"I feel strange, Fakir," Mytho says one night, jostling me from sleep. I'm not one to be woken up, but this isn't the first time.
"Go to sleep," I mutter, turning away from the white-haired boy and pulling the blankets up to cover my face. Mytho doesn't move. He is slowly becoming troublesome and strange; no longer listening to me without a second though thought, no longer trusting me without fail.
It's all that wretched girl's fault, that Tutu, that dunce, that—I can hear the violins swelling, sound bursting from cellos and vibrating off of angry strings—
Francesca da Rimini, Capriccio italien, marche slave...
I begin naming classical symphonies and it soothes me slightly. It's a tactic I've used for as long as I can remember. Whenever I can't control a situation, whenever Mytho jumps out of windows or endangers himself—I begin naming them. It calms me, and thus, I can control my music again. I begin bringing the instruments down to a slow harmonic sound: restful and sleepy. One by one I slow down the violins; the cellos are quiet, the violas in tune. I can hear the harp wafting in, and so I lift my hands, bringing it to life.
Mytho places a hand on my shoulder and my symphony explodes in into a flourish of harsh violins and high flutes, "I'm sorry to wake you, but—" and his voice is beginning to ripple at the edges, panic-stricken. I can hear the speedy, out of tune flute in his voice, "—but, it's beginning to hurt and I don't know how to fix it. Please tell me how to fix it, Fakir..." his already quiet voice trails into worrisome nothingness.
Appassionata, Missa Solemnis...
I wonder what it could possibly be. I hypothesize that maybe Mytho is missing Tutu, or that maybe he is simply adjusting to his new emotions. It's probably just him becoming used to the loneliness that Tutu so wonderfully bestowed upon him. I try sleeping again with little luck. I can hear Mytho's uneven breathing only a few feet away.
I close my eyes. La Nuit des Tropiques, Pathétique Gaíté Parisienne—
Anger builds with my orchestra. Breathing in deeply, I sit up, chorus swelling, and shove the sheets off of myself and turn to face Mytho.
Instead I turn to face Mytho's erection.
I look up, making eye contact, outwardly non-pulsed but nonetheless surprised. Not surprised because of the erection—that is a dance we've practiced many times before—but because I honestly thought it was something to do with that Tutu, something to do with her wretched heart shards and innocent eyes. I can hear the harps returning.
"Mytho, put some clothes on," I say evenly, but I can feel my pulse quickening with every violin string plucked.
"I have a shirt on, Fakir," Mytho mumbles in a strained voice. I'm so caught up in the taming my own music that I don't hear Mytho's own song calling out to me. So caught up that I don't even chuckle at the statement.
"Please Fakir," Mytho ventures, voice piano-key soft. He shifts his legs uncomfortably, "It hurts. It makes me feel pain." I feel a pang of guilt but chide myself; Mytho is in no mortal danger, it's merely an erection and he knows it. I wonder sometimes if it is simply part of his act, part of our act, a step in a dance that can't be avoided. His portrayal of faux innocence must always invite me, never the other way around.
"Please, Fakir, touch me." But then, here is a beautiful prince, begging his protector to touch him, to make him feel good. A silent moral battle rages within me. The cellos are outraged and they bellow with anger.
"Please, Fakir," my Prince says in a broken voice, and he wraps his fingers around his own cock. The battle was over before it began. There is no innocence here: Mytho knows our dance, knows just how to move his body so that I'll respond in kind.
Mytho and I—our dance is a Pas de Deux—a dance we can't quite dance alone.
I stand up and swallow, allowing my eyes to flicker to his pretty little cock, to his pretty little eyes; his pretty white hair.
"Come here," I say, and I beckon him.
Mytho obeys like a trained dog, striding quickly forward until he is only a step away. Perhaps he will never rebel in some respects. I drink in his body like beauty itself: slender, pale skin, erect cock, and those eyes. Those eyes that sink ships and drown men. I'm not drowning. I'm a lifeguard for those eyes—I can't drown in them.
I glance at Mytho's cock again: it's not particularly large—five and a half inches, six at most—probably the most average thing about him, but elegant and well shaped: cut, no less.
I grab Mytho's wrist and tug, flushing his body against mine. The violins swell. I can feel him shudder at the contact, and I can feel my own cock awakening in response. I try to will it down. I want this to be about Mytho, about making Mytho feel good. A sort of praise, in a way, for still respecting the rules of our private dance, even if he rebels against the other ones in the presence of our classmates.
I begin with feather light touches, easily brushing fingertips up and down the his length. I drag them across almost tentatively, like I'm experimenting, or curious, but we both know that it's all part of the choreography. Mytho responds immediately, cock having long ago come to full attention. I wrap my hand completely around his prick, enveloping it in warmth.
"Aah...! Fakir...it feels so..." Mytho doesn't get to finish.
He never does.
This is the part where knight speeds up his ministrations, the part where all the instruments get louder and faster, the part where the piano finally returns.
I can feel the skin on Mytho's cock move with the motions of my hand, and the pulsating blood and heat beneath it. I rub my fingertips across the head—something I used to do to myself back before Mytho had learned to dance with me so well—and Mytho is bucking in my hands, asking please, please, please, practically singing it.
In the beginning, Mytho didn't even know what he was asking for, what, please, please, please meant. Had he ever achieved an orgasm before I'd touched him? I doubt it. Mytho begs again, and I resolve to stop teasing, settling quickly into a rhythm that Mytho can shift his hips to. I can feel Mytho bucking against me, his soft hands clenching and scratching at the skin on my shoulders. The piano is booming and deep, and the violins sound like they couldn't move any faster. Mytho bucks against me once more, aggressively, almost demanding.
I stop my motions abruptly, and the room goes silent. That wasn't part of our dance.
"Mytho, lie on the bed," I say slowly, my voice cracking with apprehension. Mytho doesn't move an inch. This isn't part of the song either, but if Mytho thinks he can change it, then so can I.
"I said, lie on the bed," The music is returning, but slow and ominous; rising with my anger. Mytho moves this time, not towards the bed, but bucking his hips again, rotating them so that his cock is rubbing against my own clothed-erection. He continues to buck, rubbing his rebellion in my face.
Appollon Musagete, Les Contés, Mödlinger Tänze, Les Petits Reins...
"My-Mytho..!" I'm appalled at my own lack of self control. "I sa—said, get on the bed!"
The room is silent as I struggle to remain in control. I don't have anything versed for these unscripted additions. I suddenly feel like throwing Mytho on the bed and slamming myself inside of him. It's a violent, unpleasant thought, something I've never even considered before.
"Mytho! I said on the bed!" Mytho flinches, and with a sharp pain in my own heart, I remember that he can feel fear, that the prince is feeling fear towards me: his knight, his protector. I swallow.
"This is your fault," I say flatly, and I wonder whom I'm trying to convince. I push him away from me and watch as he falls onto the bed. I feel like he's moving in slow motion, and my erection is beginning to become uncomfortable.
I'm hovering over him before I can loose the nerve, constructing new music in my mind: flutes and harps and violins: pretty music. Pretty music for a pretty boy with a pretty, slick, cock in my hand.
"Say my name," I tell him, and I wrap my hand around him. He moans beneath me. It's all part of the symphony. This new symphony. Perhaps a new dance is in order. We'll need lots of practice.
"Say my name," I say again. He always says it. Fakir, Fakir, Fakir—he's usually saying it already. He says it because I tell him to, because I'm the one who will tell him what's best. I'm the one he thinks of when he feels longing, I'm the one he comes to at night when his cock is hard. I'm the one who will protect him. The music is so loud it's blasting in my ears, and I know that it's our music that's playing.
"Please," Mytho tries, breathless. The music is swelling, and I know there are mere seconds left. The violins are out of control. I stroke Mytho suddenly, quickly, and his whole body tenses and he cries out a name. Finally, I think, he will always be mine—he cries it out again, spurting onto my hand, warm—and then: the music stops, my heart stops, because, quite suddenly I realize—
The name he's called out isn't mine.
Francesca da Rimini, Capriccio italien, marche slave...