He is exhausted. He has come home from an extremely long day's filming to collapse into a well-deserved coma when he hears it. It's coming from the flat below, and bloody hell it's loud. Someone is blaring classical music. At two-fucking-o'clock in the bleeding morning. He wants to go to sleep! He turns over and tries to block it out, but it gets more urgent, more insistent. He can feel his teeth grinding as he gets out of bed and puts a t-shirt on with his pajama bottoms. He doesn't care that his hair is mussed and he's sporting two-day old stubble as he pads purposefully down the stairs and knocks on the door of the flat below. Once gently, and then, realizing the person inside probably can't hear him over the music, knocks louder, twice, putting his frustration into the blows.
The music stops and he hears someone scrambling with something, getting up from a squeaky chair and jogging towards him. She opens the door. Even in the half-light he is struck by her appearance. So much so that he sort of forgets why he knocked on her door. She is flushed, as if she had been exercising, wearing only a silk bathrobe that comes down to about midthigh, obviously with nothing underneath. Her hair is messily pulled back and she is wearing no make-up, but her cheeks and lips are rosy and she is…well, she's kind of gorgeous.
He realizes it's been a little while since she opened the door and he hasn't said anything when she clears her throat and says in a lilting Irish accent, "Hello. Was there something you wanted?"
He blinks a little bit and recovers himself enough to say, "Erm yes, I live in the flat upstairs and I was just wondering if you could maybe turn the music down. So sorry". He wonders why he's the one apologizing but he feels a bit foolish in her presence.
"Oh my goodness, I'm ever so sorry about that", she replies, flushing beautifully. "I just moved back here from some time in New York and my time's gone all funny. My name's Sylvie, by the way. Nice to meet you, man-who-lives-upstairs". She says the last bit with a grin, offering her hand, and he can tell she's teasing him.
"Benedict" he replies, taking her hand and shaking it. It's remarkably warm and small and soft, though he can feel that the tips of her fingers are incredibly calloused, tough against the skin of his palm.
"I'm so sorry about the music, Benedict," she says again, "I was practicing. I couldn't sleep so I got the cello out and was practicing for my audition in a few days. I completely forgot there might be honest citizens trying to get some sleep".
He laughs and wonders when exactly he stopped being angry about this. "That's incredible" he remarks, "I could've sworn on my life that was a recording".
"Well thank you very much sir" she says in that beautiful rhythmic voice. " 'Tis my job to sound as good as possible."
"You're a professional then?"
"Yes indeed. I'm hoping to land a job with the London Symphony, or maybe pick up some gigs doing soundtrack work…and what about you, Mr. Benedict I-am-mysterious-even-in-my-pajamas? Would you like to come in?"
He doesn't really know why but he accepts. He enters her flat and sees 'small but comfortable', low lamplight making the wood furnishings glow softly. He sees the instrument, lying on it's side, gleaming in one of the pools of illumination. It is beautiful, curved just like her. He notices the chair she was sitting in—there is condensation left in the outline of where her hot thighs touched the wood and it jolts straight to his belly, starting a curling flame of desire there.
She offers him tea, and he accepts. He tells her what he does, and to his relief she does not splutter and treat him like an alien when she figures out that he's rather famous. She merely smiles enigmatically over the rim of her mug and remarks dryly, "Is that so, then".
As they finish their tea he blurts out "The Bach Suites are my favorite". He feels silly then, as if he were the rabid fan and had just confessed his adoration of her work. He does not know power she has over him but he feels rather helpless as she studies him, inscrutable behind those dark eyes.
"Ah" she murmurs, "So you know your music, do you? Yes, many people favor the Bach. I could play some for you, if you'd like"
He nods mutely, amazed by this woman and her inherent, musical sensuality. It was in her voice and in her body, in the way she moved. She turns the chair to face him and picks up the cello and the bow, spreading her legs to fit the instrument between her knees. The robe parts, revealing she is not wearing any underwear, and he is stunned by how much this turns him on, setting him on fire. She draws the bow across the strings and beckons moan from deep within the instrument, an almost human sound. And then she starts to play, really play. She plays the Prelude to the First Suite, the most recognizable of all of them. Her eyes closed, losing herself to the sound, she shapes the music with her body, swaying and drawing out the notes with everything she has. The strings vibrate between her thighs, between her body and his, and he feels as if his whole being is vibrating in time to the rise and fall of the piece. The sound fills the room and the two of them are lost in the music, swimming through it like it's liquid.
The piece reaches it's final crescendo, building and building until the pressure and the beauty of it are almost too much until finally it breaks, and the resolution washes over them like an earth-shattering orgasm.
He is lying on the couch with his head leaning back and his eyes closed when the piece comes to it's finish. That one last victorious chord resonates throughout the small space and he hears her put the instrument down and feels her move, feels her straddle his lap, feels her mouth on his neck. He can feel her heat through the thin cotton of his pajama pants and is certain she can feel him harden against her when she whispers in his ear, in that voice that imitates the swell and fall of the music. "Now, just how thin are the walls?