Despite us clearly not minding their presence, I sense Tim and Cissy trying to give TJ and I as much space as possible, particularly in the evenings, which is an unintentionally funny-ass thing to say considering the amount of space there is on this property.
Even days later, I feel like I could still get lost finding my way to the nearest bathroom.
TJ promises that’ll pass.
One night, he flicks on the pavilion lights to show me a piano left near the back of the stage in a glass enclosure. He sits down and fumbles through a song he half-remembers from the lessons his mom forced him to take as a kid. After circling him a few times listening to him play, I finally sit next to him and take over.
TJ is surprised. Then quickly decides not to be. “I mean, you’re a musician. Of course you play more than just guitar.”
“I’m not as clever as Fiona,” I admit, working through a chord progression that’s been swimming around in my thoughts the past few days, “and I sure don’t got a lick of classical trainin’,but I can pretend I do now and then.” I play a flourish of keys as I settle into an E minor, then hit an unexpected B bass note, feeling like Wily. A percussive rhythm takes over, and suddenly I’m Raj, too—maybe Cam. “Just can’t help myself lately. The songs keep pourin’ out.”
“Can you play me one?”
I peer into his eyes—only his eyes—as my fingers keep moving over the ebonies and ivories. Without much of an intro, I just start sing-talking to him. “A plane in the sky…is closer to the stars…than I am…as I watch the same stars from my window.” Flourish of keys. Hit of an uplifting G major before settling back to E minor. “Longing…for closeness…Longing for you.” Another flourish. “But if you round the distance of any star…to any one of us…we’re all just as far from them,yeah,or just as close.” Smack of a bass note. TJ’s shoulder presses into mine. My lips curl up, watching him as I play. “Take the distance between you and me…round it to the nearest 10,000thmile, that practically puts us in the same damned room…no farther apart than molecules of air…than sunlight from our skin…the same sun can touch us both at once, can’t it?Maybe we’re burnin’ together…even if burnin’ apart.Round our distance to the nearest sun, and you’re in my arms again…yeah, you’re in my arms again,oh,yeah.” I rattle the keys like it’s Glorious under my fingertips. “Distanceis an illusion, ain’t it? …The stars are so close, you can catch them in your eyelashes…Put that star between your fingers, squeeze and it’s yours…like you, in my arms, just squeeze and it’s yours…I want you the same,no matter the space…it’s yours.” I draw closer. “It’s yours.” One of my hands goes around TJ’s head, my face closer to his parted lips, heart racing. “It’s yours.” Then our mouths are together, the song’s forgotten. We rise, piano bench falls back, and the two of us are on the floor making out in front of a thousand empty seats, audience of zero.
I fucking love this guy.
Our clothes are off, replaced by sheens of sweat over our skin, as we lie there in the center of the stage on our backs, his head on my arm, staring up at the curved roof of the pavilion that covers the stage. The crickets are out, taking over with their own version of music. Even when we don’t go all the way, just making out like some crazy fever’s taken us over, it feels like a goddamned climax every time: always out of breath, drunk with happiness, and perfectly content.
“Did you write that one on the road when we were apart?” he asks me, voice right in my ear. “While missing me?Piningfor me?”
I chuckle at his taunting tone. “I wouldn’t say it’s somethin’ I wrote with intention, exactly. Some songs just sort of … happen.” I turn my head a bit toward him. “Like us.”
He sighs happily as he sinks more deeply into my side. “Does it have a name yet? Can I name it? ‘Round to the Nearest Star’ …”
I shrug. “Sure, I think that’s a perfect name.”
“Really?” After a thought, he snorts. “You don’t gottaindulgeme, Austin. If the name sucks, the name sucks.”
“I could spend a lifetime lying here under the stars naming songs with you, TJ. Just like this. You and me. I could just … fuckin’ die happy right here on this stage.”
“While I appreciate that sentiment, a bed might be comfier.”
I smirk. “You suggestin’ somethin’, mister?”
“Maybe.”
A handful of minutes later, we’re in his room, clothes off, and we make more use of the colorfully wrapped rubbery items filling his nightstand drawer.
There’s something different about the way we have sex here. In the hotel, it was all animal. Squeaking beds. Gripping hair and shattering breaths and chaos. Panting. Sweat. Ruffled sheets.
In this bedroom, something sweeter motivates us.
It isn’t that we’re not still aggressive. That I don’t still tug on his hair when we make out or he doesn’t claw his fingertips into me when I slide inside.
Our eyes are more focused, locked on one another’s.
Present.
He truly sees me when I’m naked before him, in more ways than just my clothes being all over the floor.
And I feel like I can truly see him, passion bursting from his eyes like stories out of music. It was the first thing I noticed about him, wasn’t it? The passion in his eyes …
It’s still there.
When we have sex in his room, our breaths rush in and out together like harmony.
Is this the difference between having sex and making love?