Page 78 of My Lovely Tragedy
Snow that will be gone before long. Leaving the earth upturned with fresh, moistened dirt. The first sprigs of spring breaking through the earth’s barrier.
A new beginning—and the end of another.
“I feel like playing,” I say after a while, the sun now beginning its descent toward the horizon but still shining vividly.
“I’d like to hear you play,” Brooklyn responds before climbing off my lap. At the absence of his warmth, my skin prickles, overly aware of how cold it is without him.
I shove the reminder down as I push to my feet, ignoring the ache in my extremities and the pulse at my temples, sending spots flashing across my vision. Pushing my glasses back up the bridge of my nose, I graze my finger over the fading scar before pushing my hair out of my eyes, only for it to flop right back across my forehead.
The bench is hard and cold beneath me, the temperature seeping in through my clothes, but I allow it to settle my mind as I splay my fingers wide over the ivories, eyelids falling closed as the notes flutter in my mind’s eye.
Notes I have created and memorized. Rearranged and tweaked. Played over and over until it felt as if my fingers would bleed from the slightest touch.
Notes that carry Brooklyn. Thatarehim. Soft and whimsical following sharp and discordant. Dark and haunting spliced with a hypnotizing and worshipful plunge.
It’s unfinished, but as it stands, it takes me nearly five minutes to get through the first time over. My finger finds each key without thought, just exactly where I need them. Maybe it’s Brooklyn’s eyes on me. Perhaps it is his breath sharing the air with mine. But it feels heavier than it ever has. And when the melody cuts off with a honed edge, I wince, shoulders tensed and breath coming out serrated.
“Holy shit.” Brooklyn exclaims in a breathy whisper. My eyes flutter as I stare down at my hands, pale and trembling. “Tobias, did you write that?”
I try to speak, but my words get lost on the way out. I push through the scratchy lump and try again. “Yes.”
“When? I’ve never heard you play that before.” Metal clanks, followed by the scratch of fabric, but I don’t look at him.
“I write when you are asleep, mostly. But that is my first time playing it aloud.” My nail skims over a black key, smooth and silky against my skin.
“Don’tyouever sleep?”
I hum. “On occasion.”Something’s missing… but what is it?I tap the F key repeatedly, following its deep tenor.
“Can I hear it again?” he asks softly, and my finger drops still as I search him out. He’s sitting on the floor, back against the side of the couch, head tilted back but eyes angled at me. He’s playing with his chains between his drawn-up knees.
I rake my gaze over every inch of him, clad in my sweatpants, torso uncovered, and feet bare with stark veins. With his arm free of bandages, I now have the perfect view of his single cut and my two, much larger ones. Now in the beginning process of healing with only three days at it.
He has not asked, and I have not offered, but we both crave it again all the same.
Waves of azure are resolute as they clash against my severe garnet. I nod once and straighten, ripping my gaze away, the sensation akin to my skin being torn from my body.
My eyes close once more as I fall back into the music for him, letting it carry over me and take me someplace else. Somewhere it is just us—butbetter.Without the pain we have both inflicted and endured. Without consequence and regret.
Where time is of no constraint or measurement.
Free to fly and soar. To crash and burn if we so desire.
Only us.
Heat buzzes behind me, a prickling awareness lingering over my skin. I falter when Brooklyn leans forward, pressing his torso to my back. He doesn’t instigate more contact than that—that singular connection—but it’s more than enough to have me playing the same chords over and over, stuck in a loop at the end of what I have written.
Frustration builds, lingering hot and cold. Brooklyn brushes past and takes a seat beside me.My equal.
His fingers ghost over mine, stopping the tune mid-note. It breaks off, making me wince. He drags the tip of his index finger over one of the many veins in the back of my hand, a stark blue-green color beneath my pale skin. His touch is gentle.Searching.But for what, I could never say.
Brooklyn spoke of his mind not working the way mine does, but that’s just it. He isbrilliant.He wears his tragedy with a beauty unlike anything I have ever seen.
His mind is sharp and ruthless, entwined with affliction and anguish. All wit and charismatic chaos, fusing perfectly with my own solitary, precise undertaking.
It’s devastating, how perfect he is for me.
How I’ll never be able to keep him.
