Valse, A Pas De Deux

by Minou Janvier

URL: http://www.area52hkh.net/asm/mjanvier/valse.php
Summary: John teaches Rodney to fly

When John first asked Rodney to play for him, Rodney shrugged, and changed the subject. John was a patient man, however. He waited a while, then asked again. This time Rodney closed his eyes, then nodded.

"You have to understand," he said. "I've never been particularly good at this. I mean, the notes are ok, but I can't make it sound like you do."

In fact, Rodney didn't want to play at all. Not in anybody else's hearing. It seemed a sacrilege to just plonk notes on such an exquisite instrument. But, because John asked it of him, he sat down at the keyboard and played.

Rodney started with something easy, Air for the G String by Bach. Something that was precise and measured already.

For a while, John just sat in a nearby chair and listened, eyes closed. When the song ended, Rodney would have pulled away. But John stood and came up behind him.

"I think I know what's wrong, Rod. But you have to trust me."

Rodney sighed. "Of course I trust you. Don't be ridiculous."

"This isn't ridiculous. This is important. Listen."

Rodney took a deep breath, as though to speak, but thought better of it, and simply nodded.

John slipped behind him on the bench, adjusting the two of them until they sat, back to chest, thigh to thigh. It was more comfortable than Rodney would have ever suspected, and he relaxed into John's embrace.

"Start playing again," John whispered. "Stop thinking and just feel."

Easier said than done.

He always wanted to be an athlete. He actually had a fairly athletic body. But you would have never known it because his brain always took priority. Always. Movement was ok, as long as it didn't interfere with thinking. When it became hard to do both, he quit moving. Plain and simple.

He understood what John was trying to tell him. Knew instinctively that John was right. The best way to access your soul was to bypass your brain. Simple, really. But he didn't have a clue how to do it. He feared that John would end up just like his piano teacher always had: bewildered and saddened by Rodney's inability to make anything but a series of connected notes.

Then John reached around and held him. Just held him tight for a moment, and Rodney relaxed. This wasn't a test. John's love didn't depend on his ability to perform this task. No matter what, it would be all right. He didn't have to be perfect within these arms. His best, no matter what it was, would do.

He began to play again, choosing something a little more complex this time, Liszt, Liebestraum, the Song of Love. Seemed appropriate.

John gently kissed the back of his neck, slipped his earlobe into his mouth, then suckled briefly. This, being one of Rodney's favorite things, caused him to moan. John chuckled, then placed an elegant finger on Rodney's lips. "Shh," he whispered. "Feel."

Then John began slowly opening Rodney's tunic. Rodney settled back against him, relaxing into the solid chest behind him. His hands faltered at the keys, and John nudged him to keep playing.

Oh, so this was how he planned to do it. Well, interesting at least.

John slipped his hands inside Rodney's shirt, fingering his nipples and caressing his chest. He combed his fingers through Rodney's chest hair briefly, before moving downward toward Rodney's stomach. Rodney tensed in anticipation, but John just rubbed his stomach briefly, before heading back up to stroke his collarbone. The music rose and fell, dipped and swayed, and Rodney closed his eyes, relishing the feel of John's hands on his body, and his own on the keys.

As Rodney segued into a Chopin Valse, John opened his trousers and slipped his hands inside. He pulled Rodney's cock out through the slit in his boxers, and gently fondled it. Not making him too excited yet, just giving him a taste of what was to come.

John then opened his own pants, and pressed against Rodney's back, letting him feel his desire. As the music built, so did the pleasure. John caressed him slowly and gently at first, but when the music shifted, growing more frenetic, more passionate, so did his touch. John spread the precome across the head of Rodney's penis, and he grunted. But the echo of John's fingers was still warm against his lips, so he didn't speak.

Rodney closed his eyes, and allowed himself to revel in the moment. As the pleasure built, it became more and more difficult to concentrate on getting the notes right. He had to rely on his fingers and muscle memory. His breathing shortened, and he began to hitch his hips into the touch.

Suddenly, he noticed something. The music had changed. Subtly for sure. But he could feel the music, deep in his muscles. It began to embed itself into his bones, and settle into his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on it, but the pleasure was too strong, overwhelming his brain. Eventually, he could do nothing but feel, feel the music, feel the pleasure, feel the love that John so freely gave him.

As his orgasm built, so did the music. Suddenly it was as though the two of them were performing a erotic dance, a pas de deux for lovers. It was as though this particular act were scripted by Chopin, written for them alone. He could see the notes, raining like liquid silver over his face. He could taste the music, like water, sliding down his throat. Could smell it. This, this was something new. Something different. Something beautiful.

His fingers faltered on the keys, and John squeezed gently, and pulled, and Rodney was there, coming hard over John's hand. But the music was still there, a living thing in his heart and soul. And the music, oh God the music. It was like nothing he'd ever created. No simple cathedral here, this was a whole city of beauty, an endless triumph of beauty, and John was whispering his name softly, gently, easing him down as he fell back into John's arms, collapsing under the weight of the music into peace.

He was never sure how he got into bed. John must have helped, but he couldn't remember it. All he could remember was the touches, the nonsense words that were so necessary at this point, and the kisses, all over his face. And John, smiling at him, whispering oh so softly, "You did good. That was good."

Not exactly effusive, but from a man who gave it so rarely, it was a whole symphony of praise, and Rodney felt a small part of his soul open up that had been closed by a piano teacher who could never understand.

He looked over at the man who lay beside him, with a sweet light of evening glowing around him. "Well," he said, "my piano teacher never thought of that one."