Embouchure
by Mat Twassel
Copyright© 2025 by Mat Twassel
Fiction Story: Normally an excellent musician, Holly learns she must play a duet with Royce, the boy who she has a huge crush on, and during rehersal she can't stop squeaking. Illustrated.
Caution: This Fiction Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fiction School Illustrated AI Generated .
By CoPilot
🎵 “Breath Between Notes”
After school in the dark of the practice room, Holly sat, flute balanced across her lap like a question she couldn’t answer. The walls were lined with faded soundproofing foam, and the air smelled faintly of brass polish and pencil shavings. Her sheet music fluttered on the stand, but her fingers felt clumsy, her breath too shallow.
Earlier that afternoon she’d squeaked again in rehearsal. Not once. Three times. Finally Mr. Drumond had raised an eyebrow—not unkindly, but with that look that said you’re better than this.
“Maybe Royce could help,” he’d said after rehearsal. “Maybe after school the two of you could put in a little extra work.”
Royce. Lead sax. Boyish good looks, easy laugh, always a little off-tempo in the best way. Holly had spent most of the year trying not to look at him during warm-ups. Now she was supposed to play with him? Only two weeks until the Christmas concert. Until her duet with Royce. Nineteen minutes of Nutcracker for flute and sax. Nineteen minutes of torture. How could Drumond have paired her with Royce?
She imagined it: the two of them on stage, the auditorium packed with teachers, parents, and all her friends, Royce’s saxophone warm and golden, her flute trembling in her hands. What if she squeaked again?
What if he noticed the way her breath caught when he smiled? She picked up her flute and tried a long tone. It wavered. She tried again. Better. She could feel the thud of her heart.
Maybe it wasn’t just technique. Maybe it was the way Royce leaned into his solos, the way he closed his eyes like the music was a secret he trusted. Holly wanted to play like that. She wanted to breathe like that.
She stared at the door. She could say no. She could practice alone. But something in her—something quiet and brave—wanted to try.
She took a deep breath, steadied her embouchure, and played a single, clear note. It rang true.
🎷 “Scales and Silences”
The practice room door opened. Royce stepped in, and a moment later his saxophone case was unzipped and opened, his saxophone out, the reed dampened, and Royce’s fingers were tapping a rhythm on his knee.
“Hey,” he said, smiling. “Ready to make some music?”
Holly nodded, though her throat felt tight. Her crush hadn’t vanished—it had simply rearranged itself into a flutter behind her ribs.
They started with scales. Royce played first, smooth and confident, the notes flowing like warm honey. Holly followed, her tone thin at first, then steadier. He didn’t comment—just nodded, encouraging.
“Try breathing deeper,” he said after a while. “Like you’re filling up from your toes.”
She tried. The next note rang clearer.
They moved to phrasing, then rhythm. Royce leaned in, demonstrating a tricky syncopation. Holly watched his fingers, not his face. She mimicked the pattern, stumbled, tried again.
“You’ve got it,” he said. “Just trust the breath.”
She laughed softly. “That’s the hard part.”
Royce looked at her then—not just as a bandmate, but as someone trying. “You sound better already.”
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