by: bj
in sum: this is life, not porn.
label: matthew. matthew/ephram.
rating: r. suggestion'n'language.
sissies: "everwood confidential."
legalities: don't own, don't sue.
i say: second person pov. sequel to "prelude and fugue."
archive: ask and it shall (probably) be given.
you say: all comments appreciated, answered, and archived. allcanadiangirl@lycos.com.
six partitas
i
It's been a bad hour. You sit beside him. He leans against you, he puts his arms around you. That's a surprise, you don't know how to react to that.
"I'm sorry," he says. He puts his head on your shoulder. "I didn't practise this week."
You swallow, you slide an arm around his back and pat him gently. You knew that. You were going to yell at him later. "Neither did I."
He laughs, the sound is inside you, the sweetly cynical sound. You know you ought to pull away. Something tells you he wouldn't let go, so you tighten your grip on him. He raises his head, loose hair brushing your jaw.
He kisses your neck. "I'm really sorry." A hand is on your thigh. "Let me make it up-"
You shake your head as he finishes the first section with an annoyed flourish. This is life, not porn, you tell yourself. Get a grip. "Do it again," you say. "Without the attitude, please."
ii
He's nervous for the whole hour, and when he asks you to stick around you become nervous, too.
He gestures for you to sit in the armchair, you oblige. He walks around for a minute, then he sits on the couch.
He cups his hands around his mouth, staring at some point on the floor. He starts to speak abruptly. "Since I moved here I've realised that it's better for everyone if feelings are shared or whatever. And I wanted you to know-"
He cuts himself off with a frustrated noise. He stands, shoving his hands in his pockets. He walks around some more.
"Ephram?" you say gently.
His back is to you. He looks over his shoulder a little bit and he takes a deep breath. His voice is slight as he says, "I like you."
He looks away, he looks up at the ceiling, he shakes his head. "No. I have." He starts to tremble. You stand and move up behind him. "I have a crush-like, it's a stupid kid thing, and I know-"
You put your hands on his shoulders, he chokes his words back. You hush him needlessly, you press your lips to his hair. "Don't worry about it," you say, his breathing eases with relief. "I kind of have a crush on you too."
He's telling you he needs to take next Saturday off and that his dad is willing to pay you double to come for an extra session another week. You hate yourself for feeling so incredibly creepy.
"Don't worry about it," you say, his shoulders slacken with relief. "I need a day off too."
iii
After the disaster, you take him to Ezekiel's yourself and you let him sip from your scotch. He coughs, his eyes water, his face gets flushed in a very appealing way. You thump his back and keep your glass out of his reach when he goes for it again.
"I can hold it," he says.
You raise your eyebrows. "I know. You hold it so well it'll get us kicked out and possibly arrested."
He scoffs. "I've been arrested before," he says.
You smile. You know. You sit back and pay attention to Slick. The old man weaves magic in the box of the piano, his version of "Satin Doll."
"This guy's name is really Slick?" Ephram asks between sets. "Slick? I mean. Come on. Slick."
If he doesn't stop saying Slick, his tongue red and raised in his mouth on the hard k sound. You make fists on the armrests of the chair. He leans toward you. "Do you think they'd mind if I played a little?"
You swallow. You shrug and tell him you'll ask. You take your barely-touched glass up to the bar and order a Shirley Temple. You ask Roy, your contact, the manager, if your student can hop up for a minute. He smiles. "Your kids are always the best free entertainment," Roy says.
You signal Ephram that he can have a go. As he sits, the server sets his Shirley Temple on the table beside him. If he weren't the centre of attention, he might flip you a bird of some sort. Instead he nods to you with a threatening smile and presses out the first bars of the third partita.
Somehow your hands find the bar, because the two of you haven't even looked at the section yet, and he's tripping it from finger to key to air.
Wait. There is a mistake, and another, but this is a rural Colorado jazz bar. Nobody's going to notice. Nobody but you, and you don't point out his failings in public.
He stops halfway through and makes it sound like the end. Polite applause, he takes a bow and his untouched drink and returns to their table. You leave him there for a minute, you disappear from his line of vision.
You don't know if he's playing a game or if he's just being Ephram. You don't really care at this point. You stand in the hall outside the washrooms, head against the wall, trying to breathe. You don't really care what he's thinking, you just want to get through this without losing what little sanity you have left and/or going to prison.
"Matt," he says. "Hey."
You turn your head. He's standing just inside the hallway. "Yes?"
He has his hands in his pockets. He looks uncertain. "Are you mad at me?"
Mad at him. "No." Mad for him. "Why would I be mad at you?"
"I don't know," he says, shoulders moving under his oxford, voice irritated. "I've been reading ahead? Most teachers don't like that."
You look away from him. "I'm not most teachers." You're not. You're inconsistent and you're insensitive and you're insane.
He comes closer. "No," he says. "You're better."
You wish he wouldn't say things like that. "Because you've had so many."
He shrugs. "Enough."
You wish he wouldn't come right up to you and lean on you and breathe slightly scotch-scented air in your general direction. You wish he wouldn't touch your arms and your shoulders and close his eyes before he presses his lips against yours.
You look around the corner, he's drumming his fingers on the table, watching impatiently for you.
You glance at the washroom door, you consider it, but reality doesn't wait, and part of you is glad.
iv
The hour is the best hour of his life. He is pulling inspiration and variations from nowhere. All you can do is watch. He leaps from the bench and grabs you. He shakes you.
"Did you hear that?" he says.
You are dazed and joyfully stunned by his happiness. "Yeah," you say. You know you should be telling him you're not a composition teacher and he's not Gould, but damn it anyway. It might have been the best hour of your life too.
His smile just keeps getting bigger. He lets you go and he moves around the living room, recounting his exploits like a victorious warrior, stabbing at notes and adagios. "And then I did the thing with the counterpoint and the left y'know-did you hear that?"
You nod, you cross your arms. You want to snag his streaking light and hold it to you, absorb it. You want to be that excited about music.
"Too bad I don't record your lessons," you say. His smile twists in response to your sarcasm.
"No kidding."
He approaches the coffee table like he's going to jump it, but he throws himself onto the couch instead. He closes his eyes, still smiling.
You sit on the table, your knees almost touching his. "In ten years, people will kill to hear Ephram Brown's early variations."
His smile dies, his eyes open and stare at you. "You really think so?"
You shrug. "Unless you become a construction worker."
He smirks. "Not much chance of that. I don't really do manual labour."
"Good," you say. You lean forward, you fold your hands around his knees. "Because if you let this go, I'll kill you."
He moves back into the cushions. "Yeah?" His legs draw away from you, you hesitate and then hold on.
"Yes. You have talent, Ephram."
He rolls his eyes. "Fuck talent."
"Language, Mr. Brown." You slide forward on the table, you are barely sitting on the edge. Your hands are still on his legs and you think you should take them away. You've lingered too long already. "You never know when the good doctor will interrupt."
He folds his hands behind his head. "Fuck him, too. They're gone until dinner."
You should be in your car by now, you should be driving back to Old Springs. You should have your cheque in your wallet and you should be thinking about how sad it is that Andy Brown pays you to obsess over his son.
But Ephram is letting his knees fall slack, pressing against your palms. His eyes are half-closed and he's smiling lazily. "Fuck-"
You pull over. The highway is a black line of normalcy bordered by the whites and greys of your life and you press your hands against your eyes. You laugh. Fuck him. You're fucking crazy.
v
You're waiting for Dr. Brown to return from a house call after the lesson. You need to get your cheque, you need to get out of this house. Ephram's reading a comic on the other end of the couch. Excuse, excuse. A manga.
"What did you play at your first recital?" he asks without looking up.
"I don't remember," you say. "I was four."
That makes his eyes snap to yours. "You're kidding, right?"
"No." There are three recitals you don't remember. Six teachers whose names are all you know of them, but you know you've always played. You can remember that.
He shakes his head. "You must've been pretty good."
"Yes." You guess you probably were, at some point. "I am."
"Were you better than me when you were fifteen?"
You have to think about that. It's hard to tell. "I couldn't say."
"Don't spare my feelings," he says. "You were, weren't you?"
If he wants you to be better, you suppose you were. "Sure."
He nods. He closes his book, comic, whatever. He says, "I have no idea where my dad is."
"You said he was on a house call."
"I lied."
He doesn't say any more, you don't want to ask because you've decided his family life is something you are entirely unqualified to meddle in, even if you imagine you have a vested interest in his happiness. "You were great today."
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
"I can never tell," he says. "You never say."
"I do."
"You don't. You tell me when I'm no good, you tell me when I'm pretty good, but you never say when I'm great."
"Sometimes you're not," you reply. He's right, of course, but you don't want him to like you. You may talk with him about girls and you may take him to bars but you don't want him to like you. You're so transparent you might as well not exist.
"You need to tell me when I am," he says, moving to sit on the centre cushion, beside you, too close. "I need to know. I know I suck most of the time, that's not the point."
He never sucks. Ever. You wonder how you let him start believing he can't do this.
"You don't suck, Ephram," you say. "I'm sorry if I let you think you do."
He shakes his head, he crosses his arms. You can see his hands are shaking. "You don't need to say that."
You shift so you're facing him properly, you put a hand on his head, gentle. "Do you remember when I gave you the partitas?" He nods. "You know that's the truth."
He takes your hand from him, he looks at it. "I didn't start lessons until I was five."
You smile a little bit. "We're pianists, not jedi. Come on, Ephram."
"That movie sucked," he says, still holding your hand.
"I think you throw that word around too easily," you say. "You are incredibly good. You're good even when you're off. You're good even when you're angry with me or-somebody else. I bet you'd be good playing 'Chopsticks' in your sleep."
He smiles at your hand. "I'd probably play it in the wrong key."
"It'd still be good."
You're beginning to imagine him raising your hand to his lips when the front door opens.
He jumps from the couch and grabs his manga. On his way up the stairs he calls, "Bye, Matt. Hi, Dad."
vi
The day is overcast. He's showing you what he's done with the sixth section. He's spoken maybe three words to you since you arrived.
You sit beside him, you think of the dozens of times you've sat beside him. Today is different. He is weighted and it's killing the resonance of his performance. He stops playing, he moves his hands back in case you were thinking of trying to break his fingers again.
You catch one wrist. You hold his hand up, the grey light through white drapes makes his skin the colour of smoke-damaged plaster. You trace a finger over his knuckles.
"What are you doing?" he says, trying to sound amused, coming off confused, frightened.
"You have this," you say, touching the tip of each of his fingers. "Whatever's on your mind, you have this. You are the only one the world who has this." You run a finger down the curve of his thumb. He might have laughed, but you're not given to this kind of flattery. He just listens. You look at his hand for a moment. "So get over it."
You drop his hand and look at him. He turns his hands over, stares at them. He says, "What if I don't want it?"
You don't smile, but you want to. You cup the back of his neck and make him look at you. "Don't bother with that. You want it."
His eyes are red, you hadn't noticed until now. Tinged pink around the beguiling grey-green. You wonder why he's been crying. He closes his eyes. He sways, as if hypnotised, toward you. Your hands move to his arms, trying to hold him up, you think he's fainting.
You are about to say his name with concern when he kisses you.
You start, you're really far gone if you can slip into fantasy without even noticing it. When you check he's still there, he's pulling at you, trying to embrace you. You have no reason, no self-control. You kiss him back.
In your dreams, you never kissed him back.
End.