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Dusk played across the lid of the grand piano, decking the jet enameled surface in striations of cool blue and purple. The keys glowed out phantom blue-white beneath Seto's fingertips. Just enough light to see by. On the opposite side of the room, a lamp glowed warm, and Tristan's harsh-sweet voice glowed warmer. "Do it." "No." Tristan looked longingly at the magnificent grand piano taking up nearly one whole wall of the dining commons in the hotel. He squirmed in his seat to see it, and turned back to Seto, who had already turned his attention away to the ridiculously lauded ducks paddling in an ornate mosaic fountain. "Why not?" Tristan challenged. "There's no sign saying you can't. And anyway, soon as they figure out who you are-" Seto's eyes eased slowly back to meet Tristan's, and the two men shared a long look. Tristan broke first, dropping his gaze. "Still," Tristan went on, determined even as he studied the remaining half of his bagel, "I don't think it'd hurt." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin on his shoulder as he looked at the quiet bulk of the jet black Steinway. When he looked back, Seto had followed his gaze, but the blue eyes were unreadable and if he, too, were considering the thought, he kept it a secret. That decided Tristan. He pushed back his chair, and got to his feet, every motion evident with purpose. Seto's eyes snapped back to him. He lowered his coffee cup. "Where are you going?" "I'm doing it," Tristan explained with a shrug. "You don't know how to play." "I'll improvise." Seto snorted with derision, lowered his eyes, and was reaching for his coffee when a flicker of movement caught his attention and he stared, lips slightly parted in wordless surprise, as Tristan made a beeline for the piano. An attendant approached him, but both Tristan and Seto wore business suits, and that false polish of professionalism added to the brunet's sheer magnetism eased him past the piano's warden in only a minute or two. By the time Tristan had the keyboard lid up, Seto was on his way across the floor. Tristan grinned at him over the lid and gave way, acquiescing into the powerful curve of the soundboard instead. "Aw, you never let me drive," He teased. Seto only glared, mouth set in a tight, tense line, and slid onto the bench, turning his focus to the keys. Tristan folded his arms on the lid, watching Seto in turn as the older man breathed out his tension and lifted his fingertips to depress a few simple chords without so much as a sidelong glance toward his audience. When he looked up at Tristan at last, he was calm. One eyebrow and the corner of his mouth lifted in a questioning quirk. Once again, the two men shared a lingering glance. Dusk gave way, and still the moon gave them more than enough light to see by. Drawn by some unexpected purpose, the frustrations Seto intended to take out at the piano became instead the catalyst to an impromptu jam session. Tristan, as it turned out, had a very pleasant singing voice. The simple, repetitive chords of the familiar song caught his attention and brought him across the room from where he'd been researching auction premiums. Why the song touched them both, neither understood. It simply did, and in this private arena that was good enough. Seto allowed Tristan to join in, and after a few immediate fumblings over pace and key, they began to get it right. And continued to get it right. Seto watched Tristan close his eyes, and if he could have, he would have done the same. He no more expected Tristan to intuit the slow burn and breathy phrasing of the song than Tristan expected the bluesy improvisation that slid from beneath Seto's fingertips as easily as breathing. Sparks flew, sexless passion built until they were both slaves to it at last, eyes closed and spiraling ever upward. Whatever it was, there was something here. The library continued to darken, and in the dark the gentle connection twined with the silver moonlight spilling white-lavender across the keys and the broad expanse of slick jet enamel. Two driving foci, pointed in the same direction. Neither stopped. Neither could. The fourth complete time through, when Tristan heard Seto's voice filter through the dark against his own, he was unsurprised. Quiet, Tristan only listened while Seto played. Contemporary jazz twinkled across the dining commons, followed by polite applause. For a moment or two he'd been confused - this was the Peabody, after all, it was the perfect opportunity, why wasn't he playing-? Smooth piano chords playing counterpoint to rough, untrained and passionate vocals. Once, when Tristan looked up during a pause, he'd caught Seto's eyes trained in his direction. Seated in the half-light, Seto's eyes glowed a living blue to match the rolling minor shift. Then that moment. That damned perfect moment, when he and Seto hit their notes together, crystal clear with a connection that transcended sex and thought and breath. Tristan smiled at Seto the next time he looked up, and laced his hands together on the lid, content to listen. Back to Scylla's Work E-mail the Author Home |
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