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“You are a mess, Vincent.”
The man who sat upon the piano’s tabouret expelled a hefty sigh at the taunt. Though, it was true, he did look a mess. His hands were outstretched in front of him, fingers curled uncomfortably atop the piano’s keys.
It was dusk, time for Alastor and Vincent to close up the speakeasy. The bar-goers had already trickled out, leaving the building quiet; lights dimmed, doors locked, windows shut. The pair simply took a moment for themselves, and Vincent so dumbly decided to try his hand at Alastor’s elusive piano.
“What do you know?” Vincent sneered. It was more of a jab than a genuine question, for the radio host was obviously leagues ahead of him in terms of this stupid instrument.
Alastor answered the question with a goading smile; his eyes practically laughed in the news reporter’s face. His posture straightened as his arms found their way behind his back, folding over themselves.
Vincent refused to look up from the array of black and white keys, though the tell-tale sound of Florsheim shoes clacking along the floor filled his ears.
He could tell that Alastor was circling the piano, eyeing Vincent with a smile. As if he were a shark orbiting around a particularly appetizing looking fish, deciding whether or not it was worth it to lunge for it.
The rhythmic clacking of shoes stopped abruptly, leaving only the wonder of why.
Vincent was quick to figure it out.
His breath hitched, and his head lifted for the first time when he felt a gentle breath graze the back of his neck.
The man’s ever-existing smile sat leisurely over his face as his eyes hooded with a relaxation Vincent did not have. With his arms still folded behind his back, Alastor leaned down so that his chin was at the younger man’s shoulder– his mouth close to his ear.
Vincent would never get over the smooth-as-honey voice that spoke so close to him.
“Much more than you could ever dream of attaining. Knowledge or talent wise,” Alastor chided.
Vincent’s posture stiffened, his next exhale ragged and unsure. A zephyrean whistle made its way through the dim speakeasy. The ever-prideful news reporter found himself slouching– a subconscious attempt to abscond from the older man behind him, who was now standing straight once more.
Much to Alastor’s chagrin, Vincent appeared rather uncomfortable. May it be because of his, rather rude, wording, or maybe the way in which he spoke. Truly, it was no secret how Alastor’s voice affected the blue-green-eyed man, but who could blame him? Alastor’s voice was unarguably his best trait.
A strenuous moment of silence befell them before Alastor decided to demonstrate his second best trait.
Leaning over the media mogul’s shoulder once more, Alastor laid his dexterous hands atop Vincent’s own.
In all honesty, Alastor expected the man beneath him to jump up in a panic as if a bug had landed on him. In a turn of events that the young radio host would never admit, he was proved wrong.
The inexperienced pianist– if he could even be called that– settled his uneven breath by allowing a sharp intake of breath. On the exhale, he decided to move his hands in an attempt to play the only tune he knew.
. . .
Carmichael’s ‘Heart and Soul’.
Classic and easy, sure, but it was the best he could do for now. Though he often fumbled, he was proud of the times it was played correctly.
He was only able to repeat the first chord twice before the tips of Alastor’s fingers pressed against the proximal joints of Vincent’s fingers. His grip held stern, though his smile grew as if he was acting upon something wicked or forbidden.
The guiding hands quickly corrected the curve of Vincent’s fingers, and moved them back to their original spot.
“Try that again.”
Vincent did not retaliate as he usually would, instead a huff left him as he started over. This time, Alastor stopped him on the first chord. The more-skilled pianist corrected Vincent’s fingers once more with dour hands of his own.
“Try. Again.”
Alastor’s smile grew with severe austerity as he corrected Vincent’s hands again, and again, and again. The latter man, growing ever-the-more frustrated, never made it past the third chord before the radio host was pressing against his knuckles again. Even for an infraction so small as a pink finger lifting.
Vincent’s fingers were quickly flushing, his palms reflecting how his mind was: clammy and nervous. His hands tremored, his face red, his palms sweaty.
Eventually, he threw his hands up in an exaggerated bout of frustration. Standing from the piano stool, he began to pace in short lines, catching his breath as if he had been holding it throughout the entire “lesson”.
Alastor let out a hum of satisfaction as he closed the fallboard of his piano, tucking the tabouret neatly beneath it.
“Now now, Vincent, you needn’t be so frustrated.”
Vincent was frustrated.
He let out a grunt in response to the jarring words that were meant to comfort.
“You can shut your trap, Al,” Vincent grunted in response– some of the first words he had spoken all evening.
Alastor’s smile shrank into a gentle paint across his lips, rather than an overly-toothy, fauxly-bright one he usually wore.
“Very well,” the man spoke as his posture straightened once more, walking past Vincent toward the exit of the building. The news reporter was not looking at him, but he knew damn well that Alastor’s hooded, mahogany eyes were boring holes into his back, as if daggers, and eating him alive.
Alastor allowed his careful hand to tuck a tuft of chestnut locks behind his ear before placing his hand on the door handle. With a final glance back at the faulty pianist, he spoke.
“And, Vincent?”
The latter man responded by turning his head toward Alastor, offering a grunt of attention to signal he was listening.
“If you can play that song for me by the night of next Friday, I am sure you will enjoy a small. . . reward I have for you.”
. . .
Not a moment later, Vincent was left alone in the speakeasy, weighing his options.
Though, it was clear to both of them what that pitifully avid-for-praise news reporter was going to choose.