Sinful Sonatas

Little Fragile Toys

That incident.

Their first kiss.

Brett remembered it in spliced fragments, like pictures in a zoetrope or overlaid filmstrips. He wasn't certain if he developed some kind of selective amnesia or his mind was just really blocking the memory out, but the argument that ignited such visceral response no longer existed in Brett's amygdala.

However, he vividly remembered how that night felt in his skin; the way the light from the kitchen illuminated Eddy's towering figure; the hushed sound of the television they never got to turn-off.

He recalled the sound of his hand connecting with Eddy's cheeks and the burgundy mark it left on the violinist's skin. It stung Brett's palm like a hot kettle, and he was certain the pain was ten-fold more intense for the man at the receiving end.

The violence was sudden and unexpected, and it continued all night through. Brett remembered his body being slammed to the wall, strong arms pinning him in place so roughly he struggled to breathe. The way he used his weight to push Eddy away, the way the other resisted; the way their lips crashed against each other—like the collision between two colossal bodies—rough, loud, frightening.

It was bloody and raw. Everything burned red. Teeth punctured lips. Tongues forcefully pried mouths open, desperately swallowing moans like secrets being shoved back into darkness. Clothes were ripped, discarded recklessly, and then forgotten.

There was nothing gentle about that night. There was no romance, no whispers under the sheets, no caresses. Just plain fucking. There was no more succinct way of putting it. Any other description would just either be a romanticised version or a watered-down one. That incident corrupted both of them too much for anyone to categorise it in any other way than fucking.

How they both found release that night was a mystery. There were more bruises than kisses given. The claw marks on Eddy's back was testament to the anger that burned inside Brett. The swollen marks on the older man's neck were like curses that the younger never got to utter so he left it on Brett's skin instead. Their dangerous dance continued until daybreak.

They didn't speak for two weeks after that.

The most interaction they had occurred during filming videos and calls with their suppliers. Eddy didn't bring it up so Brett thought it was best he kept mum about it too. That's when he decided to pick-up Tchaikovsky again.

***

First movement.

The revelation came to him the morning he was trying to scrub himself clean from the remnants of the violent shagging that happened the night before. When he woke, he was alone, naked, cold, and sore to his bones. If not for the bruises he had on his thighs and hips, and the clutter all over the apartment, he would've settled fine with the thought that the events of last night were merely products of a delirium.

Brett was in the shower when he felt his heart drop to his stomach. He was in love with Eddy, so very much in love. The realisation came to him unprompted and unwelcome especially in the context of last night's events.

The kiss didn't happen in the most ideal scenario, but it wasn't something that Brett regretted. That incident, their first kiss, the possibility of it happening was a recurring thought that came to him on nights his insomnia kept him up. He usually brushed it off, blaming fatigue and restlessness for such unholy thoughts.

But that incident, that kiss, actually happened in real life; the night before; in his apartment, with him against a wall. And Eddy was the one who initiated it.  It was uncomfortable and messy, but it was also glorious. It felt divine. That kiss brought Brett an epiphany—he was in love with Eddy, hopelessly so.