Da Capo Al Fine | Chapter Eleven: Nocturne
Title: Da Capo Al Fine
Pairing: Phoenix/Miles
Rating: Chapter 11 is NSFW but no actual buttsex. Rest are all general viewing.
Word Count: 57,345
Synopsis: After years of misery playing in the dingy orchestra pits of Broadway, Miles Edgeworth, professional oboist, has finally been given a reprieve. Having successfully auditioned for the Los Angeles Travelling Symphony, at last he can realise his dream of playing in a top orchestra. However, he is soon to find that he has joined a very eccentric band of musicians...
Chapter Links: Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Epilogue | Commentary
Author notes:
This chapter is full of pr0n. Detailed pr0n. Do not read this chapter if you're under 18. Don't say I didn't warn you!
The setup for this was difficult; the pr0n itself was easy by comparison, though now I've written a couple of slashy pieces I've realised it's actually quite difficult to avoid descending into the same old descriptions. I hope the music adds an unusual flavour to it. Make sure you have the pieces playing while you're reading (the text will tell you when), it helps the flow and sets the mood!
You can download them here:
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=PCYYQ0JV
They were waiting in the wings, about to go on stage. Diego had done a quick head count to make sure everybody was there. Only Franziska was missing; her father had requested her presence at the dinner and Lana had grudgingly released her, though only because her percussion lines in the first half were sparse. Appalachian Spring, on the other hand, had heavy percussion input.
“D’you think they’ll be back in time for the second half?” Phoenix whispered. “Lana and everybody, I mean. Dinner dates always go on longer than they’re supposed to.”
“It’ll be about nine by the time the second half starts - I don’t think anyone could eat that late,” Miles replied.
“Lana won’t let us down!” Maya piped up from behind them.
She and Ema stood behind them in the line, and they listened to the announcement played over the tannoy:
“Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the Los Angeles Concert Hall. The Los Angeles Travelling Symphony are about to perform. Please take your seats, and we hope you enjoy the performance.”
Miles wasn’t sure if he felt nervous or excited. On Broadway, the orchestra were never a focus like this - always down in the pit, out of sight to all except those who had paid for the cheap seats up in the stalls. They were meant to be invisible, a background for the singers the audience had really paid to see. But this time, those people sitting in the auditorium beyond had paid to see him perform. It gave him a thrill, that thought - a sense of pride.
I’m here. I’m going to play. At last!
He was a little nervous, he realised, but only about his solo in the second half. The other pieces they had played so much over the last few months that the notes flew from his fingers. Even Appalachian Spring no longer bothered him, thanks to Iris’ tutelage and months of practice. The solo shouldn’t be an issue either, he knew, or rather tried to tell himself. But there was always that element of the unknown when he played Gabriel’s Oboe. It depended on his mood as much as the reed he was using - it never sounded the same twice, a consequence of the number of notes within a single passage of the piece. The nuance, length and dynamic of them changed every time. While he couldn’t account for his mood, he could at least make sure he had the right reed. He’d been training a reed for this piece for weeks, having scraped it and shaped it and blown it in.
And it’ll probably give out on me in the interval.
As was always the way. A good oboe player was supposed to make even the worst reed sound acceptable, but for Miles having a decent, reliable reed was a comfort. He could play on a bad one, but it wasn’t enjoyable, and to get Gabriel’s Oboe right - as Phoenix had told him a long time ago - he had to enjoy playing it. And so he had three reserve reeds in his case. Nothing was going to catch him unprepared this time.
The auditorium lights went down and his stomach tightened. This was it. Only the front half of the stage was illuminated, highlighting the empty chairs that stood in front of the conductor’s dais. There was movement in front of him as the orchestra began to file on stage, to the sound of applause from the audience. They would sit and tune their instruments, and then Alexei Georgiy would enter stage right to begin the first piece. Larry, who was in front of him, started walking forward, following the others. Miles hesitated a moment, seized by an unexpected shot of nerves. He took a slow breath to try and quell it, and was about to step forward when his hand was grabbed, pulled - he wasn’t expecting it and he stumbled sideways, barely staying upright as he tried to recover his footing.
“This way, quick!” Phoenix whispered urgently, ushering him along.
“What?” Miles responded to the command for a moment, following him, then realised they were moving away from the stage. He pulled back, trying to break free as Ema and Maya filed on, apparently oblivious to the altercation. But Phoenix was determined and continued dragging him towards the abandoned percussion instruments set up in the unlit corner of the stage.
“What are you playing at?” he hissed, still resisting as Phoenix ducked down behind the four massive timpani drums. He had no choice but to bob down too, though he was still trying to wrench his hand away - years of working trumpet valves had given Phoenix strong fingers.
“I need to tell you something.”
“Not now - we’re about to play!”
“We can’t.”
“I don’t have time for your messing about,” Miles finally managed to twist his hand out of Phoenix’s grip and was about to stand up, when the significance of the comment sunk in. He paused.
“…What do you mean, we can’t?”
“There’s no seats for us, Miles. We can’t play in the first half.”
“Don’t be ridiculous - of course there-“ Miles broke off, aware of an absence of noise. No scraping of chairs, the applause had died down. He turned, looking through the gap between two timpanis. The orchestra were seated. The chairs were all full.
He stared at them for a moment, mind blank with temporary incomprehension. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
This is a mistake.
Yes, it was a mistake.
“They’ve put the wrong number of chairs out, then,” he said, logic reasserting itself. “We must go and get some chairs and bring them onstage - Alexei Georgiy won’t start the performance without us. Why did you drag me over here to tell me…” he trailed off, looking at Phoenix.
Wait a minute.
“How did you know… there weren’t…”
Onstage, there was some hushed discussion amongst the orchestra.
“Where the hell are those guys?”
“They were right behind us!”
“How are we gonna tune with no oboe?”
“Who’s gonna fill in for Mike?”
“I don’t need filling in for,” Mike murmured, slowly leafing to the right page in his sheet music. “I’m good. I can do this.”
Maya whispered something to Angel, who in turn passed it on.
“They’re doing what?” Will blinked.
“Well, I’ll be damned if that’s not the worst timing in the world,” Jake grunted.
“Hee, if Lana finds out they’re in deep shit,” Larry cackled.
“Just like you’ll be if you tell her - I know where you were during the Amsterdam concert, remember?” Ema said nonchalantly.
Larry paled, a single drop of sweat appearing at his temple. He wiped it away with a nervous chuckle.
“Sure is hot under these stage lights, huh, Ema, my keep-shtum buddy? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, eh?”
“So… we’re tuning the old way, then, huh?” Dick asked.
In response to that, Angel stood up and gave them the A note they needed. In actuality, the orchestra were already tuned. This tuning session was for show, to let the audience know they were about to begin, and for any last minute adjustments after getting under the hot lights of the stage.
Miles was staring at Phoenix in disbelief, a cold wave of horror washing over him as he heard the soft sounds of the orchestra tuning onstage.
“What… have you done?” he asked, a little helplessly.
There was another round of applause as Alexei Georgiy walked onstage, the stage lights going up as he entered. Miles screwed his eyes shut as the lights above them came on, blazing down. After a moment he opened his eyes, and as they adjusted to the brightness he saw Alexei scanning the orchestra, a small frown on his face.
He must know we’re not there… surely… surely…
With the stage fully lit, the pool of shadows between the timpanis and the safety of backstage was gone - to move now would put him in full view of the audience. The only thing he could hope for now was that the Russian maestro would realise they were missing and call off the performance until they were found.
But Miles’ hopes were dashed, for the conductor tapped his baton on the dais three times, then raised his hands and began to count them in. 1… 2… 3…
No!
Miles could have stood up at that moment, but he hesitated, just for a second, his stomach squirming at the thought of the embarrassment it would cause -
A lone violin sounded - Angel Starr, playing the opening bars of the Toccata and Fugue in D minor, then Maya, Pearl and Diego took up the lower reaches of the opening passage with heavy strings.
Too late.
The loud, angry grinding of bow on double-bass string at the lowest register penetrated through the auditorium, buzzing in Miles’ ears.
“You bloody fool!” he rounded on Phoenix. “This is all your doing, isn’t it?”
Phoenix swallowed, and he nodded.
The oppressiveness of the melody hung, sustained by the leaden notes of the tuba and double bass. Then the other string players jumped in again one by one in rapid succession to bring the piece back up to treble, the strings segueing from the long notes into a slew of rapid but heavily bowed arpeggios, grated out on horsehair.
“What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like this?” Miles demanded. “Why? What on earth possessed you?”
“I, uh, I had-“ Miles had such a livid expression on his face that Phoenix couldn’t get the words out.
“Don’t just sit there gaping at me like a bloody fish,” Miles railed furiously. “Answer me! I’ve got half a mind to damn well punch you in the face - do you have any idea what you’ve just done?!”
“I, I know what I’ve done! I know, okay? And I’m sorry-“
“You’re sorry? Like hell - you planned this!”
“I did, and I knew you’d be angry, but-“
Miles’ hand shot out, seizing Phoenix by one lapel of his black jacket, his fingers crushing creases into the black fabric as he gripped it, jerking Phoenix roughly towards him. Onstage, the orchestra hit a rolling chord, their voices colliding together in a roar of fury.
“Angry? I’m fucking pissed! ”
But even as he said that he paused, glaring angrily at the trumpet-player, still gripping him by the front of his jacket. The chord abruptly cut off, the rest of the orchestra silencing their instruments to leave Angel playing a single note, that merged into a fiddly run ending on an insistent, prolonged trill.
Oh, what’s the bloody use? I’m stuck here now and I can’t do a damn thing about it.
Another harsh chord. There was a brief pause, then Maggey slowly entered into the signature motif of the Toccata, Maya joining in with the counterpoint a few notes later. There was no way he could stand up now, and disrupt the performance - the embarrassment would be beyond belief, especially as Phoenix appeared to have conspired and connived to make this happen in the first place. The thought depressed him - his first concert, and he wasn’t even going to be playing in it.
He let go of Phoenix’s jacket.
“Why have you done this?” he asked again. “At least give me a Goddamn reason for your stupidity.”
“I… had something to tell you,” Phoenix said quietly.
Miles couldn’t hear him over the forte tones of the Toccata - the rest of the orchestra had come in on the repeat, creating an arpeggiated wall of sound.
“What?” he asked in irritation. “Speak up.”
Phoenix placed his trumpet carefully on the floorboards, leaned closer and repeated what he had said.
“And it couldn’t wait till the bloody interval?” Miles replied testily. “For God’s sake, Lana will hang us out to dry if she finds out! I’ve got solos in these first half pieces and so do you; it’ll be pretty damn obvious to the audience that we’re missing.”
“Our solos are covered. Trust me on that.”
“Oh? Oh, I see - so you’ve got other people clued into your little scheme, is that how it is? It’s Ema and Maya, isn’t it? They just walked right on by…”
“…Yeah. They’re playing our bits.”
And they’re involved in this because…? How many other people know about this insane plot?
Miles shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.”
“I… uh,” Phoenix scratched his head. “To be honest, I can’t believe I did it either. But there’s nothing either of us can do now, so will you at least listen to me?”
“I’ve hardly any choice now, have I?” Miles sat down, leaning his back against the wooden body of the timpani, oboe in his lap and legs stretched out on the floorboards. “This is madness.”
“I’m sorry-“
“Stop apologising. If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t have done this in the first place.”
There was a short silence between them. The sound of Iris’ flute broke through the barricade of block chords, a tumbling wave of sixteenth notes played in a single breath; they trailed off, allowing the chord motif to repeat.
“…Okay,” Phoenix sighed. “I know I’m just making excuses. It’s like, now I’m here, I’m not sure-”
“Look, will you just come out with whatever it is you want to say? It’s not as if I’m going anywhere for the next half hour thanks to your scheming, so stop dallying about and get it over with.”
“Right… Okay.”
A pause. The orchestra was moving into the slower section now - the Fugue. This was traditional baroque at its best. Mike was leading the opening passage - he didn’t seem to have any stage fright at all, his notes clear and carrying over the others. Miles could hear Ema’s clarinet playing the harmony - she wasn’t supposed to be playing; he was. Had she really sat down and learnt all of his parts?
Musing on this, he almost missed Phoenix saying it.
“I’m gay. And I like you.”
…Huh?
His train of thought snagged on that, entering a loop.
Some sort of reply was required to this.
Some sort of reply.
He needed to say something.
Ema was managing the higher notes of the harmony rather well. She must have been practicing it for some time. How had she managed that without Lana questioning her about it? The Fugue was still moving apace, but the feel was lighter, strings spiralling away into the higher registers followed by a perfectly timed clarinet lead-in from Larry - his cues were normally a little sloppy, but for once he was giving it everything he had. It was strange to be listening like this, and not playing - he was more aware of the prominent meter that the piece had, the way tuba and double bass accented the beats to keep the momentum going-
He jumped at the touch on his hand.
He’d been tapping out the time signature on the barrel of his oboe without even realising it. He looked down at the larger hand covering his index finger, stilling it mid-beat. It shook a little. He glanced sideways. Phoenix was looking at him, his eyes betraying a little helplessness. Miles immediately looked away, at a loss as to what to say. His earlier anger and frustration was gone now, replaced by what he could only describe as a daze. The whole thing was so left-field, and under such bizarre circumstances, that it was as if his thought processes had switched off under the load. His head was full of Bach ornamentation as the orchestra shifted into a lower key behind them, and nothing else could come to mind. He shifted his finger, about to remove it, but Phoenix’s hand closed around it, as if it were the only connection he had left.
“Wait,” Phoenix said quickly. “At least let me say this: It doesn’t matter if you don’t feel the same way. I honestly don’t mind. I just, I had to say it, I was going crazy and I had to get it out somehow.”
“…You’ve a funny way of showing it,” Miles said faintly. He could still feel the tremor running through Phoenix’s hand.
“I… yeah,” Phoenix took a breath to steady himself. “I shouldn’t have done this. I knew it was a bad idea even when Ema and Maya were explaining it to me - but I still went along with it because I couldn’t come up with anything better, and I couldn’t sit on it any longer. I didn’t know what else to do. This, all of this, was to make sure we were in the same place long enough for me to say it out, and talk to you about it. To,” he laughed shakily, “to try and sort things out.”
Miles was still trying to reorganise his thoughts, make sense of the whole thing. But it didn’t appear to make any sense. There was no logical reason, to him, why Phoenix had done this.
“So, let me get this right,” he said slowly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. The heat from the backlights was really beating down on them both, though the timpanis shielded them from the worst of the spotlights that shone on the rest of the orchestra. “I’m stuck here because you thought I might try and avoid you if you’d told me anywhere else?”
“That’s… about the size of it, yeah,” Phoenix said, a little self-conscious. “It sounds dumb when you say it like that. It probably is, I suppose. My biggest worry was that you wouldn’t give me an answer, really. “
“…You think,” Miles said incredulously, “I’m that much of a jerk?”
“Huh?” Phoenix blinked.
“God, I must be - there’s no way you would have pulled this outrageous stunt otherwise. I suppose it’s justified, after all those times I hid things from you, or cocked up and refused to admit that I was wrong. It’s no wonder you’re convinced I’d-” Miles broke off. He’d just realised something.
Is… that his motive for doing this? It must be. But that’s… oh, that is stupid.
“No! No, I… you,” Phoenix stammered, “I just thought you’d have difficulty dealing with the idea.”
“Why?”
“Because… uh-”
“Because I’m straight?” Miles said pointedly. Things were starting to fall into place.
“Well, I-”
“So there’s no room for me to be gay in this little scenario of yours? I have to turn you down to make this whole, crazy set-up justified?”
“Wait, I didn’t mean-!” Phoenix began to protest, then the penny dropped. “You, you are…?”
“You’re still holding onto my finger, you know. You’re slowly cutting off the circulation, in actual fact, but I’m putting up with it like the gracious individual I am because you seem rather reluctant to let go of it. I’m not going anywhere, but if you’re that worried about me making a run for it or smacking you upside the head, at the very least change your grip!”
Phoenix looked down at his hand, and indeed he still had a hold on Miles’ index finger, his own brushing against the smooth keywork of Miles’ oboe. Then he realised what this meant. Perhaps Maya’s Law did apply, after all.
“Oh, hell,” he let go of Miles’ finger, and tentatively took hold of the oboist’s hand, in a much softer hold this time. He was aware his palm was sweaty - whether it was the blazing arc lights above him, or his earlier panic, he wasn’t really sure. “I really have screwed this up, haven’t I?”
“I had you down as being fairly perceptive. It looks like I perhaps gave you too much credit,” Miles sighed. The whole thing was an absolute mess, but he was starting to recognise it for what it was - Phoenix had done it out of desperation. He placed his other hand over the top of Phoenix’s. “You’re still shaking. Stop it.”
“Uh, residual nerves, I guess?” Phoenix dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face with it. He felt like a slowly baking penguin in his tuxedo.
“You were that terrified of telling me?”
“Well… you did look as if you wanted to punch me in the face earlier.”
“I did. I might still - you’re a complete idiot, after all. It’s as if you thought yourself into a corner with this whole thing and couldn’t see any way out. Why were you so convinced that I’d object? Surely neither of us would be here if you didn’t at least have a glimmer of hope that I’d reciprocate. Or were you that eager to set yourself up for a fall?”
“I think I just didn’t dare believe I had a chance,” Phoenix admitted. “I’ve been sitting on this for so long that everything seemed kinda hopeless, and yet I couldn’t give it up.”
How long has this been going on for? Miles wondered. And how did I utterly fail to notice he was even interested?
“You hid it well. I didn’t have a clue,” he said. “Why me, anyway? I’m not a particularly fascinating individual. I wouldn’t go to such lengths to confess to the likes of me, if I were in your shoes. I’m a stuck-up jerk, after all,” he added wryly.
“You’re not stuck-up. Well, not as much as you used to be,” Phoenix chuckled, hooking a finger under the knot of his bow tie to try and undo it.
“Nonsense. I merely hide it better in the name of public relations. Having some trouble with that?” he nodded at Phoenix’s bowtie.
“Maya tied it really tight, and it’s a bit hot.”
“You can’t tie a bow tie?”
Phoenix gave him a guilty look.
“You really are hopeless.” Miles wriggled his hand out from under Phoenix’s, taking his reed case from his pocket and removing the reed from his oboe before gently putting the instrument on the floor. It was only when he bent forward, away from the timpani he’d been leaning against, that he released his shirt was stuck to his back with sweat.
Ugh.
He shrugged his shoulders a little to try and loosen it, then inched along on his knees until he was front of Phoenix, both hands reaching out for the knot at Phoenix’s throat.
Miles’ eyes were on the knot, but Phoenix’s were on the face across from him, a little spellbound by the brief look of intense concentration upon it as Miles traced the ties back to their origin and deftly disengaged the knot.
“There.”
“Thanks,” Phoenix breathed a sigh of relief, undoing the top button of his shirt and pulling the fabric aside to expose his collarbones, covered with a sheen of sweat.
“Heavens, the Bach is nearly over.” Miles could hear Diego see-sawing his way down into the lower registers on his double bass - the only instrument playing. He played the last note of his solo long and laden with vibrato, the others stepping in strongly to take up the chords. Then slowly, majestically, they entered the closing section, the tempo increasing bar by bar until they were in a full tempo final coda.
“You look kinda hot yourself,” Phoenix said. “Want me to undo yours?” he reached up for the bow tie around Miles’ neck.
“Leave that. I need it neat for my solo.”
“I bet you can do it up again as quickly as you undid mine. C’mon, you’ll roast otherwise.”
Miles went to undo it himself, but Phoenix brushed his hands away so he gave up, letting the trumpet-player fiddle with the knot. As he did so, Miles was aware of a sudden absence of sound. The final cadence of the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor died away. Then there was a storm of applause from the audience. It reminded him of what he was missing out on, and he felt a pang of regret. He knew they’d get the chance to rejoin the orchestra at the interval, but he still wished he was out there right now.
“Phoenix,” he said.
“Huh?”
“We could lose our jobs over this.”
Miles felt a little tug and then the tie was draped around his shoulders, loose. It was a relief to have air flowing around the nape of his neck. It had been a bit stifling.
“We won’t,” Phoenix replied. “Ema and Maya are a force to be reckoned with, believe me. They’ve got us covered. I tried to chicken out a few times before and they were pretty emphatic that Lana wouldn’t be the wiser for any of this.”
“That doesn’t mean anything when the entire orchestra know that we’re absent.”
“They won’t tell. I know that sounds a little strange, but, well… we look after our own,” Phoenix tried to explain. “When you’ve travelled with us long enough, you’ll see.”
“I suppose I shall,” Miles said resignedly. “Doesn’t make it any easier to hear that applause and know it’s not for me, though.”
Phoenix went quiet, eyes cast down. At that moment the Pavane started, the string section plucking their way softly through the pizzicato opening.
“I really wish I hadn’t done it this way,” Phoenix murmured. “If I’d known everything was going to work out okay, I would’ve just told you in the interval, or something.”
Miles didn’t reply for a moment - he was listening to Ema playing the melody. Listening from the outside like this, he thought the feel of the piece was more romantic with the clarinet leading. It sounded better. Of course, he could produce a warm, mellow tone with his oboe, but somehow the timbre of the clarinet seemed a better match for the accompaniment. Listening made him forget, for a moment, how hot he was under the unyielding glare of the stage lights.
“I wish you hadn’t either,” he said finally. “But you weren’t to know how things would turn out. There’s no point wishing on what might have been.”
“I guess,” Phoenix sighed, looking up at him. “At least you haven’t socked me one. That’s something positive, right?”
“For you, yes,” Miles said blithely. He wriggled his shoulders again; his shirt was going to be glued to his back at this rate.
“You still look kinda hot,” Phoenix said. “Here,” he reached up again-
“Wait, what are you doing?” Miles looked down at the fingers trying to undo the top button of his shirt. “Stop that!”
“Oh, sorry,” Phoenix apologised, dropping his hands. “But you’re not gonna cool off if you leave it all done up to the neck like that.”
“I’m fine. You, on the other hand, are sweating like a pig.”
“So are you - can’t you feel it running down the sides of your face, or are you just denying its existence in the name of staying decent? Look, see?” Phoenix reached up and caught one of the trickling beads of sweat on his finger, backtracking along its path up to Miles’ temple.
Miles’ eyes unfocused, his attention directed to the site of the touch. He opened his mouth to say something, the objection half-formed, but failed to voice it.
Phoenix took his finger away, slowly and deliberately putting it into his mouth and sucking on it. Miles was staring at him, face already flushed from the heat but turning a different type of red entirely.
“Pretty salty. You should’ve drunk more water before the concert.”
Normally quick off the mark, it took Miles a second to come up with a retort.
“Shut up, trumpet player. You only had one bottle of water, same as me, though I’m damned if I’m tasting your sweat to prove it.”
Another bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Before it had been about bearable, but after that blatant seductive gesture from Phoenix he was being overwhelmed by the heat that had spread across his face as well as that from the arc lights overhead.
“One button,” Phoenix pointed at the little one at the top. “You’ll feel better for it.”
Miles didn’t reply, battling stubborn pride, and Phoenix took it as confirmation, slowly reaching up, giving plenty of opportunity for Miles to bat his hands away if it wasn’t what he wanted. Miles lifted his arms, as if about to, but then dropped them back down again.
In a second it was undone, and Phoenix’s fingers brushed slick against Miles’ damp skin, sliding underneath the stiff collar and gently pushing the shirt open at the top. Miles felt a blissful rush of cool air as it was exposed. Phoenix’s palms rested on his shoulders, fingers subtly massaging the skin beneath their tips.
“Better?” he asked.
For a moment, Miles was intimately aware of every point of contact Phoenix’s hands had on his skin, and of the musky odour of their sweat. Phoenix stopped rubbing the skin of his shoulders, fingers quiescent. Another few seconds passed, Maya’s violin singing strongly over their heads while the trumpet that should have been sounding the part lay silent on the floorboards beside them.
Miles was feeling the slow burn of arousal build up inside him. Inwardly he was kicking himself for letting Phoenix have any kind of access to the sensitive parts of his skin after what had just passed between them, but a part of him wondered if perhaps he had wanted this anyway after Phoenix’s abrupt confession. He had offered the initial encouragement in the form of a hand-hold, after all. Yes, their current stance was at least partially his fault, though Phoenix was certainly just as guilty. And yet, he’d never really considered Phoenix as a potential partner before now. But it hardly mattered at this stage, not when his smart but tight-fitting trousers were getting this uncomfortable. He glanced down at the obvious bulge.
I can’t go onstage with this…!
Looking back up, he found that Phoenix was looking down at the same spot. Phoenix met his gaze once more, a grin spreading across his face.
Oh, to hell with it all.
“Don’t you dare comment, Phoenix Wright.” Miles reached for Phoenix’s crotch, cupping his hand firmly over the hard bump there and causing Phoenix to breathe in sharply. “You’re in no,” he stroked his hand over it, feeling Phoenix tighten his grip on his shoulders in response, “position to.”
He leaned in, putting his free arm around Phoenix’s shoulders, and pressed his lips against those of the trumpet player’s, their sweat intermingling as their noses brushed. Phoenix’s lips were stiff at first, showing Miles straight away that he wasn’t an experienced kisser, so he ran over them encouragingly with his tongue, kissing the top one lightly, and then the bottom one. Phoenix copied him happily, and made a small noise at the back of his throat when Miles slipped his tongue between his lips. Miles kept his other hand resting against Phoenix’s erection - he was in no hurry to start moving that just yet. He preferred to take his time, and he still had half an ear for the Pavane continuing on stage - it was a slow, passionate piece and in a dreamy, amorous fashion his kisses became sloppier, warmer, eyes dropping half-closed.
Phoenix tried to run his hand further down Miles’ back but his shirt needed peeling from his skin so he gave up that avenue of exploration, choosing to venture further down the front end, cheekily undoing a few more buttons to trace little circles around Miles’ right nipple with a delicate finger. There was no sign of his earlier nervousness now - but Miles wasn’t about to comment on it. He shivered under the featherstrokes of Phoenix’s finger, nipple hardening immediately, but Phoenix moved on, his touch inquisitive and searching for new sites to explore. It was inevitable where his hand should eventually end up, and Miles gasped, eyes flying open as he felt the pressure of Phoenix’s supple fingers on his cock. He thrusted against the touch, half unhooking his arm from around Phoenix’s neck because he badly wanted to put his hand on top of Phoenix’s and press harder. Belatedly he realised this would make him appear rather desperate and with an exertion of willpower managed to stop himself from clapping a hand down there. But he couldn’t quite help making little movements against the press of those fingers, because each one sent another tingle of excitement through his shaft, making it harder.
God, I need to get a hold of myself… I’m wet already-
He could feel the warm, wet release of precome at the tip of his penis - just a trickle, but it only added to the damp, sweaty sensation down there.
Then again, it’s been a long time since I last did anything like this.
It didn’t really matter, anyway. As long as Phoenix was willing to keep touching him like this, he didn’t really care. Phoenix was new to all this; Miles could tell just by the way his hands roamed, eager to experience and take in. But that was just more exciting, because it made him unpredictable.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?” he said into Phoenix’s ear.
“It’s that obvious?” Phoenix asked, tracing the outline and making Miles wince as his trousers became even tighter. “Yeah… I’ve known I was gay since high school but I never really did anything about it before now. Been curious, but hadn’t really met anybody I wanted to try with before now.”
“I suppose you’re not doing so badly,” Miles tried to sound noncommittal, “for a trumpet player.”
There was a glint in Phoenix’s eye at this.
“I’ll show you what a trumpet player can be good at,” he said, stretching his legs out so he was half-lying on the floor and going for the zip in Miles’ trousers.
“W-wait, we can’t do that here-!” But Phoenix already had the zip half undone - it relieved a little of the pressure on Miles’ erection but his trousers were so closely tailored that they still felt tight when he was filling them like this. Sweaty fingers left prints on his white underpants as Phoenix pulled the fabric down and down to expose his penis, and he shuddered at the warm, wet sensation as Phoenix leaned right into his lap and closed his mouth around it, forming a firm embrouchre that made him moan, low and long, and fortunately covered by the thrum of Diego’s double bass.
“Thish shalty toogh,” Phoenix said around it, breaking his mouth seal. His tongue brushed against the head of Miles’ cock as he said this, and it tickled.
“Don’t you dare,” Miles managed to choke out, “make a mess on my trousers.”
“Hurr,” Phoenix breathed; the warmth of the sound against his sensitive skin sent another heatwave of arousal over Miles, causing fresh sweat to break out across his forehead. “Won’t, promise,” he stuck his tongue out and dragged the tip of it up the length of the underside of Miles’ shaft, catching a bit of loose foreskin at the top and rubbing it around, up and down.
He was just playing around, Miles knew, but he wasn’t sure he could take much more of this - he was burning up already. He fumbled for Phoenix’s head, stroking his lank, sweat-dampened hair appreciatively but not really paying much attention to the motion - it was clumsy, his thoughts directed down below. Phoenix was pulling his pants down more, fishing inside them with a couple of fingers. Fingernails scratched against his scrotum, which was itchy with sweat - that was good, and it was a relief to have a good scratch, but it was only temporary, until Phoenix got hold of what he was after. Miles froze as three fingers hooked gently under one of his balls, lifting it out and-
“Oh,” he sighed at the pleasure of it - Phoenix had taken the whole thing into his mouth, sucking on it. It was tight enough to hurt a little, but it gave him a totally different kind of ache, one that made another streak of precome dribble down his shaft. He was dimly aware that he wasn’t really doing much for Phoenix in return, and so he ran his fingers down Phoenix’s neck and to massage the skin over his vertebrae. But even then, that movement was half-hearted, and eventually he stopped altogether, completely taken over by the sensation of Phoenix sucking on him. Prickles of excitement were building up within him - his cock felt huge, it couldn’t get any harder than this. It was resting against Phoenix’s forehead, and when Phoenix moved it waved a little, skidding on the sweat bedecking Phoenix’s forehead and smearing it with Miles’ own fluids.
Phoenix eventually released the testicle he was sucking on and returned his attentions to Miles’ cock, running his tongue over the tip while it was inside his mouth and making a bit of a face as Miles involuntarily released another surge of precome. Miles’ eyes were dropping closed - the visual input was just too much, he wanted to concentrate on the music and feel the tight sensation of Phoenix’s mouth on his cock, the wetness of saliva mingling with precome and sweat.
Phoenix slowly lifted his head away, his lips brushing lightly over the ridge of his penis. Miles stiffened; that part was sensitive and he reflexively applied pressure to the back of Phoenix’s head to try and get him to stay there and pay more attention to it. Phoenix paused, then flicked the ridge with his tongue. Miles jerked, uttering a low cussword and digging his fingers into Phoenix’s hair, tangling it. The tingling beneath his skin was overwhelming him now. He was so close to coming, at the point of wanting to so desperately, and yet wanting to experience the swollen sensation of his erection for a little while longer, have Phoenix suck him off more because it was so good. But as he opened his eyes to look down at Phoenix, the trumpet-player looked back up at him with a wicked look in his eyes, one crooked eyebrow quirking up. Then he winked, and gently applied his teeth.
“-!”
Miles’ hand flew to his mouth, he bit down on his index finger to stop himself crying out - the orchestra were playing the pianissimo closing passage to the Pavane, the violins barely audible, and he was sure to be heard otherwise. He lost the last shred of his self-control at that moment, leaning back on one elbow, arching his back and thrusting his cock up into the roof of Phoenix’s mouth, and with that came momentary pain as Phoenix’s teeth clipped his skin, but that was totally eclipsed by the riding wave of his climax, that seemed to go on, and on, throbbing and pulsing. He couldn’t stop jetting and spurting into Phoenix’s mouth, but the trumpet player was swallowing repeatedly, eyes screwed shut at the taste but still swallowing nonetheless. Finally, with a few shudders and spasms, it passed. He sighed with weary relief, and the auditorium was filled with applause for the Pavane that had just finished. His finger hurt - he stopped biting down on it, and taking it from his mouth he realised he’d left teeth marks imprinted into his skin. He still had the fingers of his other hand snarled up in Phoenix’s hair, and Phoenix still had his cock in his mouth, warm and beginning to soften. He stopped gripping Phoenix’s hair so fiercely, and Phoenix was able to lift his head, eyes a little glazed as he took his mouth away. His hair was a mess, fringe plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there was a white smear of come at the corner of his mouth, as well as more drying on his forehead from earlier.
“Forgive me,” Miles’ voice came out as little more than a whisper. “I couldn’t take the teeth - or I would’ve given you more warning.”
There was an explosion of sound from the orchestra and the two of them jumped. The Travelling Symphony had launched into the brisk March from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite, the strings playing the bright and merry melody. Phoenix broke into a grin.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you apologise for anything - and you apologise for that?” his speech was a little thick, and he swallowed again, still tasting semen on his tongue. “Yeuch, that could’ve tasted a hell of a lot better.” He dug his handkerchief out to wipe his face.
“I can normally hold it in longer,” Miles tried to explain, “but it’s been a long time since I… er, yes,” he wouldn’t look at Phoenix as he said that, instead tugging at his shirt, trying to pull the damp cotton away from his sides and his underarms.
“S’alright. But…” Phoenix pulled at Miles’ underpants, gently pushing everything back inside and zipping up his fly. “Could you, uh, return the favour?” he asked. “It’s… starting to get a bit sore, now.” He sat up, taking Miles’ hand and planting it firmly on his own erection while looking the oboist in the eye. His cheeks were suffused with pink, and he was pressing Miles’ hand a little, squashing his cock and rubbing it up and down. So he wanted it just as badly.
“Of course,” Miles replied, taking over the movement and leaning in to kiss him again. The energetic pace of the March restored in him a little vigour, and his kisses were quick and lively, hands wandering with a bit more attention than he was paying before. Phoenix was responding passionately, and this time with a little tongue of his own - he put in a bit too much and Miles reflexively responded by pushing it away with his own, to avoid gagging. Phoenix got the hint and stayed at the front, his own hands reaching down to Miles’ bottom and cupping his cheeks. Miles tried to ignore the fresh arousal this generated - he loved being touched on his ass - but Phoenix was stroking him with his fingers. Trying to distract himself, he unzipped Phoenix’s fly and inserted his hand inside. Phoenix wriggled against him a little as he turned his hand - there wasn’t much room in there, the fabric of Phoenix’s trousers was tight against his hand because the trumpet-player’s erection took up most o f the space. But he managed to get his hand inside Phoenix’s pants - it was hot and sticky, and fluid smeared across his wrist as he moved down to cup Phoenix’s balls in his palm. Phoenix grunted into his mouth, the hands on his rear tightening their grip and pushing them together.
Miles broke off the kiss to say,
“I can’t suck you off; it’ll affect my reed later. But I can at least do this for you.” He massaged Phoenix’s balls. “Is that good?”
“Fuck, yes,” Phoenix lay his head on Miles’ shoulder, lips warm against Miles’ collarbone. “Just having your hand in my pants is like being on another planet - but God, I need to come. Please.”
Miles knew it wasn’t long until the interval - the orchestra were coming to the end of the March, and the Russian Dance they were about to modulate into was only a minute long.
“Hard and fast, hm?” he said, tilting his head forward to brush his lips against Phoenix’s neck, the skin beneath them quivering at his touch.
He shuffled to the side a little, out of the line of fire, then stroked his fingers up, releasing Phoenix’s testicles and running them up Phoenix’s cock to ring the base of it with his thumb and forefinger, his other fingers curling around the shaft to secure his firm grip. He squeezed, feeling Phoenix push into the grip.
“Hold on for as long as you can,” he said. “See if you can make it to the end of the Dance - it’ll feel even better that way.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Phoenix groaned.
Miles waited a bar, placing his free hand on Phoenix’s shoulder to keep his balance, and then at the instant the orchestra switched into the Russian Dance he began to move his hand, a quick stroke up, a hard stroke down, timing the down stroke with the beat. Phoenix’s hands immediately moved to his waist, his head pressing into Miles’ shoulder and fingers gripping tight at Miles’ hips to brace himself. His breathing became harsh, ragged grunts in time with the strokes, and Miles could feel the sweat pooling at his collarbone. It was a lot of physical exertion for him as well, and he was starting to pant.
Maya’s violin was taking up Phoenix’s trumpet part, and Pearl was doing something odd with her cello - she was meant to have a straightforward bass line for this part but she had abandoned it, jumping up an octave to replace the missing second violin part. Diego was playing Pearl’s line instead, double-stopping it with his own on two strings.
Phoenix was shaking, still trying to hold in his orgasm. The fingers clutching at Miles’ hips were moving now, quick little spasms up and down, back and forward, as if grappling against the growing climax as he wanked Phoenix off. The music was starting to build up, the brass section overlaying the quick violins with a forte fanfare, and Miles tightened his grip, pushing his hand right down to the base of Phoenix’s cock with each stroke - 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-
“Ah, ah, ahh!” Phoenix cried, and a quaver before the orchestra hit the final note he came, splattering the floor in front of him. Miles immediately moved his hand out of the way to avoid getting any on his sleeve, though he didn’t stop pumping Phoenix until he was well and truly finished. The applause was still going - the first half was over and the audience had loved it. Phoenix was still partly collapsed against Miles, out of breath, but he lifted his head with effort and managed to raise a smile.
“Thankyou,” he said fervently, then flopped back against him, breathing beginning to slow down.
“My pleasure,” Miles fished in Phoenix’s pocket for the handkerchief and used it to mop the floorboards. It wouldn’t do for Franziska to find any stains, after all.
The lights went down and the cool darkness that covered them was a relief, concealing them from the orchestra as they stood and filed offstage. Maya glanced sideways at the timpanis, seeing nothing there. She looked across at Ema, who shrugged, a grin on her face.
“Seems like it went pretty well, huh?” Ema said loudly so it carried. “Mr. Georgiy looked happy!”
“He sure did,” Maya agreed. “I’m stoked for the next half! We’ll all do our best.”
At that, Miles looked down at Phoenix, who raised his head and flashed him a thumbs up sign. Miles nodded.
The two girls walked offstage, fanning themselves with their sheet music. Phoenix zipped himself back up again, and Miles looked through the timpanis at the stage. The coast was clear - the auditorium was only partly vacated, but the orchestra was off the stage and with the lights down they could sneak away unnoticed.
“Ready?” Miles took out his own, clean handkerchief and wiped his face, picking up his oboe.
Phoenix ran his hands through his hair, spiking it back up again.
“Yup,” he grabbed his trumpet.
Bobbed down low, they emerged from behind the timpanis and successfully made it into the wings. Miles’ legs complained as he stood up - they’d been knelt down for ages.
“How do you feel about your solo now?” Phoenix asked.
“Oh, heavens,” Miles immediately got out his reed case, picking out his favourite and putting it between his lips to warm it. “That’s next!”
Phoenix grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
“You can do it,” he said, letting go.
“Oh, of course I can,” Miles said around the reed as they walked down the steps into the corridor. “But I’ll sound like a dying duck if I don’t warm my reed up in time!” Once they were out into the light, he turned. “Do I look okay? Anything out of place?”
“Your tie!” Phoenix pointed. “Crap, mine too.”
Miles had his done up in a moment.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” he pushed away Phoenix’s fumbling fingers and did up the trumpet player’s tie. “There, that’s you.”
They hurried down the corridor to the Green Room.
“AH!” came a voice from behind them.
They both turned to see Alexei Georgiy standing there, a look of relief on his face.
“There you are!” he said in heavily accented English. “I worry you not come back in time, but Miss Fey say yes, you be there. You!” he patted Phoenix on the shoulder with a bear-like paw. “Your secret is safe with me,” he tapped the side of his nose with a wink, “but you spend your money more carefully in future, yes? You have good friends,” he gestured to Miles, “but they cannot save you from repeated pickles - understood?”
“Uh… yes!” Phoenix gulped. “It’ll never happen again, Mr. Georgiy. Never, ever again. I’m sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused,” he bowed his head.
Alexei smiled.
“The problem is not one,” he said. “The Symphony played well, they adapted magnificent. But in future you keep your trumpet out of the, how you say,” he muttered the Russian word, “the place you take things when you have no money…”
“The pawnshop?” Miles supplied.
“Ah, yes!”
“The… pawnshop?” Phoenix blinked. What on earth had the girls told him?
“Hm, perhaps that is not the right word after all,” Alexei frowned. “But no matter!” he held up one finger. “I say nothing, you can trust Alexei - now head that way,” he pointed down the hall, “your friends are waiting for you, and there is wine too. Soothe the nerves after rushing across town, yes? I must away to meet Ms. Skye and Mr. Gant - you play well for second half, now; you have catching up to do!”
“We do, and we shall,” Miles bowed graciously to Alexei. “I will play the best I have ever played.”
“Seconded!” Phoenix chimed in.
Alexei laughed.
“Then I shall enjoy listening!” he boomed, then span on his heel and headed off down the corridor.
Miles and Phoenix exchanged glances after he’d gone.
“What was that all about?” Miles asked.
“Not a clue, and that worries me,” Phoenix scratched his head. “I think if we speak to Ema and Maya, all will become clear. Which worries me more.”
Miles nodded at the door leading to the Green Room.
“May as well face the music?” he said.
“It’ll be okay… I hope?” Phoenix replied, trying to summon confidence.
“It’d better be. Or I really will smack you upside the head.”
They walked across to the Green Room and pushed the door open.
Pairing: Phoenix/Miles
Rating: Chapter 11 is NSFW but no actual buttsex. Rest are all general viewing.
Word Count: 57,345
Synopsis: After years of misery playing in the dingy orchestra pits of Broadway, Miles Edgeworth, professional oboist, has finally been given a reprieve. Having successfully auditioned for the Los Angeles Travelling Symphony, at last he can realise his dream of playing in a top orchestra. However, he is soon to find that he has joined a very eccentric band of musicians...
Chapter Links: Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Epilogue | Commentary
Author notes:
This chapter is full of pr0n. Detailed pr0n. Do not read this chapter if you're under 18. Don't say I didn't warn you!
The setup for this was difficult; the pr0n itself was easy by comparison, though now I've written a couple of slashy pieces I've realised it's actually quite difficult to avoid descending into the same old descriptions. I hope the music adds an unusual flavour to it. Make sure you have the pieces playing while you're reading (the text will tell you when), it helps the flow and sets the mood!
You can download them here:
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=PCYYQ0JV
They were waiting in the wings, about to go on stage. Diego had done a quick head count to make sure everybody was there. Only Franziska was missing; her father had requested her presence at the dinner and Lana had grudgingly released her, though only because her percussion lines in the first half were sparse. Appalachian Spring, on the other hand, had heavy percussion input.
“D’you think they’ll be back in time for the second half?” Phoenix whispered. “Lana and everybody, I mean. Dinner dates always go on longer than they’re supposed to.”
“It’ll be about nine by the time the second half starts - I don’t think anyone could eat that late,” Miles replied.
“Lana won’t let us down!” Maya piped up from behind them.
She and Ema stood behind them in the line, and they listened to the announcement played over the tannoy:
“Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the Los Angeles Concert Hall. The Los Angeles Travelling Symphony are about to perform. Please take your seats, and we hope you enjoy the performance.”
Miles wasn’t sure if he felt nervous or excited. On Broadway, the orchestra were never a focus like this - always down in the pit, out of sight to all except those who had paid for the cheap seats up in the stalls. They were meant to be invisible, a background for the singers the audience had really paid to see. But this time, those people sitting in the auditorium beyond had paid to see him perform. It gave him a thrill, that thought - a sense of pride.
I’m here. I’m going to play. At last!
He was a little nervous, he realised, but only about his solo in the second half. The other pieces they had played so much over the last few months that the notes flew from his fingers. Even Appalachian Spring no longer bothered him, thanks to Iris’ tutelage and months of practice. The solo shouldn’t be an issue either, he knew, or rather tried to tell himself. But there was always that element of the unknown when he played Gabriel’s Oboe. It depended on his mood as much as the reed he was using - it never sounded the same twice, a consequence of the number of notes within a single passage of the piece. The nuance, length and dynamic of them changed every time. While he couldn’t account for his mood, he could at least make sure he had the right reed. He’d been training a reed for this piece for weeks, having scraped it and shaped it and blown it in.
And it’ll probably give out on me in the interval.
As was always the way. A good oboe player was supposed to make even the worst reed sound acceptable, but for Miles having a decent, reliable reed was a comfort. He could play on a bad one, but it wasn’t enjoyable, and to get Gabriel’s Oboe right - as Phoenix had told him a long time ago - he had to enjoy playing it. And so he had three reserve reeds in his case. Nothing was going to catch him unprepared this time.
The auditorium lights went down and his stomach tightened. This was it. Only the front half of the stage was illuminated, highlighting the empty chairs that stood in front of the conductor’s dais. There was movement in front of him as the orchestra began to file on stage, to the sound of applause from the audience. They would sit and tune their instruments, and then Alexei Georgiy would enter stage right to begin the first piece. Larry, who was in front of him, started walking forward, following the others. Miles hesitated a moment, seized by an unexpected shot of nerves. He took a slow breath to try and quell it, and was about to step forward when his hand was grabbed, pulled - he wasn’t expecting it and he stumbled sideways, barely staying upright as he tried to recover his footing.
“This way, quick!” Phoenix whispered urgently, ushering him along.
“What?” Miles responded to the command for a moment, following him, then realised they were moving away from the stage. He pulled back, trying to break free as Ema and Maya filed on, apparently oblivious to the altercation. But Phoenix was determined and continued dragging him towards the abandoned percussion instruments set up in the unlit corner of the stage.
“What are you playing at?” he hissed, still resisting as Phoenix ducked down behind the four massive timpani drums. He had no choice but to bob down too, though he was still trying to wrench his hand away - years of working trumpet valves had given Phoenix strong fingers.
“I need to tell you something.”
“Not now - we’re about to play!”
“We can’t.”
“I don’t have time for your messing about,” Miles finally managed to twist his hand out of Phoenix’s grip and was about to stand up, when the significance of the comment sunk in. He paused.
“…What do you mean, we can’t?”
“There’s no seats for us, Miles. We can’t play in the first half.”
“Don’t be ridiculous - of course there-“ Miles broke off, aware of an absence of noise. No scraping of chairs, the applause had died down. He turned, looking through the gap between two timpanis. The orchestra were seated. The chairs were all full.
He stared at them for a moment, mind blank with temporary incomprehension. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
This is a mistake.
Yes, it was a mistake.
“They’ve put the wrong number of chairs out, then,” he said, logic reasserting itself. “We must go and get some chairs and bring them onstage - Alexei Georgiy won’t start the performance without us. Why did you drag me over here to tell me…” he trailed off, looking at Phoenix.
Wait a minute.
“How did you know… there weren’t…”
Onstage, there was some hushed discussion amongst the orchestra.
“Where the hell are those guys?”
“They were right behind us!”
“How are we gonna tune with no oboe?”
“Who’s gonna fill in for Mike?”
“I don’t need filling in for,” Mike murmured, slowly leafing to the right page in his sheet music. “I’m good. I can do this.”
Maya whispered something to Angel, who in turn passed it on.
“They’re doing what?” Will blinked.
“Well, I’ll be damned if that’s not the worst timing in the world,” Jake grunted.
“Hee, if Lana finds out they’re in deep shit,” Larry cackled.
“Just like you’ll be if you tell her - I know where you were during the Amsterdam concert, remember?” Ema said nonchalantly.
Larry paled, a single drop of sweat appearing at his temple. He wiped it away with a nervous chuckle.
“Sure is hot under these stage lights, huh, Ema, my keep-shtum buddy? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, eh?”
“So… we’re tuning the old way, then, huh?” Dick asked.
In response to that, Angel stood up and gave them the A note they needed. In actuality, the orchestra were already tuned. This tuning session was for show, to let the audience know they were about to begin, and for any last minute adjustments after getting under the hot lights of the stage.
Miles was staring at Phoenix in disbelief, a cold wave of horror washing over him as he heard the soft sounds of the orchestra tuning onstage.
“What… have you done?” he asked, a little helplessly.
There was another round of applause as Alexei Georgiy walked onstage, the stage lights going up as he entered. Miles screwed his eyes shut as the lights above them came on, blazing down. After a moment he opened his eyes, and as they adjusted to the brightness he saw Alexei scanning the orchestra, a small frown on his face.
He must know we’re not there… surely… surely…
With the stage fully lit, the pool of shadows between the timpanis and the safety of backstage was gone - to move now would put him in full view of the audience. The only thing he could hope for now was that the Russian maestro would realise they were missing and call off the performance until they were found.
But Miles’ hopes were dashed, for the conductor tapped his baton on the dais three times, then raised his hands and began to count them in. 1… 2… 3…
No!
Miles could have stood up at that moment, but he hesitated, just for a second, his stomach squirming at the thought of the embarrassment it would cause -
A lone violin sounded - Angel Starr, playing the opening bars of the Toccata and Fugue in D minor, then Maya, Pearl and Diego took up the lower reaches of the opening passage with heavy strings.
Too late.
The loud, angry grinding of bow on double-bass string at the lowest register penetrated through the auditorium, buzzing in Miles’ ears.
“You bloody fool!” he rounded on Phoenix. “This is all your doing, isn’t it?”
Phoenix swallowed, and he nodded.
The oppressiveness of the melody hung, sustained by the leaden notes of the tuba and double bass. Then the other string players jumped in again one by one in rapid succession to bring the piece back up to treble, the strings segueing from the long notes into a slew of rapid but heavily bowed arpeggios, grated out on horsehair.
“What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like this?” Miles demanded. “Why? What on earth possessed you?”
“I, uh, I had-“ Miles had such a livid expression on his face that Phoenix couldn’t get the words out.
“Don’t just sit there gaping at me like a bloody fish,” Miles railed furiously. “Answer me! I’ve got half a mind to damn well punch you in the face - do you have any idea what you’ve just done?!”
“I, I know what I’ve done! I know, okay? And I’m sorry-“
“You’re sorry? Like hell - you planned this!”
“I did, and I knew you’d be angry, but-“
Miles’ hand shot out, seizing Phoenix by one lapel of his black jacket, his fingers crushing creases into the black fabric as he gripped it, jerking Phoenix roughly towards him. Onstage, the orchestra hit a rolling chord, their voices colliding together in a roar of fury.
“Angry? I’m fucking pissed! ”
But even as he said that he paused, glaring angrily at the trumpet-player, still gripping him by the front of his jacket. The chord abruptly cut off, the rest of the orchestra silencing their instruments to leave Angel playing a single note, that merged into a fiddly run ending on an insistent, prolonged trill.
Oh, what’s the bloody use? I’m stuck here now and I can’t do a damn thing about it.
Another harsh chord. There was a brief pause, then Maggey slowly entered into the signature motif of the Toccata, Maya joining in with the counterpoint a few notes later. There was no way he could stand up now, and disrupt the performance - the embarrassment would be beyond belief, especially as Phoenix appeared to have conspired and connived to make this happen in the first place. The thought depressed him - his first concert, and he wasn’t even going to be playing in it.
He let go of Phoenix’s jacket.
“Why have you done this?” he asked again. “At least give me a Goddamn reason for your stupidity.”
“I… had something to tell you,” Phoenix said quietly.
Miles couldn’t hear him over the forte tones of the Toccata - the rest of the orchestra had come in on the repeat, creating an arpeggiated wall of sound.
“What?” he asked in irritation. “Speak up.”
Phoenix placed his trumpet carefully on the floorboards, leaned closer and repeated what he had said.
“And it couldn’t wait till the bloody interval?” Miles replied testily. “For God’s sake, Lana will hang us out to dry if she finds out! I’ve got solos in these first half pieces and so do you; it’ll be pretty damn obvious to the audience that we’re missing.”
“Our solos are covered. Trust me on that.”
“Oh? Oh, I see - so you’ve got other people clued into your little scheme, is that how it is? It’s Ema and Maya, isn’t it? They just walked right on by…”
“…Yeah. They’re playing our bits.”
And they’re involved in this because…? How many other people know about this insane plot?
Miles shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.”
“I… uh,” Phoenix scratched his head. “To be honest, I can’t believe I did it either. But there’s nothing either of us can do now, so will you at least listen to me?”
“I’ve hardly any choice now, have I?” Miles sat down, leaning his back against the wooden body of the timpani, oboe in his lap and legs stretched out on the floorboards. “This is madness.”
“I’m sorry-“
“Stop apologising. If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t have done this in the first place.”
There was a short silence between them. The sound of Iris’ flute broke through the barricade of block chords, a tumbling wave of sixteenth notes played in a single breath; they trailed off, allowing the chord motif to repeat.
“…Okay,” Phoenix sighed. “I know I’m just making excuses. It’s like, now I’m here, I’m not sure-”
“Look, will you just come out with whatever it is you want to say? It’s not as if I’m going anywhere for the next half hour thanks to your scheming, so stop dallying about and get it over with.”
“Right… Okay.”
A pause. The orchestra was moving into the slower section now - the Fugue. This was traditional baroque at its best. Mike was leading the opening passage - he didn’t seem to have any stage fright at all, his notes clear and carrying over the others. Miles could hear Ema’s clarinet playing the harmony - she wasn’t supposed to be playing; he was. Had she really sat down and learnt all of his parts?
Musing on this, he almost missed Phoenix saying it.
“I’m gay. And I like you.”
…Huh?
His train of thought snagged on that, entering a loop.
Some sort of reply was required to this.
Some sort of reply.
He needed to say something.
Ema was managing the higher notes of the harmony rather well. She must have been practicing it for some time. How had she managed that without Lana questioning her about it? The Fugue was still moving apace, but the feel was lighter, strings spiralling away into the higher registers followed by a perfectly timed clarinet lead-in from Larry - his cues were normally a little sloppy, but for once he was giving it everything he had. It was strange to be listening like this, and not playing - he was more aware of the prominent meter that the piece had, the way tuba and double bass accented the beats to keep the momentum going-
He jumped at the touch on his hand.
He’d been tapping out the time signature on the barrel of his oboe without even realising it. He looked down at the larger hand covering his index finger, stilling it mid-beat. It shook a little. He glanced sideways. Phoenix was looking at him, his eyes betraying a little helplessness. Miles immediately looked away, at a loss as to what to say. His earlier anger and frustration was gone now, replaced by what he could only describe as a daze. The whole thing was so left-field, and under such bizarre circumstances, that it was as if his thought processes had switched off under the load. His head was full of Bach ornamentation as the orchestra shifted into a lower key behind them, and nothing else could come to mind. He shifted his finger, about to remove it, but Phoenix’s hand closed around it, as if it were the only connection he had left.
“Wait,” Phoenix said quickly. “At least let me say this: It doesn’t matter if you don’t feel the same way. I honestly don’t mind. I just, I had to say it, I was going crazy and I had to get it out somehow.”
“…You’ve a funny way of showing it,” Miles said faintly. He could still feel the tremor running through Phoenix’s hand.
“I… yeah,” Phoenix took a breath to steady himself. “I shouldn’t have done this. I knew it was a bad idea even when Ema and Maya were explaining it to me - but I still went along with it because I couldn’t come up with anything better, and I couldn’t sit on it any longer. I didn’t know what else to do. This, all of this, was to make sure we were in the same place long enough for me to say it out, and talk to you about it. To,” he laughed shakily, “to try and sort things out.”
Miles was still trying to reorganise his thoughts, make sense of the whole thing. But it didn’t appear to make any sense. There was no logical reason, to him, why Phoenix had done this.
“So, let me get this right,” he said slowly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. The heat from the backlights was really beating down on them both, though the timpanis shielded them from the worst of the spotlights that shone on the rest of the orchestra. “I’m stuck here because you thought I might try and avoid you if you’d told me anywhere else?”
“That’s… about the size of it, yeah,” Phoenix said, a little self-conscious. “It sounds dumb when you say it like that. It probably is, I suppose. My biggest worry was that you wouldn’t give me an answer, really. “
“…You think,” Miles said incredulously, “I’m that much of a jerk?”
“Huh?” Phoenix blinked.
“God, I must be - there’s no way you would have pulled this outrageous stunt otherwise. I suppose it’s justified, after all those times I hid things from you, or cocked up and refused to admit that I was wrong. It’s no wonder you’re convinced I’d-” Miles broke off. He’d just realised something.
Is… that his motive for doing this? It must be. But that’s… oh, that is stupid.
“No! No, I… you,” Phoenix stammered, “I just thought you’d have difficulty dealing with the idea.”
“Why?”
“Because… uh-”
“Because I’m straight?” Miles said pointedly. Things were starting to fall into place.
“Well, I-”
“So there’s no room for me to be gay in this little scenario of yours? I have to turn you down to make this whole, crazy set-up justified?”
“Wait, I didn’t mean-!” Phoenix began to protest, then the penny dropped. “You, you are…?”
“You’re still holding onto my finger, you know. You’re slowly cutting off the circulation, in actual fact, but I’m putting up with it like the gracious individual I am because you seem rather reluctant to let go of it. I’m not going anywhere, but if you’re that worried about me making a run for it or smacking you upside the head, at the very least change your grip!”
Phoenix looked down at his hand, and indeed he still had a hold on Miles’ index finger, his own brushing against the smooth keywork of Miles’ oboe. Then he realised what this meant. Perhaps Maya’s Law did apply, after all.
“Oh, hell,” he let go of Miles’ finger, and tentatively took hold of the oboist’s hand, in a much softer hold this time. He was aware his palm was sweaty - whether it was the blazing arc lights above him, or his earlier panic, he wasn’t really sure. “I really have screwed this up, haven’t I?”
“I had you down as being fairly perceptive. It looks like I perhaps gave you too much credit,” Miles sighed. The whole thing was an absolute mess, but he was starting to recognise it for what it was - Phoenix had done it out of desperation. He placed his other hand over the top of Phoenix’s. “You’re still shaking. Stop it.”
“Uh, residual nerves, I guess?” Phoenix dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face with it. He felt like a slowly baking penguin in his tuxedo.
“You were that terrified of telling me?”
“Well… you did look as if you wanted to punch me in the face earlier.”
“I did. I might still - you’re a complete idiot, after all. It’s as if you thought yourself into a corner with this whole thing and couldn’t see any way out. Why were you so convinced that I’d object? Surely neither of us would be here if you didn’t at least have a glimmer of hope that I’d reciprocate. Or were you that eager to set yourself up for a fall?”
“I think I just didn’t dare believe I had a chance,” Phoenix admitted. “I’ve been sitting on this for so long that everything seemed kinda hopeless, and yet I couldn’t give it up.”
How long has this been going on for? Miles wondered. And how did I utterly fail to notice he was even interested?
“You hid it well. I didn’t have a clue,” he said. “Why me, anyway? I’m not a particularly fascinating individual. I wouldn’t go to such lengths to confess to the likes of me, if I were in your shoes. I’m a stuck-up jerk, after all,” he added wryly.
“You’re not stuck-up. Well, not as much as you used to be,” Phoenix chuckled, hooking a finger under the knot of his bow tie to try and undo it.
“Nonsense. I merely hide it better in the name of public relations. Having some trouble with that?” he nodded at Phoenix’s bowtie.
“Maya tied it really tight, and it’s a bit hot.”
“You can’t tie a bow tie?”
Phoenix gave him a guilty look.
“You really are hopeless.” Miles wriggled his hand out from under Phoenix’s, taking his reed case from his pocket and removing the reed from his oboe before gently putting the instrument on the floor. It was only when he bent forward, away from the timpani he’d been leaning against, that he released his shirt was stuck to his back with sweat.
Ugh.
He shrugged his shoulders a little to try and loosen it, then inched along on his knees until he was front of Phoenix, both hands reaching out for the knot at Phoenix’s throat.
Miles’ eyes were on the knot, but Phoenix’s were on the face across from him, a little spellbound by the brief look of intense concentration upon it as Miles traced the ties back to their origin and deftly disengaged the knot.
“There.”
“Thanks,” Phoenix breathed a sigh of relief, undoing the top button of his shirt and pulling the fabric aside to expose his collarbones, covered with a sheen of sweat.
“Heavens, the Bach is nearly over.” Miles could hear Diego see-sawing his way down into the lower registers on his double bass - the only instrument playing. He played the last note of his solo long and laden with vibrato, the others stepping in strongly to take up the chords. Then slowly, majestically, they entered the closing section, the tempo increasing bar by bar until they were in a full tempo final coda.
“You look kinda hot yourself,” Phoenix said. “Want me to undo yours?” he reached up for the bow tie around Miles’ neck.
“Leave that. I need it neat for my solo.”
“I bet you can do it up again as quickly as you undid mine. C’mon, you’ll roast otherwise.”
Miles went to undo it himself, but Phoenix brushed his hands away so he gave up, letting the trumpet-player fiddle with the knot. As he did so, Miles was aware of a sudden absence of sound. The final cadence of the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor died away. Then there was a storm of applause from the audience. It reminded him of what he was missing out on, and he felt a pang of regret. He knew they’d get the chance to rejoin the orchestra at the interval, but he still wished he was out there right now.
“Phoenix,” he said.
“Huh?”
“We could lose our jobs over this.”
Miles felt a little tug and then the tie was draped around his shoulders, loose. It was a relief to have air flowing around the nape of his neck. It had been a bit stifling.
“We won’t,” Phoenix replied. “Ema and Maya are a force to be reckoned with, believe me. They’ve got us covered. I tried to chicken out a few times before and they were pretty emphatic that Lana wouldn’t be the wiser for any of this.”
“That doesn’t mean anything when the entire orchestra know that we’re absent.”
“They won’t tell. I know that sounds a little strange, but, well… we look after our own,” Phoenix tried to explain. “When you’ve travelled with us long enough, you’ll see.”
“I suppose I shall,” Miles said resignedly. “Doesn’t make it any easier to hear that applause and know it’s not for me, though.”
Phoenix went quiet, eyes cast down. At that moment the Pavane started, the string section plucking their way softly through the pizzicato opening.
“I really wish I hadn’t done it this way,” Phoenix murmured. “If I’d known everything was going to work out okay, I would’ve just told you in the interval, or something.”
Miles didn’t reply for a moment - he was listening to Ema playing the melody. Listening from the outside like this, he thought the feel of the piece was more romantic with the clarinet leading. It sounded better. Of course, he could produce a warm, mellow tone with his oboe, but somehow the timbre of the clarinet seemed a better match for the accompaniment. Listening made him forget, for a moment, how hot he was under the unyielding glare of the stage lights.
“I wish you hadn’t either,” he said finally. “But you weren’t to know how things would turn out. There’s no point wishing on what might have been.”
“I guess,” Phoenix sighed, looking up at him. “At least you haven’t socked me one. That’s something positive, right?”
“For you, yes,” Miles said blithely. He wriggled his shoulders again; his shirt was going to be glued to his back at this rate.
“You still look kinda hot,” Phoenix said. “Here,” he reached up again-
“Wait, what are you doing?” Miles looked down at the fingers trying to undo the top button of his shirt. “Stop that!”
“Oh, sorry,” Phoenix apologised, dropping his hands. “But you’re not gonna cool off if you leave it all done up to the neck like that.”
“I’m fine. You, on the other hand, are sweating like a pig.”
“So are you - can’t you feel it running down the sides of your face, or are you just denying its existence in the name of staying decent? Look, see?” Phoenix reached up and caught one of the trickling beads of sweat on his finger, backtracking along its path up to Miles’ temple.
Miles’ eyes unfocused, his attention directed to the site of the touch. He opened his mouth to say something, the objection half-formed, but failed to voice it.
Phoenix took his finger away, slowly and deliberately putting it into his mouth and sucking on it. Miles was staring at him, face already flushed from the heat but turning a different type of red entirely.
“Pretty salty. You should’ve drunk more water before the concert.”
Normally quick off the mark, it took Miles a second to come up with a retort.
“Shut up, trumpet player. You only had one bottle of water, same as me, though I’m damned if I’m tasting your sweat to prove it.”
Another bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Before it had been about bearable, but after that blatant seductive gesture from Phoenix he was being overwhelmed by the heat that had spread across his face as well as that from the arc lights overhead.
“One button,” Phoenix pointed at the little one at the top. “You’ll feel better for it.”
Miles didn’t reply, battling stubborn pride, and Phoenix took it as confirmation, slowly reaching up, giving plenty of opportunity for Miles to bat his hands away if it wasn’t what he wanted. Miles lifted his arms, as if about to, but then dropped them back down again.
In a second it was undone, and Phoenix’s fingers brushed slick against Miles’ damp skin, sliding underneath the stiff collar and gently pushing the shirt open at the top. Miles felt a blissful rush of cool air as it was exposed. Phoenix’s palms rested on his shoulders, fingers subtly massaging the skin beneath their tips.
“Better?” he asked.
For a moment, Miles was intimately aware of every point of contact Phoenix’s hands had on his skin, and of the musky odour of their sweat. Phoenix stopped rubbing the skin of his shoulders, fingers quiescent. Another few seconds passed, Maya’s violin singing strongly over their heads while the trumpet that should have been sounding the part lay silent on the floorboards beside them.
Miles was feeling the slow burn of arousal build up inside him. Inwardly he was kicking himself for letting Phoenix have any kind of access to the sensitive parts of his skin after what had just passed between them, but a part of him wondered if perhaps he had wanted this anyway after Phoenix’s abrupt confession. He had offered the initial encouragement in the form of a hand-hold, after all. Yes, their current stance was at least partially his fault, though Phoenix was certainly just as guilty. And yet, he’d never really considered Phoenix as a potential partner before now. But it hardly mattered at this stage, not when his smart but tight-fitting trousers were getting this uncomfortable. He glanced down at the obvious bulge.
I can’t go onstage with this…!
Looking back up, he found that Phoenix was looking down at the same spot. Phoenix met his gaze once more, a grin spreading across his face.
Oh, to hell with it all.
“Don’t you dare comment, Phoenix Wright.” Miles reached for Phoenix’s crotch, cupping his hand firmly over the hard bump there and causing Phoenix to breathe in sharply. “You’re in no,” he stroked his hand over it, feeling Phoenix tighten his grip on his shoulders in response, “position to.”
He leaned in, putting his free arm around Phoenix’s shoulders, and pressed his lips against those of the trumpet player’s, their sweat intermingling as their noses brushed. Phoenix’s lips were stiff at first, showing Miles straight away that he wasn’t an experienced kisser, so he ran over them encouragingly with his tongue, kissing the top one lightly, and then the bottom one. Phoenix copied him happily, and made a small noise at the back of his throat when Miles slipped his tongue between his lips. Miles kept his other hand resting against Phoenix’s erection - he was in no hurry to start moving that just yet. He preferred to take his time, and he still had half an ear for the Pavane continuing on stage - it was a slow, passionate piece and in a dreamy, amorous fashion his kisses became sloppier, warmer, eyes dropping half-closed.
Phoenix tried to run his hand further down Miles’ back but his shirt needed peeling from his skin so he gave up that avenue of exploration, choosing to venture further down the front end, cheekily undoing a few more buttons to trace little circles around Miles’ right nipple with a delicate finger. There was no sign of his earlier nervousness now - but Miles wasn’t about to comment on it. He shivered under the featherstrokes of Phoenix’s finger, nipple hardening immediately, but Phoenix moved on, his touch inquisitive and searching for new sites to explore. It was inevitable where his hand should eventually end up, and Miles gasped, eyes flying open as he felt the pressure of Phoenix’s supple fingers on his cock. He thrusted against the touch, half unhooking his arm from around Phoenix’s neck because he badly wanted to put his hand on top of Phoenix’s and press harder. Belatedly he realised this would make him appear rather desperate and with an exertion of willpower managed to stop himself from clapping a hand down there. But he couldn’t quite help making little movements against the press of those fingers, because each one sent another tingle of excitement through his shaft, making it harder.
God, I need to get a hold of myself… I’m wet already-
He could feel the warm, wet release of precome at the tip of his penis - just a trickle, but it only added to the damp, sweaty sensation down there.
Then again, it’s been a long time since I last did anything like this.
It didn’t really matter, anyway. As long as Phoenix was willing to keep touching him like this, he didn’t really care. Phoenix was new to all this; Miles could tell just by the way his hands roamed, eager to experience and take in. But that was just more exciting, because it made him unpredictable.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?” he said into Phoenix’s ear.
“It’s that obvious?” Phoenix asked, tracing the outline and making Miles wince as his trousers became even tighter. “Yeah… I’ve known I was gay since high school but I never really did anything about it before now. Been curious, but hadn’t really met anybody I wanted to try with before now.”
“I suppose you’re not doing so badly,” Miles tried to sound noncommittal, “for a trumpet player.”
There was a glint in Phoenix’s eye at this.
“I’ll show you what a trumpet player can be good at,” he said, stretching his legs out so he was half-lying on the floor and going for the zip in Miles’ trousers.
“W-wait, we can’t do that here-!” But Phoenix already had the zip half undone - it relieved a little of the pressure on Miles’ erection but his trousers were so closely tailored that they still felt tight when he was filling them like this. Sweaty fingers left prints on his white underpants as Phoenix pulled the fabric down and down to expose his penis, and he shuddered at the warm, wet sensation as Phoenix leaned right into his lap and closed his mouth around it, forming a firm embrouchre that made him moan, low and long, and fortunately covered by the thrum of Diego’s double bass.
“Thish shalty toogh,” Phoenix said around it, breaking his mouth seal. His tongue brushed against the head of Miles’ cock as he said this, and it tickled.
“Don’t you dare,” Miles managed to choke out, “make a mess on my trousers.”
“Hurr,” Phoenix breathed; the warmth of the sound against his sensitive skin sent another heatwave of arousal over Miles, causing fresh sweat to break out across his forehead. “Won’t, promise,” he stuck his tongue out and dragged the tip of it up the length of the underside of Miles’ shaft, catching a bit of loose foreskin at the top and rubbing it around, up and down.
He was just playing around, Miles knew, but he wasn’t sure he could take much more of this - he was burning up already. He fumbled for Phoenix’s head, stroking his lank, sweat-dampened hair appreciatively but not really paying much attention to the motion - it was clumsy, his thoughts directed down below. Phoenix was pulling his pants down more, fishing inside them with a couple of fingers. Fingernails scratched against his scrotum, which was itchy with sweat - that was good, and it was a relief to have a good scratch, but it was only temporary, until Phoenix got hold of what he was after. Miles froze as three fingers hooked gently under one of his balls, lifting it out and-
“Oh,” he sighed at the pleasure of it - Phoenix had taken the whole thing into his mouth, sucking on it. It was tight enough to hurt a little, but it gave him a totally different kind of ache, one that made another streak of precome dribble down his shaft. He was dimly aware that he wasn’t really doing much for Phoenix in return, and so he ran his fingers down Phoenix’s neck and to massage the skin over his vertebrae. But even then, that movement was half-hearted, and eventually he stopped altogether, completely taken over by the sensation of Phoenix sucking on him. Prickles of excitement were building up within him - his cock felt huge, it couldn’t get any harder than this. It was resting against Phoenix’s forehead, and when Phoenix moved it waved a little, skidding on the sweat bedecking Phoenix’s forehead and smearing it with Miles’ own fluids.
Phoenix eventually released the testicle he was sucking on and returned his attentions to Miles’ cock, running his tongue over the tip while it was inside his mouth and making a bit of a face as Miles involuntarily released another surge of precome. Miles’ eyes were dropping closed - the visual input was just too much, he wanted to concentrate on the music and feel the tight sensation of Phoenix’s mouth on his cock, the wetness of saliva mingling with precome and sweat.
Phoenix slowly lifted his head away, his lips brushing lightly over the ridge of his penis. Miles stiffened; that part was sensitive and he reflexively applied pressure to the back of Phoenix’s head to try and get him to stay there and pay more attention to it. Phoenix paused, then flicked the ridge with his tongue. Miles jerked, uttering a low cussword and digging his fingers into Phoenix’s hair, tangling it. The tingling beneath his skin was overwhelming him now. He was so close to coming, at the point of wanting to so desperately, and yet wanting to experience the swollen sensation of his erection for a little while longer, have Phoenix suck him off more because it was so good. But as he opened his eyes to look down at Phoenix, the trumpet-player looked back up at him with a wicked look in his eyes, one crooked eyebrow quirking up. Then he winked, and gently applied his teeth.
“-!”
Miles’ hand flew to his mouth, he bit down on his index finger to stop himself crying out - the orchestra were playing the pianissimo closing passage to the Pavane, the violins barely audible, and he was sure to be heard otherwise. He lost the last shred of his self-control at that moment, leaning back on one elbow, arching his back and thrusting his cock up into the roof of Phoenix’s mouth, and with that came momentary pain as Phoenix’s teeth clipped his skin, but that was totally eclipsed by the riding wave of his climax, that seemed to go on, and on, throbbing and pulsing. He couldn’t stop jetting and spurting into Phoenix’s mouth, but the trumpet player was swallowing repeatedly, eyes screwed shut at the taste but still swallowing nonetheless. Finally, with a few shudders and spasms, it passed. He sighed with weary relief, and the auditorium was filled with applause for the Pavane that had just finished. His finger hurt - he stopped biting down on it, and taking it from his mouth he realised he’d left teeth marks imprinted into his skin. He still had the fingers of his other hand snarled up in Phoenix’s hair, and Phoenix still had his cock in his mouth, warm and beginning to soften. He stopped gripping Phoenix’s hair so fiercely, and Phoenix was able to lift his head, eyes a little glazed as he took his mouth away. His hair was a mess, fringe plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there was a white smear of come at the corner of his mouth, as well as more drying on his forehead from earlier.
“Forgive me,” Miles’ voice came out as little more than a whisper. “I couldn’t take the teeth - or I would’ve given you more warning.”
There was an explosion of sound from the orchestra and the two of them jumped. The Travelling Symphony had launched into the brisk March from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite, the strings playing the bright and merry melody. Phoenix broke into a grin.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you apologise for anything - and you apologise for that?” his speech was a little thick, and he swallowed again, still tasting semen on his tongue. “Yeuch, that could’ve tasted a hell of a lot better.” He dug his handkerchief out to wipe his face.
“I can normally hold it in longer,” Miles tried to explain, “but it’s been a long time since I… er, yes,” he wouldn’t look at Phoenix as he said that, instead tugging at his shirt, trying to pull the damp cotton away from his sides and his underarms.
“S’alright. But…” Phoenix pulled at Miles’ underpants, gently pushing everything back inside and zipping up his fly. “Could you, uh, return the favour?” he asked. “It’s… starting to get a bit sore, now.” He sat up, taking Miles’ hand and planting it firmly on his own erection while looking the oboist in the eye. His cheeks were suffused with pink, and he was pressing Miles’ hand a little, squashing his cock and rubbing it up and down. So he wanted it just as badly.
“Of course,” Miles replied, taking over the movement and leaning in to kiss him again. The energetic pace of the March restored in him a little vigour, and his kisses were quick and lively, hands wandering with a bit more attention than he was paying before. Phoenix was responding passionately, and this time with a little tongue of his own - he put in a bit too much and Miles reflexively responded by pushing it away with his own, to avoid gagging. Phoenix got the hint and stayed at the front, his own hands reaching down to Miles’ bottom and cupping his cheeks. Miles tried to ignore the fresh arousal this generated - he loved being touched on his ass - but Phoenix was stroking him with his fingers. Trying to distract himself, he unzipped Phoenix’s fly and inserted his hand inside. Phoenix wriggled against him a little as he turned his hand - there wasn’t much room in there, the fabric of Phoenix’s trousers was tight against his hand because the trumpet-player’s erection took up most o f the space. But he managed to get his hand inside Phoenix’s pants - it was hot and sticky, and fluid smeared across his wrist as he moved down to cup Phoenix’s balls in his palm. Phoenix grunted into his mouth, the hands on his rear tightening their grip and pushing them together.
Miles broke off the kiss to say,
“I can’t suck you off; it’ll affect my reed later. But I can at least do this for you.” He massaged Phoenix’s balls. “Is that good?”
“Fuck, yes,” Phoenix lay his head on Miles’ shoulder, lips warm against Miles’ collarbone. “Just having your hand in my pants is like being on another planet - but God, I need to come. Please.”
Miles knew it wasn’t long until the interval - the orchestra were coming to the end of the March, and the Russian Dance they were about to modulate into was only a minute long.
“Hard and fast, hm?” he said, tilting his head forward to brush his lips against Phoenix’s neck, the skin beneath them quivering at his touch.
He shuffled to the side a little, out of the line of fire, then stroked his fingers up, releasing Phoenix’s testicles and running them up Phoenix’s cock to ring the base of it with his thumb and forefinger, his other fingers curling around the shaft to secure his firm grip. He squeezed, feeling Phoenix push into the grip.
“Hold on for as long as you can,” he said. “See if you can make it to the end of the Dance - it’ll feel even better that way.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Phoenix groaned.
Miles waited a bar, placing his free hand on Phoenix’s shoulder to keep his balance, and then at the instant the orchestra switched into the Russian Dance he began to move his hand, a quick stroke up, a hard stroke down, timing the down stroke with the beat. Phoenix’s hands immediately moved to his waist, his head pressing into Miles’ shoulder and fingers gripping tight at Miles’ hips to brace himself. His breathing became harsh, ragged grunts in time with the strokes, and Miles could feel the sweat pooling at his collarbone. It was a lot of physical exertion for him as well, and he was starting to pant.
Maya’s violin was taking up Phoenix’s trumpet part, and Pearl was doing something odd with her cello - she was meant to have a straightforward bass line for this part but she had abandoned it, jumping up an octave to replace the missing second violin part. Diego was playing Pearl’s line instead, double-stopping it with his own on two strings.
Phoenix was shaking, still trying to hold in his orgasm. The fingers clutching at Miles’ hips were moving now, quick little spasms up and down, back and forward, as if grappling against the growing climax as he wanked Phoenix off. The music was starting to build up, the brass section overlaying the quick violins with a forte fanfare, and Miles tightened his grip, pushing his hand right down to the base of Phoenix’s cock with each stroke - 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-
“Ah, ah, ahh!” Phoenix cried, and a quaver before the orchestra hit the final note he came, splattering the floor in front of him. Miles immediately moved his hand out of the way to avoid getting any on his sleeve, though he didn’t stop pumping Phoenix until he was well and truly finished. The applause was still going - the first half was over and the audience had loved it. Phoenix was still partly collapsed against Miles, out of breath, but he lifted his head with effort and managed to raise a smile.
“Thankyou,” he said fervently, then flopped back against him, breathing beginning to slow down.
“My pleasure,” Miles fished in Phoenix’s pocket for the handkerchief and used it to mop the floorboards. It wouldn’t do for Franziska to find any stains, after all.
The lights went down and the cool darkness that covered them was a relief, concealing them from the orchestra as they stood and filed offstage. Maya glanced sideways at the timpanis, seeing nothing there. She looked across at Ema, who shrugged, a grin on her face.
“Seems like it went pretty well, huh?” Ema said loudly so it carried. “Mr. Georgiy looked happy!”
“He sure did,” Maya agreed. “I’m stoked for the next half! We’ll all do our best.”
At that, Miles looked down at Phoenix, who raised his head and flashed him a thumbs up sign. Miles nodded.
The two girls walked offstage, fanning themselves with their sheet music. Phoenix zipped himself back up again, and Miles looked through the timpanis at the stage. The coast was clear - the auditorium was only partly vacated, but the orchestra was off the stage and with the lights down they could sneak away unnoticed.
“Ready?” Miles took out his own, clean handkerchief and wiped his face, picking up his oboe.
Phoenix ran his hands through his hair, spiking it back up again.
“Yup,” he grabbed his trumpet.
Bobbed down low, they emerged from behind the timpanis and successfully made it into the wings. Miles’ legs complained as he stood up - they’d been knelt down for ages.
“How do you feel about your solo now?” Phoenix asked.
“Oh, heavens,” Miles immediately got out his reed case, picking out his favourite and putting it between his lips to warm it. “That’s next!”
Phoenix grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
“You can do it,” he said, letting go.
“Oh, of course I can,” Miles said around the reed as they walked down the steps into the corridor. “But I’ll sound like a dying duck if I don’t warm my reed up in time!” Once they were out into the light, he turned. “Do I look okay? Anything out of place?”
“Your tie!” Phoenix pointed. “Crap, mine too.”
Miles had his done up in a moment.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” he pushed away Phoenix’s fumbling fingers and did up the trumpet player’s tie. “There, that’s you.”
They hurried down the corridor to the Green Room.
“AH!” came a voice from behind them.
They both turned to see Alexei Georgiy standing there, a look of relief on his face.
“There you are!” he said in heavily accented English. “I worry you not come back in time, but Miss Fey say yes, you be there. You!” he patted Phoenix on the shoulder with a bear-like paw. “Your secret is safe with me,” he tapped the side of his nose with a wink, “but you spend your money more carefully in future, yes? You have good friends,” he gestured to Miles, “but they cannot save you from repeated pickles - understood?”
“Uh… yes!” Phoenix gulped. “It’ll never happen again, Mr. Georgiy. Never, ever again. I’m sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused,” he bowed his head.
Alexei smiled.
“The problem is not one,” he said. “The Symphony played well, they adapted magnificent. But in future you keep your trumpet out of the, how you say,” he muttered the Russian word, “the place you take things when you have no money…”
“The pawnshop?” Miles supplied.
“Ah, yes!”
“The… pawnshop?” Phoenix blinked. What on earth had the girls told him?
“Hm, perhaps that is not the right word after all,” Alexei frowned. “But no matter!” he held up one finger. “I say nothing, you can trust Alexei - now head that way,” he pointed down the hall, “your friends are waiting for you, and there is wine too. Soothe the nerves after rushing across town, yes? I must away to meet Ms. Skye and Mr. Gant - you play well for second half, now; you have catching up to do!”
“We do, and we shall,” Miles bowed graciously to Alexei. “I will play the best I have ever played.”
“Seconded!” Phoenix chimed in.
Alexei laughed.
“Then I shall enjoy listening!” he boomed, then span on his heel and headed off down the corridor.
Miles and Phoenix exchanged glances after he’d gone.
“What was that all about?” Miles asked.
“Not a clue, and that worries me,” Phoenix scratched his head. “I think if we speak to Ema and Maya, all will become clear. Which worries me more.”
Miles nodded at the door leading to the Green Room.
“May as well face the music?” he said.
“It’ll be okay… I hope?” Phoenix replied, trying to summon confidence.
“It’d better be. Or I really will smack you upside the head.”
They walked across to the Green Room and pushed the door open.