Still, I don't care about the little human. I don't care who it is or what it's doing here. I only care about the power of its hands—those small hands that even now rest on the keys of the piano, their skin a deep tan opposite to pristine white. Pure instinct alone drives me at this point, and as the little human tries to get up and bypass me, I immediately maneuver it back on the bench, sitting next to it. My palm makes contact with the back of its hands as I force them back on the keys.
But just like its language fails to register to me, language fails me, too. I know what I want to say, a strong desire blooming inside my chest as I wish for nothing more than to hear that divine sound again. Yet I can't verbalize it. I can't speak. I can only glare, imbuing my stare with all the meaning I can muster.
Through the haze that blinds me, I start seeing small flickers of light, and a little clarity returns to me as I focus on one spot, and one spot only— its eyes.
A deep, chocolate brown swirled with specks of green, its eyes are looking back at me, trying to understand the abstruse.
And so I move again, trying to steer its hands with my own as I push against one key, the sound taking me by surprise but filling me with unimaginable warmth.
It's maybe on the third or fourth attempt that the little human understands what I want, its fingers gliding over the smooth surface of the keyboard as notes start dancing before my eyes.
It's the same melody from before—that deeply saddening tune that seems to speak to my very soul.
There's something inside of me that recognizes this piece; something that recognizes that it means something to me—that at one time it might have meant the world.
My mind rebels as I keep probing for information, the sound awakening a piece of me that I'd long thought forgotten.
My eyes squeezed shut, I can't help but feel that something is missing, and my hand tightens over the little human's.
But as I open my eyes, it's to find those motley colored eyes looking at me with something akin to understanding. And as I keep squeezing its hand, it seems to get a clue into what plagues me.
Pushing my hand aside, its fingers nimbly glide over the surface of the keyboard, the melody resuming its glorious momentum. This time though, it's not alone. An almost quiet voice joins the piano before going into a full mezzo voice, the combination of the voice and words making me reel.
Dona eis requiem.
There's something achingly familiar as my mind hones in on the words, the delivery touching me deep in my soul.
Eyes closed, lips parted, I can only give myself to the melody as I search for its hidden meaning—for that part inside me that seems to awaken as the crescendo reaches its peak.
Without even realizing, I lean in, my nose buried in the crook of the little human's neck, deeply inhaling its fragrance.
In the absence of my vision, the other senses are leading me, steering me towards a place that I'd long gotten rid of—or so I thought.
Its scent only complements the way its fingers touch the keyboard— elegantly yet with tenacity. There's something rather addictive to be found in both. And in my drug-addled mind, it's like manna for a starved man.
How many times over the last years have I felt deprived of the power of my senses—of hearing and of touch, of scent and of sight. Because in my limbo, I'd only allowed the bare minimum.
This isn't the bare minimum.
It's so much more, and the richness of the sensations threatens to overwhelm me. Behind my lids, the other senses are turned into colors— warm yet striking colors. It's softness wrapped in a core of steel. It's sweetness, but with an edge.
My senses mingled together, I finally start to make better sense of the piece that's playing, its color becoming richer and richer, just as the scent of the little human is invading my nostrils and making my entire body quake with want. Of what, I don't know.
As I reach further, my fingers wrapping around silky strands of hair, the song ends on a harsh note, the little human out of my reach and stomping away out of the room.
It's instinct. Pure instinct. Because I don't think I can control my body, the rational side of me still relegated to the deep confines of my subconscious.
No, there's nothing logical about the way I move with uncharacteristic swiftness, rising to my feet and following the scent of the little human.
And as my need for it completes the crescendo the little human was just playing for me, I wrap my fingers around small arms, bringing an even smaller frame into me and burrowing my nose into its hair.
Sweet yet smokey.
There's something infinitely familiar yet achingly painful about the way it smells.
Its hands are pushing at my chest, trying to escape my hold. But the disparity in our sizes is too evident, the little thing barely reaching my chest as I push it against the wall, caging it further and bringing my nose down its neck.
Holding both arms over its head, I let my face nuzzle against the warm skin, the scent even stronger.
I wonder how it would taste…
The idea comes unbidden, but the result is immediate.
My lips open over the tawny skin, my tongue making contact with warm flesh and…
Oh God!
Sweetness coats my tongue as I continue to lap over the bit of exposed skin, bringing my teeth into contact with it and nibbling gently. A sweetness just as potent as the cadence of that melody.
My ears are full of the sound of harsh breathing, the little human's pulse pounding like a drum.
And it's the culmination of everything. Scent. Smell. Hearing. Touch.