You’ve just gotten up, albeit it would happen to be the earlier hours of the evening – somewhere around four. The practice the previous night has taken a toll on you, your eyes still burning from a lack of sleep and there are nagging pains in your wrist, lower back and neck. Your stomach screams bloody murder as you walk – shuffle, rather – past the knob-less kitchen door and into the den where Shirley sits beautifully in her own alcove. The overhead LED glints off of her noir body teasingly – seductively – and helpless, as you usually are, you drag your creaking bones, aged with fatigue, up to claim her with the kisses at your fingertips. Oh, how you kiss her. Everywhere. Anywhere that looks like you’ve neglected her for too long. Then, like the apt lover you are, you coax beautiful sighs and cries out of her. Beautiful. You want to believe that your music’s as sacrosanct to your audience as it is to you but you’ve no audience at the moment other than your biased ears and the unfilled house.

It doesn’t feel as unfilled to you as it did when you woke up or, maybe, it’s just your heart that’s full. You don’t see him or hear him walk through the front door but you smell the strange scent of wet vegetables that’s inevitably him and feel his small hands press over your heart, trying to keep it from beating out of your chest, like he usually does. Your kisses move to the backs of his knuckles.

“That was beautiful,” he whispers, all bells and warm cuddles, his fingers rubbing your chest, trying and failing to calm you, “Did you just wake up?”

You nod.

“You must be so hungry,” he frets, nuzzling his large cheek into your neck. It puffs a bit in his moment of maternal instinct and you think it’s fatally adorable but your prevailing life begs to differ. “Are you hungry?” You manage to miss the tentative note in his usually clear voice.

You nod...

...“Kyuhyun?”

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. It’s flowing and flowing and flowing. It won’t stop flowing and you can’t stop. It pours like your soul from your fingers to the ivory and obsidian you’re banging on. There’s sweat dripping from your skin -  notes searing themselves on staves in your mind and you keep playing. Your assault is seemingly infinite. Then, in a flash of what must have been blue desperation, these arms are suddenly around you, holding you tight and fast to a reality that numbs your delirium. Hands press hard against your chest, soft lips on your ear, and a breath blows the veil over your eyes away.

“Kyuhyun?”

You’re fingers only slow, the assault more like caresses and Shirley sings in a way that lets you know that she has forgiven you. Shirley has been with you since your high school days, a gift from your father, and knows you better than you seem to even know yourself. Her sounds are distinct and clear, projecting further than she did with your anger guiding you. She is a romantic woman, only bought with love. You sigh and melt into the lulling melody and the sweet boy holding you up. Melt and sigh, love and die…It feels almost to be the same thing so, you do it all over again. You melt, and sigh, and love, and feel like you’ve died because the moment’s rare and lovely. The boy litters your hair and face with feather kisses and simple passes of his lips in their movement from landing point to landing point.

“Kyuhyun?” he breathes against the shell of your ear, nudging it with his nose. All he wants is a response but you can’t find your voice – you never have a voice after you’ve vented. Your middle finger, right hand, hits the final note and you tilt your head into his curious concern. “Are you ok?”

You nod.

“Sure?”

You nod again, rubbing your cheek against his face until he kisses it. You don’t see the harm in prolonging the moment. No, no harm at all.

“Hard day?”

You nod.

“That other pianist messing up again or is the conductor stressing you?”

You nod twice.

“I’ll make you some chicken and chips.”

You smile at the straightforward solution to your plight. The hands on your bone still bear down, wrinkling your shirt even more than it already was from your previous tugging. They feel like they’re cupping your heart, poised and ready to catch it, lest it make a grand leap. He’s started kissing your hair again, very maternal, always loving. The attention always makes you feel slightly nostalgic but the boy and what fuels his intentions are new. The minute tilt of your head that you make in response to his affection forms a smile against your temple. Your hands fit over his, engulfing them, in a question of their hold. Somehow, he understands you. Eventually, this will stop surprising you but it’s only been a year and a half and the shock factor hasn’t quite disappeared yet.

“It’s a precautionary action.”

You swivel to face him, showing him your raised eyebrow.

He only smiles. He must have an awkward feeling in his wrist when he swivels his hands to interlock his fingers with yours but he doesn’t seem to care and you’re too greedy with his fondness for you to chastise him. “Yes, I’m preserving your life.” To your dismay – and surprise because your dismay surprises you – his hands turn, untangling his short fingers. “You should see yourself when you play. It’s inspiring and frightening, all at the same time. I don’t always understand what you’re feeling when you’re playing but, most of the time, I have a pretty good guess.” You can’t really understand what he’s saying but you have a feeling it’s both separate and entirely linked to what he’s trying to tell you. Your heart batters the inside of your chest in anticipation. He cups his hands tighter, moves them further into your shirt. “This happens every time… your heart, it always gets this worked up and...and…” Always articulate at the start but, as usual, he gets lost somewhere along the way in his mind, his thoughts. “It might fall out.” He’s blushing, hard into your neck. It’s so warm and you laugh, silently because any noise could spoil it – whatever ‘it’ is. You roll your eyes at how green you feel.

He’s thinking that he’s messed up, that he’s said something terribly wrong because you aren’t responding. The pink on his cheeks is a product of both his child-like logic and embarrassment. He’s also holding onto your heart because he wants it. It’s an elusive thing, hiding in the white shadows of your ribcage. Mysterious. Guarded. Worse than your mind or your smile. Your music is his guiltiest pleasure. It’s the only way he can see you because, with him, you don’t even need words, just notes and chords, Shirley and your lucid hands.

“It might fall out,” he says again with the hopes that he might provoke some sort of verbal response. He’s afraid to let you play anything, lest you can’t stop because all he really wants is to take care of you. Feed you, hold you, love you. Away from music. He can speak to you in his unique language where love means warm food in a shared bowl and unconditional love means that you share chopsticks. Simple. Love is simple. Taking his hands off of your chest, you stand and turn, using your knee to push the bench between you out of the way. The face he’s making at you leaves you lost in your search for some small verbal gesture. His eyes are large and glassy, the tops of his cheeks dusted with cotton candy and his lips parted in the prettiest of ways. You cringe. He’s a boy, not a girl and you feel stupid for thinking of him as pretty. He thinks you’ve hurt your knee on the bench and bends to look at it. Realizing your folly, you cringe again and pull him close. Love is simple, you tell yourself and you kiss him. Just a soft peck on his forehead but he flushes tomato and cherry. His small hands push down on your chest again, and his lips stick in their dryness to your throat. You shake your head with a smile that’s hurting your face.

He sighs and snuggles his face down between his hands. “I’ll catch it regardless.”...

...You both sit on high chairs in the kitchen and eat. He’s stressed. He always cooks soup when he’s stressed and he puts the food in separate bowls. Your solitary bowl is half-empty and at a dangerous lean in your lap. One jostle and you could spill it. Nonchalantly, you chalk it up to his work at the animal shelter. Only last week he’d come home crying, his shirt smudged with the blood of a Retriever that he had lost under the knife. The dog had some sort of cancer, he said, and it probably wouldn’t have survived very long if we didn’t remove the tumour. There was a chance that things wouldn’t work out but the dog would be more comfortable without it. He said, we can’t save all of them but we try to make them as comfortable as possible. Yes, he was stressed with work. You don’t know the crazy thoughts plaguing the poor boy.

“Hey, you done?” Not wanting to displease him, you drink down the rest, gulping and slurping and managing a sheepish smile after. A small cough escapes you. His face makes a disapproving expression then he smiles. You want to write songs about that smile but you just concur and pass over your bowl. “Practice?” He’s almost to the kitchen and his back’s to you. Just as your mouth opens, he turns and you shut it so fast, he feels like he’s imagined that you were about to speak. You nod again. You’d keep nodding forever, if only to have him look at you. “You’ll be home late again, huh.” He shakes his head, almost wishfully, and trudges into the kitchen not even waiting for your answer.

No, you say, I’ll be home early since I pulled such a long practice last night. Plus, it’s only section rehearsals tonight. I just have to stop in to collect some details about the upcoming tour and practice my solo a little bit, just so the conductor knows how ready I am and how much more practice I’d need. Maybe an hour. Two for the most. I’ll be home to watch a movie with you. Eat a late dinner. Snuggle. Kiss you. Hold you and watch you fall asleep for the first time in weeks. Would you like that? Is that ok?

Except you don’t say anything.

You’re already in the kitchen, though, with nothing but good intentions. His shoulders are slumped as he washes the dishes. Dropping a kiss with all the sweetness you could muster onto his head, you nudge him completely out of the way and finish up the dishes. He likes seeing you domesticated. It grounds him, shows him that you want to be here, that you want him. Needing – just simply needing – to do something with his hands, he wipes up and stores everything from the dish-drainer in the cupboard. He’s looking at you and thinking about the four year gap between the both of you and the first time he met you. Somewhere, in the middle of remembering, he thinks about the space between the both of you, the long hours and the lonely nights but you’re oblivious. You turn just as he’s about to sigh and kiss him. You rub your nose sweetly against his and gather him up for a tight hug. To you, it feels like home. He’s just a little confused. His arms never hesitate like his decisions and they wrap themselves around you.

“I wish you didn’t have to be gone late again tonight.”

You roll your eyes in the most playful of ways and lift him, bridal style. “Hey!” But he holds on tight. There’s a schedule stuck onto the fridge with cute, cartoon animal magnets that he managed to nick from the shelter. Each of the animals has the same content smile and an ailment of some form. There’s a turtle with a Band-Aid and a rabbit with a tourniquet. It’s a rough draft of what the month’s practices would look like. The duration of each practice is usually a moot point. A full practice with the entire orchestra never lasts anything less than four or five hours. You’re scheduled for section rehearsals tonight. They don’t tend to last long. Three hours if someone really botches up.

“Oh!” The tone of his voice is all surprise. “Section rehearsals. You’ll be home early tonight…wow.”

You do what you always do; you nod. His smile is priceless. Your smile is painful. Damn, it’s painful. It’s the kind of hurt that you don’t mind suffering because you just feel alive and you feel love. You feel him. Five years changes everything. Everything. You. It changes you. At the start of those five years, you didn’t expect anything. You had been good friends, you with a piano and him with a voice of gold. Then he wanted more and you didn’t know if you had more to give but you wanted him. Not just his voice because it wasn’t just about his voice. It never really is about his voice. Right now, it’s about his lips because that’s what he’s using to distract you via a sure kiss that makes the intentions of your closeness suddenly questionable. Closer. You want to be closer.

“Closer,” he mumbles into the kiss, his hands clenching in your hair. Your kisses are chaste but fierce and you’re holding onto him so tight. He always understands. A beeping noise rings out from him and it stops you. After fishing around, still in your arms and squirming so much that it’s a fight to keep him up in your hold, it turned out to be his phone – a text message. He mumbles what it says.

“It’s Sungmin. There’s a problem with Martha down at the shelter.” He frowns so deeply. Martha’s an Italian Trotter that someone imported for the racing circuit. She’s young from what you know, still a foal, and malnourished. Because she’s so young and because of the conditions the muscle down at the shelter found her in, her recovery’s complicated. She’s his baby. Martha loves him and he loves Martha and Martha wears a thin green ribbon on a braid in her mane. He loves her the way you love Shirley. Yes, Martha is his baby. “I should get down there. What time do you have to get in?” He eyes the schedule with a squint. There’s a fleeting thought in you about the location of his glasses. “Oh, it’s still early for you.” You let him down and hold up your hand before running off on your long, awkward legs. Five minutes.

Maybe, it takes you ten instead. The buttons on your shirt are done up right but you’ve still got one shoe clutched in your hand instead of on your foot. For the first time – well, for the first time you could remember – you glare at your ’verses. They’re worn and easy to slip into but the hi-top means more lace to tighten and in your haste the whole process of putting it on is difficult.

“So much for five minutes,” he teases. Your pout is dramatic as you sit to put it on properly. He’s looking at you tensely, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket with one hand and thumbing his car keys with the other. “I sent Sungmin a text, told him you’ll be there with us for a bit.” You nod, vexed by the knot that you hadn’t seen before in your laces. They’re green, like Martha’s ribbon. He bought them for you when he bought the ribbon for her because he knows how much you like your sneaks and how long you’ve had them. Little by little, he integrated himself into your life...

...“Can we run it again?” he asks, his hair pointing to what must be all of God. It’s shorter than it was when you’d first heard him sing a year and a half ago and he abuses it. You find comic relief in such disarray, subconsciously scolding yourself since your hair hasn’t been combed with actual comb since you hit fifteen. “It’s wrong. Something’s wrong.” Your eyebrow finds a quirk that’s natural to you and unnatural on the whole. “Not with you. Not even with me.” He’s exasperated with his inability to identify the problem. The need for that level of spirituality that runs deep in him – in both of you – keeps him discontent. When either of you can’t feel it, then it must not be good. You’ve failed in some way and this feels like a failure. “Actually, no, let’s do something else.” He does this funny running-walking-tripping thing to his bag and he rummages around in it. The shaking in your shoulders are just getting warmed up when he does the exact same thing back to you, except you can see his face and his face is worse than the step could ever be. You blurt out an obnoxious sort of snort that’s supposed to be a laugh and your shock at the sound throws you from the bench. Where your just was, your feet are actually resting.

“God!” He drops the manuscript paper and hurries to pull your pathetic hide up. It takes some doing; getting you up when you’ve landed so epically retarded. Sheepish and bothered, you scoff at your lack of basic game. “You ok there?”

Grimacing, you nod, dusting off the backside of your cargo shorts. The papers are pretty much all over the hardwood, adding to the chaos that already existed in your music room. Gathering up the correct papers happens to also be a task and you admire his lack of snark even in the face of your calamity. You’re only seventeen, now growing accustomed to the number and the extra inches it gave you, and you’ll grow out of it but not quite just yet. The pages you pick up only have staves and lyrics, no title, meant to fit somewhere in the middle of a strong jazz number. You’ve probably stood there like an idiot for a while, your fingers playing out the notes on the side pocket of your shorts, when you hear his voice cut into your concentration.

“Louis Armstrong,” he says and he, abruptly, doesn’t think he’s made a good choice with the piece because he knows he’ll be looking at you and pining, “A Kiss To Build A Dream On.”

The name is lovely, the lyrics are classic and your school-boy heart is having some sort of diva moment; it’s rebelling in ways you’d only find in fiction. This is real, isn’t it? This…this doesn’t feel like failure. He’s chanting a mantra to himself, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. You’re tugging on the collar of your polo, feeling ridiculous for buttoning it all the way up but too shy to expose your collarbones. While you debate the stupidity of collarbone exposure with your irritated skin, he’s yanking on his hair. He cut it to avoid this in the first place – the pulling. By the time you realize that no one can see your collarbones because you’re wearing an undershirt – the true culprit of the itchy skin crime – and you pop open the buttons, he’s fully regretted his choice. Without much of any warning, you breeze past him, snatching the papers. The music is sultry and romantic. The music he brought wasn’t really written for a piano, it’s meant for brass. You fall into an odd sway as you tinker with it, changing things here and there until it’s smooth enough for Shirley. You fall into an easy groove, opting to play a unique little progression of your own while you wait for him.

His troubled mind sees your raised brows and the anticipation in your eyes. His voice has none of the raw allure that Louis Armstrong possesses but he gives a great effort.

“Give me a kiss to build a dream on and my imagination will thrive upon that kiss. Sweetheart, I ask no more than this; a kiss to build a dream on.”

He likes the way your eyebrows knot together while you change key. It makes it more comfortable for him to sing.

“Give me a kiss before you leave me and my imagination will feed my hungry heart. Leave me one thing before we part; a kiss to build a dream on.”

There’s always truth in the words of a great song and he finds this honesty to be brutal. The fist choking his heart can’t even comfort him - its brother’s wrapped around yours. Nothing is comforting. He rages into the dead microphone – at his feelings, at his age, at the youth obvious on your face. Four years doesn’t seem like much but to him it looks like an un-bridged chasm. With a strange ducking nod, you gesture him over, unaware of most things – that you may never grow out of. Because he believes you’re evil, he glares but moves to sit beside you anyway.

“When I’m alone with my fancies...I’ll be with you, weaving romances...making believe they’re true.”

Somehow the compression in your chest intensifies with him right next to you. You steal glances at him out of the corner of your eye and sort of scoot closer to him. It grows. He’s wondering what you’re doing and chanting to himself even louder.

“Give me your lips for just a moment and my imagination will make that moment live. Give me what you alone can give; a kiss to build a dream on.”

You’ve never liked anyone really, always buried in manuscripts and schedules but here he is, sitting right next to you, caught in your atmosphere. He’s right there. The instrumental break goes off with a few bumps but you’re still about to implode. You’ve given him everything you could’ve given him but the torn black-brown of his eyes tells you that maybe he wants more. He knows that you’re looking at him and that his mantra is failing. The number seems to matter less and less until it doesn’t matter at all. He swivels, tilting his entire body towards you, and stares back. You want to blush at the manner in which he’s looking at you but you’re still concerned. Your brow furrows and you frown, nodding at him questioningly. Bravery has hardly ever been his friend, far less his wingman, but it’s holding the hand that grabs your chin and pulls you towards him. Curious. Barely. Tenderly, he bumps his lips against yours, rubbing them for a close-mouthed moment before he pulls back. His voice shakes. “I’ll wait for you if you want more, too.”

I want you.

Too shy to say anything, you smile and nod – a habit that never dies – and peck him swiftly. It never was about his voice.

“How about we stop for now? You must be hungry, I’ll make us some fried rice.”

It was always about his heart...

...Whatever Sungmin said in his text message about Martha’s condition must not have been good news because he’s speeding and he never speeds. In an attempt to comfort him, you lift your arm, propping your elbow on the seat next to his headrest and playing with his hair. It’s grown out since he last cut it a couple months ago and he’ll probably have it shorn off again soon. At each red traffic light, you make sure to reassure him with kisses on his cheek and temple. The radio’s playing some bad pop song that you’re both ignoring. When he parks in the shelter lot, he all but pelts you with the keys before running off. You duck because the only way you would’ve been able to catch the keys would’ve been with your face. Not wanting to have to sit in the waiting area, you grab the keys, activate the alarm and haul after him. The lady at the desk, Dorothy, stops you, even though you’re with him. She starts scolding you, really ripping into you, but then, before he even has a chance to defend you, she stops.

“The boss man was just heading out,” she says with a little wink, “I didn’t want you boys in any trouble. Here.” She hands you a face mask and some latex gloves. “Dr. Lee’s in exam room one.”

He slaps the mask onto your face and you’ve somehow managed to shove two fingers into the same finger of the glove before he could pull you away. For someone with short legs, he sure moves pretty fast, making your legs tangle and you’ve stumbled more than once. It’s pathetic considering the exam room’s just down the hall. When you both fall – because you tripped at the corner and tumbled into him – through the door, Sungmin yelps his surprise. Martha’s laying on the cot, unconscious.

“What’s wrong with her?” he whispers, walking unsteadily up to her. He places a hand on the expanse of her neck. You know that touch. “Is she ok?”

“You didn't read the whole message, did you? She started acting up when one of the volunteers was feeding her and she managed to hurt her leg,” Sungmin says with a scowl, indicating to her bandaged hind leg, “I had to sedate her to get it fixed up but I figured you’d want to know that your girl got a little banged up. No offense, Kyu.” Sungmin’s teasing you but you’re too busy trying to fix your fail with the glove to glare at him.

A hand pulls the glove off of your hands, dusting the strange power from the creases of your fingers. You do manage to glare at him, though. Your face is scratching because of the stupid mask. Sungmin gets that one for you.

“Alright. Well, thanks, Min,” he says, studiously ignoring you in favour of the gloves, “I best get Kyu to practice now.” It's sort of awkward, seeing as you both thought you'd be here longer. You're not even sure if the hall would be open so early before a practice is scheduled to go off but you follow him out of the room, smiling at Sungmin. The image of a dog pops into your head, dutiful and loving, trotting after a master. You’re trotting after him, mindlessly, willingly. You could flinch at how dependant you are on him but you don’t care nor do you want to. He’s everything. Both of you are in the parking lot when he stops and looks at you with this strange expression on his face. “Would the hall be open now?” You shrug your answer. He just nods and grabs your hand, tracing your rounded knuckles. “Let’s go for some ice cream.”

If soup means he’s stressed, ice cream means he just wants to be with you. Slow. Melting. Sweet. Colourful. Your lips are sticky and sticking to his, tongues like moment blizzards in your mouths – mouth because, apparently, it’s one when you share.

* * * *

Practice is slow and more of a conference than anything else – too much talking, too little music. Your section leader is a man named Simon. He’s an American, former graduate of Julliard and in his early thirties. You’re seated on the floor with the other pianists who signed up for the tour in what should be a circle. Sheet music is scattered, encapsulated in the geometric blunder and Simon is assigning pieces. All of you know all of the pieces in event of any emergencies but Simon is aware of the arrogance that runs in the group. Yes, official decisions are for the best. You, however, are the only one with a solo and a page of it is held between your left thumb and forefinger when your phone vibrates under you. The pencil in your other hand drops as you startle but, thankfully, no one notices.

‘Sorry to disturb. In the dvd club. Horror or comedy?’

He reads your mind and you’re slightly paranoid about it.

‘It’s ok. Horror.’

A horror movie means he’d be in your lap, curled up in your arms, hiding his face in your neck. His knee might hit you in the armpit and his elbow might knock the wind out of you but his hair would be tickling your jaw and his breath, your throat. Definitely, a horror.

‘I’m regretting this already. :(’

No, no, no. You can’t have any of that. Today is a happy day and tonight will be a great night.

‘Smile…‘Moonlight’ Sonata.’

Can you feel it? I love you. You have to feel it. You hit ‘send’ before you blubber to more than yourself.

‘You play me so well. It’s not fair that you’re so good at what you do. :(’

‘ ‘Moonlight’ Sonata’ You insist, tempted to send the message multiple times.

‘No words, just you. I love you too.’

You think you’ll play tonight before the movie.

For him...

...It’s cold outside. You rush into the house, dusting snow from your hair and shoulders. He’s even got a fire going in the much abandoned hearth and it’s like heaven after a practice and a walk like that – hellish. You could just burn in his seemingly holy fire. Wasting no time, you pull off your earmuffs and mittens, coat and scarf. You hop around, yanking off your boots, before running, like a little boy, to crash in front of the fire. You’re probably sprawled out across the thick, knit rug, a giant accident waiting to happen if he doesn’t notice you there.

“Kyu? Is that you?” You think you’re about to raise your hand to thump the floor but he walks into the room and sees you. One eye cracks open to peek at him leaning over you with the largest -eating grin you’ve seen in a while. “No. Why buy a house with a fireplace and a radiator? It doesn’t make sense. Why would we need twice the heat?” He’s mocking you so wonderfully, precisely. “But, Kyu, what if the radiator breaks down? The house is kinda vintage.” At this point, both your eyes are opened but they’re narrowed and don’t make much of a difference. “Well, we’ll just buy a new radiator or fix the old one. We don’t need a house with a fireplace.

“So, Kyu, the radiator’s broken, it’s expensive to fix or replace it, do we need a fireplace?”

You nod. He might be so damn cute but he’s a force to be reckoned with and, at nineteen, you’re hardly equipped to deal with decisions of such magnitude, despite your practicality and matured mind. Grasping his wrist, you pull him down on top of you for a snuggle. He’s got on one of your sweaters and an old pair of jeans – he must’ve had them since the both of you met – and he smells like chicken, gravy and potatoes. Audibly, you sniff him, then the air around the both of you.

“I made a chicken shepherd’s pie,” he answers your foolish puppy-like behaviour, “Your mum said you and your dad liked it best around the holidays.” You nod, still sniffing him, this time with a smirk on your face and in all his tickle spots. He flops and flails, giggles and yelps. “Gah! S-s-stop, Kyu! Mercy! M-m-m-mercy! Ah, K-kyu!” His hands have found themselves, tangled in your unruly hair, damp from the melted snow, struggling to push you away with weak attempts. Then you start gumming him through the sweater. Sniff, gum. Sniff, gum. You get to his shoulder and then to his neck where he seems to have a horrible case of tickles. Sniff, bite.

“Ah, Kyu!” He actually clouts you, hard, but you’re too caught up laughing at him to really retaliate.

“Did I carry you in for your shots, boy?” He’s got this startlingly innocent look on his face – big eyes, parted lips, the works. You swear there’s even a halo but you bite him again, this round, on his fingertip. It’s more of a nip than anything and he lets you nip at the rest of his fingers, petting your head. Did he just scratch your ear? Mischievously, you sit up and glomp him, knocking him right back down onto the rug. Laughter doesn’t have enough letters to sum up what he’s doing right now. It’s large and endless. You hesitate like most boys do but he can’t see you. Blindly, you feel around for his hands, bumping them with yours but holding them fast. It’s a nerve-racking moment as your hands drag his up and over his head. You’re aware that he’s a man and you’re a boy and the four years that seemed like nothing to you when you were seventeen seem like a brick wall now. You know nothing of the past lovers and/or boyfriends he’s had or if he's had any but you know that he’s your first. There was never another before him. He’s still laughing – snickering, now – when you make your move. You duck your head and kiss him, full on the mouth. It’s the first since the kiss you shared in your garage roughly two years ago. He makes a muffled sound against your lips which only encourages you to press harder. The next move is not something you’re very sure of. His lips part and you think you’re supposed to mimic him. When you do, a supple, wet tongue slips into your mouth.

You make a sound and pull away. He thinks that he must have moved too fast, scaring you off. You think that it was one of the most magnificent things you’ve ever felt, wanting to do it again. Those lips are parting and that tongue is but you either don’t or can’t hear what he’s saying. Feeling stupid – because stupid is the only word you can feel at the moment – you attack his face again, crashing your mouth down onto his, parting your lips and waiting. His tongue slips, again, past your lips. The kiss is gentle and slow. There’s a sudden need to just kiss him and never stop. He’s warm and real.

You…love him.

“What did you say?” he asks curiously, thinking he must have heard you mumbling something. You shake your head furiously, stopping before you put a crick in your neck. Your head falls to the side, his freed hand coming up to cup your cheek. A sudden idea hits you, staggering you and lurching you up to your feet. There’s a possibility that you’re even more shocked than he is at this. A man possessed, you drag him over to the piano bench, sitting him down on it. Your long fingers draw a line down the side of his cheek. Hoping. Praying. Wanting. He should understand. He always understands. The song in your head is one you’ve been playing since you were a kid. It’s sort of special because it’s the first song your father taught you. It’s a favourite of his and timeless. You can’t think of anything more appropriate.

Your fingers automatically find the keys, drawing a map of your heart. His eyes never leave you and your glances are quickly becoming a nervous tick. Fingers play at the nape of your neck and into your hair. He knows the piece, remembering the conversation you had with him about your parents. You’d hummed it out for him, your voice green, unused and mildly horrible but he managed to catch it. He knows what this song means to you. He knows what you mean to him. You know this is what he means to you. Your eyes stray to his as you finish. Carefully, neither of you being that co-ordinated, he clambers into your lap, holding your face.

He hums a few random bars from the piece. His eyes look sad. “And here I was wishing you’d say it to me.” Your face falls hard and fast, your mood spiralling and your heart breaking. “When you knew exactly how to tell me.” Your head snaps up to look at him and for once, your eyes are atrociously large. The emotions tumbling through you make you tremble. Your shoulders shake. Your lips are in tremors. Your fingers twitch as they dent his cheek. There are hands on your face too.

Shaking.

Loving.

“I don’t need words, Kyuhyun, I just need you. I love you, too.”...

...You want to walk home because practice finishes even earlier than you’d even bother to imagine it would. There’s a wad of papers wedged under your arm, most of them extra manuscripts that Simon thinks you’d be thrilled to play. He might be right; you can imagine Shirley surrendering to some of these pieces; the romantic of the romantic, the greatest of the tragic. He might even like them, you think, but then again, he loves whatever you love to play and usually what you don’t, as well. His bias seems bad but it flatters your sheltered heart and warms the usual pallor of your face. You must have the stupidest of smiles on your face and you feel the abandoned task of zipping up your jacket but it only bothers you that you’ve stopped moving when a blond boy walks past, smiling at you. It’s confident and inviting – his smile, you mean – but his eyes are not as fearless. He’s a prodigal son, returned after a leave of absence, a god with a bow but a deviant – brave and undermining. His tight eyes are a surprise.

You walk out after them, trying to do up the front of your jacket. It’s sort of breezy out, sending your hair all over the place; into your eyes and ears. If the breeze didn’t make them sting enough, they scorch with the onslaught of your unruly strands. You’re forced to stop before you walk and run into someone, and rub your eyes. When you’ve stuffed all of your hair into a white, knit hat that you pulled out of your pocket – you wonder how it even got there – you move on, the burn still present and nagging in your eyes.

* * * * *

There’s music pouring out of every seam of the house when you get back but it’s not classical or classic in anyway. It’s loud and poppy. You feel like cringing but you know what it means. He knows your language even better than you know his and crappy music means that you don’t care about anything – the ultimate sign of peace of mind. It almost pains you, just how happy you’ve made him by doing something as simple as just being here. Well, it does pain you - all over your face and everywhere inside your chest, maybe even your stomach. He’s perfect and wonderful and the music is just another part of him that you love, now. You get the door open just in time to see him skate across the floor in his socks, Risky Business style. His grin is huge and he’s shrieking along with the song but catches sight of you standing there and splats. His fail is great but so damn cute and you can’t help but go over to him, throwing yourself down on top of him and blowing the loudest raspberries in his neck.

His laughter screams his ecstasy.

“God! I can’t believe you’re home this early.” The hat is wrenched off your head and his hands grabs unto your hair, holding your face out in front of him. “I knew you were coming early but not this early! I haven’t even started dinner yet.” His laughter stops short, his mouth forming an ‘O’. “I haven’t even started dinner yet!” Surprisingly strong, he pushes you off of him and runs into the kitchen, clanking and banging around. “It’ll be shrimp fired rice tonight!” You moan, low in the back of your throat. His fried rice kicks serious .

I want you, though, you think shakily, I want to feast on your lips and your ears, your jaw and your neck. I want to devour your worries and your reason if only to taste the nectar of your happiness and your love. Sate me. These thoughts are raw, heavy and sharp, so seductive that you can’t help but rise and stalk into the kitchen. His back’s facing you and his elbow’s working furious as he tears through the vegetables on his heavy wooden cutting board – chopping block, rather. Languidly, your arms lift and wind themselves tight around his waist, your face dropping directly into his sweet neck. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat. He smells like submission. Your lips kiss and nip, playing havoc on his concentration and he’s forced to drop his knife. You just want to love him. He just wants you to stop teasing him. Fearlessly, you his skin all the way up to his jaw, nuzzling his cheek with your nose. He’s shivering and gulping, wondering what comes next but with the kind of apprehension that’s concerned about you. One arm goes around him even more, bringing him closer to you while your other pushes your hand up to his face. It’s almost at a stop, the speed at which you’re turning his face to yours, but the look on his face – that look of unravelling – is priceless and more than worth it. When you kiss him, it’s like a first all over again because you’re shaking and he’s shaking. Your lips slip off of his, onto his chin, but they’re not disenchanted, rubbing adoringly on it. His impatience isn’t tangible until he ducks his head, forcing your focus back to his mouth. You kiss and kiss and kiss. There aren’t vegetables on the counter, wilting away or a pot on the stove and the incessant ringing coming from somewhere near you is irrelevant. You kiss and kiss and kiss until:

“Kyu, it might be important.”

Somehow, he managed to pull away from you. You pout, giving it all you’ve got but he’s still looking around you in search of his phone which is still ringing in your head like the aftermath of a hard clout. It takes him a great deal of wriggling but he worms himself out of your arms and runs to answer it. Your lankiness slumps against the counter, the burn of his lips stinging on yours and the finger you’ve pressed into them. He’s walking back into the kitchen, phone stuffed between his shoulder and cheek, his hands supporting two folders that he’s trying to read from simultaneously.

“Look, Min, we can’t afford to take any chances with that stallion. The treatment might work but his owners are influential people, they could shut down the clinic if we mess this one up.” They make a slapping sound when they hit the counter. “We can talk to them about it, get their permission then move forward. He’s a racehorse but they’re fixing to set him up as a carriage horse, show horse even. They treatment could affect his coat and they wouldn’t like that at all.”

He looks really busy and strained, causing you to feel torn between leaving him alone and holding him. You noticed that the music stopped. Pressing your swollen lips to his cheek, you touch his shoulder momentarily and walk away. The living room and Shirley call you away to leave him to his business. You must've spent about ten, fifteen minutes pressing random keys, lacking the urge to play anything to yourself other than this juvenile discordance, when he walks into the room, looking like a sunset. Stealthily - well, sort of because you've already seen him - he creeps up behind you and throws his arms about your neck.

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. They're hitting the little tickle spots you have behind your ear.

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. You've started snickering under your breath.

Kiss. Kiss. Bite. You yelp and he giggles. Your phone goes off on where you left it on the entryway table. Like the sweetheart he is, he bites you ear sharply and runs off to retrieve it for you. As he bounds back to you, you want to tell him to get down on all fours and bark.

"It's a text message," he calls, strolling back into the room with your phone held up, in front of his face. There's another fleeting thought about his glasses. With your chin, you tell him to read it out for you. "Ok, hang on."

He reads the text message, over and over, thinking there must be some mistake. It couldn’t be anything other than a mistake. He knows what Lee Donghae looks like and he clutches his turbulent stomach when blond hair and watermelon smiles flash before his bulging eyes. The feeling of sickness within him sneers at his barely successful repression of it. It feels worse for him than he though it could have ever possibly felt, knowing that this Lee Donghae plays first chair violin in the same orchestra as you. What really seems to stab him is the ambiguity of the message. Again. He reads it again. It just compounds the insecurity and anxiety that plagues him. He’s wanted so badly for things to just work. Five years for nothing? It can’t be possible. You look at him expectantly, waiting, but he isn’t moving, isn’t saying anything.

“ ‘Moonlight’ Sonata. Heart, heart, heart.”

You turn wary at his derisive tone.

“Sender: Lee Donghae.”

Your eyes narrow. He strides up to you, his hand slack and dangling, your phone slipping and falling. Thud. The fever in his eyes takes your breath, like a thief of your heart, and your life stops but it goes on because he’s still walking towards you with murder on his lips. His Docs knock against the side of your sneakers. He’s close, so close. The tension’s coming off of him in shock waves and his head hurts almost as badly as his chest. You think he’ll beg. You think he’ll cry. You’re not sure what to expect with that look in his eyes.

He laughs scathingly.

“Really, Kyu?”

And he slaps you, forcefully, across the cheek.

“Really, Kyu?!” he screams in your face, “Seriously? ‘Moonlight’ Sonata? And Lee Donghae?!” Your eyes flutter, instinctively wanting to close and block out his hurt. “Don’t think I don’t know who Lee Donghae is. ‘He’s got this vibe with his instrument, he speaks to it.’ That Lee Donghae, right?” His rage is even more powerful than his smile, it’s like he’s built on chords. There’s a desire in you to nod, just to satisfy him but when you do, he slaps you again. “And you’re not even sorry! How could you be so unaffected?!"

He's slapping you repeatedly, his anger unbridled but you don't know that he's feeling like a coward for punishing you for his own stupidity. It’s too much for him to handle with you not saying anything and those words burnt into his mind. You’re angry more than anything else at Donghae for his bad timing and affections; at yourself for not having the courage to say anything.

“All the time I spend, wasting away in this house, waiting for you and you’re off with him? I thought…I thought…” He’s losing his words again but you notice this with a cool distance. Things you’ve always feared come to life in his glare. There’s not much left of him but red lines and sharp pains. One of his slaps, slips off your cheek and strikes your mouth, causing you to bite down on your tongue. It’s enough to let you know that things have gone completely out of control and you’re heading in a similar direction.

“I thought we meant something to each other.” It’s broken, really; a dejected cadence to the rhapsody that’s been building in your heart for almost eight years. “Talk to me, Kyuhyun, tell me something different.” He’s so desperate. His fingers are digging into your cheeks now, no more slapping; only squeezing. You don’t know that he’s trying to hold onto some strand of hope. Something. Anything. It can’t be over. Not like this anyway. “Tell me that I’m wrong, that what I’m thinking is wrong.”

Melt.

Sigh.

Love.

Die.

Any hope he had dies in your silence and wide, empty eyes. His head begins this uneasy tick, like a jerking motion, and he backs away. There are suitcases packed upstairs that you don’t know about. The tour’s nearing and he’d planned to follow you. The suitcases he has, filled with neatly folded clothes and patiently awaiting the grating of a satisfied zip, have a new purpose now. Somehow, you know this; you know that he’s leaving. The look of defeat in his eyes is infinite. It’s the same look your oldest brother had when he left the home after warring with your parents to join the army; the same look your mother had in hers when the letter came; the same look in your father’s when they buried their eldest child. Infinite defeat and sadness.

His shadow leads the way upstairs and it’s only when you’re sure that he’s reached onto the second floor that you play, as mutely as possible, the notes to ‘Moonlight’ Sonata. It feels cheap and dirty, now, tainted with the grief it caused. Halfway through, you stop and rest your forehead on the keys. The sound barely even bothers you. Upstairs, he’s crying, shoving everything he’s got into the suitcases, thinking about a mute boy with a rich voice and piano fingers who he put too much faith in. He’d feel completely broken if he didn’t love you as much. He’s going it over in his head. Over and over and over. When his bags are stuffed to their maximum limit, he lifts the handles and lugs them out of the room. Down the stairs. He’s sure it’s past you but you grab his wrist, vice-like and adamant. You just need a chance to – what? Say something? Even you could scoff at that. Your eyes bore into him, burning jagged fissures that he wishes he could fill.

“Let me go, Kyuhyun.”

You shake your head but you wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. The fingers you have around his wrist constrict. He’s not going anywhere and, stubbornly, he admits it but he fights, tugging and twisting. Thoughts churn in his mind – reels and reels of thoughts – and it’s conspiratory to some extent, malicious definitely and he let’s some of it out.

“Let me go, now,” he says lowly, letting his wrist go limp, “You didn’t hesitate a moment ago.”

Insulted. Hurt. Livid. You stand, towering over him and his cruelty. He's thought about shrinking away but he's too angry, too hurt, thinking that you can't possibly feel worse than him. But you do, or at least it's somewhat close if not more. The pink on his face is red. The brown on his eyes is red. His hair is red. Red. Red. Red. With as much force as you could muster, you fling him away from you, towards the piano. When love dies, it should cease to exist. His back slams into the piano leg, hard, and tears bud in his eyes. The pain sears in a band that's pulsing, maybe spreading. You don't think that it's enough. Your indignance is more than that.

his lapels, you haul him to his feet and push him back against the piano. His body's bowed over it backwards, intensifying his discomfort and flaring his rage. You keep him there, fists planted surely on his chest. The silence is powerful, your stares are unmatched and it's a question of who breaks first. Anger and hurt, pride and sadness clash, sizzling. Then his defeat meets your disbelief and his tears fall, taking his head to the side with them. Unsure, you push the jacket off his shoulders and rip open his shirt, sending buttons flying.

He cries out.

Your fingers swipe down his flat chest and stomach, clenching fast when they hit his waistband. He's whimpering like a child, afraid of what you might do in your mood. When you tear open the button and let the zip run down, he lets out a choked-out sob. The things you could do to him tempt you but they're frightening even you. All you have is one purpose. Carefully, probably even reverently, you lower the part of his boxer briefs that cover his right hipbone because on that hipbone lies a little staff with two notes. Special. Sacred. He knows this. The very first thing you played for him, personally.

You press the first note then the second. When he sings it in his cracked-up voice he still thinks it to be better than 'Hello'.

"Ye-sung."

A chosen name, befitting and tasteful. Again. You play it again.

"Ye-sung."

It may be cold to leave him lying there, on the piano - it's hard to think of her as Shirley when you're all about him. You find your heart on the keys where you had seemingly left it. Your fingers pick out the first few bars of 'Moonlight' Sonata, much to the distaste of both of you, but then it changes.

He curls up (in) on the piano (himself), eyeing his suitcases. The heaviness in his heart could be lead for all he knows and he doesn't know why it's squeezing all that water out of his eyes.

It's not as sweet as it is bitter but it works, sharing the leaden feeling between both of you.

His heart.

Your heart.

A shared tragedy.

But it doesn't have to end in sadness, you think around the red, I could fix this. Bitter. Sour. Tart. Sweet. Saccharine. Your eyes go up to him, your fingers shift and it's perfect. It's dark outside and in the house, you must've been playing for hours. His tears have formed a little puddle on the piano. The dissaray you left him in remains and he's a beautiful muse, flawed and sad. He lays his ruins in front of you, his body blooming.

The weight on your shoulders and the spiderwebs on your face weaken him. He's not sure on what grounds, but he vindicates you of all your offences. The tattoo's blaring black at you as he moves to stand on the floor, then next to you, his shirt hanging open, his heart beating. Perfect. He sits astride the bench next to you. Your fingers shift. Stop.

Then his arms are around you, tears are in your eyes and you don't realize just how scared you were until he touched you; how scared you are. Could this be a goodbye? Not wanting to be without him, you cling to him. His voice doesn't sound lovely but his words are glorious.

"Don't worry."

When he speaks, it pours out for the both of you:

"I'm sorry."