[Adult] Anemone

[Rafael de la Cruz]

Laying in a tangle of limbs, breath still stolen by the rush of his climax, sore in the most delicious of manners, Rafael found himself quite sated... Physically, at least. There would be a price to pay later, he was certain – such was the nature of getting older, on top of the particularly forceful manner Peter had – but for now there was only the bone-deep, languid pleasure of it all.

Chuckling, he roused himself from where he'd fallen back against the rug, legs falling from around Peter's waist. They had made quite a mess on the playwright's chest and stomach; the first wild sprays had traveled all the way to his lips. A finger swiped through it, his dark eyes finding Peter's as he savored the bitter, salty tang of it. "Mm, a delicious vintage," he teased, though with his lust sated he was not eager to consume much more than that. Instead he reached for the closest reasonable thing to clean the mess up – his drawers, as it turned out, which were far easier to clean (or replace) than the silk of his kaftan.

While he busied himself with that, his mind fell back to Peter's performance earlier that night. His piano performance, that was; Rafael would think fondly of this night in the weeks to come for many reasons, but it was the ever-burning passion at the back of his mind that was rapidly reasserting its dominance over him.

"I know I have kept you far longer than anticipated already," he started, eyes dancing even as he openly admired the other man's naked form (he was sated, yes, but not blind). "But if you would indulge me just a little longer, I would seek your, ah... guidance, I suppose." His clothing was left on the floor; Pierre would see to it later. For now, uncaring for his own nudity, he instead stepped over to his desk. Among the paper scattered there (it was organized to his liking, which would be easy to mistake for not being organized at all) was the latest rendition of his overture for the opera.

"I have been inspired to write a new opera, and have most of the overture complete – the melodies, at least. I am finding it annoying to establish the leitmotif for one of the characters though – the most important one, of course, because these things can never be easy." Sighing, he flipped through the pages before offering them to Peter. "This is my latest attempt, and it would be an honor if you would share your opinion on it. Do not feel as though you have to spare my feelings; I know you can be a harsh master." He grinned again at that, knowing full well the redness of his ass and the singular cause of it.

"We may return to the piano, if you like; Pierre will not be abed until he is confident I am, and will not bother us." As evidenced by Rafael's continuing nudity – though he did make the concession of slipping his shirt back on, purely to stave off the uncomfortable chill of the evening air against his skin now that he no longer had the pianist's body pressing against his.

[Peter Scrymgeour]

Peter’s breath was shallow, but he could have continued longer. His new toy looked like he could use a breather, making Peter smirk. Rafa was cute when he was a mess. Peter hoped to revisit the look on the man’s face, if only for the joy of getting there. He could appreciate a man who knew how to get down to business. He almost expected Rafa to insist on drinks while he worked up the nerve. Peter performed better without them and needed no help working up the audacity to take a man who clearly wanted to be taken.

“I don’t know.”

Touching the mess they had made before Rafa wiped it away, he tasted it and considered the “drink” as though they were at a wine tasting. The body was rich; the heart note was savory.

“We may have to have drinks again sometime to ensure the vintage is right.”

The taste test was unnecessary; Peter wanted to revisit their activities. He adored how easily Rafa submitted to his commands. Even if Peter had certain personal interests, he was a sucker for a proper submissive. If he could not get what he needed for a full physical release, at least he could engage in something mentally stimulating.

When Rafa rose, Peter was half tempted to give his ass a playful spank, but he thought better of it, stretching on the floor before he found some of his clothes and went through the motions of dressing. He was not ashamed of his naked form; he knew he could not leave the house in his nude state. By the time he reached Rafa’s desk, he had his things on, except his shirt and waistcoat remained unbuttoned and hung on his form. Curiosity had overrode any attempts at decency.

“Hmmm… Is there a reason you specifically chose the clarinet for him? If you are asking me, I presume you have already come to the same conclusion… about the piano being a better voice for this character.”

Peter read sheet music the way others read novels. He could follow the characters' development through the music surrounding them. Did he see the people around him in terms of music? Of course. Not that he would ever mention it to the people around him for fear of sounding exceptionally mad.

“Oh, and here… this is his big crescendo… have you considered adding trumpets and timpani? I would recommend doing so in D, you know, fireworks. You could give hints of trumpets in his lesser crescendos as a nod to this pivotal moment.”

He leaned against Rafael’s desk, pointing out the areas of interest, hoping Rafa would see what he saw. The music was beautiful scaffolding, but it needed the fireworks, as he so eloquently put it.

“I promise I am not trying to take over your project here. I can hear more than you have written; this is a work in progress. I have no idea if it was what you were already planning. If it is, I agree.”

[Rafael de la Cruz]

While Rafael was more than eager to revisit his drinking with Peter, there was a certain order of priorities in his mind. Pleasures of the body were important, yes, but all paled in comparison to his work. That was even more true with the specter of this new opera pulling at his mind day and night. Should the pianist be able to contribute to unsticking this annoying block, he would be well rewarded...

But the work came first, now and always.

"Mm, this character and this character are one in the same, though presented differently throughout the story. I had thought that the clarinet a more masculine version of the flute, copying this section. I was also in mind of a Mozart clarinet concerto I heard some time back." Grinning boyishly at the other man, he teased, "I cannot imagine why you find the piano more fitting, mm?" Tapping his lip in thought, he shrugged.

"I had wanted more of a Spanish influence originally, but the music doesn't seem to want that," he admitted, leaning companionably into the side of the other man. Rafael had allowed himself to be talked out of his desires for his first work; he was reluctant to entirely abandon his hopes for this one. "Though I suppose if the clarinet was replaced for piano, we could use the organ for at least some of your fireworks. I would need quite the skilled pianist to bring my vision to life, though."

It was not, strictly speaking, his place to offer such a role to another. Still, Rafael was confident that he would be able to arrange for it, so long as he approached it the proper way... and so long as Peter was interested, of course. He raised his eyebrows askance at the other man, head tilting. "I would be eager to spend more time working with you, if you were interested." And it was sincere; not just working together, of course, though they would be doing so. It was no empty promise, no mere excuse to keep the other man (or more accurately, his cock) near-by.

"You don't need to promise anything yet, of course. I would welcome your input regardless. I'm sure you've been told before, but you have a singularly brilliant mind." The look he gave Peter was nothing short of adoration, and fully sincere. Had he been born a noble, and not an orphan, he would have kept a menagerie of men such as the pianist; artists rare and wonderful, whose skills and talents were unsurpassed, unique, and absolutely brilliant in their own way. Instead, he was indeed an orphan, and he was the artist kept by nobles. Not such a terrible life, but there was something deeply tempting about the alternative version of life his mind had conjured up.

[Peter Scrymgeour]

“YES! Yes, that would work.”

Peter had not called out like that a single moment over their drinks, but the music made him lose that final shred of inhibition. He did not care if his excitement made him sound like a boy excited over a pretty stone or some other stunning childhood discovery. Rafa’s decision to use an organ for the fireworks of the music was perfect. He had only one thing to add.

“The clarinet works for him then, the first stage of the character until the piano takes over his melody. It would clarify to the audience that something has changed, so the organ makes the most sense when he enters his most intense arc.”

Of course, Peter was welcoming to the closeness of his new companion. It was instinctual to snake his arm around his companion’s side and rest it upon his hip. There was something about men his senior. The right ones were a delicacy; at least he could assert his will privately. An Austrian alienist like Freud would suggest it stemmed from tension with his father. Peter did not have daddy issues. He and his father got along well. If an older man brought him significant trouble, that had to be family; it was his brother, his twin. He had to go out of his way to dim his light in that man’s presence. At least Rafael did not attempt to dim anything about either of their lights. If anything, he ignited a fire that continued to burn, even through their discussion of his opera.

“It’s still there. I can see it on these D minor scales. You could slip a few Phrygian scales in to replace these signature couplets.”

Just thinking about it made Peter frown.

“But what you have here is golden. The music tells me what it wants to be, and it seems to have declared how much Spanish influence it will tolerate before the piece is tarnished.”

That was Peter’s way of dignifying Rafael's other thoughts while processing a response. He knew that his presence in an opera orchestra, even for one opera, could make or break his situation as an exclusive and highly sought-after pianist for private engagements. Peter had been looking for a venue change. Working for the same stuck-shirt lords who befriended his brother and looked down their noses at him was insufferable. He wanted something different. No. He HAD to find something else to do with his time, or he was going to lose himself in drinks, opium, and whatever else felt like a method to cope with living in his brother’s shadow.

“I am interested, but I am afraid if it influenced my current trajectory, you may find more time to work with me than you otherwise considered in your offer.”

Rafael might have been playing polite. It would be impolite to consult a pianist on a piece and then not at least offer him the part. Even if he thought Peter would decline, it was the decent thing to do. Peter pulled Rafael closer than that friendly lean and caressed his jawline, slowly turning Rafael’s head to meet his gaze. Peter was dead serious, and he had to know that the man would be willing to work with him beyond the present opera if Peter’s concert pianist work took a dive over the opera or if Peter found renewed excitement in playing for the opera and wanted to do little else where performing for others was concerned.

“It takes one to know one, my friend.”

Fuck it, Rafael earned himself a smoldering kiss for his kind words. Peter was almost dressed to leave, presuming their drinks were meant to be short-lived. The downside of more mature lovers was that many were good for the first and only performance of the evening. Peter had an insatiable appetite for encore performances. It was the one benefit of a lover his age: they could go all night, like a couple of rabbits.

"I admit I may find it hard to work with you. You are so fucking distracting."

The prospect of working with Rafael was as hard as the shaft trying to make a tent in his trousers, and he glanced down at it and back up at Rafael to see if he might have been too hasty to dress and leave if his host might oblige him with another round. At least he was good at compartmentalizing work from play. Their present problem was that their work was in a place where they could play.

[Rafael de la Cruz]

The pleasure of finding a truly kindred soul was one that made nigh all else pale in comparison. He could spend hours speaking of his work to Nellie, or Jesús, or even Zelda if she would indulge him. Yet all of them lacked the kind of understanding, the industrial know-how, the instinctive grasp of music and lyrics, that made it a conversation of equals. None of his most beloved friends, and indeed few of his peers, would have so quickly understood the motion of the music, the themes and story it told even separate of the singing and dancing and dialogue.

That they were akin in tastes and to a certain extent temperament, made Peter all the more dear to Rafael, even in the short while they had spent together.

"Perhaps that is why it frustrates me so," he allowed with a somewhat disappointed sigh. One day he would have to write a grand, sweeping opera true to his desires and his heritage; he had come close twice now, but still fell short. The Carlist wars, of course, seemed the obvious inspiration. One day, he promised himself, even as he leaned further into Peter's easy embrace. "I will have to let the music guide me, instead of insisting upon my preconceived desires for it. It is there, in my mind, but my fingers sought to deny it." A momentary scowl down at the paper, as though it had personally offended him, and then his attention returned to his companion.

It was a difficult thing to ask, Rafael knew; a commitment of that kind to a man who was effectively a stranger, no matter how Peter's cum still felt tacky against his skin. Even so, now that he had seen the man's talent first-hand, tasted his passion in quite the literal sense, and found him so very much to his liking, Rafael loathed the idea of parting from him. Again came the thought; a future where he was wealthy, landed, and could afford to keep the pianist like a songbird. Oh, Peter would no doubt be equally loathe to consider such a future, but God if it didn't add to the smoldering desire in the pit of the playwright's stomach.

"I would never seek to dull a rising star such as yours, my friend. This opera will be a grand success, and you shall have your share of the glory. I would never deny you the audiences you so richly deserve." He pressed further into that caress, regarding the other man with unabashed adoration. Yes, his words and thoughts were not quite of an accord, but the idle musings of a world that did not exist – a world where he could afford to keep a noble-born man as a pet, for his clever fingers, brilliant mind, and magnificent cock – and it was his words where the truth lay. "But it is a decision you must make, and know that I will support you regardless." Rafael meant the words, but that did not stop him from pouting ever-so-prettily; begging with an expression, even if he knew the mature and reasonable thing to say in spite of himself and his expression.

But then he was rewarded for his honesty and his veneration, and the pout turned into a delighted laugh half-consumed by the kiss; the half that wasn't consumed instead shifted into a low moan. His hands came up to hold the other man's lapel, keeping him close even when their lips parted. A coy smirk played upon Rafael's own lips, his gaze following Peter's only for him to laugh wickedly to see the rewards of his efforts. No, he was not a young man anymore, but his appetites had always exceeded the endurance of his cock. Maybe it was the Lord's way of attempting to limit his licentiousness, but if so the Lord had clearly not known his business well enough; Rafael was far too happy impaled upon a cock to bemoan the lack of his own turgid erection.

"A sentiment I whole-heartedly agree with. We shall simply have to leave each other far too exhausted for anything but work, then." Boldly his hand explored Peter's tented trousers, stroking the length of his cock through the material. "And I would be a terrible host if I did not tend to such a terrible need before sending you out into the cold, wouldn't I?" If he could convince the pianist to stay the entire night, even at the cost of his own sleep and ability to walk the next day, he would do so in a heart-beat. Rafael's obsessions for his opera had not abated in the slightest these past weeks, and in Peter he had found a new outlet that burned as brightly as any other.