Sixsmith. Dearest Sixsmith. He reclines lazily against the headboard, quietly allowing you to study him while the rest of Cambridge sleeps. He is not used to being so much looked at. He told you once that he never thought of himself as beautiful. You don't think you have the words to describe how passionately you disagree, so for now you remain quiet. The corners of his mouth turn up into a shy, yet seductive grin. He is a tease without meaning to be. It's part of why you love him.
And any other man who is remotely acquainted with the likes of you would warn him that to you he is nothing more than an instrument, that he is simply an amusement to be discarded once you have mastered him, but you know better. He is not an instrument. He is everything but that. He is the music to be read, the conductor and the symphony, and he performs for you alone. You cannot play him though not for lack of trying, but your Sixsmith is too clever for you. You'd never admit this to him but it's the truth.
All you can do is listen. Listen and watch.
His mind knows nothing of music, but his hands do. They travel a gentle path, tracing the curvature of your shoulder, spine, waist and back again. He conducts so quietly, effortlessly.
You splay your fingers across the stave of his ribcage feeling the tempo of his heartbeat against your palm. It is steady and rhythmic and everything you're not. It reminds you that there is time, at least for tonight, so you move slowly. You place staccato kisses along his chest, catching the grace note of his laugh on your tongue as you reach his mouth, subtle but oh, so clear.
"You are unusually quiet tonight, Robert," he observes.
"I'm studying," is your reply.
He smirks and lets you kiss him again.
"Are you learning anything?"
"I can't say I'm learning anything. I never do seem to learn my lessons, do I?"
He laughs again, low and damnably wondrous. "No," he agrees. "You never do. But if it takes making the same mistake over and over for you to come back to me then I suppose I don't mind."
You shrug your shoulder, an expression of nonchalance that comes naturally to you but some nights you wish it wouldn't, nights when you are in a different bed with a different lover who could never deserve such a title. And yet.
You light a cigarette. "No matter. I am simply memorizing you for when I leave soon. Perhaps tomorrow, but I can't say for certain."
And then you lean against his shoulder like the rest of a violin, listen to the melody of his breaths. It sounds like Corsican beaches and distant applause heard from a balcony. You swear that it is in moments like this you see the stars in his eyes. You tell him this sometimes, but again, he only shakes his head.
He says you are a hopeless romantic, always reminiscing on holidays gone by, head always in the clouds, but he smiles because he feels the same. He smiles because he knows as you do that there are few things more beautiful than the clouds at sunrise. This morning, you'll discover them together.