Noir

He is all hands on the piano: grand, beautiful, elegant. Bonny, slender, pale fingers pressing keys, softly making the cords reverberate across the room, filling the venue, straight to his ears, tiny butterflies gracing, gliding over his flesh with every new cadence of notes, swirling in him like thinker-bells. Fingers that move like lightning, flashes of cream above pearl and nacre. Strong tips caressing the surface of cold music sheets, put there only to impress but never needed, never required for him who knows the music by heart. Capable, deft, skilled fingers playing all over his head, playing Liszt and Chopin and his name in between – mumbled like a prayer only for Minho to hear, for him to imagine and dream.

He stares at them, watches them tracing curves and lines, changing the beat, the rhythm, breaking the stillness and the monotony. Fingers that are captivating, fascinating, fingers he wants to have playing on him like a symphony, touching all the keys in his body, turning him into a cacophony of notations and harmonies, creating a new melody where his fingers are stocking him again and again, on repeat, an endless song for his endless thirst of him, the intense wave of lust and crave taking over him like the moon oscillating over the sea, shedding silver and controlling its tides, rising and falling, marking the tempo of his own heart.

Minho glances at them, moving carefully, minutely, tenderly gracing the piano, pressing just enough for the notes to whirl and he closes his eyes and slides another sip of whiskey that melts his throat and numbs his feelings, picturing these hands tracing the outline of his body, brushing his hair and caressing his bones until they are nothing but dust and ashes until he is all consumed and done.

The flux of his hands is methodical, rhythmical, hypnotic, a magical motion that transfixes him, that has him captive, the pace of his heart veiling the music, ricocheting inside oh his ears, etched and embedded inside of his eyelids. And his name escapes even when he tries to catch it, trap it inside of his mouth, where it must belong, but it comes like a puff of smoke and Minho watches it goes, unable to capture it as it has him enraptured, enamoured of the songs he plays, the face hide by the shadows of the grand piano, the eyes that hardly leave the front to glance at him for a moment, to grace him with warmness, brown and golden and keen, a kindred spirit.

And he is not prepared for what's coming on next, from the taste of his voice, melodic, clear velvet, silver drops rolling under his tongue, ready to be devoured, savoured until the last note, white and pure. It makes him shiver, anticipating what his mind is already planning, what might happen later on, what he longs for – for this man to stop playing music and start playing with him, undoing all the places that are awaiting already, twisting and teetering, prepared, already excited for something he is so much reckoning.

He is a wonder and Minho stares at him in wonderment, wondering if he would ever have a chance to feel his words engraved under his flesh, tearing up all of his bones. If he would have him to his own, owning him like an old song, playing with his body like he is playing the piano right in front of him, stealing soft glances in his direction, taking his breath within.

The music is soft, blending with the substance of his fingers on the keyboard, the slow dance he is tracing above the pearly surface. And it deserves another drink, the view displayed, so great, so beautiful, it is smoothing his edges, all the resistance – if ever he had one, - wrecking him with the impact of a hammer, hollowing the walls, defeating any consideration, any reason that isn’t him nesting by his side, the moon bright, shinning over his cheeks, colouring him noire and black.

He swirls the glass and smiles at him, encouraged by the swivel of his voice, dark and dangerous, a sin he very much wants to commit - to drink up this song, to swallow him whole.

Like this, with the faint, dim music and his cigarette lit, the smoke blowing all around his figure, he looks out of old photography: all white and black and disused line, blurred by time and groping, and he drags his , red ashes whirling like fireflies, illuminating him, his pale features, his pretty smile, the sparkles inside of his eyes. The more he observes, the more he likes what it is displayed, the texture of his voice, the addictive way he has to discourse his fingers, strolling them, vibrating the cords along with the pulse of the blood burning below his bones, quaking inside with every glance he spares on him and Minho doesn’t want this thing they have, this game, this situation where he takes it all, drinking the gloss of his lips from afar, his soul quivering at the pace of the sequence of songs he produces, that he plays on the piano – Debussy and Beethoven and blues and jazz blending in the air, a procession of notes without sense that numb the urge with the beauty of them, the sound that beats like a miracle, the secret that keeps the stars apart. And he has him ruined, torn, bleeding all over the music of his heart – shot-downed, drowning into the ocean that he is, the immense expanse of all that he is, all that is been suggested, alluded, the insinuations that comes within the change of seasons, the flooding of the passing melodies. Minho looks at him sternly, eager to get to discover more, to ripe his flesh and undercover his soul, unravel his name so he can turn it into his new favourite word.

As much as he wants for the performance to be over, for him to be free from the obligations of his mundane job, a part of him craves for more, for this opportunity to see but not be seen to keep on going so he can memorise every nip of his body, to take in all of his proportions, to draw his profile against the darkness of the night when he is alone and solitude comes to tag along with him, numbing his heart. He wants him, wants his fingers to slide under his shirt, his blazer, get down to trace his waistcoat, his hands busy on his hair, long, curly, a desire that feels like a marvel. Down to his trousers, travelling over long legs, discovering patches of skin, inches of sparkling flesh. Maybe it is better like this, just a fantasy, just an illusion living under his core, pulsing in rose over his cheeks. Perhaps the living him is different from all that he has imagined and Minho doesn’t have the energy to be broken, to find out that his dreams are nothing but sand, nothing but filaments of his feverish mind – and that he can’t have what he longs for. So he allows the nicotine to cloud his face, veiling the image of him, fogging him, coating him with haze and daze so he looks even more unreal, even more out of a ravel, out of remembrance.

It takes ten more minutes for the show to be done, a forthcoming doom for he is leaving and Minho is still waiting, still daydreaming, caught up in his illusion of him – of his voice opening him up, his lips stretching over his bones, kissing the air hot. He has exerted all of his patience, all of his willpower to not get to him, interrupting him by holding his hands, throwing them over his own shirt, propelling him to touch him, to stop messing with his wits and mess with his body. Minho has been focusing on his hands, trying hard to not be lured like a sailor by the music of the sea – but this man is so much more like a mermaid, it is impossible to resist, to not be pulled in. He blinks, the smoke a morning dew pearling his view, the man coming to him, a drink on his hand, a smile that is meant only for Minho: elegant and perfect, a gentleman. He takes his hat off, a mock of a curtsey, his hand taking Minho’s – strong, slender, better than imagined.

“My name is Jinwoo, Kim Jinwoo.”

And he doesn’t need to know more – he has it all, he has Jinwoo trapped inside of his arms, he has him tangled around his lips, his eyes gleaming, expecting just this.