The Piano Player

He stopped for a second. His eardrum still vibrated with sound. The house was silent though. Faint drones of society whispered through the white corridors, none of which reached him. He was far away from the noise and commotion. He relaxed.

His fingers delicately graced the piano once more. The white and black keys were gleaming, buffed. The contents of the Grand were tuned to perfection. Ideas of melodies were sloshing over the cup of his brain, tumbling into forever, to be lost. He couldn’t forget them now. They were so raw, so, so, tempting. Maybe it was the break he was hoping for. It was nearing. He could sense it. He craved it, tasted it when he thought hard enough.

His boyfriend would be home soon, he thought, whilst rising from the piano stool. His cute, guitarist boyfriend, he thought, fist clenching. Probably reeling from vodka shots, blotted eyes, heightened emotions, sharper words. Probably feeling like doing anything other than tenderly holding his secret, failed pianist boyfriend. Probably favoring the idea of rough rape more.

He looked into the mirror on the opposite wall. His blonde curls were a little fuzzy and his face was obviously unwashed, morning shadow was gracing his chin. He was sick to death of looking like this. The mess, the Mozart wannabe, the victim. Running a hand through the mass of blonde, an idea struck him hard and fast. Walking as though in mud, he made his way slowly to the colossal winding staircase. The carpet was lush and pale cream, his bare feet sank deep into the wealth.

Their bedroom was styled basically, swirls of red and silver played across the walls in an eclectic pattern. The bed sheets were plain white and the room was direly neat. The dresser was made of cheap wood and buckled under the weight of a vast hi-fi system resting atop. The clippers were still plugged into the wall. His boyfriend had a short Mohawk style going on. Every Sunday afternoon he would clip the sides, tiny tufts of hair falling onto the cold wood in front of the mirror.

He sat cross-legged before the mirror and observed his image. An extremely oversized Motley Crue shirt adorned his torso and a pair of white and blue boxers covered him. His blonde curls were the only hints at the classical soul that lay within him. The classical piano player hiding in the body of a punk rock idol, the body of fashion icon and boyfriend. Girls loved him. Boys secretly idolized him. After all, he was only the boyfriend of the hottest punk rocker on the planet. He modeled for numerous clothing lines. Every element of his life was thrust into the limelight. All save piano, that was his secret.

Minutes passed, before he moved once more. His hand grasped the clippers tenderly; the metal was cold against his soft hands. The blades were sharp and he would be scared, had he not sat hours at a time, following those very blades as they remodeled his boyfriend’s tresses. A hesitant flick of the switch and the little power light was glowing brightly, they were ready for use.

The small machine hummed slightly as it worked. As they slid past his scalp, his smile widened. The new him was showing. No more silly blonde hair. No more silly piano playing, he knew it only upset his boyfriend. It was their dirty little secret.

Downstairs, he sat on the cold leather couch with a wine glass between his long fingers. It was for his nerves mostly. There was no telling what state his boyfriend would be in upon arrival. Every night his band would go out and play a show. They would have a few beers after show before returning to their homes. He would often stumble in, reeking of sex and beer. Dick practically leaking pre-come, desperate for it. And every night, the pianist would oblige.

The door clicked. His boyfriend shuffled into the room, flicking on the switch to the heater as he passed.

“You’re not drunk?” the pianist asked confused. The younger boy shook his head.

“I’ve realized a few things lately,” he whispered. “One of which is how much the alcohol is tearing us apart.” The newly shaved pianist sat, mouth agape. This was not how things worked, his boyfriend didn’t think, nor care, he just fucked and played guitar.

“When I met you, things were simpler, I loved you, I didn’t use you. Then I found alcohol and drugs. Things have begun to tumble down a never-ending slope since then. You have this dream, you want to play piano and I realized, I have never once heard you play. I’ve missed out on so much and I want it all back. The only way, is to stop, I can’t deal with it like other people.”

“No more booze?” he asked, unsure.

“No, the last couple of months, the band and I have gone out, every night and proceeded to get completely loaded. Every night I come back and take it all out on you. It’s time for change. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

So much for the pianist making a shock with a new hairstyle, that was the least of his priorities now. His boyfriend was sat before him, sober, apologizing for all he had done. He had wanted to get noticed, wanted to shock. Of course his boyfriend was always one to do one better. After all, he was Frank Anthony Iero. He was just Rob. And Rob should have stuck to playing guitar, and never followed the silly pianist dream.

Rob, that guitarist in that band. That small band from England who were starting to stir up New Jersey.

Frank rose from his seat on the couch shakily. Rob’s eyes burned with curiosity. Frank flashed a quick grin;

“Well? You gonna play me some music or what?” Rob sat unsure, before reaching over the side of the couch to the Les Pauls.

“No, come on, that’s not what I meant,” Frank said gently, pulling on Rob’s sleeve. He looked deep into his boyfriends eye’s for the first time in what seemed like years. I really want to hear you play piano, baby.” He ran a callused hand across Rob’s shaved head, before smiling distantly, “you cut off your hair. I like it.”

Rob awoke in his boyfriend’s arms that morning. He was free of clothing. His hair was still intact. He had been dreaming