[ knuckles ] sender kisses receiver's knuckles in a polite gesture ( you know i HAD to, it’s giving godfather *falls apart*)
. . . ⤻ SILENT ACTIONS THAT SAY A LOT ...
an unspoken whisper grazes his ear. sat in front of his grand piano --- the monochrome keys glimmering in the warmth of chandelier's illumination. chopin bleeds from his fingers. like all the words, that could have never left the crime lord's lips with such elegance and profound sentiment. in need to cast off his burden, he would let his instrument speak for him.
the scherzo still stuck to his soul, despite digits to have long parted with the polished keys. moulded to his shape --- the clearance of played notes cascaded, on the occasion with a hurried tempo by the slight --- only to yield to calmer gentleness, coming to claim his spirit at once. unmistakably, it was still the same man, sat at what he deemed a marvel, the epitome of language. his language of choice in fact, followed by the rhythm of its speaker's heart --- without leaving anything unburied nor untouched.
tony's eyes had fluttered shut somewhere during the consoling array of chords chiming, faint traces of a frown painting his countenance now, as if in mildest of pain. eyelids screwed tightly shut, calloused palms jumping between more dramatic, faster sequences --- sunken in deepest concentration and precise movement alike. barely a note slipped through his fingers, eyes falling open to follow his hands --- and upon its completion, he lifted them only as the sound of very last played chord had fully ebbed away, dissolving.
seconds, after chosen piece concluded, he draws his first, clear breath. unrushed, unhurried. generously taken, air fills own chest, pushes his shoulders higher. here he sat. with his cursed heart, he had just split open . . . spilled upon the keys, it lay right there --- in the subduing echo between strings. in the solitude of past nocturnes, his sole company would have been the crescent holiness of the moon.
but today, someone else had listened to his soul speak. still turned towards the piano, the crime lord's lowered gaze remained in such state. chewing at his own lip. with nothing left to say, the mixture of relief, laced by something else --- in the absence of all sounds, that now occupied the room. his company had finally decided to move --- and out of the corner of his own vision, they began shifting closer towards him.
he had given the reader of sins a surely unusual ' book ' to study tonight. one, unable to taste of nothing --- of that tony was as convinced as restless. flat palms resting on his thighs --- burning and yet eerily cold. a terrifying temper captured him --- the longer the quietude was to be endured --- how unusual, for the crime lord --- who dictated the temperature of a room within such gaps at ease. it is his head, turning first --- glancing upwards at yeong. his nostrils flare, under some strange, coiling pressure blooming between them. anticipated, by now. like a shape, having been memorized --- and beware, for this man's thirst for knowledge could hardly ever be stalled !
perhaps, yeong still searched, for whatever tony himself refused looking for. so the crime lord slides upon the piano's bench, to angle his body to face them. in his gaze, a question forms, hues softening by each passing moment --- wider than usual. yeong lowers his body in response, propped upon one knee --- his hand gliding underneath the crime lord's own. skin on skin. which mattered very little in this very moment --- because their revealed gesture floods his mind, like the announced arrival of a monsoon. own hand in theirs, held or rather captured --- to ghost their lips along his rough knuckles. to plant a kiss. in restrained politeness and true ardent.
tony freezes in his held position, watching their declaration of deepest emotion. his chest locks. it derailed him, left all his prior thoughts to dissolve at once --- his system begins to stutter, by a gesture, so well acquainted with. but not like this. not in this manner, not by someone like yeong. nauseatingly heavy, it settles in the pit of his stomach. not to pull his hand from their grip, god no ! he watched it grow more rigid instead. gaze fixed upon the crown of their head, bowed over the crime lord's hand. had he inhibited any less controlled power over his own body, a violent tremor would have shaken his tendons. instead, his brows furrow, own crown to tilt by the slight. something erodes in his gaze. strained. sovereign. his lips, pulling themselves downward in weighted and heavy execution. still ! his heart's bleeding had not stopped ! if yeong only knew ! what double edged sword of sentiment, came to drown him in this very moment ! what bitter distaste, to see the other kneel in front of him --- what deep movement, to fill his chest ! a sharp inhale grounds him gradually . . . before he grants himself the opportunity, to turn his held hand in their grasp, until the crime lord's own palm gently vibrated against yeong's. his fingers curl. tightly against theirs. his free hand grazing their jaw by extended digits, that increased an unyielding pressure. he does not pull --- it's understood, he knows, he knows . . . in his silent command, their head raised to meet him, forcing to collide with own dark, eroded gaze. " don't. " is all he manages --- lowly and roughly muttered, barely audible despite their closer proximity. when his hand finally moves to yeong's shoulder, it settles firmly, own thumb brushing against their gentle shoulder. don't do that to me. stand up, stand up ! locked behind his teeth. raw and messy. too loud, to ever leave his lips.
