Sweet Ache

The music he creates on the piano against the wall is melancholy, haunting, poignant, and it begs me to walk in the room and listen from a closer distance even though I know it’s already woven into my soul and wrapped around my heart in just this first listen. I look through the crack I’ve opened and watch him play: head down, shoulders relaxed, fingers flying over keys without a second thought. He’s in his element, lost in his therapy, coping the only way he knows how.

This poisoned crown has lost its shine, time to cut the ropes he tied with twine. I looked up, and I saw you. I looked up, and then I knew. My armor sheds, my truths revealed, for your honor I now have bled.

He sings the lyrics so softly but I hear them clear as day, know exactly what he’s talking about, and it’s never been more apparent that I have no chance in hell at winning my heart back from the hold he has on it. And I know for a fact that I don’t want to. His fingers move flawlessly into an interlude and I don’t even realize I’ve moved farther into the room, his pull on me so inexplicable, my draw to him irrefutable.

Take me as I am. Help me be a better man. Help me find the path to choose, as long as it keeps me beside you. This empty heart is yours to keep, take my hand, let’s take this leap. Falling soft, landing hard, happy ever after is not too far.

I can’t move as his words, his heart, speak to me through the song. He sounds so lonely, so pained, and at the same time there’s hope there, for whatever we are together. And after the events of the day, I cling on to the hope, desperately needing that ray of light in this incredible man to pull me through.

The music fades softly as he hums along with it and the room fills with silence. His head remains bowed, and I hold my breath, feeling once again like I’m intruding on him and his lover. It’s an odd feeling but it’s the most accurate way that I can explain how it feels to watch him create his music.

“I’ve never done this before, Quin,” he says, voice strained. I startle a bit, surprised that he knows I’m here.

I take a step toward him, holding on to a ray of hope that he’s saying what I think he’s saying.

“Never done what before?”

“Today. Tonight. You. Me. Any of this.” I try to follow what he’s saying. He’s got a habit of sharing what he’s thinking without explaining at first so I grant him the moment to formulate just what he wants to say. I step up behind him and place my hands on his shoulders, ghost my body to his back and just wait him out.

He blows out a loud breath and shakes his head ever so slightly, fingers tinkering softly on the keys. “What I just said in those lyrics … By now I’m usually shoving someone away, but you … I don’t want to do that with you. And not because I feel guilty about Hunter—which I do and always will and—”

“Shh. Shh,” I murmur into the top of his head, not wanting to rehash the seven other times tonight that I told him Hunter’s actions aren’t on him. And riding right alongside of that is the damn hope again causing my heart to squeeze in my chest in anticipation. “Even when you push me away, Hawkin …” He starts to shake his head to tell me that he’s not and so I continue so that I can explain. “It’s going to happen. It’s all you know. I’ll be patient, I’ll wait you out as long as you fight harder to keep me than you do to push me away.”

He drops his head forward, nodding. “I will fight harder…. I’m pretty sure the bruises on my knuckles are proof.” He snorts out a laugh and now I feel like shit because that’s not what I meant. I reach down and lift one of his hands up to my lips and press a kiss to the bruises there.

He draws in a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say Quin is that I almost fucked this up by not telling you about the bet. I’m sorry. I was too busy holding on to who I thought I was to recognize the man you saw in me.” Tears spring to my eyes instantly, and I squeeze his shoulders for him to continue. “But I see him now. You’ve allowed me to see him, to want to become him. I know that the promises I made to a desperate man when I was nine are not mine to keep. It’s time to start living life for me, so I can prove those theories wrong, and the first step for me is trying to make this work with you.”

He looks up to me now with a steady gaze, our eyes lock, and my smile spreads automatically. How can it not when I’m looking at this incredible man, trying to be the person so many of us have seen for so long? He’s always denied it about himself, but now he’s stepping forward. His eyes ask the question I think he’s afraid to voice aloud. I lower myself gingerly to the bench beside him.

I take in his handsome face, black eye and all, his sculpted lips, and those gray eyes holding mine captive. His unease is palpable; the vulnerability radiates off him as if he cut open a vein, and my need to soothe his worries takes over. I reach out to press my fingertips to the softness of his lips and hold them there. He kisses them gently and my heart melts at the intimacy of the action.

“Sometimes first steps entail a helluva lot of tripping and falling,” I tell him, hoping he really hears what I’m saying because I need to let him know he’s not alone here in how he feels. “But it’s okay because I promise I’ll be there to catch you when you fall.” I lean forward and replace my fingers with my lips, in a gentle reinforcement of my words. “You see, I can catch you because I already tripped and fell head over heels a while back.”

I wish I could capture the look on his face, the quick intake of air, the sudden off-chord press of the piano keys, as record of the moment, but I don’t think I need to because it’s burned into my mind without a doubt.