Black and White [for the_resolver]
For: the_resolver
Title: Black and White
Pairing(s)/focus: Jackson/Mark
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2900
Warnings: brief swearing, snarky Jinyoung, author messing around with POV
Author's notes: based on this prompt: http://data3.whicdn.com/images/133660405/large.jpg
Summary: Mark’s world is in black and white….and so is Jackson’s.
I was jolted awake by the sound of gunfire down the street. The shots were followed by several moments of shouting and swearing - then mind-numbing, soul-shrinking silence. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. It was over for now - but for how long I couldn’t say.
I could never say.
Gunfire wasn’t uncommon in my neighborhood, but it still rattled me (or at least more than I liked to admit to anyone else). I knew the moment I laid my head back on the pillow that I wouldn’t be going back to sleep, so I decided to do something productive with the few remaining hours before dawn. Crawling out of the old sleeping bag I had set up in the corner that was pretty much my bed and bedroom, I padded to the dilapidated upright piano at the other side of the room. The stool in front of it was the only piece of furniture in the room and it had seen better days - many, many better days, if the chipped blue paint and lopsided seat was any indication. I sat at the edge of the seat and murmured the prayer I usually did in hopes that the stool would stay intact for at least one more day.
It seemed that whatever god or gods existed heard my mantra at least one more time, my slight frame no threat to the stool as I scooted it closer and sat down, the blue a brief echo of color in a world that didn’t seem to have much more color than that. I was so familiar with the worn ebony and ivory keys that I didn’t have to look down as my fingers caressed them, instinct leading me to start with Duke Ellington’s Mood Indigo. I couldn’t help but wince at the first notes - off key as always but it couldn’t be helped. I had perfect pitch but no money to have the piano tuned professionally, so I had to make do. Your average Joe Schmo on the street wouldn’t know the difference anyway, so I suppose it didn’t matter. Closing my eyes I could imagine that I wasn’t in the worst neighborhood in town but instead in a posh club, playing before an audience that sat with their attention focused only on me as I spoke to them through my music. I was never really good with words, my tongue getting twisted and stumbling over simple greetings, but my fingers against the keys - now I could speak volumes. The tip jar would fill up so quickly I’d have to empty it after only a few songs, only to have it fill again. And again. I’d use the money to get out of this dump and into a real apartment. The piano would be perfectly tuned and the stool would have a fresh layer of paint an even brighter shade of blue and get a dose of WD-40. I’d go to bed in a real bed and with a full stomach, instead of the empty ache that usually lulled me to sleep.
And there wouldn’t be any more gunshots.
My fingers stumbled over a few keys as I laughed to myself, my voice rough from lack of sleep and not enough to eat. I could keep dreaming, but dreaming wasn’t going to make any of that come true. I had come to the States to live the so-called American Dream but so far there had been nothing but nightmares. Washing dishes and bussing tables barely left me with enough to afford this dump and get a decent meal a day. There was nothing left for piano lessons or demo tapes. Like the piano beneath my fingertips, this world was in black and white, no shades of grey. There were Haves and Have Nots.
And I certainly wasn’t one of the former. Face it, Mark, you are definitely a Have Not.
My fingers had just begun to get that pleasant ache they usually felt when I pushed myself practicing - a good pain as opposed to the way I felt after a day of washing dishes in the back kitchen of the Golden Phoenix - when I heard the dreaded sound of the half-broken alarm clock with its brrrrrriiiinnnggg-hiccup-stop (it kind of reminded me of a dying goose).
Crapcrapcrapcrap….
I stumbled off the stool, slamming the piano lid closed as I swore to myself and scrambled for clean clothing (although most of the stuff I wore had seen better days, I took pride in the fact it was always clean). I’d been playing for longer than I’d realized and now it was time to get up and face another day of same-old, same-old. Wash the dishes, bus the tables. Rinse and repeat.
Would it ever end?
********************
Jackson sat at the end of the bar, nursing his second scotch. His fingertip skimmed over the lip of the glass and back again, the rhythm as hypnotic as its user was distracted. The deal hadn’t gone well today and there was too much collateral damage. It had taken several well-placed bribes of high ranking officials and the police commissioner for the issue to be swept under the rug, eyes looking away at the most opportune time. Everything was taken care of - but that didn’t mean his father was happy.
Of course, when was the head of the Wang empire happy? Question of the century, that was.
Jackson knew he’d have to pay penance for any mistakes made, just like his older brothers had when they were given the responsibility of running the family business in the worst part of town. His brothers had graduated to Uptown now - embezzlement, fraud, high class escorts, Ponzi schemes. White collar crime in all its elegance and deceit. Little brother was left to slum it - gambling, prostitution, bullying under the guise of protection, robbery, a little murder thrown in here and there when certain individuals didn’t agree with the way things were being run - all to keep the Wang family at the top of the heap. The Wu family still had a grip on the South side but that grip was lessening and Jackson planned to exploit his friendship with Yifan - all for the good of the family, of course.
If it was good for the family, it was good for him.
It was as simple as black and white.
“Mr. Wang, Sir…” It had to be Yugyeom - the kid was too polite for his own good. “Um...bad news. Henry can’t play tonight. Guess he got caught fooling around with Geng’s lady. He’s lucky he only has a broken arm.”
Jackson swore under his breath, a colorful litany of Cantonese and English. “Well that’s just the cherry on top of my shit sundae, isn’t it? We got anyone else that can go on instead of him?” Everyone knew that entertainment helped the liquor - and therefore the cash - flow more freely.
The bartender hummed quietly to himself as he dried a glass, then leaned over to top off Jackson’s drink. “Well, Boss…” Jinyoung murmured, his usual slight smirk in place as he nodded over in the other direction. “Big-eyed busboy over there is pretty good. Caught him playing after we closed up the other night. He’d clean up pretty well, if you know what I mean.”
Jackson looked over in the direction Jinyoung had indicated, eyebrow arching as he took in the slim frame, mussed red hair and too-pretty face. He’d seen the kid before - of course he wasn’t really a kid but sometimes Jackson felt years older than he was - but he was usually so busy that he hadn’t paid much attention. Now he was and had to admit he liked what he saw. There was something skittish about the other as he meticulously cleaned off tables, something unrefined but intriguing. It was obvious the kid didn’t belong here, but who was Jackson to complain? Eye candy was eye candy, after all. And if he had talent...
“We’ll see. What’s his name? Big-eyed busboy isn’t going to cut it.”
Jinyoung chuckled. “His name is Mark.”
********************
This piano felt different from the one at home, the ebony and ivory keys smoother to my callused fingers, the pitch perfect. I missed the squeak of my broken down piano stool as I sat down. This stool was comfortable and sturdy - but it felt wrong. This all felt wrong and I tried to stop the tremble of my fingers as the noise of the crowd in the restaurant’s bar stilled in anticipation. The borrowed suit jacket felt too big and too small at the same time and I wished I could go back to clean up table #3 and not have all these eyes on me.
When Jinyoung had told me they needed someone to fill in that night I thought he was joking - you know, play a prank on the new kid (even though I had been working there for a few months now). Then he told me what happened to Henry and nodded over at a corner of the bar where a man in a sleek suit (that had to be Armani or some other label I couldn’t pronounce or afford) was sitting. “Boss wants you to play.”
The man looked up and smirked, holding up his glass and saluting me - and I recognized who he was.
Oh shit…
Jackson Wang, youngest son of the man everyone called ‘The Boss’. Capital letters spoken and stressed and everyone in this place went silent whenever they heard the name. They said the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I had no idea about the Families when I first moved to the city but I learned very quickly. There were families..and there were Families - and at the top of the pyramid were the Wangs. What I didn’t know was that Jackson Wang ran the Golden Phoenix…
...or that he was the one who wanted me to play.
There were several pairs of eyes on me, weighing….judging…..but somehow I felt his the most. The handsome man in the Armani suit, scotch in hand. My palms were damp with sweat and my fingers slipped as they moved over the keys, the sound harsh and cacophonic. I could feel the heat as blood rushed to my face when I heard the chuckles of those nearby. My throat was dry and swallowing was near torture but I couldn’t back down. Music was the only thing I could cling to right now - if I couldn’t play then...well, then what was there?
I stared at the black and white keys, honing in on the familiar and zoning out on everything else around me. No longer did I hear the clink of glasses as Jinyoung refilled a customer’s drink, no longer did I smell the thick, cloying cigar smoke that came in puffs and tendrils from a nearby table…
...and no longer did I feel his eyes on me.
No, my world was contained in the space in front of me, in the broad expanse of black and white that lay beneath my fingers, familiar and welcoming. I didn’t hear the snickers or propositions made between customers and the wait staff, instead hearing Ellington and Basie and Thelonius Monk, their music as close to home as I could come. I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, closed my eyes and began to play.
********************
Jackson’s smirk deepened when he heard the kid’s fingers slip on the keys and he turned to Jinyoung to see if he had any other suggestions, inwardly cursing Henry’s wandering hands and lack of discretion. However, the bartender held up a hand as if to hold off his boss’ comment, looking at the stage. Jackson turned back in time to hear the first unhurried notes -
- and froze as music seemed to flow from the redhead’s fingertips, the cool jazz sounds dripping with a lazy kind of brilliance, clean and clear and beautiful.
Jackson was the first to admit he was jaded, both nature and nurture causing him to think the worst of people and attack first, ask questions later. But this kid - No, his name was Mark - the music that came from him made Jackson relax and put aside the worries that his job and his role in the family brought, even if it was just for the duration of the song. He closed his eyes and just felt.
It was enough….and more.
“I want him here four nights a week at least,” he murmured to Jinyoung. “Get him some new clothes and set him up with a place to live. If he’s working here as a busboy he probably lives in the neighborhood, and we know what that means.”
The bartender grinned. “Yeah. Dirt poor and living on instant ramen and air. I’ll let him know.”
“Keep him fed too. He’s too skinny. Take care of him, Jinyoung.”
“Yes, boss.”
********************
I found myself working more as a musician and less as a busboy - and that suited me just fine. Jinyoung said the apartment was part of the new job. It was still not far from the Golden Phoenix but it felt leagues safer than my old place. Part of my brain told me to ignore the black suited men that seemed to casually stroll about the neighborhood, their coats barely concealing the shape of the guns holstered beneath. I knew that the Wang family weren’t necessarily the ‘good guys’ but I slept better at night without the sharp pop-pop of gunfire outside of my window.
(I brought the piano stool from my old place to the new apartment. Even though it was paint-chipped and squeaky it felt better than the factory-pristine stool that came with the new upright, perfect tuning and all. Jinyoung said my bony butt was used to the old one and that sometimes it was good to have something familiar. Why are bartenders so smart?)
Jackson (I’m not quite sure when he became ‘Jackson’ to me instead of Mr. Wang) seemed to frequent the Phoenix more often and for some reason that made me feel more secure too. I know I shouldn’t have and maybe it was my imagination but the smirks I caught when I looked out of the corner of my eye didn’t seem so smirky anymore. They were more like smiles, softer at the edges and less intimidating. After a few weeks in my new role at the club Taehyun, one of the other busboys, casually mentioned that Jackson had put out the word that I wasn’t to be propositioned like the other wait staff and that the back rooms (where most of the ‘deals’ were made) were off limits.
Maybe things weren’t so black and white after all…
********************
It had been months since Mark had taken Henry’s place as the pianist at the Golden Phoenix and Jackson never regretted the decision to take Jinyoung’s advice. Mark may not have been as technically advanced as his predecessor but he played with heart and soul, emotion dripping from his fingertips onto the keys. Jackson found himself more relaxed and that reflected in his interactions with others - and that meant that deals went well, fewer bribes were needed, and less collateral damage.
A happier Jackson meant life was easier for everyone.
It took some time but bit by bit the skittish redhead seemed to open up to the mafioso. At first it was a shy glance but friendly smiles and innocent conversation benefited both men and Jackson basked in the glow of a smile from the pianist aimed at him. They sometimes lingered for coffee after the bar closed, talking about their childhoods and dreams and it seemed that one lonely boy who grew up on the wrong side of town wasn’t so different from another born with a silver spoon and everything he could wish for.
It was after they pulled into the parking garage at Mark’s new apartment (and Jackson insisted that he take the other home in his car) that Mark felt fingers curl around his own, the other looking down at the pianist’s hand. A shiver curled down Mark’s spine as Jackson traced his long, thin fingers with a delicate touch, as if trying to memorize with sight and tactile sensation.
“You are not what I expected, you know?” Jackson began, then continued before Mark could ask what he meant, fingers still tracing the other’s hand - finger by finger, lingering on the imperfection of calluses formed by his love of his instrument. “Gutter rat,” and the way he said it was colored by fondness. “But the music you play is beautiful. You are beautiful.”
Jackson stopped tracing, only to thread his fingers with Mark’s, making it difficult to see where one hand ended and the other began. “I think this looks the best,” he mused, then looked up and met Mark’s eyes, his own not the sharp, intense, judgmental gaze of the Wang family’s youngest son but now something softer, something gentler.
Mark found he liked that look the best - maybe even better than his music.
“I really need your hand in mine.”
No, things weren’t black and white….but shades of gray weren’t so bad.
[readers, don't forget to leave a comment! anonymous is on if you're shy.]
Title: Black and White
Pairing(s)/focus: Jackson/Mark
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2900
Warnings: brief swearing, snarky Jinyoung, author messing around with POV
Author's notes: based on this prompt: http://data3.whicdn.com/images/133660405/large.jpg
Summary: Mark’s world is in black and white….and so is Jackson’s.
I was jolted awake by the sound of gunfire down the street. The shots were followed by several moments of shouting and swearing - then mind-numbing, soul-shrinking silence. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. It was over for now - but for how long I couldn’t say.
I could never say.
Gunfire wasn’t uncommon in my neighborhood, but it still rattled me (or at least more than I liked to admit to anyone else). I knew the moment I laid my head back on the pillow that I wouldn’t be going back to sleep, so I decided to do something productive with the few remaining hours before dawn. Crawling out of the old sleeping bag I had set up in the corner that was pretty much my bed and bedroom, I padded to the dilapidated upright piano at the other side of the room. The stool in front of it was the only piece of furniture in the room and it had seen better days - many, many better days, if the chipped blue paint and lopsided seat was any indication. I sat at the edge of the seat and murmured the prayer I usually did in hopes that the stool would stay intact for at least one more day.
It seemed that whatever god or gods existed heard my mantra at least one more time, my slight frame no threat to the stool as I scooted it closer and sat down, the blue a brief echo of color in a world that didn’t seem to have much more color than that. I was so familiar with the worn ebony and ivory keys that I didn’t have to look down as my fingers caressed them, instinct leading me to start with Duke Ellington’s Mood Indigo. I couldn’t help but wince at the first notes - off key as always but it couldn’t be helped. I had perfect pitch but no money to have the piano tuned professionally, so I had to make do. Your average Joe Schmo on the street wouldn’t know the difference anyway, so I suppose it didn’t matter. Closing my eyes I could imagine that I wasn’t in the worst neighborhood in town but instead in a posh club, playing before an audience that sat with their attention focused only on me as I spoke to them through my music. I was never really good with words, my tongue getting twisted and stumbling over simple greetings, but my fingers against the keys - now I could speak volumes. The tip jar would fill up so quickly I’d have to empty it after only a few songs, only to have it fill again. And again. I’d use the money to get out of this dump and into a real apartment. The piano would be perfectly tuned and the stool would have a fresh layer of paint an even brighter shade of blue and get a dose of WD-40. I’d go to bed in a real bed and with a full stomach, instead of the empty ache that usually lulled me to sleep.
And there wouldn’t be any more gunshots.
My fingers stumbled over a few keys as I laughed to myself, my voice rough from lack of sleep and not enough to eat. I could keep dreaming, but dreaming wasn’t going to make any of that come true. I had come to the States to live the so-called American Dream but so far there had been nothing but nightmares. Washing dishes and bussing tables barely left me with enough to afford this dump and get a decent meal a day. There was nothing left for piano lessons or demo tapes. Like the piano beneath my fingertips, this world was in black and white, no shades of grey. There were Haves and Have Nots.
And I certainly wasn’t one of the former. Face it, Mark, you are definitely a Have Not.
My fingers had just begun to get that pleasant ache they usually felt when I pushed myself practicing - a good pain as opposed to the way I felt after a day of washing dishes in the back kitchen of the Golden Phoenix - when I heard the dreaded sound of the half-broken alarm clock with its brrrrrriiiinnnggg-hiccup-stop (it kind of reminded me of a dying goose).
Crapcrapcrapcrap….
I stumbled off the stool, slamming the piano lid closed as I swore to myself and scrambled for clean clothing (although most of the stuff I wore had seen better days, I took pride in the fact it was always clean). I’d been playing for longer than I’d realized and now it was time to get up and face another day of same-old, same-old. Wash the dishes, bus the tables. Rinse and repeat.
Would it ever end?
********************
Jackson sat at the end of the bar, nursing his second scotch. His fingertip skimmed over the lip of the glass and back again, the rhythm as hypnotic as its user was distracted. The deal hadn’t gone well today and there was too much collateral damage. It had taken several well-placed bribes of high ranking officials and the police commissioner for the issue to be swept under the rug, eyes looking away at the most opportune time. Everything was taken care of - but that didn’t mean his father was happy.
Of course, when was the head of the Wang empire happy? Question of the century, that was.
Jackson knew he’d have to pay penance for any mistakes made, just like his older brothers had when they were given the responsibility of running the family business in the worst part of town. His brothers had graduated to Uptown now - embezzlement, fraud, high class escorts, Ponzi schemes. White collar crime in all its elegance and deceit. Little brother was left to slum it - gambling, prostitution, bullying under the guise of protection, robbery, a little murder thrown in here and there when certain individuals didn’t agree with the way things were being run - all to keep the Wang family at the top of the heap. The Wu family still had a grip on the South side but that grip was lessening and Jackson planned to exploit his friendship with Yifan - all for the good of the family, of course.
If it was good for the family, it was good for him.
It was as simple as black and white.
“Mr. Wang, Sir…” It had to be Yugyeom - the kid was too polite for his own good. “Um...bad news. Henry can’t play tonight. Guess he got caught fooling around with Geng’s lady. He’s lucky he only has a broken arm.”
Jackson swore under his breath, a colorful litany of Cantonese and English. “Well that’s just the cherry on top of my shit sundae, isn’t it? We got anyone else that can go on instead of him?” Everyone knew that entertainment helped the liquor - and therefore the cash - flow more freely.
The bartender hummed quietly to himself as he dried a glass, then leaned over to top off Jackson’s drink. “Well, Boss…” Jinyoung murmured, his usual slight smirk in place as he nodded over in the other direction. “Big-eyed busboy over there is pretty good. Caught him playing after we closed up the other night. He’d clean up pretty well, if you know what I mean.”
Jackson looked over in the direction Jinyoung had indicated, eyebrow arching as he took in the slim frame, mussed red hair and too-pretty face. He’d seen the kid before - of course he wasn’t really a kid but sometimes Jackson felt years older than he was - but he was usually so busy that he hadn’t paid much attention. Now he was and had to admit he liked what he saw. There was something skittish about the other as he meticulously cleaned off tables, something unrefined but intriguing. It was obvious the kid didn’t belong here, but who was Jackson to complain? Eye candy was eye candy, after all. And if he had talent...
“We’ll see. What’s his name? Big-eyed busboy isn’t going to cut it.”
Jinyoung chuckled. “His name is Mark.”
********************
This piano felt different from the one at home, the ebony and ivory keys smoother to my callused fingers, the pitch perfect. I missed the squeak of my broken down piano stool as I sat down. This stool was comfortable and sturdy - but it felt wrong. This all felt wrong and I tried to stop the tremble of my fingers as the noise of the crowd in the restaurant’s bar stilled in anticipation. The borrowed suit jacket felt too big and too small at the same time and I wished I could go back to clean up table #3 and not have all these eyes on me.
When Jinyoung had told me they needed someone to fill in that night I thought he was joking - you know, play a prank on the new kid (even though I had been working there for a few months now). Then he told me what happened to Henry and nodded over at a corner of the bar where a man in a sleek suit (that had to be Armani or some other label I couldn’t pronounce or afford) was sitting. “Boss wants you to play.”
The man looked up and smirked, holding up his glass and saluting me - and I recognized who he was.
Oh shit…
Jackson Wang, youngest son of the man everyone called ‘The Boss’. Capital letters spoken and stressed and everyone in this place went silent whenever they heard the name. They said the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I had no idea about the Families when I first moved to the city but I learned very quickly. There were families..and there were Families - and at the top of the pyramid were the Wangs. What I didn’t know was that Jackson Wang ran the Golden Phoenix…
...or that he was the one who wanted me to play.
There were several pairs of eyes on me, weighing….judging…..but somehow I felt his the most. The handsome man in the Armani suit, scotch in hand. My palms were damp with sweat and my fingers slipped as they moved over the keys, the sound harsh and cacophonic. I could feel the heat as blood rushed to my face when I heard the chuckles of those nearby. My throat was dry and swallowing was near torture but I couldn’t back down. Music was the only thing I could cling to right now - if I couldn’t play then...well, then what was there?
I stared at the black and white keys, honing in on the familiar and zoning out on everything else around me. No longer did I hear the clink of glasses as Jinyoung refilled a customer’s drink, no longer did I smell the thick, cloying cigar smoke that came in puffs and tendrils from a nearby table…
...and no longer did I feel his eyes on me.
No, my world was contained in the space in front of me, in the broad expanse of black and white that lay beneath my fingers, familiar and welcoming. I didn’t hear the snickers or propositions made between customers and the wait staff, instead hearing Ellington and Basie and Thelonius Monk, their music as close to home as I could come. I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, closed my eyes and began to play.
********************
Jackson’s smirk deepened when he heard the kid’s fingers slip on the keys and he turned to Jinyoung to see if he had any other suggestions, inwardly cursing Henry’s wandering hands and lack of discretion. However, the bartender held up a hand as if to hold off his boss’ comment, looking at the stage. Jackson turned back in time to hear the first unhurried notes -
- and froze as music seemed to flow from the redhead’s fingertips, the cool jazz sounds dripping with a lazy kind of brilliance, clean and clear and beautiful.
Jackson was the first to admit he was jaded, both nature and nurture causing him to think the worst of people and attack first, ask questions later. But this kid - No, his name was Mark - the music that came from him made Jackson relax and put aside the worries that his job and his role in the family brought, even if it was just for the duration of the song. He closed his eyes and just felt.
It was enough….and more.
“I want him here four nights a week at least,” he murmured to Jinyoung. “Get him some new clothes and set him up with a place to live. If he’s working here as a busboy he probably lives in the neighborhood, and we know what that means.”
The bartender grinned. “Yeah. Dirt poor and living on instant ramen and air. I’ll let him know.”
“Keep him fed too. He’s too skinny. Take care of him, Jinyoung.”
“Yes, boss.”
********************
I found myself working more as a musician and less as a busboy - and that suited me just fine. Jinyoung said the apartment was part of the new job. It was still not far from the Golden Phoenix but it felt leagues safer than my old place. Part of my brain told me to ignore the black suited men that seemed to casually stroll about the neighborhood, their coats barely concealing the shape of the guns holstered beneath. I knew that the Wang family weren’t necessarily the ‘good guys’ but I slept better at night without the sharp pop-pop of gunfire outside of my window.
(I brought the piano stool from my old place to the new apartment. Even though it was paint-chipped and squeaky it felt better than the factory-pristine stool that came with the new upright, perfect tuning and all. Jinyoung said my bony butt was used to the old one and that sometimes it was good to have something familiar. Why are bartenders so smart?)
Jackson (I’m not quite sure when he became ‘Jackson’ to me instead of Mr. Wang) seemed to frequent the Phoenix more often and for some reason that made me feel more secure too. I know I shouldn’t have and maybe it was my imagination but the smirks I caught when I looked out of the corner of my eye didn’t seem so smirky anymore. They were more like smiles, softer at the edges and less intimidating. After a few weeks in my new role at the club Taehyun, one of the other busboys, casually mentioned that Jackson had put out the word that I wasn’t to be propositioned like the other wait staff and that the back rooms (where most of the ‘deals’ were made) were off limits.
Maybe things weren’t so black and white after all…
********************
It had been months since Mark had taken Henry’s place as the pianist at the Golden Phoenix and Jackson never regretted the decision to take Jinyoung’s advice. Mark may not have been as technically advanced as his predecessor but he played with heart and soul, emotion dripping from his fingertips onto the keys. Jackson found himself more relaxed and that reflected in his interactions with others - and that meant that deals went well, fewer bribes were needed, and less collateral damage.
A happier Jackson meant life was easier for everyone.
It took some time but bit by bit the skittish redhead seemed to open up to the mafioso. At first it was a shy glance but friendly smiles and innocent conversation benefited both men and Jackson basked in the glow of a smile from the pianist aimed at him. They sometimes lingered for coffee after the bar closed, talking about their childhoods and dreams and it seemed that one lonely boy who grew up on the wrong side of town wasn’t so different from another born with a silver spoon and everything he could wish for.
It was after they pulled into the parking garage at Mark’s new apartment (and Jackson insisted that he take the other home in his car) that Mark felt fingers curl around his own, the other looking down at the pianist’s hand. A shiver curled down Mark’s spine as Jackson traced his long, thin fingers with a delicate touch, as if trying to memorize with sight and tactile sensation.
“You are not what I expected, you know?” Jackson began, then continued before Mark could ask what he meant, fingers still tracing the other’s hand - finger by finger, lingering on the imperfection of calluses formed by his love of his instrument. “Gutter rat,” and the way he said it was colored by fondness. “But the music you play is beautiful. You are beautiful.”
Jackson stopped tracing, only to thread his fingers with Mark’s, making it difficult to see where one hand ended and the other began. “I think this looks the best,” he mused, then looked up and met Mark’s eyes, his own not the sharp, intense, judgmental gaze of the Wang family’s youngest son but now something softer, something gentler.
Mark found he liked that look the best - maybe even better than his music.
“I really need your hand in mine.”
No, things weren’t black and white….but shades of gray weren’t so bad.
[readers, don't forget to leave a comment! anonymous is on if you're shy.]