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As he puts M%mor# to sleep, he recalls a familiar voice from days of eld.
I composed a new melody. I want you to be the first to hear it.
Sandalwood greets his nostrils as Orpheus walks into his old friend’s quarters. It’s far fancier than his own (Frederick is much more renowned than himself, and though his music is second to none, he’s much blessed with looks to match), never failing to find astonishment in its architecture. They’re from different worlds, a humble novelist and a prestigious composer. Few people would be inclined to believe in their friendship, and fewer in what lays behind closed doors and closed curtains.
“My friend,” Frederick’s voice steals him away from thoughts and musings (something he can’t quite avoid doing, owner of an imaginative mind), “I’m glad you’ve come. Here, sit with me.”
His friend is all smiles, much too glad to see him, and comes to greet him personally, a hand gentle against his lower back to guide him near his piano. It’s a duet-style bench, and though Orpheus knows it’s optimal for a pianist as skilled as him, he knows, too, that Frederick likes having him by his side when he plays. He relishes in the company, and vain through and through, he forfeits humility in favor of showing his friend how much he has perfected his playing.
Orpheus complies, of course, as he always does. Finds his seat on the bench, familiar and common. Where he belongs. “What’s your inspiration this time, may I ask?”
Frederick’s smile turns into a grin (familiar, too, he finds), wicked and sly, but it suits his confidence. “You.”
“... Me?”
The speechlessness pleases Frederick, the textbook definition of elegance as he sits next to Orpheus. “You. The horror novels you’re so fond of writing.”
There’s no room for a reply (perhaps because his friend doesn’t want a reply, certain in his words) as his fingers hit the keys, and the melody covers the entire room.
He understands much of the words spoken to him. The inspiration he has found in fictitious tales of horror, though the piano keys make it gentle and beautiful, Orpheus’ mind drifts into an orchestra hall. Frederick is not the maestro, but he leads the orchestra like one, his pianoforte a gift bestowed by the Heavens. The violins, cellos, trumpets, trombones, all of the percussion — only an entrance to the main course. The golden light shines on Frederick Kreiburg, and he sets the stage with his slender fingers. He steals breaths and minds and hearts, and while he bestows the world with immeasurable talent, he is a King and God, and the center of the world.
(Or that’s how it should have been.
His friend has not told him, but Orpheus has heard the rumors, seen the signs. There are less jobs for Frederick, less calls for concerts. They found talent in his younger self, but discarded it as the years went by. They keep him around still, he knows, but not for his music. The high society fancies his beauty instead, and Orpheus finds that he much despises their lack of delicacy.)
The melody ends, and Orpheus’ fantasies of grandeur for his friend follow suit.
“That must be your best composition yet.” He wastes little modesty, ever truthful in his compliments. The public’s eyes for talent might be going blind, but even behind his monocle Orpheus sees it well still.
“You flatter me so. Wait until I have an entire orchestra at my beck and call. This merry lullaby will grow into a ballad of angels. I’ll be the greatest composer that has ever lived, and you will write my story.”
Orpheus smiles and nods —
“Huh?”
— and realizes what exactly Frederick has said.
“Hm? You don’t think it’s fitting? Your writing skills are superb. I fail to see someone who could pull this off better than you, Orpheus.”
“That’s- not it. I write novels, Frederick, not biographies. They’re quite different…”
“Then by all means, write a novel. Make me into a fictional character if you will, your little puppet made of wool and yarn. ‘The nameless composer’, a survivor in a… death game, hosted by the evil owner of a manor. His perfect, delicate fingers stained with blood, longing for the touch of the keys of a piano,” for dramatic effect, Frederick muses himself with a quick melody, suspenseful and heavy, “and only at the very end, his name is revealed. ‘Frederick Kreiburg’.”
He bows his head, and for a moment Orpheus wonders if writing is a hidden talent his friend possesses.
“I promise to give it some thought, though I hardly imagine there are enough words in the dictionary to describe your compositions.”
“Then make new ones, dear Orpheus. How do you think words are invented? People make them up.”
Simplistic. There’s always an answer to everything for Frederick Kreiburg. It’s a strength and a charm, and certainly a trait that has always captivated Orpheus.
How can he say no? How could he ever deny his friend of his dreams of fame? He makes it sound easy, much too so, and Orpheus is no anchor to hold him down on the ground and forbid him from dreaming. He finds Frederick to be much akin to the spring breeze, calm and easy to be taken by it. He’s a small leaf himself, willing to ride the wind’s breeze.
Frederick’s slender fingers take his hand without warning, and Orpheus is caught off guard by the motion. His friend places it gently against the white piano keys, and he knows what he wants to do. Time and time again, Frederick offers to teach him how to play the piano. Time and time again, Orpheus says he hardly possesses the talent for it, that Frederick is much more befitting to wield its notes.
(His pleas never go through, and finds it embarrassing to admit that he is learning how to play, bit by bit, but hardly as well as his friend.)
They play mindlessly for what feels to be a few minutes, and once given up, he allows himself to be guided.
“‘One day, Orpheus hears a gentle melody. He knows not where it comes from, but finds it much hard to let it be. He follows after it, walks for what seems to be hours, determined to find what he seeks after. It leads him to a room, and suffocated by curiosity, he pushes the door open slowly. Inside, he finds a beautiful man, his white hair glowing under the moonlight, his slender fingers working on the abandoned piano in the room. He is captivated; once by the music, twice by the man. He knows here that his heart has been stolen, and finds little will to chase it back.’”
Frederick recites what would be a snippet from a novel, and it takes him no time at all to know what he’s hinting at. It gives rise to the crimson red color on the tip of his ears, and he feels his face burn.
“What is Orpheus thinking about?” The whisper against his ear forces him to bite his lip, and he easily adds making others lose composure to the list of talents his friend has. “Does he want to practice piano with the pianist man?” His hand, still light on top of the keys, is guided once again, the sound of the keys muffling the rapid beat of his heart. “Does he want to kiss him?”
In spite of the question, Frederick lays on his neck a trail of kisses that slowly drive Orpheus insane. This is hardly something they haven’t done before; friends though they might be, even a writer such as himself fails to find a proper word for the relationship they possess. Lovers, Frederick once asserted, and to this day believes to be true, but Orpheus struggles to call them such, even as his feelings are reciprocated.
Orpheus had once given Frederick a three of cups, and a few months later, Frederick returned with a knight of cups.
He has held it close to his heart ever since.
The kisses eventually find their way to his lips, and Orpheus melts at the touch. Frederick is taller, but by now he already knows to lean his head back, to submit himself whole to affection he cannot turn away from. The kiss itself is passionate, his lover’s favorite flavor, and he returns in kind. Their fingers intertwine on top of the keys, and it’s always pleasant to feel the softness of Frederick’s skin against his own. The way he smells, the gentleness of his touch, hidden treasures that Orpheus has claimed for himself.
Lady Luck has blessed him, and not a day goes by where he isn’t thankful for the feelings that have bloomed in his heart.
“Spend the night,” Frederick whispers against his lips, eyes still closed as his body cools down from the high of kissing the subject of his affections.
“I, I can’t. You know I have to…-”
“To help me think of a name for my song.”
From neck to lips, and from lips to cheek, kissed over and over. Gentle, soft kisses, so full of love and want. So hard to resist. A fruit as tempting as Eden’s apple.
“Please?”
Unfair, he thinks, melted by the kisses. Frederick knows how to get what he wants, and who’s Orpheus to deny him?
“... Just for tonight.”
He can feel Frederick’s smile against his skin, and suddenly everything else in the world is hardly as important as indulging his lover. Making him smile, seeing him happy. For Orpheus, it’s about the little, seemingly ordinary things. He finds joy in knowing that his feelings reach Frederick, that he knows his affections are reciprocated, shy and reserved as he might be. He smiles back, and kisses his cheek, too.
“I love you.”
“Love you, too.”