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“ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ,
ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴄɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴀᴋᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴇʀʀʏ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ,
ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ’ꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴠᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ,
ᴍᴍ-ᴍᴍ,”
The first pull of a bow against the strings came not as a sound, but as a presence—a declaration of longing woven into the wind.
Ciel Atluan was not one to find himself spending time in jazz clubs, often finding the spaces a stark contrast to the “up-and-coming star” persona his agency had thrust upon him, which made the space perfect for him. No one would expect him to be there. In the midst of the crowd, he was just a man in pursuit of good alcohol, depthless chatter, and music that reverberated through his blood like no other.
The air in the hole-in-the-wall jazz club was thick with the scent of tobacco, expensive whiskey, and the low, melancholic hum of a trumpet finishing its set. The drone of its last note thrummed through his veins, putting his body at ease as the worries of his day slipped off his shoulders. Uninterested in conversing with the other patrons, Ciel Atluan found himself alone, leaning against the polished. A chuckle left his lips when he realised that the bartender, Jennifer, had unknowingly grimaced every time another patron called for her attention, his greasy comments always rebutted with a “Was that a French 75 you wanted?” only to get a reluctant nod as she smiled, moving away to prepare the drink.
“You know the bouncers would gladly take care of him for you?” Ciel pointed out, gesturing towards the club’s doors that Daniel guarded.
“And have him report to Anna that I can’t handle myself?” Jennifer rebutted, her hands instinctively crafting the drinks as she gave him a deadpan stare. “I don’t think so.”
“Needing help isn’t a weakness.”
Jennifer just gave him a wan smile that did nothing to hide the annoyance in her eyes as she said, “A Manhattan, you say?”
Ciel couldn’t help the chuckle that left his lips, his eyes rolling as he shook his head. “Fuck you.”
“Unless you grew a cunt in the past hour, you aren’t my type, pookie,” Jennifer quipped back before sliding the prepared drink towards the other patron, who watched the interaction with a certain look across his features. “Hope you heard that.”
Shaking his head lightly, he brought the glass to his lips when the emcee, a wizened man with a voice like gravel, announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, for our final set of the evening, the one and only… Soryn Lynde,” before polite applause rippled through the room. Ciel didn’t bother to turn around to watch the newest performer, opting to face his friend and continue their conversation when he heard it—an emotion-ridden pull of a bow against strings.
As though enchanted by siren song, Ciel turned to the stage. The musician—Soryn Lynde, as the emcee introduced moments before—cared not for the reaction of the crowd, the chatter sizzling to a stop as they were transfixed by his portrayal of Olivia Dean’s So Easy, every pull of his bow painting stories into the captivated silence. Ciel, however, felt the air leave his lungs in a low whoosh. Not from impact, but from the sudden, terrifying realignment of his world—his axis has shifted, and the man before him became his new north.
“ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ,
ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxᴛʀᴀ ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜᴇᴍɪꜱᴛʀʏ,
ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ʜᴀʀᴅ, ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱɴ’ᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ,”
Soryn Lynde was a study in monochrome and sharp angles. He wore a simple black button-down, the sleeves rolled precisely to his elbows, and tailored trousers that emphasised his lean frame. His ebony locks fell in soft waves, just brushing his eyebrows, and his expressions subtly conveyed the emotions sung by the strings. He didn’t look at the audience once, his body leaning to the music, and Ciel couldn’t help but feel ensorceled by the man who caressed the notes with a familiarity that felt intimate.
He watched, utterly captivated, as Soryn’s hands moved with a fluid, powerful grace, each note falling perfectly into place, telling a tale of empowerment and the ease of affection between two souls.
It was as though he wasn’t wielding a violin’s bow, but a perfect, gold-tipped arrow—an Eros incarnate. The music wrapped around Ciel, and for a few minutes, the entire world narrowed to the man on the stage and the storm of emotion he was conjuring from the song he sang through strings.
The final note hung in the air, shimmering, fragile, encased with emotions unsaid with words, before fading into a silence that felt deeper than before. Then the applause came, warmer and more genuine this time as the moved crowd loudly expressed their praise for the musician. Soryn gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, his cheeks dusted pink and made his way off the stage, heading towards the bar.
“‘ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ,
ꜱᴏ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴀʟʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇ’ʟʟ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴜꜱ,
ɪ’ᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ᴍɪx ᴏꜰ ꜱᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ,
ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀɢʀᴇᴇ,
ɪᴛ’ꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ, ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ,”
This was the moment, Ciel sharply inhaled, I have to talk to him.
Ciel took a steadying breath, pushed off from the bar, and deliberately stepped into the musician’s path. “I’m sorry,” Ciel said, his voice a little too loud and clear (a remnant from his acting classes), a practiced stumble in his step. He reached out, his hand brushing Soryn’s arm. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Soryn stopped, his caramel eyes flicking up to meet Ciel’s, currently filled with a well-rehearsed wariness. “Obviously,” he replied, his voice cool and smooth. It sent a thrill up Ciel’s spine.
“That was… incredible,” Ciel breathed out, “The way you played… I’ve never heard anything like it before.”
A faint, almost mocking smile tugged at the corner of Soryn’s lips. “You regularly attend jazz clubs to listen to renditions of modern songs, do you?”
Ciel grinned, undeterred. “I attend wherever beautiful music is played. And tonight, I got lucky.” He extended a hand. “I’m Ciel. Ciel Atluan. Actor. Mostly struggling, occasionally working.”
Soryn looked at the offered hand for a beat too long, as if assessing it for flaws, before taking it. “Soryn Lynde. But call me Ryn. Violinist. Mostly working, occasionally struggling with the acoustics in these places.” He released Ciel’s hand. “So, an actor? Anything I might have seen?”
“Oh, you know,” Ciel said, leaning casually against the wall, his body still canted to accommodate the star of the night. “A few commercials. A truly dreadful medical drama where my only line was ‘Page Dr Stevens, stat!’ before I died spectacularly of a fake heart attack. I’m aiming higher. Shakespeare, maybe. I’ve been practising my ‘to be or not to be’ in the mirror.”
“ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ɪ ᴅᴏ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɪʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ɪ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴀᴜɢʜ,
ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ᴡᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ɪɴ ᴄᴇɴᴛʀᴀʟ ᴘᴀʀᴋ,
ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ꜰʀᴇꜱʜ ᴀɪʀ, ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ,
(ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ, ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ, ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ)”
Soryn’s smirk turned into a wry smile. A success in Ciel’s books. “I’m sure it’s devastating.”
“It is,” Ciel said solemnly. “My mirror is deeply moved. Sometimes it cries. It’s a very emotional mirror.” He gestured to the now-vacant stool beside him at the bar. “Can I buy you a drink? To apologise for my terrible spatial awareness and to celebrate your… Well, your everything, really.”
Soryn arched a perfect eyebrow. “My ‘everything’?”
“Your talent,” Ciel clarified, though his eyes sparkled with implication. “Your… proficient fingers. Your general aura of artistic brilliance.”
“How generous of you to notice my aura,” Soryn deadpanned, but he slid onto the stool. “A gin martini. Very dry. With a twist. Not an olive. I have standards.”
“Noted,” Ciel said, catching Jennifer’s amused gaze and placing the order, accepting the Manhattan she prepared for him earlier, before turning to the raven. “So, Soryn… Named after the sun. That’s a lot to live up to. Do you feel bright and fiery? Or cold and distant?” he asked as he received the new glass
from Jennifer, who passed it to him with a smirk. Ciel pretended not to notice it as he slid it toward his companion.
Soryn accepted the drink, taking a slow sip, dipping his head into a nod before responding, “I feel like I’m being interviewed by a terribly charming journalist with questionable taste in television roles.”
“I’ll take ‘terribly charming,'” Ciel laughed. “I’m just trying to figure you out. You play like you’re pouring your entire soul onto the violin for the whole world to hear, but you talk like you'd rather do anything else but be perceived... Why is that?”
“Perhaps I’m a paradox,” Soryn said as he tipped his glass lightly, watching the liquid slosh around.
“Perhaps… or maybe you’re just shy.”
“I am not shy,” Soryn retorted with a scoff, “I am selectively social.”
“Ah, so you have selected me!” Ciel declared, pressing a hand to his heart in a theatrical manner. “I’m honoured. Truly,” he joked, grasping onto his extroversion side to mask how the other’s presence had made his pulse stutter. “So… selectively social violinist, what does a guy have to do to convince you to have a proper first date? Or is crashing into you at a bar the pinnacle of our potential interaction?”
“ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ’ꜱ ɴᴏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴅᴇ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ,
‘ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ’ᴍ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴇʟʏ,
ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛᴜʀɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ,
ᴡᴇʟʟ, ɪ’ᴍ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ,”
Soryn leaned back, his silver eyes appraising the actor before he hid a smirk behind his drink as he took another sip. The sight made Ciel’s pulse skip. “A first date? You move quickly, Mr Atluan.”
Ciel scrunched his nose. “Please just call me Ciel. I keep thinking of my father when someone calls me ‘Mr Atluan’.”
Something about his reply made Soryn ruminate, a furrow upon his forehead as he said, “I bet he’s a handsome fellow, isn’t he?”
Ciel responded with a playful roll of his eyes, already accustomed to his friends making jokes about dating his dad, as a wide smile stretched across his lips. “I’m going to ignore that. Nevertheless! My medical drama role taught me that life’s short! One minute you’re paging Dr Stevens in hopes that you would survive, the next… poof,” he finished with a dramatic gesture with his free hand. “You’re gone.”
A genuine laugh escaped Soryn’s lips. A short, surprised sound that was more beautiful to Ciel than the entire night’s setlist (sans Soryn’s solo, of course). “You’re ridiculous.”
“It’s my best feature,” Ciel agreed with a shrug. “So? Dinner? Tomorrow night? I know a place. It’s not fancy, but the food is good, and the owner owes me a favour after I helped his cat off the roof. Long story. Involves a lot of tuna, a faulty ladder… and possibly a more realistic scene in a hospital that did not involve a Dr Stevens.”
Ciel knew that he was effectively breaking the ice as Soryn failed to keep his aloof demeanour, a small smile tugging at his lips. “A cat-saving actor with a tragic television past… How could I refuse?”
“Is that a yes, then?” Ciel asked as he leaned closer—a gravitational pull making it impossible for him to stay away as his voice dropped to a whisper.
Soryn met his gaze, his grey eyes softening. “It’s a yes.”
Ciel could barely hide his happiness as a wide smile overtook his features, his hazel eyes turning into crescents as he vowed, “You won’t regret it.”
“‘ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ,
ꜱᴏ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴀʟʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇ’ʟʟ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴜꜱ,
ɪ’ᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ᴍɪx ᴏꜰ ꜱᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ,
ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀɢʀᴇᴇ,
ɪᴛ’ꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ, ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ,”
The rest of the evening melted away in a haze of flirty banter, shared laughs, and the electric charge of their first meeting. They traded stories of their lives. From Ciel’s tales of chaotic auditions and theatrical mishaps, to Soryn’s complaints about demanding conductors and out-of-tune violins. They argued about the best film adaptations of Shakespeare (Ciel favoured Gnomeo and Juliet; Soryn wanted to leave as soon as he found out) and discovered a shared hatred of cilantro; they found themselves effectively weaving a spell around them that no other could disturb.
Finally, hours later, Jennifer began wiping down the counters, giving them a pointed look. Her tired gaze was more than enough for Ciel to break out of the bubble he found himself in with Soryn as he glanced around—they were the last ones left in the jazz club.
Soryn noticed his shift in attention, his vulpine eyes scanning around them as he winced. “I should go,” he said, though he made no move to stand up from the bar they had spent most of the night by.
“I should let you,” Ciel replied, equally unmoving.
“Walk me to my door?” Soryn asked, his voice low and soft, a stark contrast from their earlier teasing.
“It would be my honour.”
They left the club, the cool night air a shock after the warm, smoky interior they had grown accustomed to. The two of them walked side-by-side through the quiet, lamp-lit streets, their shoulders brushing occasionally. The playful energy had settled into a comfortable, buzzing silence as they headed to Soryn’s home, only slowing down to a stop outside of a beautiful, old brick townhouse.
“This is me,” Soryn whispered, his voice filling the space between them.
“A violinist’s abode…" Ciel replied, looking up at the home. “It suits you.”
They stood there for a moment, their interaction hovering at its natural conclusion. The tension was perfect, sweet and aching. “I had a really nice time tonight, Ciel,” Soryn said, his voice quiet as he tilted his head to look up at Ciel.
“Me too, Ryn,” Ciel replied, his heart bursting at the seams. He reached out, gently tucking a stray lock of raven hair behind Soryn’s ear, letting his fingers linger against his cheek. “Would
you let me kiss you goodnight?”
Soryn’s breath hitched, just slightly. His head dipped into a nod. “Yes.”
“(ᴍᴇ, ᴍᴇ)
ᴍᴇ (ᴍᴇ, ᴍᴇ)
ᴍᴇ (ᴍᴇ, ᴍᴇ)
ᴍᴇ (ᴍᴇ, ᴍᴇ)
ɪᴛ’ꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ (ᴍᴇ, ᴍᴇ)
ɪᴛ’ꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ (ᴍᴇ, ᴍᴇ)
ɪᴛ’ꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ (ᴍᴇ, ᴍᴇ)
ʏᴇᴀʜ (ᴍᴇ, ᴍᴇ)”
The world tilted as their lips met. Gone was the teasing banter that filled their night, replaced by a dizzying warmth that melted them into soft sighs, into an intimate embrace, into one. It was soft, and sweet, and utterly gentle. A kiss that tasted of gin and whiskey and infinite possibility. When they pulled apart, Ciel felt like he was floating, his entire being buzzed with feeling as pink painted across Soryn’s features, his eyes bright with the sky’s stolen stars.
“So…” Ciel whispered, his forehead resting against Soryn’s. “Same time next week?”
Soryn’s smile was blinding, all pretence of coolness gone. “Absolutely. But you’re choosing the scenario next time. I’m tired of being the brooding artist.”
Ciel laughed, stealing one more quick kiss at the corner of Soryn’s lips as he dug into his pocket, reaching for the keys to Soryn’s home his boyfriend had given him a couple of years ago. “Deal. How do you feel about being a flustered librarian while I play the dashing, globe-trotting archaeologist who needs help finding a rare book?”
“I feel like I’ll need to practice my ‘shushing,’” Soryn giggled, the sound music to Ciel’s ears.
“I’ll practice my ‘dashing’,” Ciel winked before his voice dropped into a whisper, his voice earnest and filled with affection as he confessed, “I love you.”
“I love you more,” Soryn whispered, pulling him into another kiss that was nothing like a first kiss and everything like the thousandth—full of familiarity, passion, and a shared, wonderful secret.
As Ciel finally turned to leave, walking backwards down the path with a goofy grin, he called out, “Oh, and Ryn? Next week, I’ll spill coffee on you. It’s only fair.”
Soryn leaned against his doorframe, shaking his head with fond exasperation as he gazed lovingly at Ciel. “You just want me to have to take my shirt off, Atluan.”
“Is it that obvious?” Ciel laughed, blowing him a kiss before turning the corner.
“ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ,
ꜱᴏ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴀʟʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇ’ʟʟ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴜꜱ,
ɪ’ᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ᴍɪx ᴏꜰ ꜱᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ,
ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀɢʀᴇᴇ,”
Inside the townhouse, as Soryn closed the door, a smile spread across his lips as his hand fell onto his chest, his heart full. He walked into the living room, where a framed photograph sat on the mantelpiece: him and Ciel, tangled together on a sofa, laughing, wearing matching ridiculous Christmas jumpers with wrappers of opened gifts scattered across the floor. It had been taken two years ago in the Atluan family home.
He traced the frame, a soft smile on his face. Their actual first meeting had been a disaster. Their whole relationship started with miscommunication, a spilt drink, and an argument being team Edward or team Jacob (of all things) that had left them both fuming and convinced they hated each other—but they had rewritten it.
And they would keep rewriting it, every week, in different roles, in different worlds, forever. As there was no reason to stick with a mediocre beginning when they could have an infinite number of perfect first dates, each one ending with the same breathtaking kiss and the same three wonderful words.
It was their own peculiar, beautiful magic.
“ɪᴛ’ꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ, ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ.”