(this began as a fifteen minute ficlet and kept on going.)
The sound of the violin is somehow even rawer, more desperate and yearning when played in the outdoors, in the dying light of the dusk. Shima's hands are steady as the sun's warmth fades away. His skin, however, is chilled and covered with goose bumps-- he is wearing nothing but Sebastien's shirt, unbuttoned and too big, gathering in the bends of his elbows. He kneels in the wet grass and he plays and he watches Sebastien with dark eyes that remind Sebastien of the deepening shadows.
The notes of the violin say words that Shima is forbidden to say. They yearn in a way that his impassive expression does not betray, they yearn and they beg and they seduce, wrapping around Sebastien and then dancing away. The sound of a violin, Sebastien thinks, is wailing and not necessarily beautiful, but it is a sound like human emotion, human suffering: the cry of a child, the creak of old joints, the sound that a heart breaking might make. In the hands of someone impassioned, those things can be made beautiful.
Shima kneels in the wet grass and he invites Sebastien with the music of his violin. And Sebastien is taken with it, then, the magic of the music, the spell of each string. One high note plummeting down to one so low he feels it in his belly, in his groin; Shima's eyes so dark and unmoved, eyebrows haughty, mouth sealed shut but Sebastien's command. Shima plays in the dark, to the dark, as the sun sets behind the mountains and there is only sound, and Shima and Sebastien.
---
It is irresistible to him, this music. He crawls on his knees to where Shima sits and he puts his head into the boy's lap, as if to hear the sound as filtered through Shima's body. Shima does not fumble, lifts the violin higher, and plays something even more furious. Sebastien wraps his hands around Shima's waist, lifting him, pressing him against the trunk of the tree they have sheltered under. "Keep playing, petit," he urges as Shima pauses, bow momentarily dropped, eyes suddenly hooded and hungry. The boy says nothing, only nods; Sebastien slides downwards, pushes the open shirt back, finds Shima's belly and kisses it. The boy's skin is so cold. The dampness of the air, of the grass cling to it. He presses his cheek against the tight belly and he feels Shima's muscles tense and release, sinuous as the sound of his music. The violin should always be played in the dark, he thinks, Shima's violin especially.
The song has become slower now, raw and aching, each note careful and specific. But if anything the yearning is deeper, greedier. Sebastien turns his face against the cool, wet skin and he opens his mouth against it, the heat of his lips and his tongue seeking to warm Shima through. Shima's music stutters, his body tightens. Sebastien wraps his hands around Shima's slim hips and holds him still. "Keep playing," he says into Shima's belly, into the shiver that overtakes the boy. "Don't stop."
His mouth moves down, his lips cooling from the chill of the boy's skin but his tongue still hot. He dips it into the dimple of Shima's navel, tastes rain and salt and skin, and he thinks it tastes like the music of the violin. He bends his head and he bites down on the inside of Shima's thigh, next to the boy's stirring, stiffening cock.
Shima finds a low note violently. His mouth is tight, as if to stifle the noise which he channels into his instrument. When their eyes meet Sebastien smiles up at him. The dark sound of the violin wraps around him, coaxes him further. It encourages, seduces, promises... it smiles back at him as Shima will not, it lusts for him as the boy will not show. He opens his mouth just a little, and he presses a kiss between Shima's thighs, and he moves upwards, along flesh hot and slowly rising.
"What a beautiful instrument," he teases, and then he is admiring it with his tongue, with his lips, hot smooth skin hotter than his own mouth, hotter, even, than the fire that seems to be burning in his own belly. Shima is slim and small and beautiful, like his cock, and Sebastien swallows him easily, savors the curve of him, the weight of him. His taste is like tears, and now Shima cannot help but cry out, soft and in harmony with his playing, which does not falter. Sebastien can feel Shima shivering under him, body drawn as tight as the violin strings, and he wants to make beautiful music come out of him.
Notes hang in the air, haunting, baiting him. He longs to hear another gasp, another cry, but there are only the sounds of Shima's violin. He tightens his mouth, draws nearly free of Shima and then swallows him down again; he lets his fingers cling and pinch the boy's hips. Slowly, slowly, and then faster, building, and then teasingly slower still. Above him the violin plays, but now and then it hesitates, and in the silence he hears finer music still, a gasp here, a quickening of breath there. He soothes Shima with his tongue and then he engages finally in the quest for his crescendo, for the climax of the piece and, at last--
-- There is a violent twang, the violin dropped from nerveless fingers, the bow striking the ground with a bare noise, cushioned by the grass. And then a single note, one keening, heartbreaking note as Shima arches and convulses under him, filling his mouth, fingers clutching Sebastien now as he had once clutched the violin.
Sebastien thinks it is the sweetest note yet.
The boy comes down silently, knees folding, arms wrapping about Sebastien's neck. They rest together a moment in the darkness, and crickets sing in the grass around them. Sebastien kisses Shima's throat and buttons up the shirt around him, lays the violin in his arms, and hears music in his heart.
.//back
