Chapter Text
The conservatory we usually meet at was booked, forcing us to adapt or cancel. Patrick offered his home to host my lessons. I immediately declined but he insisted. You don't use it, you lose it. Ever since then, we meet at his personal home studio.
Patrick explains it simply and practically: I think you do better here.
The way he leaned over, casual, all smiles, and delivered that line so earnestly. He had already thought of everything, before I even realized it was an issue. He said it as if it was inevitable. His piano at home is better tuned, there are less interruptions... I think he mistook my reluctance for offense. If you're not comfortable, we can totally reschedule.
That was last week.
I started my music journey about three months ago, after years of waiting for the right motivation. Waiting on an epiphany of musical talent to fall into my lap.
Patrick was recommended to me by a friend. I've known him for years, you’ll get along great.The awkwardness of having another adult explaining things to me like a kid almost made me quit. Our first session was a train wreck, I think he underestimated how much work I needed. I am a true beginner. But, he was patient, hands hovering, not touching—at first. Asking permission to guide me, never once putting me down. I nearly jumped out of my skin the first time he laughed with joy, grabbing my shoulders, proud of my progress.
His home is lived-in but tidy. A mix of Classic and rare Guitars line the wall opposite of the grand piano. Some of them are ugly but I hold that comment in as he explains their history with passion. I am amazed by each new scrap of information he lets slip. I cling onto every fact, anecdote. Despite his friendly nature, he is infuriatingly committed to being as professional as possible.
I learned that he can play pretty much any instrument, and that he is even in a band. Spends his free time with some bluesy funky folks that play downtown at The Clerb every weekend. He can sing too, really well.
“Hey,” he greets, his familiar smile lighting up the room, “Ready to re-run those scales?” God, last week I was really having a hard time. One step forward, two steps back.
“You know it,” I grin. Last week I was extra clunky, messing up every other key. I told myself it was just an off day. He noticed, not saying a word about it but politely suggesting that we end the session early and pick up where we left off next week.
Today he takes my coat without fuss, routine now as we settle into his studio. He has already set everything up. The piano bench is at the perfect height, sheet music already in place, curtains drawn, because the passerbyes break my concentration.
Lessons with him have their moments, but I mostly look forward to the easy conversation, gentle teasing. Patrick remembers the small things; what piece I like to play best, my strengths, and weaknesses. He picks up on it, not pointing it out just being attentive. We start with simple chords, he quizzes me on what we covered last time, then we move onto scales. This is where I keep messing up and I groan in annoyance. I feel like I keep getting worse with each attempt. I pull my hands back. I don't know why I'm so nervous.
“You okay?” Patrick asks, his hand idly miming chords on his thigh.
“I suck.” I frown, trying not to look as pathetic as I feel. He doesn’t respond immediately, instead chewing his cheek and looking up as he thinks…
His eyes light up. He straightens, softening his voice.
”Can I?” He waits until I give permission.
”Yeah, sure.”
He pauses, hands flat on his thighs before adjusting the angle of my wrists, only touching when necessary. Patrick guides me, calloused fingers splaying over mine as he slowly runs through the chord progression. He grins, biting his lip to concentrate. I'm distracted by the way his smile permeates his expression, how warm his hands are, our proximity, his competence. We run through it again, picking up speed just slightly, every key playing beautifully with our joined forces. I remind myself to breathe.
He is quiet, hands hovering over mine. I swallow, focusing on where his thumb brushes my wrist. He clears his throat, his thumb stills. Patrick grabs my hands without checking in, correcting my posture and finger position. I freeze at first. My stupid fingers acting like they're in rigor mortis.
“You’re holding a lot of tension right here.” His brows furrow as he examines my hand placement. He squeezes different muscles of my palm, digging into the flesh. He massages my heart line tenderly, my hand uncurls.
His lips part, raising his eyebrows. I realize he must’ve asked me a question. He sucks in a breath, and doesn’t call me out on it. He taps the piano and instructs me to try again.
I wince with every mistake, trying not to fixate on it. I take a deep breath and try again, slower. I feel my confidence strengthen–just to play a wrong key in the final bar. I wait for his reaction, holding my breath.
”See? You're getting it... That was really good.” His voice is soft, blue-green eyes locked on the keys. He checks his watch. I glance around to find the clock. Five minutes left.
The fallboard clicks shut. I feel the heat of his breath on my neck as he braces his hand on the piano, reaching around me. His sleeve rides up, exposing his forearms. My gaze traces the veins down to his hands, over each skilled digit.
“I’ve got it.” He exhales when he closes my folder. Holding my sheet music in his lap, he angles towards me, our knees brushing. Neither of us pull away. Patrick holds my gaze, not retreating.
“You did really well today. Like actually.” Patrick straightens, voice softening. “Feeling any better?”
I notice how close we are. My breath catches. I ground myself by digging my nails into the palm of my hand. I press my knee into his, he turns to face me fully. He leans in first, I follow his lead, placing a hand on his arm to pull myself closer. He squeezes my arm.
“We shouldn't-” He cuts me off, just a breath away. He chuckles lightly, it's strained. I shake my head, we're frozen for a beat.
His hand slides up to my jaw, thumb resting right over my racing pulse. He tilts my face up, perfectly restrained. I place my hand over his, and he closes the gap.
His soft lips taste minty, herbal, and the scape of his beard tickles my chin. He takes the lead, and I tug on his bottom lip.
He tears his mouth from mine, like I've burned him. This sends my folder flying to the floor. My eyes fly open, my heart sinking. He sighs in discontent as the sheet music crashes to the floor, fanning out around us. He steadies me, eyes fixing on the floor. I panic, the sting of rejection flushes my face, constricting in my chest.
It's a game of chicken, waiting to see who makes the next move. His green-blue eyes meet mine and are shadowed with anxiety. His throat works.
”I'm sorry,” he murmurs, lips pursed. “I just didn't want to- I don't think we should do this.” He closes his eyes, going still except for the muscle tensing in his cheek as he thinks. “What I meant is… If we keep going, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop.” He exhales through his nose, placing a hand on my shoulder. This shuts me up. Oh. Patrick frowns, easing his grip. “Do you get what I mean?”
“That's okay,” I nod, and wet my lips. His smile returns.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” I hiss.
I meet him half way, and I can’t help but thread my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. I need to taste him again.
Patrick moans softly, his tongue parting my lips and his hands finding my waist. It is not rough or careless but…possessive.
“I don't want you to think I was planning this all along,” he admits quietly. His thumb traces a small arc over my hip. He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes again. “I’ve been so… careful.“ He bites his lip. His thumb ventures lower with thinly veiled want, catching on my belt loop.
“It's not that I don't want you.” Patrick stares into my eyes, head bowed, shoulders slumped, pleading with me to hear him out. I'm not sure what else he needs from me. I'm right here.
He kisses me again. It’s slower this time, heavier. I can feel his stubble scrape me faintly, with each measured press. I savor every moment, every second, our tongues languidly sliding over each other. Fighting for dominance.
“Fuck, sorry,” he murmurs, voice soft and steady. “I just want to do this right.”
His hand stays on my back, coaxing me to stay still. He shifts in his seat next to me, crossing his legs. “Let’s pick up where we left off next week.” He stands up, tidying the discarded papers.
My coat is only half on and despite Patrick's protests I'm already out the door. I need to move, get far away from that piano, that room, him. I start off in the path of least resistance. The biting cold sends a convulsion through me and I tug my jacket tighter around my body. My cheeks sting from the wind. I come to and I'm 4 blocks past my usual turn.