Play Me Something, Mr Othman
Inspired by this post (and @erzsebetrosztoczy encouraged it) I wanted to write Jalim in a period-drama setting so badly (because, of course, touching hands is basically sex in this kind of environment).
But because I’m not talented enough to draw Jason and Salim in period dress, here you go:
Me: I want Jalim in period costume
Mom: We have Jalim in period costume at home.
Jalim in period costume at home:
(Part 2 of this fic here)
The first time Mr Othman saw Mr Kolchek, he was brooding in a corner.
Mr Othman had been forced to ask Lady King, the host of the soiree, who the gentleman in black was that felt the need to stare everyone down.
‘Him? Ah, that’s Mr Kolchek,’ she’d replied.
Lady King nodded. ‘I’m surprised he’s lasted the evening, truth be told. He usually drinks the entirety of the bar and has his coach collect him early.’
The next time Mr Othman saw Mr Kolchek at one of Lady King’s parties, he had migrated from the corner to a section of the chaise by the piano. Mr Othman had noticed how his eyes had trailed over the silent keys, before he had stood and knocked back his drink. As Mr Kolchek moved swiftly by the piano, one of his hands moved to allow his long fingers to drift across the top of the keys like a soft breeze.
The third time Mr Othman saw Mr Kolchek, he was back in the same spot on the chaise by the piano. This time, Mr Othman moved to seat himself at the piano, pushing back the tails of his green dinner jacket and clearing his throat as he made himself comfortable. He didn’t raise his eyes to Mr Kolchek’s as he began to play a pleasant tune, but he could feel the man’s eyes upon him as the gentle music began to fill the room.
After a moment, Mr Othman said pleasantly, ‘Do you enjoy music, Mr Kolchek?’
The man straightened in surprise. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘The hostess was kind enough to provide it.’
‘Of course she was,’ said Mr Kolchek gruffly, as he raised his glass of brandy to his lips. His eyes moved to trail over Mr Othman’s hands on the piano keys as the tempo increased.
‘But I fear you didn’t answer my question,’ Mr Othman continued brightly over the music.
‘Do I enjoy music?’ Mr Kolchek demanded. ‘What kind of question is that? Is there anyone who doesn’t enjoy music?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mr Othman mused. ‘Some may prefer the musical notes of poetry on a page.’
‘I’m not one for reading.’
‘But can you, at least, read music?’
‘I –’ Mr Kolchek hesitated, and tapped his glass with his finger. ‘I’ve been trying.’
‘Would you like me to further your education?’ Mr Othman asked, raising his eyes now as his fingers continued to play the finale of the tune. The final note sang out through the candlelit room, as the conversation continued lively around them. Mr Othman smiled and patted the space beside him on the velvet piano stool.
Mr Kolchek hesitated. Mr Othman maintained his gaze expectantly until the man stood with an audible huff and then slid onto the seat beside Mr Othman. Their elbows grazed while Mr Kolchek adjusted his black evening jacket.
Mr Othman smiled to himself as the man settled beside him, and then picked up another tune.
‘This piece is called Fidelis by the composer Semper. Have you heard it?’
‘No, I haven’t heard of Fidelis.’
‘The music, or the word?’
Mr Kolchek’s eyes rested on him. ‘The music,’ he said pointedly. ‘Just because I don’t enjoy reading doesn’t mean I don’t know what words means.’
‘I agree. You appear quite eloquent.’
‘Eloquent?’ Mr Kolchek asked, tilting his head quizzically.
‘Yes, it means –’ Mr Othman faltered as he saw the shadow of a smirk on the man’s face.
‘Ah. You are jesting with me.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Mr Kolchek quietly, as his fingers drifted over the keys.
‘Would you like to play?’
‘I don’t think the other guests would take kindly to the noise we’d be making.’
‘Or perhaps, together, we’d be an unstoppable force,’ Mr Othman remarked, the keys tinkling under his fingers.
Mr Kolchek drew his eyes slowly to him. Their arms were ever so slightly pressed together as they sat on the piano bench.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Kolchek softly. ‘Perhaps we would be.’
They sat in companionable silence for a moment.
‘Where did you learn how to play?’ Mr Kolchek enquired.
‘My grandfather taught me.’
‘Hmph,’ said Mr Kolchek. ‘My granddaddy taught me how to drink.’ As though to demonstrate, he knocked back his drink smoothly. Mr Othman watched his slim fingers drift along the stem of the glass as he placed it down on top of the piano.
‘It’s a worthwhile skill to have,’ Mr Othman mused, his eyes still on Mr Kolchek’s hand. ‘Especially at functions such as these.’
Mr Kolchek laughed at that.
It was the first time he’d seen Mr Kolchek smile, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. This close, Mr Othman could see the faint freckles on his skin. He found himself smiling, too. But as soon as the smile had appeared, it faded, as the man now looked solemnly down at the keys.
Mr Othman turned back to the piano.
‘Perhaps something a little simpler,’ he mused.
‘Simple, like me?’ Mr Kolchek pressed.
He turned to see Mr Kolchek smiling again. Mr Othman rolled his eyes.
‘For someone who spends all his time with a smile on his face, you certainly aren’t too quick to pick up on jokes,’ Mr Kolchek observed.
‘How do you know I spend all my time with a smile on my face?’ Mr Othman asked pointedly.
Mr Kolchek’s smile slid from his face and he cleared his throat. ’I – from what I’ve observed, you seem to enjoy these parties.’
‘Then why do you attend?’
Mr Kolchek didn’t answer. He looked down at the keys and pressed one experimentally instead. A bright, tinkling note rang out.
‘Don’t stop,’ said Mr Othman softly.
Mr Kolchek turned to frown at him, but Mr Othman gave him an encouraging nod. Mr Kolchek pressed the key again, and then continued to play the note at a steady pace. Mr Othman then joined him with a deep chord from the opposite side of the piano. ‘Now press the key two above,’ he instructed. ‘At the same time.’
Mr Kolchek slid another finger onto the next key, as instructed, and continued to maintain the rhythm. Mr Othman’s other hand slid onto the piano to pay a chord close to Mr Kolchek’s arm.
‘Now your other hand,’ Mr Othman said.
Mr Kolchek raised his left hand and hovered it uncertainly over the keys.
‘Continue,’ said Mr Othman, stopping his own chords now to reach his hand up. His fingers wrapped gently around Mr Kolchek’s hand as he slowly directed his fingers where to press. Mr Kolchek fumbled on the note he had been maintaining but then swiftly brought it back. ‘There,’ said Mr Othman triumphantly in his ear. ‘Now play those two together. Keep going –’
Mr Kolchek continued with the very basic notes he was pressing on repeat, but his face had lightened, looking suddenly enraptured, as Mr Othman began a more complicated rhythm on his side of the piano. A few of the other guests had turned to look now, as Mr Othman and Mr Kolchek continued their piece. When Mr Othman declared the final note, Mr Kolchek continued to press his keys, so the former gently took his hand as indication to stop. Their eyes met as sparse applause rang out around them.
Mr Othman beamed at Mr Kolchek.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all.’
Mr Kolchek held his gaze. His warm golden hue blazed into the man’s own and then a small flush began to appear on Mr Kolchek’s cheeks. He cleared his throat and said quickly, ‘Please excuse me. I think I will retire early.’
Mr Othman watched in surprise as he pushed himself from the piano stool and swept from the room.
No doubt in some ploy to stop Mr Kolchek from leaving early this time, Lady King had been kind enough to provide rooms for all her guests so that they could stay the night. Mr Kolchek stood on the small balcony of his room, now, which was adjoined with the neighbouring room’s balcony doors. The two rooms shared the balcony, but Mr Kolchek was relieved to see that nobody else was outside when he moved to the stone balustrade and took a deep breath. He inhaled the cold night air, closing his eyes as he felt the gentle breeze tickle his dark hair. The evening was uncomfortably humid, the air thick.
Mr Kolchek sensed a storm coming.
A door opened behind him. Mr Kolchek turned quickly and saw Mr Othman move through the adjoining bedroom door. Their eyes met in surprise.
‘I did not know you were assigned the room beside mine,’ Mr Othman said, hovering with his hand on the door handle.
‘Nor did I,’ said Mr Kolchek.
‘What would you have done if you’d known?’
‘Requested a different room.’
Mr Othman stared at him, but then his expression grew soft.
‘Ah. You’re jesting again.’
It was that, perhaps, that made Mr Othman close the door behind him and approach the balcony, rather than retreat back inside. He came to stand beside the man as they looked out into the night, at the beautiful colours of the gardens below, so vibrant even when lit only by a soft blanket of moonlight.
‘You left in quite a hurry,’ Mr Othman mused. Mr Kolchek was stood facing the night, both of his hands laying upon the stone balcony. Mr Othman observed them as he spoke from beside him. ‘I was concerned.’
‘Concerned? About me? Why?’
‘I was fearful our music lesson made you uncomfortable.’
It was a moment before Mr Kolchek replied, still maintaining his gaze on the clouded sky across from them. ‘Uncomfortable, yes, but not for the reasons you might think.’
Mr Othman turned then, frowning at him. ‘What do you mean?’
Mr Kolchek clutched the stone more tightly. Mr Othman could see his knuckles turning whiter with the force of it. He didn’t answer.
‘Is it because you do not wish to be here?’ Mr Othman tried. ‘Lady King remarked that you always leave early. As though you wish for nothing other than to escape.’ Mr Othman moved closer to the balcony – closer to the man beside him – and rested his own hands on the cold stone now. ‘Why do you always attend if you hate them so much?’
‘Because you always attend them,’ Mr Kolchek said smoothly.
Mr Othman stared at him. The man’s eyes were still fixed on the night sky, but he could now see his jaw tightening, a gentle flush on his cheeks. His long dark lashes lowered slowly.
Mr Othman said nothing. But he moved his finger, ever so slightly, to the left, to touch Mr Kolchek’s, to connect. He felt the man’s stance tighten beside him at the contact, but then his own finger moved to graze his in return. Slowly, his whole hand moved – the skin soft, warm – to slip over the top of Mr Othman’s and then he held it tight.
A flash of lightning illuminated the night sky and Mr Othman jumped as a crack of thunder unleashed around them. His hand shot on instinct from beneath Mr Kolchek’s and he took a hurried step back. Mr Kolchek turned to him, now, looking at him in concern.
‘Forgive me,’ he said quickly. ‘I should not have –’
‘No,’ Mr Othman breathed. ‘No, it was not that, it was –’
As though in response, the sky unleashed another crack of thunder and a small pattering of rain began to fall on their heads.
‘You’re afraid of thunder?’
Mr Othman nodded. The rain began to fall more heavily on them. Mr Kolchek stepped forward and removed his jacket; he brought it around the top of Mr Othman’s head and moved his body close against him beneath it. ‘Now there is nothing to be afraid of,’ he said quietly. Mr Othman looked at him in surprise. But then he huddled closer under the shelter of his jacket, as the heat from Mr Kolchek’s body met his own. Mr Othman raised his own hand to help Mr Kolchek steady the jacket above both their heads. He rested his other against the man’s chest.
As thunder shook the air once more, Mr Othman dared to rest his forehead against Mr Kolchek’s. He closed his eyes and breathed, ‘Stay close.’
Mr Kolchek pulled the coat tighter around them. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
