February 2nd
Baz
Last week, Simon sat me down to tell me that I should play the violin. I felt the need to point out that I already do. But he waved at me impatiently, as though I were being purposely thick. (Which I can neither confirm nor deny). He specified, with exaggerated patience, that I should play the violin for a broader audience than just myself and any obsessed boyfriends who might be lurking in the hallway when I practice.
He wasn't speaking hypothetically, as it turns out. Which is how I find myself walking down the cliff beside him on a cold, wet Friday afternoon, with my violin in tow.
I don't know why I let him drag me into these situations. Or rather, I do know, and I'm not very proud of it. It's just this: I can't say no to him. Especially when his eyes go all wide and he starts bouncing on the balls of his feet in genuine enthusiasm for whatever scheme he's got going.
Scheme may be a tad harsh, I grant you. He's arranged for me to give a demonstration and then talk about what it's like to perform onstage, to a bunch of students at PS180 who will be going on a field trip to Carnegie Hall next week. The school's philosophy is to encourage the kids to imagine themselves being onstage one day, not just in the audience. To think of themselves as world-class professional musicians-in-training, no matter how unlikely it may seem right now.
It's a brilliant strategy, actually. Schools should teach ambition, not just process. Because giving kids the tools to succeed doesn't do shit unless they think there's a point in trying.
So here I stand, tuning my violin in the poorly ventilated auditorium of the elementary school. I feel like a complete fraud. I haven't actually performed on stage since I was 16, but Simon dismissed that excuse with a wave of his hand. In fact, his exact words were: "Don't even try to get out of this on a technicality."
I answer the kids' questions and then play a few short pieces. One classical. One pop song. One Irish jig. Just to screw with their teacher. (Which doesn't work. She's thrilled. Apparently she did her PhD in ethnomusicology. Apparently these kids' elementary school violin teacher has a fucking PhD. Remind me to ask my parents why they thought spending $85k a year for private school made sense in New York City.)
Next, the students come onstage in groups roughly organized by skill, and play something. I give them each some tips on how to stand and move when they're onstage instead of in class. Then they play again, occasionally whooping and smiling in delight when my advice helps. I have to bite my cheek to hide my own grin.
It's all actually quite fun. Not that I'm planning on admitting that to Simon any time soon. He's insufferable enough as it is. But I start to see what he means about his volunteer work being as much for him as for them.
What is most striking, though, is that after all the performances, no one looks like they want to hide or throw up. They're all high-fiving and laughing as they put their instruments in banged-up rental cases and stream outside. None of these kids were forced to start playing when they were three, well before they could even pronounce the word violin. None of them ever felt pressure to play until their fingers bled, or missed their best friend's birthday party every year because they had to practice at least eight hours every weekend. Each one of them chose this for themselves. For the challenge, or the novelty- or for the simple joy of making music, even imperfectly. I'm sure many things in these kids' lives suck. But at least music doesn't have to be one of them.
My musings are cut short by a rush of messy hair and blue eyes and warm lips. Simon pulls and pushes at me until we are hidden backstage, behind the dusty school-issue stage curtain. Then he kisses me so fiercely that I completely forget who I am or where we are.
Simon
I shouldn't have been nervous. I was worried that Baz's anxious politeness would come off as arrogance. And for the first few minutes, that's exactly how it went down.
But then Baz relaxed and the kids asked him a million smart questions and he smiled. None of them paid much attention to his smile. None of them had any idea how rare a phenomenon they were witnessing. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, smiling. Warmly, genuinely. In a room full of strangers, with no trace of self consciousness.
I'm surprised to discover that I'm close to tears. Luckily, no one is paying the slightest bit of attention to me. All eyes are focused on Baz. And he's totally focused on the kids. He considers each question quietly, then answers it firmly and confidently. Exactly how he would answer questions in a senior seminar, or at an academic conference after delivering a paper.
The students respond well to the seriousness with which he takes them. They sit up straight, listen raptly, ask follow-up questions. I feel unreasonably proud, as though I am somehow responsible for Baz's sincerity and insight.
All this is just to explain that I am already feeling emotional when Baz starts to play. And then I shatter.
I've never seen him play before. I've only ever heard him from behind a closed door, down a hallway.
His face is so beautiful when he plays, that it's almost painful. His whole body moves as one sinuous, continuous organism, built to bend and glide and draw sound from the air. His eyes close in concentration, and he loses himself to the music. His emotions show clearly on his face, as he frowns and smiles and sways and sighs.
It's mesmerizing. It's more than that. It's fucking hot. I become desperate for him, for his hands to move on me, for him to be lost to the sensations of being with me. I've never heard of a music fetish before, but the effect of watching him play is undeniably physical.
I spend the next half hour lost in an agreeable daze. I start getting impatient as, finally, one or two at a time, the students thank Baz and shuffle out. It's all I can do to wait until the room is mostly empty before I jump up and drag him offstage, my mouth already on his.
He's surprised, but doesn't hesitate as he kisses me back. When my hands start to wander more boldly down his body, he stills me with a laugh.
"Seriously Si. I don't really need this much encouragement. I had fun."
Baz
"Shut the fuck up and let me kiss you," he growls. And so I do. For a while, anyway. Until my anxiety about a kid walking back here any second becomes unbearable, and I pull away reluctantly. He whines and I smile again.
"Not that I'm complaining, but what brought this on?" I ask, leaning into him.
"Dunno," he shrugs. I watch him blush, and raise my eyebrow in a silent question. He just grins and kisses me again. "Unless you can think of somewhere better, Baz, I'm going to keep kissing you right here."
I roll my eyes and try to interject between kisses. "Mmm? I don't know. Better than here. That's hard. Maybe Times Square? Live TV? My sister's twelfth birthday party? Outside in the freezing rain? Or, of course, we could go back home. To our bedroom. Which, in case you've forgotten, we share."
"Not happening," he says, finally pulling away. "It's no fun there. You're so. Quiet. Now that everyone's back. And," he adds with a grin, "quiet just isn't going to work for what I have in mind."
Well. This is new. A little embarrassing. But very appealing. And then I think of it. The perfect place.
Simon
I don't know where he's taking me, but we can't get there fast enough. The warmth of his hand in mine is driving me crazy. The memory of his face, eyes closed, mouth open, hair sweaty, as he played the violin. Just the memory makes my mouth go dry. We finally get to a fancy little building on the upper west side, and the door is opened grandly by a doorman in a navy blue, gold-trimmed uniform. I have to stifle giggle when he nods deferentially at Baz and calls him Mr. Pitch.
I have no patience to wait for the elevator. I drag Baz up the stairs instead, three at a time. Pausing on every landing to push him against the wall and kiss him. By the time we get to the front door, his hair is as messy (and his breathing as uneven) as mine.
Baz
It's been almost a month since people started getting back from break. So it's been a while since Simon and I had any real privacy. I'm getting more and more breathless as we approach Fi's apartment.
I push Simon against the closed door and press myself to him the moment we get into the flat. Until now I've been holding back, constrained by a sense of decorum I can't quite shake no matter how much I try. But as soon as we're alone, desire shoots through me with an intensity I can't recall ever feeling about anyone. Anything. Ever.
Now it's Simon turn to look anxious, and my turn to whine in protest as he pushes against my chest until I move back.
"Baz," he whispers, looking around. "How do you know they're not home?"
"Who?" I ask, confused. "I've already told you, Fiona's in London."
"Yeah, but," he protests, keeping his elbow locked between us, "didn't you say this was her fiancées apartment? Or something?"
"Fiancée," I snort. "Make sure that when you meet Fiona, you don't suggest she might stoop to anything as conventional as marriage. She thinks she's some sort of free spirit punk."
Now Simon looks confused. "But you definitely said something French," he insists, looking stubborn. I try to think back to what I could've said.
"Oh," I realize, and laugh. "Pied-à-terre. This is an apartment Fiona keeps for when she visits. Which is like once every three years."
Simon just stares at me. I shouldn't have laughed. I must sound like an asshole. I cringe as I look at the flat through his eyes. I realize with a jolt what a grotesque extravagance it is. Maybe I shouldn't've brought him here. It seemed so perfect in the moment, but-
Then Simon crashes into me, hands pulling at the buttons of my coat. I sigh with relief, and then with something else, as we undress each other in alternating spurts of frenzied speed and torturous, teasing slowness.
Simon
We're finally out of our clothes and in a bed. I still have no idea what the fuck this place is, but I don't really care. For now, it's ours. That's all that matters.
Baz slides his hand up along my side and I gasp. He smiles. I smile back and then lunge, catching his shoulders in my hands and his lip between my teeth. I pull him carefully down onto me, and reach my hands back, back, over his shoulders, to his spine. I trail them down, slowly, feel Baz vibrating against me. I touch him lightly, just fingertips and fingernails, and he whimpers and collapses onto me.
I have a new favorite hobby, which is seeing how quickly I can get Baz to lose control. How loud I can get him to be.
I mean, I'm always loud. In more or less every situation. And he's always controlled. In more or less every situation. Especially now that everyone else is back in the dorm.
I've seen what it does to him when he makes me moan. And I know what his sighs and gasps do to me, even the quiet ones. But there's something about the way he sounds when he just can't help himself that's like a direct line to some primal part of my limbic brain that I never knew about before.
His toes are one of my greatest triumphs so far. I discovered he has very sensitive feet. His feet are unreasonably sexy. Elegant, elongated. His toes in particular. The first time I licked his big toe, he whimpered. It was amazing. So then I sucked on it. And he made this sound, like a strangled sighing groan, so loud that I could feel it reverberate through the mattress. That was it. I became addicted to coaxing that sound from him any way I can.
His breath is coming fast and shallow now, and I wonder how long I can draw this out. I shift against his body so that his hard cock rests heavily against my hip, and gently explore everything I can reach. He moans deep in his throat and moves against me.
I trail one hand down his spine to where his sweat has started to pool just below the small of his back, in that magical spot where it changes and splits, until my fingers are wet with it. I move my other hand slowly down below the tight plane of his stomach to the soft skin below it. He moans loudly (so loudly) as my fingers brush against him.
I move my lips along his body until they reach the sensitive groove along his hips, and his fingers dig into the sheets as he involuntarily pushes up towards my mouth.
I lick the beads of moisture off the tip of his twitching cock and now he is panting in earnest. I keep licking, around the head, then up along the side before pulling him deeply into my mouth. I turn us slightly so that I can slide my wet fingers down his ass, while my other hand cups his balls as my mouth squeezes and sucks at him rhythmically. He's biting his lip and moaning my name. I feel a rush of power and love and lust as I feel him starting to lose control.
Hearing his gasps change in pitch and intensity as my fingers continue their journey down and into him nearly pushes me over the edge. And he hasn't even fucking touched me yet. Not that I've given him much of a chance. It's been too fun seeing what I can do to him.
But he's pushing me off him and onto my back now, licking and biting and sucking along my skin until I'm gasping out his name desperately and he finally slips himself down and over and around me and I'm lost in the endless pleasure of his perfect ass.
He moves up and down on me, hard and fast, fusing us in a rhythm that I wish would never end, even as I become unable to bear it for another instant before I explode inside him and he comes above me and we lie, panting and sticky and attached and in love, and I just keep saying "mine, mine, mine," and he says "fuck I fucking love you" and I'm sighing and he's laughing and I know with sudden clarity why I survived everything. Why I've kept going all this time. For him. For this. For us.
Baz
We stay inside all weekend, fucking and laughing and eating and talking, and fucking again. And again. And again. I play my violin for him and he tells me stories and we eat take-out on the floor and let the days and nights become indistinguishable. When we sleep, there are no dreams and when we wake there are no fears. It's frenzy and peace and hunger and fullness. It's everything.
On Monday morning I wake up feeling whole. Feeling a buzzing stillness, like the surface of a deep pool where the water trades oxygen with the air. I feel ready, certain, alive. Alive and in love and sure, in a world that has shifted and locked in place. A world in which I've found my place. With Simon. Who holds my hand and smiles at no-one and nothing but me in the electric winter air we share between us as we walk. Home. Wherever we find ourselves. Wherever we are. We're home.
