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Soft, classical music filled the apartment, spilling from the opened lid of the piano, Cullen’s fingers dancing fluidly across the keys. He smiled to himself as he played, watching his fingers as they played the song from memory. This was his nightly ritual. Once his dinner was in the oven, the evening chores completed, he’d settle down in front of his piano to play. It had been his mother’s, the songs she’d taught him the ones she’d been playing since she was a girl. He practiced them frequently, careful not to lose them in his ever-expanding repertoire.
As his fingers slowed, the song ending, Cullen heard a knock on the door. He stood, the stool pushing back with a screech, almost falling in his haste. He unlocked his front door, pulling it open to reveal an empty doorstep. Cullen poked his head out, but the landing was empty, and no one was on the stairs. He looked down, heart sinking at the sight of a little folded piece of paper on his doormat. He picked it up, reluctant to open it, expecting a noise complaint. He flicked it open. The writing was a neat, loopy script, “a humble request to the pianist: Liebestraum No. 3 in A Flat.”
Cullen felt his cheeks heat up. He took another look around, but still there was no one. Smiling to himself, he walked back into the apartment, locking the door behind him. Someone liked his music? He tucked the note into his pocket, striding over to the balcony doors. He hesitated for just a moment, feeling a little self-conscious, before throwing them open, the warm Summertide air trickling in.
Settling himself back down in front of the piano, Cullen felt a little nervous. He reached for his sheet music, setting it up in front of him. Then, after taking a deep breath, he began to play. It wasn’t too long before Cullen felt himself getting lost in the song, the notes flowing as he found his rhythm. He almost closed his eyes, fingers gliding across the keys of their own accord.
Cullen was drawn from his reverie as he played the final notes, the song drawing to a slow close. He’d almost forgotten the note when he heard loud clapping, filtering down from one of the balconies above him. Cullen felt himself going bright red, unsure what to do. As the applause finally stopped, Cullen smiled to himself, closing the balcony doors.
***
Cullen slowly ascended the concrete staircase, tired after a long day at work. As he finally reached his floor, he was surprised to see a piece of paper taped to his front door. He pulled it off, unable to stop himself smiling when he recognised the cursive script of the other note he’d received a few days prior. He unlocked and opened the front door with one hand, head down as he greedily read the new note, “thank you for playing the other night. If you wouldn’t mind indulging me once again, perhaps Chopin’s March Funebre tonight? Yours is some of the sweetest music I’ve heard in years.”
Cullen blushed, reading over the note a few times before folding it back up. He carefully pinned it up on his corkboard, alongside the other note. The thick paper looked a little odd beside the bills, but he decided it brightened it up.
After putting his dinner on, a simple pasta bake, Cullen wandered over to his balcony. He threw the doors open, feeling strangely as if he was inviting someone inside, alongside the soft breeze. He supposed he kind of was, considering that he knew his mysterious audience would be listening. Settling himself down on his piano bench, he played a chord, signifying that he was about to start. He heard a set of doors open overhead, the sound barely audible over the sound of the city below, and he smiled to himself. Though it could have been anyone, keen to invite the warm air inside the apartments, Cullen knew that it was his humble listener.
Slowly, he began to play. As always, he quickly found himself getting lost in the song, closing his eyes as he let his hands move, each key hit carefully and precisely. Sweet music filled his walls, filtering out onto the balcony and up towards his listener. As he played, he tried to imagine what the other person looked like, whether they were out on their balcony, or if they were huddled back inside their apartment. He smiled to himself, glad he could bring someone enjoyment.
As the song drew to a close, he heard his listener clapping, and he almost bowed, catching himself with a chuckle. Closing his piano lid carefully, Cullen wandered over to the oven, which was just beginning to alarm at him. He served himself, sitting down to eat, all the while thinking about his listener. He hoped they kept sending him notes. They were something to look forward to. As Cullen finished his food, he had an idea. Grabbing a scrap of paper, he quickly scribbled a note to his requester, “you’re too kind. I’ll play anything for you.” His writing was a cramped scrawl compared to the cursive script of his requester, but it would have to do.
Hoping that his listener would see it, Cullen stuck the note on his front door. With a final glance out at the landing, he wandered back inside the apartment. He sat back down in front of the piano and, hoping the stranger was still listening, began to play.
***
His hope was fulfilled the next day when Cullen returned from work. A new note hung on his door, his gone. He snatched it eagerly, heart sinking a little as he read the note, “only the sweetest words for a most proficient player. Your music is magic in the air, my dear virtuoso. Tonight, if you would so kindly indulge me again, I request Fantasy No.2 in C Minor.” His heart fluttered at the compliment, but he didn’t know the song. He trudged into his apartment, pinning the note up alongside the others.
His dinner in the oven, balcony doors wide open, Cullen was once again sat before his piano. He felt nervous as he sat there, fingers hovering over the keys, almost reluctant to begin playing. Would his audience still be there? Would they think he didn’t want to play for them anymore? Taking a deep breath, Cullen began to play. The soft, mournful melody of Gymnopedie No. 1 poured from his fingertips. He’d always been good at hiding his emotions, but Cullen found that, whenever he played, whatever he was truly feeling would come out. His disappointment was clear through the drawn out notes.
The applause that erupted above him made Cullen’s heart significantly lighter. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, carefully shutting the lid of the piano, he sent up a quick prayer to the Maker that his audience continued to listen.
He ripped a piece of paper from a notebook, scrawling another quick note to his listener, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that one.” As he was about to stick it to his door, he stopped. Grabbing his pen, he added to the end of the note a simple, “do you play?”
Chewing his lip, he taped it to the peeling red door, gently closing it behind him.
***
The correspondence between Cullen and the stranger carried on for a few weeks. What had started as tiny snippets, little questions, turned into long, detailed letters. Cullen discovered that his listener did, indeed, play piano. They lamented the loss of their piano, having been unable to bring it with them when they moved to Ferelden. Cullen wondered where they had moved from.
He revealed to his ‘pen pal’ that he had been playing since he was able to walk, his mother eager to foster something creative within him. He said that it helped him relax, the music he played always calming. He couldn’t help but laugh when the stranger mentioned that they were living vicariously through his music.
As the letters continued, Cullen began to wonder what his audience looked like. Were they a man or a woman? He supposed from the neat script that they were female, but he had been wrong before. Cullen had a mental image of an elderly woman, inferred from both the loopy handwriting, and the eloquence of the notes. It made him smile, knowing that she was gaining some amount of happiness from his music. As he played each night, he couldn’t shake the picture of a little old lady, curled up on her couch, sipping a tea as she listened to his music. He laughed to himself, wondering what sort of wisdom she’d have to impart, if any. He was eager to meet her.
As Cullen closed the lid of his piano, putting away his sheet music after the applause had died down, he got an idea. He scurried over to his kitchen bench, grabbing a piece of paper, almost knocking over his kettle in his hurry. He felt a little silly being so excited, but it didn’t stop him. His pen sprinted across the page, scrawl even more indecipherable than usual. He stuck it up on his door, feeling a strange surge of triumph. With a final glance at the note, making sure it was securely stuck to the door, he retreated into his apartment.
***
The next day, Cullen hung around his apartment. Normally on his day off he liked to run errands, which, in reality, he should have done. His pantry was looking a little bare, and he was yet to visit his PO box. He cringed at the thought of Mia’s letters beginning to pile up. It was no matter, he supposed he could survive on pasta for another few days.
Cullen floated about, whiling away time. He cleaned, putting away the few odds and ends that were still out, straightening the already straight books on the shelves. The sound of the television droned on in the background as Cullen bustled around, but he didn’t listen to it. He kept an ear out for the front door, intent upon it. As the afternoon was beginning to give way into night, and Cullen began to fear that his listener would not turn up, he heard footsteps on the steps.
He rushed to the front door, straining to hear properly. The footsteps drew closer to his door, and Cullen itched to open it, but he held himself back. He still felt bad for scaring a passing neighbour that morning. The footsteps drew closer, and Cullen felt his heart rate pick up. His hand hovered over the doorknob, fingers brushing the cool metal, ready to open the door once he was sure.
There was the quiet rustle of paper, and Cullen knew it was them. He wrenched the door open, startling the person that stood on his doorstep.
“Kaffas!”
The man on his doorstep was beautiful. Golden skin glowing in the fading sunlight, inky black hair coiffed back, a twirled moustache that should have been ridiculous perched above his full upper lip. Cullen couldn’t help but let his jaw drop, eyes travelling conspicuously over the man’s toned body, displayed shamelessly by his tight tailored clothing.
“You’re my listener?” Cullen spluttered.
The man had regained himself, silvery eyes flicking over Cullen’s form, lip curled in a smile. He crossed his arms over his chest, Cullen’s note in his hand, resting back against one foot. Cullen’s eyes were drawn to the swell of his hip. The man nodded, smiling.
“Indeed” he replied, voice smooth and rich, “you caught me. I didn’t realise my personal pianist was so handsome.”
Cullen couldn’t help the fierce blush that bloomed in his cheeks, heat travelling to his ears and down his neck. He ducked his head, hand going to the back of his neck. His eyes snapped to the note, still clutched in the man’s bejewelled hand. He looked up shyly.
“You should read it… the n-note.”
The man’s eyes widened, and he lifted the hand, as if just remembering he had it. He gave Cullen a coy smile that sent his heart hammering and his stomach twisting.
“You could just tell me what it says, you know” the man teased.
Cullen shrugged, hand still on the back of his neck.
The man chuckled, rolling his eyes. He unfolded the note with a flick of his wrist, eyes falling to the paper. He mumbled the words to himself as he read, for Cullen’s amusement, apparently, as he did so with a mocking smile playing on his lips. When he reached the final line he faltered, chuckling.
“Would you” he began, still reading off the page, “like a private show?”
Cullen nodded vigorously, fingers twisting in the blond hair that curled at the nape of his neck. He looked intently at the man, chewing his lip. The man laughed, at the request or at his eagerness, Cullen didn’t know.
“That’s not the first time I’ve been asked that.”
Cullen felt his cheeks burn even hotter, his eyes opening wide. The man watched him squirm, smug smile on his face. Cullen shook his head, the movement stiff and jerky, hand clenching tight in his hair.
“N-not like that” he stammered, “I wouldn’t… I mean. You’re very pretty.” The man raised an eyebrow, and Cullen winced, backpedalling, “I mean… Would you like to listen to me play? In here?”
The man smiled again, though it was a little softer than before. He looked at Cullen for a moment, clever grey eyes seeming to analyse every inch of Cullen. Cullen fidgeted under the weight of his gaze.
“I would indeed” the man finally answered, grinning wide. Cullen sucked in a gasp. The man before him was truly stunning. “I’ll just run upstairs and get changed” the man continued, oblivious to Cullen’s embarrassing internal monologue, “and, by the way of introductions, I’m Dorian Pavus.”
Dorian. Cullen had never met anyone who fit their name so well. Cullen nodded, savouring the word, repeating it over and over in his head. He was pulled from his reverie when he realised Dorian was looking at him expectantly.
“Oh!” he ducked his head, embarrassed, “Cullen.”
Dorian smiled, “well then, Cullen. I shall be down soon.”
With that, he swept away, long coat swishing in his wake. Cullen watched him go, unable to shake the feeling of awe that had settled over him. The image of the sweet old lady in the upstairs apartment was shattered, trampled over by the sleek, six foot tall Dorian, with high cheekbones and a voice made of honey. Cullen leant against his door as he closed it, feeling a little jelly-legged.
“Maker” he breathed, unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face.
How was that man, that beautiful, stunning man his listener? How was Dorian- a name that rolled off his tongue, smooth like velvet as he said it over and over again- willing to come back that night?
Cullen’s eyes widened. Tonight. He was coming back. He looked around his apartment wildly, seeing the mess that seemed to have exploded over every surface. Cullen didn’t know how he had let it fall back into disarray so quickly, especially seeing as he had spent the better part of the day cleaning. Falling into a frenzy, he rushed around the space, throwing things back and forth in a desperate attempt to seem more put together than he was.
***
It seemed like it had been forever and yet no time at all since Cullen had finally met Dorian that the man was at his door again. Cullen half ran to the door, throwing it open perhaps a little too forcefully in his eagerness. Dorian looked at him with amusement, giving him a coy smile as we brushed past Cullen, the scent of spices clouding the air in his wake. Cullen couldn’t help the cloud of butterflies that twisted in his stomach. Dorian almost glided towards the kitchen bench, his hips swaying with his steps. Cullen followed after him, spellbound, heat in his cheeks and throat.
“Are you a wine drinker?” Dorian asked, procuring two wine glasses that Cullen had forgotten he had.
Cullen shrugged, watching as the burgundy liquid sloshed around the glasses as Dorian poured, “I’ve never really had a preference.”
Dorian’s full lips quirked, “I’m quite partial to it” he admitted, taking a sip from his glass, “I’ve found it does wonders to one’s confidence.”
“Confidence seems to be something you have a lot of” Cullen teased, giving Dorian a small smile.
Dorian quirked a brow, and for a moment, Cullen was worried he’d offended him. But then the man grinned, something wicked in the upturn of his lips. He stalked forwards, coming close enough to Cullen that he could feel the warmth of his body.
“I was thinking more for you, amica mea” he purred, the foreign words rolling smoothly off his tongue, “I so desperately wish to hear what you say when the wine has loosened your tongue.”
Cullen blushed, taking a sip from his own glass to prevent himself from responding with anything stupid. The wine was rich, almost sweet. He wondered how Dorian’s lips tasted. Dorian took the wine bottle in hand, wandering over to Cullen’s couch. He walked with an air of familiarity, as if he had been in the apartment a thousand times. Cullen normally found that sort of arrogance irritating, but it suited Dorian far too much to be an annoyance.
Dorian settled down on the couch, curling on himself like a cat. Cullen couldn’t help the way his eyes travelled over the angular lines of his form, the way his clothes clung to them. Dorian began to preen, curling his moustache, taking a delicate sip from his wine. When Cullen met the man’s steel eyes, he realised he’d been caught. He blushed even more furiously, taking a sheepish sip of his wine and settling down on the piano bench.
He placed his wine on top of the piano, staring down at the keys. He’d never had an audience before, save his own family. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Taking a deep breath, hands shaking just a little, Cullen began to play. The music, soft at first, growing louder as Cullen settled into himself, filled the apartment. It felt strange, playing for his listener, yet the balcony doors were closed. Cullen didn’t lift his eyes, for fear that he’d lose his nerve with his audience right there.
Suddenly, Cullen heard Dorian gasp. Despite his better judgement, he looked up, unable to stop the slight stumble when his eyes met Dorian’s. Dorian didn’t seem to notice, however, the expression on his face one of awe.
“You learnt it!” Dorian breathed, eyes alight with excitement and something else. Gratitude, “Fantasy No.2!”
Cullen grinned, fingers moving, notes pouring smoothly from his fingers, “I told you I’d play anything for you.”
Dorian’s smile was smaller than his, though. Something private, almost vulnerable. He nodded, settling back on the couch, closing his eyes as Cullen continued to play.
***
After a few hours, Cullen and Dorian were drunk. Dorian had made multiple trips up to his apartment, retrieving bottles upon bottles of wine, the pair draining each quickly. As midnight drew closer, Cullen found himself still on the piano bench, Dorian pressed up against him. Cullen played whatever song came to mind, Dorian playing the harmony if he knew it. Cullen played messily, the songs half-finished as he lost concentration, wrong notes littering each piece. Somehow Dorian still played perfectly, or at least it sounded perfect to Cullen’s ears. Dorian’s slender bronze fingers were graceful as they flittered up and down the piano, the gold of his many rings catching the light.
Cullen turned a little, blushing when he realised Dorian was looking up at him through his long, dark eyelashes. He cleared his throat, looking back down at the keys, stumbling a little. Dorian chuckled, pressing his face to Cullen’s throat, soft lips finding his collarbone. Cullen sucked in a shocked breath, feeling gooseflesh raising on his arms, the graze of Dorian’s teeth against his skin making him shiver. Ever so slightly, he leaned into Dorian, and was rewarded with the man’s thick arms wrapping around his middle. He let out a surprised laugh as he felt teeth latch onto his earlobe, the warmth of Dorian’s full lips gently sucking.
Cullen felt a hand snake up his cheek, gently turning his face. Gold eyes met silver, and Cullen couldn’t help the grin that graced his face. Dorian was smiling too, chewing on his bottom lip. His cheeks were flushed, with alcohol or shyness, Cullen couldn’t be sure.
“I’ve one last request” Dorian murmured, fingers twining with Cullen’s blond curls, “a humble one, of course.”
Cullen nodded, gesturing widely, “of course.”
Dorian swallowed, and for the first time, Cullen saw just a hint of nervousness on his face. For good measure, Dorian picked up his wine glass, draining it in one go. Cullen watched the tendons work under his skin, itching to reach out and touch.
“May I kiss you?”
Dorian’s voice was quiet, barely there, yet Cullen heard it all the same. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing to his cheeks; he was surprised they weren’t on fire for how hot they had been all night.
His grin widened, “do you even have to ask?”
In a second, Dorian’s lips were crashing into Cullen’s. Cullen pulled Dorian in close, blood boiling beneath his skin, stomach twisting. He gasped against Dorian’s mouth, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Dorian’s moustache tickled his cheeks. Despite his legs feeling like rubber, a result of the many glasses of wine, Cullen managed to hoist Dorian up, wrapping the man’s legs around his waist, giggling at his squeak of surprise. Cullen began to walk haphazardly towards the bedroom, gasping as Dorian’s teeth bit deeper into his throat. He tightened his grip around the other man, letting his fingernails press into Dorian’s bronze skin.
He let Dorian fall onto the bed, the springs squeaking a little under his weight. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at the dishevelled man spread on his bed. Even through the fog of intoxication, he couldn’t help marvel.
“What are you waiting for?” Dorian whined.
Cullen grinned, throwing himself into Dorian’s open arms.