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This is their dance and song.
Quiet moments hidden from prying eyes, written words in a language only lovers can read. There’s bittersweetness in a secret romance, in locked fingers on top of white keys where only the pianist and his duet can see. The possessiveness that comes with it adds spice, the knowledge that there’s only one other pair of eyes that turn fantasy into reality.
A kiss; to fingers that wield talent, slender and delicate. They’re sacred, and Orpheus treats them as such. When they hold hands, he fancies admiring them. Fingers that produce music so sweet to the ears of the public, fingers that his skin is so familiar with. He pictures them against his cheek, on his hair, over his mouth. He pictures playing with them, too. Caressing middle and index with a delicacy that’s so rarely seen on Orpheus, reserved to a man who holds his heart in such beautiful hands.
He kisses them, again. Palm, sides, length, tips. He has heard once, an urban legend perhaps, that a kiss to the tip of one’s fingers means loyalty. He finds it rather fitting.
A kiss; on the tail end of silky hair. It’s well-kept, perhaps even more so for a man than one would expect, but Frederick is vain; treats himself as he would his music. When Orpheus runs his fingers through his hair, he finds it addicting. He brushes it when Frederick asks him to, and finds pleasure in it. Soon, he has learned how to properly care for it, has braided it mindlessly once, even, to which his lover has much teased him about.
The hair tie that Frederick wears, a gift with love. He boasts it when he can, quietly without words. It always makes Orpheus’ heart skip a beat; once, twice. He calls it a treasured possession when asked, and keeps its mystery. There had been rumors of a lover once, and Frederick has only smiled at that. He makes their relationship dangerous, but Orpheus finds that he loves that part of Frederick, too. Confident in himself, certain in his opinions. He’s stubborn, and Orpheus loves him for it.
“Why do you love it so much?” Frederick asks one day, and it catches Orpheus off guard.
Why does he love it? Not something he has put much thought behind; is it because it’s Frederick’s hair, and by default he holds affections towards it? He has never quite cared much about hair in general, never looked at other people’s, never felt the desire to touch theirs like he does his lover’s.
He muses the thought over.
“I just think it’s beautiful,” is what Orpheus decides to go with, and it brings a smile to Frederick’s face.
“You ought to grow your hair out, then,” Frederick jests, mischievously. Short hair far suits Orpheus, they know. Frederick prefers it so as well. He enjoys running his fingers through brown strands, short as they are; he thinks he’s handsome, and Orpheus thinks he’s undeserving of the compliment.
They laugh, and drown each other in affections.
Another day, Orpheus pursues innovation. He’s a romantic, but remains reserved many a time. When he surprises Frederick with a bouquet of flowers, his lover is rendered speechless.
“Geraniums,” he says coyly. The magenta color of the petals match the pinkish tone on his cheeks, and he wonders for a moment if he has overstepped boundaries.
“What’s their meaning?” Frederick inquires, because he knows Orpheus, knows a novelist and a writer and a man whose every action has a meaning, every word has a subtitle. The bouquet is gorgeous, and he finds it hard to maintain his usual cocky demeanor.
Orpheus is caught in his embarrassment, and doesn’t say anything.
“Affection,” he replies much later, fingers skillfully working on braiding Frederick’s hair, “and love.”
He decorates it with the geranium petals (fallen ones, of course, he’d loathe to ruin his lover’s gift), down the length of the braid and finds that Frederick could become even more alluring.
Frederick kisses him in response, and the world is suddenly theirs only.
“What do you fancy?” Frederick asks another day, and it doesn’t catch Orpheus off guard, this time.
He thinks on it, however. He fancies many things, all of which Frederick knows. The question comes without context, but Orpheus is as much of a reader as he is a writer. The between the lines are exclusive to him, written secrets in the language of love.
“This,” he begins, a kiss to Frederick’s left eye. Your long lashes stays hidden in silence, but neither of them need say the words to understand their meaning.
“This as well,” he continues, a kiss to Frederick’s fingers. It’s nothing new, not when Orpheus finds himself playing with them every chance he gets.
“This,” he adds, a kiss to Frederick’s collarbones.
“This?” The meaning is lost on him, for once. Orpheus fancies surprising him, too, surprises him more when he’s suddenly embraced, his lover’s head on his shoulder. He understands now.
A kiss to his collarbones, because that’s where Orpheus’ head rests when they hug.
“And this?”
Frederick doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t have to. Orpheus kisses him on the lips, softly. It tastes hot and sweet, he notices, with a hint of honey from their dessert. He licks Frederick’s lips, and smiles against them.
“I fancy this the most.”