Work Text:
And when we play, love don't delay, I hear you now
For what was then, is what is now, anyhow
As I became a guest of love's tune hear again
We'll carry on together like today.
After the first embrace from you I want you too...
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To some people, Vangelis might have looked like a Bond villain, with his gaudy caftan, scads of jewellery, posh house, and scary foreign looks and accent. He also had a tendency to swank around while pontificating which added to the similarity; waving big hairy arms and rambling on, then stopping and looking at his audience in an expectant sort of way. Jon, delighted by these eccentricities and preoccupied by his own feelings, did not think he looked like anything and just accepted him as he was. At the expectant pauses, Jon only looked back with interest, ready to go along with whatever was about to happen.
At first, Vangelis had accepted his silence and gone on talking, with more arm waving and weird sentences that didn’t really fit together. He ambled around the flat with Jon trailing behind him, then to the kitchen where he started to prepare something, gathering ingredients apparently at random. “Ah, everyone is music. The universe is music. Each one of us is a galaxy. I am a galaxy. You are a galaxy.” He paused and looked at Jon in the way that was usual with him after presenting an argument. Suddenly, his look changed from expectant to critical. “What do you think?” he said, and pointed at Jon with the scissors he was holding. Jon smiled vaguely but beatifically.
“Well, music never leaves you. Music… is an endless procession of events. You know, when you're open to receive ideas without questioning them, it's beautiful, I think.” Vangelis listened as he snipped twigs of thyme from an overgrown plant on the windowsill. He threw them down on the worktop along with the scissors, then gave Jon a darkling look.
“Beautiful? But beauty is harmony which comes from chaos,” he said, brushing past him in a sweep of embroidered skirts. Jon followed, fascinated. “Chaos. I’ve been thinking about that.” Vangelis sank down at the piano and played, skittish and wandering, then fast and cheerful. He threw himself off the piano stool and barged back into the kitchen. “That’s what thyme sounds like,” he said to Jon in a confidential tone, leaning towards him.
“What time sounds like,” Jon repeated, and floated off into his own thoughts. Pinpricks of interest lit up his eyes like stars in the night sky. Vangelis looked down at him approvingly, then put up a large, meaty hand and ran it along Jon’s jawline.
“You see what it is,” he said, losing interest in words. Jon let him caress his face, pull him against his big, warm body with a casual gesture. He looked up at him, captivated, thinking heated thoughts. Vangelis had the strangest eyes: light blue flecked with brown, their expression at once intense and dazed, always searching and never seeming to see. They paired oddly with his swarthy impassive face, the overbearing and voluptuous masculinity of his body. There was a thrill to his touch, feather-light and delicate despite how broad his hands were.
Jon emerged from these dreamy observations feeling like everything had fallen into place, converging into desire like light through twin prisms. He reached up to twine his fingers in the black curls cascading down Vangelis’s head and neck. Jon had known what he wanted before even coming here; had continued to know when he had first seen Vangelis and been pressed against his body in greeting.
He’d been confident from the first, and now was confident as he pulled the other man’s head down to meet his, firmly holding him there. Then, as their kiss deepened, his hands slipped down, deft and assured on the wide chest, the muscular back. Jon felt him grow soft and indolent in his arms, under the touch of his lips, yielding to the understanding blossoming between them. Such was the leading hand of fate, bringing him here into this moment, bringing them together. There was only them, only now, after all.