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The orchestra filed out of the studio, musicians and crew alike squeezed out through the door like a tube of almost-done toothpaste. And the atmosphere was like the smooth, spicy flavor of a good mouthwash - the zest burned like electricity in Frank's veins. Especially around that lithe Brazilian man... So good on the guitar, that Antonio. Frank wanted those nimble fingers to strum him, too.
He thanked Ogerman, their arranger-conductor; thanked Al, his trusted guitarist and translator for Antonio. But not the bossa nova musician himself - "save the best for last", as the saying goes. He needed the two dismissed before he could approach Antonio in peace...
As the two packed their things, backs on Frank, the singer rubbed his ear, his nose. They were tics of agitation he'd never quite grown out of - he liked how it warned others of his feelings. He preferred it if people adapted to them.
"Francis," a soft voice lilted, breaking the silence - in his little dip into his own head, he didn't realize Al and Ogerman had left. Under the dim lights was himself... and his musical partner, who had packed his guitar.
The zest in his veins crackled again.
"Thank you for today," said Antonio, his English halting, heavily-accented in the way that tingled Frank's sensitive ears just right. "That was beautiful."
Frank flashed him a small smile, meeting Antonio's gaze. The calm, deep brown belied a sharp mind in songwriting and genius on the strings... his center went aflame.
"You're welcome," he replied. He stepped closer, just one step, and held the arm Antonio was using to carry his guitar case. "You did good, too."
For a split-second, Antonio tensed at Frank's touch - but he relaxed again, a relieved sigh culminating in a smile that made Frank's heart - no, his lips - beg for more. He took a small step forward and put a hand on Antonio's other arm - so thin, so young... so exquisite. Frank eyed him from the top of his side-parted dark hair, falling to his face, to his lips. Lips that sang sweet, sweet tunes in complement to his own voice.
"You didn't just do good, Antonio, you did wonderful," Frank added, leaning closer - he could smell him better now, hard work's sweat mingling with traces of perfume and cigarette smoke. Frank's own, no doubt. He felt like he'd just caught lightning in a bottle. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Francis," Antonio smiled coyly. "Do it again tomorrow?"
"Now, now, why leave so fast, Antonio?" Frank grinned, head inclined. "We can have a smoke together."
One of Frank's hands moved to the smaller man's waist - and he jolted, eliciting a chuckle out of him. The sparks flying between them had possessed Antonio... it was up to him to close this circuit.
There was a deep breath. The slight figure in Frank's arms moved him in a rhythm only they could hear.
Up as he inhaled...
Down as he exhaled...
Up as he inhaled...
"Francis, you are married."
The hand Frank had perched on Jobim's arm fell down. "And this should stop you?"
The Brazilian's pointed look said 'it should stop you', but what his lips uttered were something different.
"I like women," he said quietly, his words flying like the dust motes in the air. "Only women."
"Ah, of course," Frank gritted out. He stepped back. Shoved his hands inside his pocket. The electricity was burning him up inside - but there was nothing he could do. Nothing to calm his pounding heart, nothing to quench the fire crawling to his tightly clenched fists... nothing except a good dose of Jack Daniels.
Inhale. Exhale. The dust motes still floated in the space between them, silent and uncharged.
Frank cleared his throat. "See you tomorrow, then."
Jobim walked to the door, smile unreadable. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Sinatra."