CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PUTTING THIS GOWN ON AGAIN was bittersweet, when the last time he’d worn it he’d fallen head over heels in love, and only realized it when he was sobbing over the man he needed in terror that he’d lose him right then and there. He stood before the mirror in the backstage dressing area at the concert hall, adjusting the silver brocade and fiddling with his hair and asking himself what the hell he thought he was doing when everyone out there in that audience except his mother would be judging him.

It wouldn’t happen again. Not like last time. His hands were fine. His hands were fine, his wrists limber…and he had his father’s cello. Worn and aged as it was, he had his father’s cello, and he would make it sing in his father’s voice in the way only he could.

But his heart was rabbiting, and he felt faint…so faint. Part of him ached to turn away from this and run, out into the soft-piled drifts of winter’s first snow. Out beyond the curtain he could hear the whispers and rustlings of the crowd while the accompanying pianist warmed up her scales, and he’d risked peeking out once, just once, only to jerk back behind the curtain with his heart thudding out of his chest. He’d seen enough to know that there were hundreds of people out there.

And he’d seen enough to know Vic wasn’t there.

Deep down, some part of him had hoped—hoped he’d come, hoped that typical Vic Newcomb obstinacy would make him too stubborn to stay away. But there was no debonair rapier of a man in a tux, watching him with winter-blue eyes that asked for—and gave—everything.

That was okay.

Amani could still do this. He needed to.

For himself.

But when the emcee started on his spiel and announced his name, he turned wooden—and he felt like a stiff-legged marionette as he crossed the stage to his waiting seat, his Stradivarius. The lights fell down low, casting the audience into dim shades of a palette of flesh tones and jewel colors, no longer people but simply shadows, ghosts. As long as he told himself that, he could do this. He could quiet the knots in his stomach; he could find his poise, his pride, making his spine straight as he bowed, then settled in the waiting chair and exchanged a nod with the pianist at his back. He shifted his posture, spreading his legs, smoothing his gown, before lifting his cello off its stand and settling it against him, the bow as familiar in his hand as a lover.

The pianist ran a testing trill of scales, waiting for his signal. Amani poised his bow over the strings.

And froze, his hand trembling, wrist turning weak as he stared out past the blur of painfully bright stage lights at every faceless nightmare blob that stared back at him. Stared at him, watched for his weakness, waited for him to fail. His fingertips went numb, his neck breaking out in sweat, and as the whispers started he sucked in a hyperventilating breath. It was happening again. It was happening again, his hands failing him, and he—

A soft, hissing sound to his left caught his attention, jerking him from his petrified fear. Backstage, in the eaves, someone was gesturing for his attention, probably the stage director hissing at him to get…things…moving…

Oh.

Every thought in Amani’s mind ground to a halt. The entire world stopped, the murmurs of the theater receding into a sort of ringing, dreamlike silence. Amani stared, his lips parting, his next exhaling sigh caressing his mouth with the memory of deep, searching kisses as he whispered a single name.

“…Vic.”

Vic stood backstage, just out of sight of the audience, watching Amani warmly; fresh snow dotted his hair, pale against dark tangles. As their eyes locked, Vic smiled a bit sheepishly, tucking his hands into his slacks.

You can do this, he mouthed, the words as clear as if he’d rumbled them in Amani’s ear. I’m here. I won’t let you fall.

Amani smiled, euphoria a rush, a wind, lifting him and making him light. He nodded once, tightened his fingers on the bow.

Thank you, he mouthed back.

And once again found his voice.

He struck the bow across the strings with confidence, and suddenly the theatre was no longer there. He knew only the rainfall patter of urgent piano notes at his back, chasing him on, racing with him, challenging him to play his fingers in deftness and in wildness to know every place that made the cello keen and sigh for him with just the right notes, creating a storm of music that thundered to the rafters and whispered to the eaves. He’d chosen Brahms, again. Brahms because he’d found himself in wringing a stirring call from every sound; because he would always remember the way Vic watched him with such rapture as he opened a vein within his heart and used the crimson strings to pluck note after note until he was the song, the cello, the great swelling throb of building climax, the clamor that seemed to cry out for something more.

He was Amani, and he knew now what his something more was, and always would be.

He played until his fingers burned, until his joints ached as he demanded more dexterity, pushing himself to the limits of tempo and complexity and fingering notes, until they rang with triumph. And he felt as though the foundations shook as deeply as his soul, as with a last gasping breath he ripped out a peak of quiver-hot, keenly penetrating sound, a cry of lament, a cry of wonder…

And then let it fall, echoes drifting down to blanket the theatre in silence like snow as, panting, Amani let his bow drop.

Slowly the theatre resolved around him: the cold air, the heat of sweat on his skin, the ache and burn in his muscles and joints.

And the applause, rolling over him in a roaring wave as the audience stood, clapping until the sound fluttered up to the rafters like birds.

Amani set cello and bow aside and stood, letting his gaze sweep the audience, and smiled, grinned, laughed, raising his arms, then sweeping about—before joining hands with the pianist and bowing against. He’d…he’d done it, he hadn’t ruined it, he was still himself, he could still do the thing that brought him the most joy.

He still had one love, even if his fingertips trembled with the need to grasp another.

As a few people in the audience called his name, he raised one hand, then gathered his skirts and tumbled off stage, nearly flying into the wings.

And flinging himself right into Vic’s arms.

“Vic,” he gasped, knotting up handfuls of his waistcoat, rising up on his toes to lean in hard.

Vic rocked back with a startled sound—but his arms came around Amani without hesitation, pulling him in close as he rumbled in amusement. “Not trying to kill me. That’s a good start.”

Amani dropped back down, looking up at him. “I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

Vic tilted his head left, then right, brows rising innocently. “The thing is, you ordered me to come and never took it back, so technically…”

Despite himself, Amani laughed and swatted Vin’s chest. “You jerk.”

“I am.” Vic caught that swatting hand, pale eyes sobering as he kissed Amani’s fingertips, beloved lips touching his skin once more, flooding him with warmth. “I’m a jerk, but I couldn’t stay away. I needed to see you one more time, though I never meant to let you see me. But then you froze, and I just…” He shook his head, rubbing his stubble-scratchy cheek to Amani’s palm. “I wanted you to know there was someone on your side.”

“Is that what you are?” Amani asked carefully. “On my side?”

“I always have been. I’m sorry I didn’t show it.” Vic leaned into him, bending to meet him, and the scent of his body was all fresh snow and lovely heartbreak, as he touched his brow to Amani’s and enveloped him in his strength. “I know…I know life is different for both of us. I know we’re different, and everything I am is contrary to everything you believe in. We’re from different sides…but I want to be on yours. Nothing else matters.” That deep voice cracked, hitched, so heavy with emotion. “Nothing else matters but you.”

“Tell me what you’re saying, Vic,” Amani whispered. Hope was too fragile to endure, and he needed something solid to hold it in place before it flew away and took this trembling spark of brightness out of reach. “I need to hear you say it out loud.”

“I love you,” Vic breathed—with certainty, with fervor, without a moment’s hesitation, and he released Amani’s hand to capture his face in those beloved fingers, giving Amani the warmth he so craved. “I love you, and I’m so sorry I hurt you. You were so adamant about pushing me away that I didn’t realize you were just as afraid as I was. That you needed me to steady you the same way you steady me. I didn’t take your feelings into account. I was cruel, and still trying to control everything when I need to let that go. And when I told you I would pay anything to be with you…” Vic shook his head, his eyes just a little too bright, his smile trembling. “It’s not because I thought you could be bought. It’s because nothing else is worth holding on to if I don’t have you.”

In those words, in that burst of emotion, in the sweet feeling that rushed through him and swept away the bitter, angry words he’d wanted to hold on to…he understood, then, what his mother had been trying to tell him.

That when you found the right one, they wouldn’t hesitate to forgive. When you found the right one, they could both cause your pain and kiss it away, tear you down and build you up. When you found the right one…

You loved them enough to want to forgive, because it hurt your heart as much as theirs to hate them.

And his heart was raw with a joy that cut as deep as pain, as he wrapped his arms around Vic’s neck and buried his face against his shoulder. “Vic. Vic.”

Vic clung to him just as tight, as if he would never let Amani go. “Is it too much to hope you could ever feel the same about me…?”

“Shut up. Shut up, how can you be so smart but so dense…”

“Amani…?”

“Stop talking.” And Amani made him stop talking with a kiss—because he needed to know how Vic’s lips tasted, now, when they were dusted and warmed with the words I love you. He drank the soft groan that rose from Vic’s throat, taking every breath and touch of skin to skin and darting tongues into himself to imprint and hold and keep. “Stop talking,” he repeated, whispering against Vic’s lips, “and let me love you.”

With a tortured sound, Vic leaned into him hard, slanting his mouth roughly against Amani’s in a sudden rush of possession that gentled and melted as Amani gave back with a stroking tongue and fingers tangled in his pet’s dark hair, just enough to make Vic gasp, surrender, remember his sweet boy’s place. Vic sagged against him, then broke back from their locked lips with a breathless laugh.

“So how much trouble am I in if I disobey?”

“Vic.”

“Please. I need to say this.” Vic coiled a lock of Amani’s hair against his fingertip, tracing ticklish licks against Amani’s cheek. “Can we start over? Go on dates. Spend time together just because. I want to…I want to go to Chinese buffets with you and help you with your homework and skip out on work early to surprise you with flowers at uni. I want to play cello with you and come to your concerts, and save every last theatre program until you’re yelling at me to throw them away. I want to raze the entire damned company to the ground and build something better. I want…” His eyes were almost wild, every word tumbling in an impassioned rush. “I want a life that’s only possible with you.”

“Well…” Amani mused. “You’ve already put the downpayment on my mother’s new house, so I guess we can dissolve the contract.”

“Amani,” Vic groaned, and Amani burst into laughter. He felt as though he hadn’t laughed in weeks, but now…now?

He didn’t know why he would ever stop.

“I’m sorry. You really are my favorite toy mouse, you know.” He curled his fingers against Vic’s throat, regrettably bare of a collar, but he would be fixing that soon. “My only toy mouse. No exclusivity cause required.”

“So you’re saying…”

“I’m saying I love you, and the labels don’t matter as long as I have you.” Stroking his fingers up to caress against Vic’s cheek, he smiled up at him. “Can you accept that? As my lover and my pet?”

“It’s all I need. All I’ve ever needed. My Master…my Amani.” Strong arms swept him close, pulling him up into a kiss. “…all I need is you.”

“Then take me home, Vic. Take me home…” Amani said, as that mouth he loved begged him for just one touch, one kiss, one inkling of their life together—and one more whisper of, “…sweet boy.”