(no subject)
Xabi’s fingers glide over the keys.
His hands know where to go and what to do.
Xabi doesn’t.
He plays a prelude in E major.
The bright triads take him to his first day in Liverpool.
He remembers the smell of the fresh paint on his walls, of the new boots he receives, of Steven’s aftershave when the captain leans in to catch the careful phrases muttered in broken English.
A chromatic scale leads him to sneaked glances in the changing room and a hand lingering on his shoulder for too long to be a friendly pat.
D becomes D sharp. Steven becomes Stevie.
Crescendo.
The prelude turns into a sonata.
His fingers explore the keys, striking unused triads, just like they had explored him.
The sounds are new to his ears. Like the sound of his back colliding with the cold metal of his locker, the (almost) inaudible sound of skin brushing over skin, of soft sighs escaping lips (whose lips, he doesn’t know; it doesn’t matter anyway).
It’s harmonic. Melodic. Mixed with passion that could last forever (or so it felt).
It makes sense. It feels right.
And then, Xabi’s fingers slip; they can’t hold on to the keys.
Suddenly it’s D flat. Suddenly it’s ‘I’ll call you later’ instead of ‘I miss you’ and mere nods instead of bright smiles.
One wrong note, just one.
But it’s the sound of his body thudding onto the grass after a tackle, of the final whistle and a battle lost, of a muttered ‘good bye’ and of a door clicking shut.
His fingers stop playing, the notes are gone.
His mind is blank and paralyzed by the sudden silence.
And while he is still staring at his hands, while thoughts, scents and sounds of past days still surround him, he feels a hand on his shoulder.
It’s firm and warm and real.
“Come to bed?” Steven asks quietly, just beside Xabi’s ear.
And when Steven places a soft kiss onto his jaw and holds out his hand to pull him up from the piano stool, it's all the guidance Xabi needs.