𝑻𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬 𝑶𝑭 𝑯𝑶𝑵𝑬𝒀, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔

♡ 𝑱𝑼𝑺𝑻 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑵 / 𝑷𝑨𝑼𝑳

just like heaven
༊
old paul

he's working now. working late. and with every dip of his fingers against that instrument my legs clench a bit tighter; with every eruption of those chords a gasp escapes my lips. he's caressing the keys, a notorious sign of uncertainty. he is uncertain. as uncertain as the gentle padding of my feet down the darkened hallway. i'm driven by my longing, driven by the pulsing between my legs. the silk slides against my thighs and my heart thumps with the production of notes. of more sound, more sound. i've grown impatient.

here now in the doorway, it's as if i'd floated to this spot. i hardly remember the amount of steps i took from our bedroom to the small studio nestled a few feet away. it serves its purpose primarily for nights like these when he's working late— got that bug in his ear that won't quit. as the routine goes, he'll eventually find his way back to the bedroom when he's finished and potentially get back up when the tune comes around again. i don't mind it as much, but oh it becomes so lonely at times.

my warm fingers rub the wooden frame of the door in an effort to touch something. he pauses, repeats, pauses, repeats. i follow his rhythm with the tapping of my fingernails, my toes digging into the hardwood. it sounds magical so far, but i'm not truly here for the beauty of the music.

go to him my brain urges but my doubt remains deep in my belly. i hold the premonition of rejection there, but i am so starving. my gaze flits from the grand writing desk to the piano where he holds himself so tautly to the array of guitars not far behind. only he could have a nook that felt so welcoming yet so his own— it felt wrong to intrude in it.

there's a nightly blue tone about the room. the darkness outside casts a cold shadow. i take a step further. how mousy and small i feel approaching a lion such as him. i go unnoticed. i am likely just a spirit roaming his quarters, absolutely invisible. as i leave the comfort of the door i wonder if i'll frighten him this way. should i make a noise?

but he feels me now. still searching for the right tune, he lifts his head and i can tell he's closed his eyes. he always awaits my touch. youthful hands to comfort his aged soul. i always revel in the idea of being his beacon of happiness, though it's foolish to believe in it wholeheartedly.

when my hands finally reach his shoulders, my palms grow accustomed to the warmth of his knitted sweater. i allow my hips to press desperately against his back and find release in the somehow gratifying contact. His lips brush my arm and a trapped breath leaves me.

"have i kept you up?" he asks. his voice radiates along my thighs, up my stomach and to my chest. i suppress the urge to rut childishly against his back.

"no... no. i enjoy it" my voice croaks. my nerves wash over me and i suddenly have no clue what to say. "besides... i couldn't sleep" is what i muster while i subconsciously massage his shoulders despite there being no notable tension. he is always so cool and tranquil. i suppose that would catch up to me with age.

he lets out a sigh and a nod as if to say "ah" and let his fingers run over the same chords again. i think to ask what he is searching for, but i don't believe he truly knows himself. even the great paul mccartneys of the world get lost in the chaos of ideas.

after a few moments, he pauses again and we breathe together. his shoulders lift with his back and my rib cage expands to accommodate before we exhale together in perfect harmony. my voice sounds high and airy, his still houses in his throat, much louder than mine could ever be. in the silence i readjust my fingers and speak softly. "can you show me your trick again?"