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When Thorpe awoke, the sky was still blushing pink. He leaned his head against the cool window and watched their train traverse through the mountains, his breath painting the glass foggy in the cold morning air. The gentle rocking of the train was like a steady tambourine line: tumultuous at first, but rhythmic and soothing once it settled.
He and his director would be arriving in the village of Locria in a few hours. They’d spent all day yesterday traveling through the snow-snuggled Locrian Mountains. They were getting much closer now: if Thorpe squinted, he could make out a bundle of buildings on a high slope, with stacks of billowing white smoke sneaking into the sky.
A light moaning sound caught his attention, and Thorpe’s gaze tugged from the window to the seat across from him. Thorpe’s beloved director, fast asleep, curled cutely on his side.
Thorpe’s admiration for the director was no secret among the orchestra. And it was no rare thing, either: Rui’s talent for elegantly assimilating everyone’s quirks was widely admired. Under his thoughtful guidance, everyone shined bright, and Thorpe always found his eyes lingering on Rui.
Like right now. His often thoughtful face was peaceful, soft and bright in the morning sunbeams, beautiful violet and cyan framing his cheeks. And his lips: thin and rosy, resting from their normal mischievous smile, and beckoningly soft. Rui saw Thorpe even when Thorpe didn’t know how to be seen, and had believed in Thorpe’s dream even when Thorpe had been certain it was impossible. Falling in love with that faith was natural.
But a man as popular and unique as the director deserved nothing short of the perfect confession. Thorpe’s plan for that was excellent, in theory: he’d composed a special song made of his feelings, and he would perform it tonight at the inn. The sound of his admiration filling the cozy log cabin inn would be the perfect atmosphere, and Thorpe had gotten much more skilled at performing in front of audiences.
But could he perform in front of his director?
As if on cue, Rui began to stir, blinking and stretching and rubbing his eyes. When his gaze fell on Thorpe, he smiled.
“Good morning, Thorpe,” he greeted. “My, you look beautiful in the sunrise.”
Thorpe gulped down a sudden breath.
“Why do you feel the need to tease me all the time?” Thorpe grumbled.
Rui chuckled, his voice melodic and lovely as he rose to a sitting position. “It is quite cruel, isn’t it?”
“Extremely!” He felt his face still warm, ever off-guard by the director’s directness. Rui had no idea how deep Thorpe’s affections ran, and never seemed to tire of toying with him.
“Thorpe.” Rui’s outstretched fingers, long and lithe, reached for the side of Thorpe’s head. Startled, Thorpe’s heart hastened into a furious allegro, and he jumped.
The director’s hand rescinded.
Thorpe frowned. Why did he have to be such a coward? He frustrated himself often. It wasn't that he didn't want to touch Rui—he did. So badly it ached like a dissonant diminished chord. No, the trouble was that Thorpe wanted it too badly. His want was always playing in his mind, even distracting him during rehearsals. Thorpe had feared he would have melted against Rui's touch, or simply blurted an imperfect confession right then and there, without rehearsing or music or anything. It would have been a disaster.
"Forgive me, Thorpe," the director said. "I didn't intend to startle you."
"No, I'm sorry! You were just trying to get something out of my hair, right?"
The director stared at him, and a pang of tightness filled his words. "Yes, of course."
Thorpe’s heart battered against his ribs, still quite quick. Rui did not often lie to him. So what did it mean that he'd reached for Thorpe’s hair, but not to remove something from it? And why did the possibilities all make Thorpe’s chest tight and fluttery?
“Uhm, p-perhaps you could explain the purpose of our trip?” Thorpe suggested, hoping for his heart to slow to a ritardando. “We did leave somewhat suddenly.”
A beat, a strange indecipherable look of regret on the director's face. But he recovered quickly, ready for the next section.
“True, an explanation may be in order,” the director agreed. “The innkeeper is a friend of mine, and asked if we could perform for their guests. Locria Village has bitter winters, and everyone often loses spirit during the long hours with no sun. I thought your music would inspire them.”
The tempo of Thorpe’s heart hastened again. “But why just the two of us? Why not the entire band?”
“Ah, I see,” the director nodded. “Well, there's three reasons. One is that a group of two can travel much more swiftly than a full orchestra. And two is that I believe your music alone will shine bright enough to melt the snow.”
Rui had a knack for saying the most beautiful things. How could he so easily express what resided in his heart? It was unfair. Thorpe felt his skin light on fire from the compliments. Always so cruel, that patient and thoughtful director of Thorpe’s.
“And three?”
Rui blinked. “Hm?”
“You said there were three reasons?”
Rui brought a hand to his hair self-consciously, and gave a grimace of a smile. “Ah, I did say that, didn't I?”
Thorpe frowned. “You're being obtuse again. Tell me!”
Rui shifted in his seat, looking shyly at everywhere except Thorpe: to their packed trunks, out the window to the snowy cedar trees framing a frozen lake, at his own lap. “On second thought, I'm not ready to reveal my hand.”
It was unlike the director to be shy. Thorpe had come to think of that adjective as his role among the two of them, and felt frustration that Rui was trying to take it from him.
Fueled by that frustration, Thorpe surged forward, and finally gave in to the stifled sound of his desire to hold Rui’s hands. He seized one in each of his own hands, marveling at their length and shape. “You should reveal your hands, though.” Then, before he could think better of it, he added: “They're lovely.”
When Thorpe looked up, he saw his director’s face blushing red, a mirror to the sky. He was absolutely beautiful, lit in bright colors and flustered.
“Now who’s the one being cruel?” Rui murmured.
Thorpe felt a rush of affection and pride flood him. He wanted to kiss Rui. The sound of his desire crescendoed until he felt it pressing against his every nerve.
But it would be faulty. Sloppy, ill-begotten, shameful. Thorpe’s confession had to be nothing short of flawless, down to the exact pressure on every ivory. How could he live with himself if it wasn’t? Would the director spare Thorpe so much as a second glance if he didn’t perfect his confession?
Sobered by this reality, Thorpe rescinded his hands and withdrew from Rui’s honey-amber eyes. He heard Rui sigh, then laugh bitterly.
“I’m sorry,” Thorpe murmured. He wished he could say more. He could never express himself through words the way he could through a piano.
“I understand.”
But Thorpe didn’t think his director understood at all.
That night, just off stage, Rui watched Thorpe wring his hands. Though it was a tad cruel, he chuckled. Thorpe had a hidden strength in him that Rui knew would shine tonight, just as it always did. Thorpe was golden and bright like starlight, like the closest star in their galaxy. But still, Rui hadn’t seen him this nervous since his very first audition. Rui wasn’t certain why; Thorpe would do wonderfully. Of that he had no doubt.
The dining hall of the wood cabin inn was cozy and comfortable. A stately fireplace blazed in the far corner, and the candle chandelier bathed the room in a warm glow. Wooden chairs surrounded mahogany tables, and bundled guests brought piping hot trays of food to meet with their loved ones. The only thing missing was music, soft notes to dance in the warm air and fend off the chill battering against the window panes.
Thorpe still wrung his hands. Rui couldn’t help smiling—Thorpe had lovely hands, too. In an attempt to calm his star pianist, Rui settled his hand in the center of Thorpe’s back.
“You’ll do wonderfully,” he whispered in Thorpe’s ear, delighting in the red shade of his skin.
“D-D-Director!” Thorpe cried, scowling. Rui chuckled.
“I’ve seen your growth, Thorpe,” Rui explained. “And you always manage to surprise even me. So you haven’t a thing to fear.”
Thorpe closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. There had never been a moment since meeting Thorpe where Rui didn’t find the pianist breathlessly adorable, but it was stirringly true in this moment.
“Please listen to my performance,” Thorpe announced suddenly. “Tonight’s song is… It’s for you.”
Rui blinked, but before he could ask any questions, Thorpe turned and marched onto the stage.
A hush fell over the room as Thorpe took his seat, flipping his tailcoat out in one fluid motion. The innkeeper stepped on stage briefly to introduce him, then ceded the floor to Thorpe. Applause burst and then quelled, and Thorpe took a deep breath.
The opening of the song flowed from his fingers. The notes rose into the air, filling the room with their warmth like the sun. Thorpe’s touch was always precise and elegant. Rui closed his eyes, and as he listened to Thorpe’s song, their shared memories bubbled in Rui’s mind. The first time hearing Thorpe play. Thorpe’s first successful audition. The triumph and pride that always bloomed on his face. Every time in between rehearsals where they shared a secret smile or a fleeting touch. The way Thorpe’s eyes sparkled like constellations and sunlight. Each moment where Rui fell further in love with Thorpe.
The tune itself wasn’t exactly familiar, but Rui knew the feeling in his heart. Love. The melody was soft and lilting, filled with brief tumultuous moments that resolved sweetly. It sounded a little dissonant and stressful at times, but the careful, grounded harmonies always carried through. Rui’s heart raced and he clutched a hand to his chest.
So these were Thorpe’s true feelings. This was what Thorpe had intended this morning, and all those other moments where it looked as if words were on the tip of his tongue. Rui had spent months hoping that his feelings for Thorpe were returned, never daring to make a move before his beloved pianist was prepared. With the sweet sounds swelling in the inn, Rui knew his feelings were returned.
But then, out of nowhere, the music died.
Startled, Rui opened his eyes and saw Thorpe’s hands frozen over the keys. A few confused claps filled the uneasy silence. Was that it, then? Was that the extent of Thorpe’s feelings, and his anxieties were stronger than his affections?
No. Rui knew Thorpe. He knew how proud the pianist was, and the thing stopping him was never a lack of willpower, but an excess of perfectionism. However, Thorpe was wrong—he didn’t need to be perfect. Rui loved him: flawed, foolish, proud, harsh, unyielding even in the face of defeat. And there was one more thing that Thorpe was wrong about. He didn’t have to do this alone.
Rui strided across the stage, flashing a brief smile to the audience, before sliding onto the bench next to Thorpe. The director’s sleeves slid back, revealing his hands, and he offered Thorpe a quiet smile. Their shoulders kissed.
Leading the piano through simple arpeggios, back into the swing of the song, Rui gently nudged Thorpe until all four of their hands danced across the keys. Together, they rediscovered the melody, and led it once more into the stirring chorus.
“How do you know the song?” Thorpe asked, stunned.
Rui answered Thorpe’s question with one of his own. “Would you like to know the third reason I brought only you, Thorpe? It was selfish.”
Thorpe’s eyes were wide, and hopeful. “Selfish?”
“I wanted to spend some time alone together. I wanted you all to myself.”
Thorpe’s hands stuttered, but Rui didn't let him fall; his steady chords kept them afloat. Together their music banished the frost from the windowpanes and made the fire glow brighter.
Tenderly, their tune came to a close. As Thorpe led them through the last twinkling notes and the air settled into silence, uproarious cheers filled the inn. That familiar grin bloomed on Thorpe’s face, one of victory and relief. Rui’s heart hastened.
Rui had been a coward, he realized now. Thorpe had taken this chance for both of them. He’d started a beautiful, open-ended refrain, the music as his guide for his love.
One hand wrapping around the small of Thorpe’s back, with the din of applause shielding his words, Rui whispered into Thorpe’s ear.
“I knew this song because it’s the sound my heart makes for you.”
Thorpe’s eyes widened. Beautiful gold, the shade of starlight and the blushing early morning sun. Rui’s breaths came heavy and hopeful as his eyes slid to Thorpe’s lips.
Then Thorpe surged forwards, and their lips met. The director melted into his beloved star. Their hands held each other’s bodies tight, gripping on edges of fabric and hair while cradling cheeks and shoulder blades. Even though the music had stopped, the sound of their love swelled in their hearts.
When they pulled back, the inn was still cheering. Thorpe jumped, and hid his face in Rui’s neck.
"Oh no. I'd forgotten they were there,” Thorpe murmured, sending a shiver of delight down Rui’s spine. “We kissed in front of so many people…!”
"It's all right, my star," Rui consoled, running a hand down Thorpe's back. "It was only our first. We can have more kisses somewhere private."
Thorpe pulled himself from Rui's embrace and walked around the piano bench. He stood at the edge of the stage, one hand closed into a fist and the other palm up in an invitation.
"Come on, Director," Thorpe said, his face adorably flushed and screwed to the ground.
Rui chuckled. "Where are we going?"
Then, Thorpe's head shifted, and their eyes met. The flush still painted his cheeks, but bravery accompanied his shy melody. His starlight eyes burned gold, his unyielding gaze fixed on Rui's eyes.
"Somewhere private."
Laughing, smiling, enchanted and delighted and eternally in love, in this universe and many others, the director marveled at this fierce little pianist whose love echoed his own.
Rui took Thorpe’s hand.