Quatre's was a pianist. A damn good one at that, and people knew it. It was great that he always had a gig, but at the same time, he was quickly growing weary of the same kind of show every night -- a smoky bar, people turning only one ear to his music that he'd worked so hard to create. The young man sighed as he pushed a button on the remote, the jumping and screaming contestant replaced with a nature program, soon followed by a music video, then the big game.
Trowa had just finished loading the dishwasher, and looked into the living room at his lover. A look of concern crossed his features. He was picking up on Quatre's distress with his job. He knew Quatre loved playing the piano, loved composing... but he'd been to some of the places the blond man played. He couldn't really blame Quatre for feeling so melancholy.
Quatre had grown tired of even the droning sound of the TV. Turning it off in disgust, he set the remote down on the coffee table as he sighed heavily, looking up at Trowa. "Hey."
"Hey yourself. You look like hell." Trowa walked over to the couch, sitting down and idly rubbing Quatre's back. "Rough gig last night?"
"Not especially," Quatre replied. "Just boring. It's funny -- I started doing this job so I'd get out of the corporate world, where I feel like I'm a hamster in a wheel. And now that's exactly how I feel."
Trowa took Quatre's hand in his own, entwining their fingers and looked at the man that gave him so much joy in doing just normal, everyday things -- they'd washed the car together and had sponge fights, even. The thought made Trowa smile as he had an idea. "Will you play for me?"
Quatre looked at Trowa. "You've gotta be kidding. I don't have any new songs you haven't heard. What could possibly possess you to--"
Trowa placed his finger to Quatre's lips, and simply smiled. "I love hearing you play... and even watching you play."
Quatre, although honestly tired of playing, couldn't deny Trowa. "All right... what do you want to hear?"
Trowa led his lover to their office. Trowa's desk sat on one side, on the other was a small, electronic piano keyboard that Quatre kept around to help him when writing music. As Quatre warmed up, Trowa sat on the floor, off to the side. "You sure you don't want a chair, Tro?" Quatre asked.
Trowa smiled that smile that only Quatre gets to see. "Nope. I'm fine." Quatre sat at the bench, back arched in perfect posture, hands curved as they rested on the keys. Silence filled the room for a brief moment as Quatre gathered his composure and began to play. The slow melody filled the room, its major key seemed to make the workspace brighter. Trowa sat, mesmerized with the fluid grace with which Quatre's fingers danced over the keys. The song went into its refrain, Quatre's strong baritone soaring above the accompaniment.
As the song came to its soft and gentle finish, Quatre felt a bit of the tension lift from himself. He'd been able to play for someone who really appreciated the music, and was there to listen to it -- not to drink their own worries away with a tinkering piano in the background. Trowa got up slowly and wrapped his arms around Quatre, resting his head on the blonde's shoulder. "Thanks," Trowa said softly.
Quatre's hands, slender and smooth, covered Trowa's, and a smile grew on his face. "No, Trowa... thank you."