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Aug. 21st, 2009 03:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_dorian_grayDorian isn't able to sleep. He's restless tonight.
He's been restless for some nights now.
Christopher had long ago been put to bed, and the sheets had cooled as Ganymede slept following quiet lovemaking. The wind blowing in from the ocean, billowing the curtain, is cool, the heat of summer slowly giving way to the chill of fall. Carefully, Dorian slips from the bed and pulls on a pair of cotton pajama bottoms. He's nearly silent as he leaves the room and his lover, shutting the door and heading down the stairs.
Dorian knows where he is going, what he wants to do, and it isn't much longer before he gets comfortable on the piano bench, lifting the cover. His fingers move lightly over the keys, and then they settle in a start position for the piece he feels burning in his chest, aching to be given voice. His foot rests above the peddles, and his fingers begin.
It's a slow, somber piece of music he chooses, something deep and dark that echoes in the music room. He closes his eyes, body swaying as his fingers move with unerring precision over the keys. This is what he loves above all else, the one piece of himself he's kept, and it flows out of him, the music almost a living thing.
He's been restless for some nights now.
Christopher had long ago been put to bed, and the sheets had cooled as Ganymede slept following quiet lovemaking. The wind blowing in from the ocean, billowing the curtain, is cool, the heat of summer slowly giving way to the chill of fall. Carefully, Dorian slips from the bed and pulls on a pair of cotton pajama bottoms. He's nearly silent as he leaves the room and his lover, shutting the door and heading down the stairs.
Dorian knows where he is going, what he wants to do, and it isn't much longer before he gets comfortable on the piano bench, lifting the cover. His fingers move lightly over the keys, and then they settle in a start position for the piece he feels burning in his chest, aching to be given voice. His foot rests above the peddles, and his fingers begin.
It's a slow, somber piece of music he chooses, something deep and dark that echoes in the music room. He closes his eyes, body swaying as his fingers move with unerring precision over the keys. This is what he loves above all else, the one piece of himself he's kept, and it flows out of him, the music almost a living thing.
