Page 25 of A Wistful Symphony

“No, it’s fine. Talking about my family doesn’t bother me. It’s just ….” A strained grin returns to your face. “I’ve never told anyone I’m autistic before.”

The answer catches me off guard and a tender smile comes out effortlessly. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“It’s nothing.”

Except it’s everything.

You chuckle, shaking your head, and reach for the second bag on the table, revealing another triple set of packages. “Fancy some dessert? There’s lemon pie, sticky toffee pudding and chocolate-almond fudge. I only eat lemon pie, but I can share it if you’d like.”

This time, I cannot hold back a laugh. “One thing you need to know about me is I’m always up for dessert.”

The conversation hovers over merrier topics, and we spend a long time discussing our pop music favourites.

I spill out all my geeky knowledge about Sir Elton John in a poor attempt to turn you into a fan, and you do the same, trying to enrol me in your obsession about electric violin players like Vanessa Mae and Lindsey Stirling.

“A while back that’s what I wanted to do, you know?” You let out a dreamy sigh. “Some out-of-the-box performances, shake up the classics and such. But I’m not good at being the centre of attention and crowds make me nervous if I’m not high. So that was a pretty dumb idea.”

The fact that you’re so blithe about taking drugs weighs heavy on my stomach—which might be a bit hypocritical given how our relationship started—but I push my worries away to not kill the mood.

“Not at all.” I shake my head. “I’m sure there’s a way around it, and you already have the most important things, the talent and technique. Are you still practising?”

“Yeah, but not as much as I’d fancy. This flat is not soundproofed, and the neighbours complain if I play too long.

” You shrug. “I’ve found other places, though.

There’s a unit with a broken lock at the self-storage where I go when I want some quiet time.

And there’s the river, as well. They built a pier behind this complex and I love to watch the water and play. It’s my favourite spot.”

The dazzling image of you caressing the fingerboard and weaving your bow by the riverbed takes my mind and I can’t shake it off.

“Show me,” I say on a whim. “I’d love to watch you play.”

Silence drags long enough for me to fear you’ll refuse.

“Hang on,” you say at last. “Let me grab my violin.”

You disappear inside the bedroom and come back carrying the case. Then you take me by the wrist and hasten through the door, fast enough for me to almost forget my jacket. You rush down the flights of stairs, and I strive to catch up, amused by your eagerness.

Not a soul roams the garden as we come out of the building, and the crescent moon, nearly swelled to the brim, lays a silvery filter upon the poorly kept grass.

Nature stripped of Technicolor. Beyond a well-trodden path through unruly shrubberies and a curtain of reed lies the pier.

A simple wooden structure, no more than five meters long, just wide enough for us to walk side by side.

The river water is dark, undisturbed by a single ripple, and only the faint sounds of nocturnal creatures cut through the silence.

It’s as if the whole world stopped to hear you play.

You place the case carefully on the ground and take your time tuning and adjusting your violin. I sit in front of you, goose-pimples of anticipation prickling my arms.

“Ladies, gentlemen and whoever falls in between, brace yourselves for tonight’s exclusive live performance!” The jest is accompanied by a flourish of your violin bow and a long bow.

“Whoo-hoo,” I exclaim through cupped hands, clapping profusely afterwards.

Your bow arm hangs in mid-air for a moment, awaiting something I cannot guess. When the hair touches the strings, I recognise the song in an instant. The last movement of Vivaldi’s “Winter.” Your favourite, if I recall correctly.

The arrangement, however, is different. Modern, livelier, and oh so intense.

You sway with the music as if possessed by it.

I’ve never seen you play like this. Your technique was always flawless, yet controlled.

Almost too perfect. Now you’ve completely surrendered, mistakes and all, letting yourself go in emotions translated into music.

The melody is soft and mysterious at times, and at others so gripping it makes my body tremble.

It’s so much like you. And it’s absolutely beautiful.

I rest my chin on my knuckles and lean forward, mesmerised by your every move. After the last long note, you pant, a line of sweat rolling down your temple.

“You changed Vivaldi,” I whisper, barely breathing.

“It’s a work in progress, but I like how it’s turning out.”

“I love it.” My smile is so wide I can’t contain it. “It’s perfect.”

“Thanks.” You grin sheepishly in the dark as you lay the violin inside its case.

Your palm runs over your sweaty face when you sit next to me, facing the still waters. You roll the sleeves of your jumper to ward off the heat, but suddenly push them back down—not fast enough to prevent me from noticing your arms. They’re covered in thin silver scars, some still fresh.

I lie on the rustic wooden floor, worry gnawing through my heart. You mirror my movement, and we remain quiet, gazing at the stars for a long time.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, my throat hoarse.

“Do what?” Your whisper is distant.

“Hurt yourself.”

Silence stretches for agonizing seconds.

“You don’t have to wash your hands when someone touches them, but you do it anyway.”

“ Touché .” A bittersweet grin twists my lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Bad things happen to good people.”

Your words sink deep within me. “I suppose you’re right.”

A rustle catches my attention, and I find you lying on your side, facing me.

“May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What’s it like? The OCD, I mean.”

“Like a voice inside my head saying the scariest bullshit all the fucking time.” I take a deep breath and entwine my fingers over my stomach. “Like if I don’t wash my hands, my mum will die of sepsis.”

Your brows knit deep. “But that makes no sense.”

I snort. “Welcome to my brain.”

You glance down and ponder for a moment. “And what’s the worst part of it?”

I swallow hard and clench my jaw. No one’s dared to ask me that question before, and yet I have the answer on the tip of my tongue.

“Not knowing where my illness ends and I begin.” The words come out like tar through a funnel. “When I can’t tell which thoughts are mine, and which ones are the OCD.”

You bite your lower lip, and I avert my gaze, unable to stand the doleful look that will surely follow.

The starry sky stares back at me in all its multitudes, and I breathe deeply, finding it easier to let out truths to the massive, silent void.

“I often wonder if I actually like the piano or if it’s something I’ve been obsessed with for far too long and can’t tell the difference anymore. ”

“Rubbish.”

Startled by your bluntness, I face you.

“Anyone who’s spent two minutes with you can tell how much you love music. This is you, Eric, not your illness.”

A soft smile blooms on my lips. Knowing that you see me so clearly, beyond all the shit, matters to me more than anything. It makes my heart so full it might burst out of my ribcage. You’re a wonder, Andrew Westcott. I never thought I’d find someone like you.

“You too, you know?” I reply, trying to mask my warm cheeks. “No one changes Vivaldi like that just to please their father.”

This rips a soft giggle out of you. “I guess even if our lives go to shit, at least we have that to hold on to. At least the music is real.”

“Yeah.” I breathe in your words along with the evening breeze and close my eyes. “The music is real.”

We remain still for quite some time, digesting our truths under the moonlit skies.

There’s only your gentle breathing and the distant murmur of running water.

Your knuckles brush against mine, our fingers teasing each other in a tentative dance of soft skin and static.

Though we barely touch, the thoughts still come, so I begrudgingly recoil my hand and rub it with sanitiser.

Grey murky clouds slowly blanket the moon, and with a foreboding flash of lightning, the sky weeps. Tiny droplets sprinkle all around, kissing our cheeks and dewing our clothes. But despite the impending drizzle, we don’t move.

“We should probably head back,” I say when the droplets get heavier.

With closed eyes, you whisper. “I don’t mind a bit of rain.”

“Me neither, but your violin might disagree.”

“Oh shit, you’re totally right.” You jolt upwards and cradle the violin case under your jumper like a newborn. “Come on, Eric, we’ve got to hurry!”

As soon as we step off the pier, it pours.

We run through the soggy pathway, trainers squishing in mud and newly formed puddles, and long before any coverage is within reach, our clothes start sticking to our skin.

We enter the flat soaking wet, and I linger by the doorway, afraid to cover the place in filth.

You grimace, disgusted, and throw your mucky trainers and wet socks across the sitting room like they carry the plague, abandoning me to check your violin.

“Did it survive?” I decide to go barefoot as well.

“Yeah, the case got most of it.” You loosen the strings one by one and relentlessly dry the neck and body with a flannel. “There’s a fresh towel in the bathroom if you fancy a hot shower.”

I leave my jacket by the door and do as you say, washing myself as quickly as possible so I won’t use all your hot water.

My unwearable T-shirt is left behind, but I keep the damp jeans on, lacking the courage to show more than my skinny, bare torso.

Back in the sitting room, you wear nothing but a fresh jumper and boxers and I clutch the towel around my shoulders, trying hard not to stare.

You amble towards me, soaked hair falling in unruly curls over your forehead and dripping starry droplets over your freckles. The desire etched across your face makes me hold my breath.

“You’ll catch pneumonia if you wear wet clothes in this cold.

” A playful smirk dances on your lips as you fidget with the waistband of my jeans.

An inch away, you whisper, “Is this okay?” My heart thumps so fast I can only nod.

“Have you ever done this before?” A timid shake of my head.

“No worries. If anything bothers you, you tell me, okay?”

You slowly unbutton my jeans and open the zipper, giving me tingles. My clothing falls to the floor. You remove the towel from my shoulders, leaving me only in my briefs. I’m awfully exposed, and yet comfortable being stripped by you. How can this be?

I wrap my fingers around the bottom of your jumper and glance up, waiting for your consent.

You smile and raise your arms, letting me toss it away with the rest of our clothes.

Your mouth clashes into mine right after, and we kiss our way desperately to your room.

Before I know it, our underwear is gone, and we’re wrapped around each other on the bed.

Your palm slides down my navel, caressing my throbbing groin. It’s so good it aches. I do the same, both of us pleasuring one another while sultry growls are trapped between our eager tongues.

I’m rolled on my back, and you rush your lips to my ear. I grab you by the hair to urge your mouth back to mine, but the nibbles on my earlobe make me forget what I was doing.

“I believe you’re hard enough,” you purr, electrifying my whole body as you suck my neck. However, your fresh saliva on my skin makes something rush through my mind.

He’s going to give you mono.

No. Not now.

I ignore the intrusive thought and continue to revel in your wet kisses on my chest, the tiny bite you leave on one nipple and the trail down you make with your tongue.

You’ll catch herpes. Chlamydia. Hepatitis. HIV.

The thoughts keep coming, louder and louder, and my breath quickens at the familiar rush of anxiety. When you lick my navel, I flinch.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“I’m fine, go on,” I mutter through gritted teeth, trying to remain calm.

You continue your way down, but when your sweet mouth goes around my cock, the thoughts scream.

Please. Not now!

It’s no use. I hyperventilate and shiver, gripping the comforter and biting my lower lip hard in a pitiful attempt to get a hold of myself. I wish to stay with you. Eagerly. But every cell in my body urges me to flee.

Noticing my distress, you break contact at once. “Eric, are you alright? Did I hurt you?” You crawl back up. “Don’t you want this? It’s okay if you don’t.”

“No! I want it. I want it more than anything. It’s just—” I shut my eyes and wince. “These stupid thoughts keep coming and I can’t shake them off. I’m so sorry.”

I breathe deeply, pressing my eyes tighter to prevent tears from emerging. This is humiliating enough without me crying in front of you. I’m such a mess. Why can’t I even have sex with the boy I like without having an episode? How fucking useless I am.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you say in a soothing tone. “We can always try it later.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t. It’s not your fault. Can I hug you?”

I recoil, my body quivering. “No. Better not right now.”

“Okay. We can just lie down like this. It’s alright. Everything is alright.”

I stare deep into the greenish flecks of your eyes, taken aback by such kindness.

People are not like this, Andrew. Not by a long shot.

The first guy I ever kissed back in London was quick enough to out me to the entire school when I panicked and said we couldn’t be physical.

Guys will always be jerks given the opportunity, and everything I’ve ever witnessed has only served to prove it.

And yet here you are.

“Thank you,” I whisper, swallowing hard.

You smile and place a soft kiss on my forehead.

“Don’t mention it.”