at the brightly coloured banner hovering in the street, “You failed to mention that we would be going to the fucking Cambridge Rock Festival.”

“Sorry,” Frank says in a sing-song fashion, “Did I forget to mention that?”

“Don’t tell me you have stage fright,” Clara adds, rounding the back of the taxi.

“Hardly,” Johnny scoffs. The Cambridge Rock Festival would undoubtedly mean crowds and all those eyes looking at him – them – the sort of attention that Johnny once craved as a young up and coming jazz pianist. “But I thought we were going to perform at a pub or something.”

“Surprise,” Clara says drolly. “Now quit yapping and help unload the cases!”

“What were you going to do if you didn’t have a pianist by today? Isn’t that cutting it a bit close?” Johnny asks, lugging a particularly cumbersome and heavy case out.

“We’d have asked someone off the street,” Frank says casually as if it was something that The Soronprfbs had done before. Something told Johnny that just might have been the case in the past. “But we don’t have to do that anymore because now we have you! Yay for Johnny!”

The logic behind holding auditions when anyone could have done the job baffles Johnny and he feels just a little overqualified for the position. But all of that seems to melt away when he’s led onto the stage where the staff and techs were setting up. It’s overwhelming to see such a vast empty stretch of land that will soon be filled to the brim with people.

“Well, shit.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Clara says as she’s digging her theremin out of the case, “It was a pretty shit concert that time.  The guy we asked got ended up with stage fright and threw up. You can’t fuck it up more than that.”

“But they still love us,” Frank says as he does squats on centre stage. “Isn’t that right, Clara?”

“They do,” she replies with a sinister smile, one that reminds Johnny of black and white movies about mobs and guns. The ‘if they know what’s good for them’ is heavily implied at the end of the sentence and he wonders if Clara has hidden a rifle somewhere in that theremin case of hers. Johnny makes a note to never end up on her bad side.

Quietly, Johnny sidles away to help one of the techs set up the keyboard. He is feeling nervous, a little queasy, and hopes the rainbows he had tasted a little earlier will stay inside his stomach.

“That,” Johnny shouts over the roar of the crowd asking for an encore when they file backstage, “That was fucking amazing.” His skin tingles from all the energy and he’s probably too hyped to sleep at all tonight. He’s riding out the high from what is arguably the best experience of his life and the smile that stretches from cheek to cheek seems to have taken up permanent residence. The people there clearly loved the music and Frank’s stream-of-consciousness like lyrics about potato fields and constellations. Johnny can see himself doing this on a regular basis.

“Wasn’t it just?” Nana’s bouncing on her toes like she’s just ingested several cans of carbonated drink. She pops the tab of a can of Red Bull and downs it all in one hit

“We’re hitting up Edinburgh next week,” Frank says casually, a broad hand resting on Johnny’s forearm. Around them the rest of The Soronprfbs are taking a breather and making small talk with the technicians, waiting for Frank’s signal and to lead them all back onto the stage. “I’d like you to come with us as an official part of the band.”

Johnny squints up at Frank, instantly suspicious. “Let me take a wild guess here. Is this another music festival? Are we taking the lunchtime hour again?”

Frank tilts his head and then nods. “Yes, although we’re on at mid-afternoon after Jamie Cullum. Think about it. All the Irn-Bru that you can ingest, and we’ll pay you. So are you in?”

It isn’t even a question Johnny has to consider. With the not-so-distant promise of Irn-Bru and money, the answer is a very obvious “Hell yes!”