Page 28 of A Wistful Symphony

When the music ends, you ask for another. A familiar piece creeps into my mind, so subtly I never felt it coming. Echoes of a long-lost past. Before I know it, the opening cadence echoes through the sitting room.

Your eyes widen. “Is this the song you wrote back then?”

“Yes,” I say in the middle of an arpeggio. “Don’t know why I thought about it now.”

“It’s better than I remember.”

“Well, it evolved a tad after you helped me compose it.”

“It’s beautiful. Does it have lyrics?”

I shake my head. “Never seemed to find the right words.”

“Shame.”

“Do you want to play it with me?” I ask on a whim.

“How? Do you have a violin?”

“Well, no, but I figure you remember this one and can still play some piano.”

Amusement lights your face. “I can try.”

I open up some space on the bench so you can sit beside me.

You stick to simple chords, but I’m surprised how well you remember this song.

It was written at a gruesome time in my life, one in which you played a significant part, and it holds a special place in my heart.

I’m glad it carved a spot in yours as well.

“I should’ve stayed by your side.”

“Hm?” I whisper, distracted by the music.

“When it happened. I should’ve stuck with you. Defended you.”

Please, don’t go there . I made my peace with what happened and decided to let it all go.

But I cornered myself in this trap. This damn song carries too many memories, and it’s inevitable that our past would rise with the sound of it.

Do I want to poke the beast, or do I want to smother it?

I don’t know. I don’t know. But I can’t run from this conversation anymore.

I sigh. “Andrew, it wasn’t your fault.”

“But you stood by me every single time. Even when you shouldn’t have. When I absolutely didn’t deserve it. I should have done the same.”

“It didn’t matter, anyway,” I mutter bitterly.

“Why not?”

I glance down, lips pressed tight. “It wasn’t enough to make you stay.”

“Is that what you think?” You huff and take your hands from the piano. “Sometimes I want to shake you, Eric.”

I stop the music, resting my hands on my thighs. “Then why did you leave?”

There it is. The million-pound question that’s haunted my thoughts for a decade.

“I was a mess, Eric. Rock-bottom mess. I couldn’t care less what happened to me, but then I started to ruin your life as well. I could not let that happen.”

I remain silent, soaking in your answer. It was all for my sake? All that suffering … because you cared? A strange way to show it, indeed.

“I needed to get clean and get better,” you continue. “It was something I had to do on my own.”

“I know; it’s just, I thought—”

“You could save me?”

My gaze falls to my lap, my only answer a defeated shrug. Still, you smile at me, bittersweet. “You always give me more than I’m worth. It’s one of my favourite things about you.”

A fond smile colours my lips. “It’s called love, Andrew, and you absolutely deserve it.”

Shit. Fucking shit. Why did I have to say that?

With wide eyes, your mouth parts once or twice, attempting an answer. You look down at last, fidgeting with a key on the piano. “You love me?” Your voice is no more than a whisper.

I can’t go back now. It’s too late. “I did back then. Now I’m not sure.”

I resume the melody, foolishly hoping the music will carry my words into oblivion. You, however, do not take your gaze away from the piano. I softly weave in the cadences of the bridge, the one you helped me write, when your voice freezes my fingers.

“I can’t be friends with you.”

My hands fall to my lap. Slowly, I turn.

“Why?”

I stare deep into the greenish flecks of your eyes, dreading your next words. Throat tight and fighting for breath, waiting for you to tell me this is it. This is goodbye.

You don’t.

Your kiss comes so quickly, your mouth clashes against mine before I can react.

I shut my eyes as you entangle your fingers through the locks on the back of my head.

My arms go around you like second nature, gripping your shirt so tightly I could pulverise it between my fingers.

You’re here. With me. In my arms. How long have I waited for this?

Our kiss is rushed, desperate. We gasp for air, only to resume it all over again. You press your lips on the corner of my mouth, my face, the angle of my jaw, like I’m about to fade at any second. I barely know if I’m awake or not. Certainly feels like a dream.

Except in my wildest dreams, I wouldn’t think you’d lean me on the piano, my butt making dissonant chords resound throughout the flat.

Your fingers make their way to my chest, searching for an opening in the shirt to reach for my skin.

I slide my hands down your back and grip your cheeks, pressing you tighter against my body.

As if that were possible. The grinding makes you moan against my lips.

“Sofa, now,” I demand.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

On our short way to the piece of furniture, our shoes disappear.

I toss away your T-shirt, and you almost finish with the stubborn buttons on my shirt.

All between delirious kisses, never stopping to see—or think of—what we’re doing.

It’s all too natural, having you here, skin against mine, leaving a trail of wet hickies on my neck.

It feels right.

I play with the line of toned muscles on your abs before going down your jeans. You gasp and groan against my neck when I grip between your legs, feeling your boner against my palm. A devious smile curves your lips when you nibble my lower lip, your steely groin grinding against mine.

I’ve never been so hard.

“Condom and lube. First drawer in my nightstand.”

“I don’t remember you being this bossy,” you jest, rubbing a thumb on my nipple.

“Will you get it or not?”

“Yes, sir.” You lick my lips before getting up.

Alone in the sitting room, I pass one hand over my face, my mind racing a million thoughts. Don’t , I tell myself. Whatever this is, all the uncertainty, all the anxiety, is worth it if it means I have you with me. Even if it’s for one night.

I get up from the sofa, determined to not let my mind get in the way. My button-down slides off my shoulders and I remove my already unbuttoned—when did you do that?—trousers. I fold them neatly, concentrating on the task and urging the thoughts away.

Your laugh makes me turn. You’re fully undressed as well, like Michelangelo’s David —with a considerably more impressive cock—leaning against my bedroom door frame.

“What?” I ask.

“You. Butt-naked, folding clothes on the piano.”

“So?”

“Is it weird that it turns me on?”

I laugh. “Shut up and get that hot arse over here.”

You comply, the lustful smirk never leaving your lips.

Our mouths devour each other again, and we stumble back until we’re once more on the sofa.

Your hand goes up and down my cock, and I shamelessly shriek, gripping your arse.

With a sweet kiss on my shoulder, you turn me face down and trail your tongue down my spine until you spread my cheeks.

“Mother of—” I shiver head to toe when your warm tongue reaches my rim. Your silent laugh vibrates against my skin as you place a gentle kiss on the base of my spine. Then you continue to arouse me, one finger, then another, until I’m too delirious to even think.

“Andrew,” I pant, not wanting to waste another second.

Catching my cue, you pull back and wrap yourself with rubber. The lube is ice against my boiling skin, and I tremble when you help me get on my knees in order to sit on your lap. I arch my back and lower down carefully, sucking my teeth as you stretch me, revelling in the sweetest of pains.

You wrap your arms around my torso, thrusting your hips as I move up and down. My groans are passionate and loud, and there’s no complaint when I carve my short nails on your thigh. Your grip grows tighter as you kiss my neck and jaw, and I let my head loll back, surrendered into your embrace.

You smear the slick tip of my cock with your thumb and start rubbing it. I wrap my free hand around yours, our grips tight together. There’s something almost too intimate in doing this, pleasuring myself through your hand.

An intrusive thought comes, then another. I clench my jaw, struggling to let them be. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. All I can hope for is that I remain hard until they pass. That you stay with me through all of it. You do. Such a diligent man, fucking me into oblivion.

All these days, I’ve been fooling myself into thinking I would be alright with you as a friend. A mindless manoeuvre, designed to keep you by my side. To not let the door close forever.

Desperate. And na?ve.

I want you, Andrew. I’ve wanted you with every depth of my soul for ten long years. Burying myself in work and keeping every man at bay because none of them were you. This moment is too important to be an impulsive fuck on my sofa. To let this be a one-night stand, it would kill me.

And I wish you to feel the same.

“Andrew, do you … do you want to go to my bedroom?”

You cease moving and consider it for a second. “I’d love to.”

I delicately detangle myself from you, moaning at the sweet and sour sensation on my tender skin.

My hand searches for your arm, and I’m eager to pull you up from the sofa and hurry to my bed.

I’m inviting you to my most private places, Andrew.

Opening gates and blasting walls to let you in once more.

I hope I know what I’m doing.

Leering, you take my lips, and we fall on the mattress in a chaotic embrace, our skin refusing to be a single millimetre apart. I put my hearing aids on the nightstand, afraid to cover them in sweat, and turn to lie on all fours. You, however, hold me by the arm.

“No. I want to look at you.”

I smile and give you a kiss as my legs wrap around your waist. With panting breaths, my moans struggle to escape as you enter me once more. Tender, careful.

Almost too careful.

“I thought you wanted to fuck me.”

Your brows knit. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I grab the back of your hair and pull your chin up, so I can suck deeply on your neck. “You won’t.”

“As you wish,” you tease. My howls fill the room when you thrust deeper.

As our delirious tongues crave each other’s taste, a few locks of your fringe tickle my forehead. Your skin smells of cotton-scented soap, aftershave and sweat, and the combination makes me lose my mind.

Pulling back, your eyes flicker in the dim light.

I’m trapped in them, in your half-agape mouth gasping for air, in your flushed cheeks.

Grasping your arse, I pull you deeper into me, and a guttural groan escapes your throat.

You lean your forehead on mine and pound harder.

Our voices grow into a lustful choir, and I close my eyes, letting myself fall into this fever dream.

“Andrew … I’m going to—” I moan, not wishing to end it so soon.

“Don’t hold back.”

You lock our lips just in time for the wave of ecstasy to overtake me; my cry gets trapped in your mouth as I spurt all over myself. A few more thrusts, and it’s your turn to come undone inside of me. We pant together, bodies blazing hot and frenzied, tingling in utter bliss.

You drop your head on my shoulder as I gasp for air, unable—and unwilling—to move.

“I almost forgot how good that was with you,” you say near my good ear.

“Same,” I reply, wrapping my arms around your back. Your entire body is damp, and the stickiness between us surfaces the contamination thoughts. “Do you mind if I ask you one thing?”

“Sure.” You raise your head to look at me.

“Can we please take a shower?”

“Eric!” You burst into laughter, hiding your face in the crook of my neck.

I chuckle as well. “Sorry. I can’t help it.”

“Alright,” you say, getting a hold of yourself. “Guess there’s plenty of fun we can have in the shower. Just let me catch my breath, okay?”

You rest on my shoulder, and I caress a few strands of damp, overgrown hair. I feel your warm breath against my neck, the delicate rising of your chest over mine, and wonder when the last time was that I felt so still.

I’m so fucking lost.