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The rehearsal hall smells of rosin and damp wool, the late afternoon light pooling gold across Ben's shoulders as he adjusts his sheet music. Peter watches from the piano bench, fingers hovering above silent keys. There's something different about Ben today—something in the way his trousers cling to the lean muscles of his thighs as he shifts his weight, the navy fabric catching the light with each small movement.
"Christ, Ben," Peter blurts, "I like your new pants." The words tumble out before he can stop them, his cheeks warming as Ben turns with a startled blink.
Ben plucks at the wool blend with academic curiosity. "Thanks! They were 50% off at Harrods." His index finger traces an invisible price tag in the air, the gesture so earnestly practical that Peter's stomach flutters.
Leaning forward, Peter lowers his voice to that smoky register that makes Ben's bow hand tremble during adagios. "I'd like them better if they were 100% off." He punctuates this with a slow wink, watching Ben's Adam's apple bob above his loosely knotted tie.
Ben frowns, adjusting his glasses. "The store can't just give away clothes for free, darling. The textile shortages alone—"
"That's..." Peter's laugh catches like a stuck piano pedal. "Not what I meant."
Clutching his violin case to his chest like a shield, Ben peers over the rims of his spectacles. "That's a terrible way to run a business, Peter Pears." His voice drips with the same horrified inflection he reserves for out-of-tune violas and improperly cured rosin.
Through the high windows, a church bell chimes four o'clock. Peter stretches his legs, deliberately brushing a brogue against Ben's pristine trouser cuff. "Remind me to explain capitalism to you later," he murmurs, "preferably horizontally."
Ben's resulting sneeze—flustered, abrupt, scattering sheet music everywhere—is absolutely worth the wait.