Recommended Listening:
Mozart - Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
Shiina Ringo - Heisei Fuuzoku
Hagi Plays J.S. Bach (Furukawa Nubuo)
You listened to him play, head in hand, dress matching eyes, hair piled upon hair. The style of this age was elegance, all smooth lines and piles of jewelry. Glitter and paint. It suited you perfectly in this incarnation; jaded and brilliant, you were willing to sit back and be admired during the day in return for your trials of the night.
All these Europeans were here to see him. Him, not you. You were just the strange Asian lover who funded his music and kept all other enquiring parties away. The admiration and envy following your every step in this hyper-aware society was inevitable, but you had only been here a short time. Even now, as you sat in your reserved box, people kept stopping by to pass a greeting that, if returned, would unlock conversations for months to come. You were just an oddity - but that would wear off. His music would last forever.
She thought this and snorted mentally. As if high social standing automatically came with good taste. They talked through the entire show!Of course, right now it was only Mozart and only the resident string orchestra, so she could live with it. After the obligatory conversation and refreshment period the uncultured mob would sit down once again and that lone cello that had used to be yours would procure an appropriately reverent silence.
No one played like Hagi.
Dozing slightly as the second movement rose, as slow and coy as its name would suggest, you could only think of him. Wishing that your relationship was a "Romance Andante" - loving and slow. You had come to remember your previous lives many years ago and had long thought over the pain that you had put that lone cellist through. You had been making up for it, for some small part of it, here. He looked so far away from you when playing on that stage, the light shining off his immaculate instrument. So far away and so perfectly happy. If only you could free him from the horrible fate you had bound him to so long ago. He said he loved you, almost once a day, but -
"Oh, stop this childish wistfulness."
You say it aloud, startling the man sitting next to you, but you ignore him. Settling down, you are determined to enjoy the last movement with its giant crescendo and grudgingly flawless first violin.
Clapping indolently with the rest as the violin soloist stood and bowed with the conductor, you had turned and left before the rest of the orchestra had even stood.
His room was downstairs, under the flourishes, velvet, and gold that covered the halls and seating. You could find it easily, now, after half a dozen shows in this theatre. Your dress brushed the floor and whispered behind you as doors were held open and musicians half-dressed and ragged-looking crew members dashed around you. You were going against the flow, but if you kept your spine straight and your chin high anyone would move out of your way. It was a trick you had learnt a long time ago, in a younger lifetime, and it still triggered some innate human habit.
The area around his room was hushed, in startling contrast to everywhere else. As you slipped through the door, he didn't look up from the piano where his long fingers picked out a familiar tune. You whisper his name and wrap your perfumed arms around his neck. He leans into your touch, back pressing against your chest, pausing in his nervous habit. You are feeling melancholy and wish you could order the entire crowd out of their seats so he could play for you alone. The two of you, alone in that giant gilt hall with the cello's tones thrumming through your bodies.
It is as though he can read your mind, though you wouldn't be surprised after all this time.
"I will be playing for you."
The sound of his voice still jerks at your gut, the same way that instrument does.
You lean forward and kiss him, unable to hide the tenseness in your body. You hope that there aren't any attacks tonight, because you might get carelessly violent in this kind of mood. He kisses you back, but you can tell that his mind wants to be on his music and not on you. So you give him one last stroke and withdraw, stalking your way back up the stairs to your box. You will have some more wine brought in and will draw the hangings all the way between your and the neighboring box.
As expected, his bow is perfect, his breath echoing all the way up to you in the near-perfect acoustics of the auditorium. You praise the genius of the designer for the millionth time and fill your heart with Bach, as written for solo cello.
You have heard it said by a master cello-maker that the notes echoed by his craft are understood to reverberate at exactly the right pitch to be felt in a person's very soul. You could only agree with him. It had always been your favorite instrument, but had never pursued it with any dedication. Now, it was Hagi's and it was one thing that you had promised you would never do again.
His talent would age like the wine in the glass at your hand, becoming both more mellow and more solemn. The exuberant off-notes of his youth would never return, but instead would come a depth that no young human could reproduce.
And so you couldn't take your eyes off him as he played, just like everyone else in the audience. You were captured by his spell as surely as he had yours.
Later that night, or early the next morning, you step out of the carriage in your velvet heels and onto the doorstep of your townhouse. The door is already opened for you and a fire lit in the grate. He is willing to smile at you now, the adrenaline of the show not quite worn off. The cello case is set reverently in its corner by the music stand and miniature grand piano. You allow yourself to be gathered in his arms in front of the fire, in stark contrast to what happened before. You rest your head on his shoulder and he holds you there for a moment before lifting you into his arms and carrying you up the stairs. The servants are used to your strange antics by now.
Your hair tumbles out of its net and your gloves peel off finger by finger. The dress has hooks all down the back, but his fingers are deft enough to bring them apart in moments. You lay there and let him do it, suddenly too tired to put any active motion into this. You are greedy after all and you just want him to worship you as he always has.
Once you are naked except for the heavy gold around your neck, wrists, and fingers, he steps back and undresses himself. The jacket had been discarded at the door, but the tie and the shirt take long enough. The pants and socks are last, leaving him as smooth and desirable as he had ever been. His body looms above yours on the broad bed, manhood awakening to a feral interest. You bite your lip in response and you feel a little interest awaken in yourself.
His kisses are dry and soft, but they leave you gasping all the same. His hands knead your breasts and you quiver where he touches. He knows how to play you like his instrument, fingers pressing in all the right places and drawing you out until you sing for him. The crescendo of ecstasy - you can only hold on to him as he finishes you both.
As you finally rest underneath the covers, sweaty and dozing off, he smoothes your hair away from your face and you whisper his name sleepily.
"I love you," he murmurs against your head, knowing you can feel every word vibrate through you.
"I know," you whisper back, pressing against him as tight as possible.
You heard it in his song.