Chapter 83: Across the Ocean （1）

Dorian's POV
There's something inherently theatrical about airports—the emotional farewells, joyful reunions, anticipatory departures. Humanity's entire emotional spectrum on constant display beneath fluorescent lighting and endless announcements.
As our unlikely quintet moved through JFK's international terminal, I found myself categorizing our fellow travelers with professional detachment. The nervous first-time flyers clutching passports and checking gate numbers obsessively. The bored business travelers projecting studied nonchalance. The exhausted parents herding overtired children with desperate optimism.
And then there was us—three performers and a lighting designer heading to London for potentially life-changing auditions, accompanied by the steadfast fifth member of our arrangement who would return alone to New York afterward.
"Dorian, your passport and boarding pass," Braden reminded me, his organizational efficiency ensuring our procession through security remained uninterrupted. "And stop analyzing strangers. You're staring."
"I'm studying," I corrected, accepting the documents. "Gathering behavioral nuances for potential character development."
"You're making people uncomfortable," Ryan muttered, positioning himself between me and a businessman I'd been perhaps too obviously observing.
"Discomfort creates compelling narrative tension," I insisted, though I redirected my attention to our own group dynamics.
Nadia moved with uncharacteristic quietness, her usual vibrant energy turned inward as the reality of our London journey solidified. Since the Lincoln Center confrontation with Tatiana, she'd maintained focused determination during rehearsals, but in unguarded moments, I'd caught glimpses of deeper contemplation. The Royal Opera opportunity, however problematically presented, had introduced new considerations about her artistic path.
Beside her walked Andy, his calm presence providing ballast amid our collective nervous energy. Though he would return to New York after helping us settle in London, his participation in this departure felt essential—the complete unit moving together until circumstances necessitated separation.
Security checkpoints navigated, we found ourselves in the international departures lounge with nearly two hours before boarding. Braden immediately established our base at a quiet seating area, distributing final rehearsal schedules with military precision.
"We're in three middle seats, which isn't ideal," he explained, handling practical considerations with characteristic thoroughness. "Dorian, you're on the aisle for vocal cord hydration access. Nadia in the center for optimal rest positioning. I'll take the window to minimize disruptions to your sleep cycles."
"You've strategized our seating arrangement?" Ryan asked, amusement lightening his tension.
"Naturally," Braden replied without irony. "Performance optimization requires careful management of all variables, including transit positioning."
I caught Nadia's eye, sharing a silent moment of affectionate exasperation at Braden's methodical planning. Her small smile suggested she found his organizational intensity endearing rather than overwhelming—one of the many reasons they functioned so effectively together despite apparent personality differences.
"The food options are limited," Andy observed, scanning the terminal with practical assessment. "I recommend eating before the flight rather than relying on airline meals."
"Agreed," Braden nodded. "Proper nutrition before the overnight flight will help maintain vocal health and minimize jet lag impacts."
As we moved toward restaurant options, I found myself walking beside Nadia, who had fallen slightly behind the others.
"Contemplating your transatlantic transformation?" I inquired, noting her pensive expression.
"Something like that," she acknowledged. "It's really happening, isn't it? After all the preparation, the complications, the unexpected twists..."
"Indeed. Our collective narrative approaches its second act turning point." I gestured theatrically toward the departure gates. "The protagonists leave familiar territory for unknown challenges, forever changed by the journey regardless of outcome."
She smiled, my intentional theatrical framing achieving its purpose of lightening her mood. "And what does the omniscient narrator predict for this second act?"
"Triumph, naturally," I declared with confident projection. "The Phantom awaits his Christine. The West End beckons. Our unconventional ensemble finds new harmony in British context."
"You make it sound inevitable," she observed.
"Nothing in theater is inevitable," I corrected. "But proper preparation renders success increasingly probable. And we, my dear, are exceptionally well-prepared."
Her expression softened. "We are, aren't we? Despite everything—Tatiana, the Royal Opera distraction, the complicated logistics—we've maintained focus on what matters."
"Precisely." I placed a dramatic hand over my heart. "The show, as they say, must go on."
She laughed then, genuine and unrestrained, drawing momentary attention from nearby travelers. The sound warmed something essential in me—beyond our complex arrangement, beyond professional collaboration, Nadia had become genuinely important to me. Her happiness mattered independently of what she might provide or represent.
"What culinary delights shall we pursue?" I asked as we rejoined the others at the restaurant entrance. "Our last American meal before British cuisine descends upon us."
"It's not that bad anymore," Braden objected. "London has exceptional restaurants."
"Indeed," I conceded. "Though nothing compares to Andy's provisions."
The simple observation carried heavier implications than intended. Andy would return to New York tomorrow, leaving us without his steady presence, his thoughtful attention to our collective well-being. The acknowledgment created momentary solemnity.
"I've prepared detailed meal planning guides," Andy said, breaking the silence with practical solution. "Arranged by neighborhood, dietary consideration, and budget range."
"Of course you have," Ryan replied with affectionate exasperation.
"Optimal nutrition supports optimal performance," Andy stated simply, no defensiveness in his matter-of-fact explanation.
We settled at a table large enough to accommodate our group, ordering with the particular attention to protein and hydration that performance preparation required. As our food arrived, conversation shifted to practical London logistics—transportation from Heathrow, initial accommodation arrangements, audition timing details.
"The temporary flat is in Bloomsbury," Braden explained, having handled housing arrangements with characteristic thoroughness. "Two bedrooms plus a sofa bed in the living area. Not luxurious, but functional and centrally located."
"How will we..." Nadia began, then hesitated, glancing around at nearby diners.
"Sleep arrangements?" I supplied, understanding her unspoken question about our unconventional configuration in more limited space.
She nodded, a slight flush coloring her cheeks—not embarrassment exactly, but awareness of how our normal household patterns would require adaptation in compressed quarters.
"We'll establish a rotation," Braden proposed practically. "Optimize for audition preparation needs first, then adjust for personal preferences as circumstances allow."
"Romantic," Ryan commented dryly.
"Functional," Braden corrected without offense. "Until more permanent arrangements can be established."
The exchange highlighted their contrasting approaches—Ryan's instinctive emotional responses balanced by Braden's methodical planning. In our brownstone, these differences complemented each other across sufficient space. London would require new adaptations, new balances.
"What about you?" Nadia asked Andy, who had been quietly listening to the planning. "Where will you stay tomorrow night?"
"There's a hotel near the flat," he replied. "I've already made reservations."
Of course he had. Andy's careful preparation extended to all contingencies, all potential needs.
"You should stay with us," Nadia insisted. "The sofa bed, or we'll figure something out."
"The hotel is already arranged," he reiterated gently. "And you'll need space to prepare, to adapt to the new environment without additional complications."
His selflessness manifested even in departure planning—anticipating needs, creating solutions, minimizing disruption. I caught Braden watching him with an expression I couldn't quite interpret—appreciation mixed with something deeper, more complex.
"Final checklist review," Braden announced, redirecting us to immediate preparations. "Passports, boarding passes, essential medications."
"Score copies, both physical and digital," I added, patting my carry-on bag.
"Technical equipment, adapters for British outlets, voltage converters," Ryan contributed.
"Emergency contact information, travel insurance details, local transportation maps," Andy completed.
Nadia looked between us, a smile softening her features. "You four really have thought of everything, haven't you?"
"Naturally," I confirmed with theatrical confidence. "Leaving nothing to chance is our collective specialty."
"We should head toward the gate," Braden suggested, checking his watch with characteristic precision. "Optimal boarding position ensures proper carry-on placement."
As we gathered our belongings and prepared to move, I found myself momentarily suspended between theatrical awareness and genuine emotion. This journey represented more than professional opportunity—it embodied the evolution of our unconventional family, our collective willingness to transform established patterns in pursuit of shared ambition.
The gate area bustled with fellow London-bound travelers. We found seats together, Braden distributing boarding passes according to his predetermined strategy. The practiced efficiency of our movement reflected months of collaborative living—anticipating each other's needs, respecting individual requirements, functioning as a coordinated unit without sacrificing personal identity.
As boarding announcements began, I noticed Nadia taking Andy's hand in a rare public display of affection. Their connection had always been the most subtle of her four relationships—less theatrical than her interaction with me, less physically demonstrative than with Ryan, less historically complex than with Braden. Yet its quiet depth remained evident in small moments like this.
"We'll see you tomorrow evening," she said as he prepared to separate from our boarding group. As a non-passenger, he would remain behind while we proceeded through the gate.
"Text when you land," he instructed practically. "I'll arrive at Heathrow approximately three hours after your scheduled arrival. The flat keys will be at the management office as arranged."
Even in departure, his focus remained on logistical support, on ensuring our transition occurred without complication. I wondered, not for the first time, what emotional currents ran beneath his practical exterior, what personal desires he subordinated to collective function.
Our boarding group was called. The moment of separation arrived with theatrical timeliness.
"Break a leg," Andy offered, the traditional theater wish for success encompassing all our collective ambitions.
"Take care of our home," Ryan replied, the simple request acknowledging what Andy would return to—the temporarily emptied brownstone, the physical space that had contained our unconventional arrangement.
"Everything is prepared," Andy assured us. "Focus on the audition. The rest will arrange itself accordingly."
With final embraces—Nadia's lingering slightly longer—we proceeded through the boarding gate, turning once to wave before disappearing into the jetway. The separation felt oddly ceremonial, as if we crossed a threshold beyond which everything would necessarily transform.
On the plane, we arranged ourselves according to Braden's strategic seating plan. As we settled in for the overnight flight, I observed Nadia between us, her expression contemplative as she gazed at the terminal visible through Braden's window.
"Second thoughts?" I inquired quietly.
She shook her head. "Not about London or the audition. Just... awareness. Of what we're doing. How unusual it is. How lucky I am to have all of you supporting this journey."
"Fortune favors the bold," I replied. "And you, my dear, have demonstrated exceptional boldness in both professional and personal configurations."
Her smile contained complexities I couldn't fully interpret—gratitude, anticipation, lingering concern about Andy's temporary separation, awareness of how profoundly our lives might transform after tomorrow's audition.
"Rest," Braden suggested from the window seat, his practical concerns focused on her vocal preparation. "The flight offers necessary recovery time before tomorrow's adjustment to London schedule."
She nodded, reclining her seat as the plane began its taxi procedure. I extracted my carefully selected sleep mask, engineered for optimal comfort without disturbing my precisely styled hair. Beside me, Ryan settled with technical efficiency, noise-canceling headphones already in place.
As the aircraft accelerated down the runway, I experienced the physical sensation of transition—the momentary suspension between ground and air, between departure and arrival, between the familiar past and unknown future. A liminal space perfectly suited to theatrical contemplation.
Tomorrow, London. Tomorrow, the Phantom awaiting his Christine. Tomorrow, potential transformation of our professional trajectories.
I closed my eyes, allowing the vibration of ascent to lull me toward necessary rest. Whatever awaited across the ocean, we approached it together—our unconventional unit adapting to new circumstances without sacrificing essential connections.
The curtain would rise on our London performance soon enough.