The Musician and the Monster Page 15

  On the final verse, Oberon diverged from the accompaniment as Ángel had written it. He improvised an original harmony that was so perfect, so poignant, that Ángel’s eyes watered behind their closed lids. The essence of the song was transformed by Oberon’s harmony from loneliness and sorrow to something resembling hope—fearful, longing, hopeless hope.

  They brought the song to its trembling close, notes converging, ringing together, then falling silent.

  Ángel turned off the recording with shaking fingers.

  Magic happened when musicians played together, when their different personalities and talents and skills merged in one piece, and they made each other unexpectedly better, more, than they could be alone. He had never experienced it so strongly before—never before reached such a perfect musical communion, never been elevated so high by another player.

  There was really only one thing to do with this feeling in his heart. One place for it to go.

  He opened his eyes and faced Oberon, knowing that Oberon could feel how moved he was.

  But Oberon was still. Perhaps he wasn’t able to interpret Ángel’s expression, his signals. Perhaps Ángel needed to be more clear.

  He put his guitar aside. He left the swan chair and knelt on the carpet next to Oberon, close enough to feel the warmth of his body without touching him. He kept his eyes on the cushions of the turquoise chair, but breathed Oberon’s air, smelled his butterscotch-pepper-rain smell.

  It was good, then. Oberon liked it too.

  “Thank you,” Ángel said. “That was amazing.”

  Oberon touched Ángel’s hair, wrapped a tress around one finger. He didn’t say anything, but Ángel could feel the vibration in the air between them.

  “I’ve never heard you play before,” said Ángel. “All these instruments. Can you play them all?”

  “Yes,” Oberon said. “I used to play them all, before you came. I like the piano best. Another of the projects I’ve wanted to complete is to transcribe some of the Otherworld music to piano. There’s a musicologist at Columbia who wants to teach a class in it.”

  “Why did you stop?” asked Ángel, keeping his eyes on the blue cushions, enjoying the smell of Oberon and the sound of his voice.

  “I thought it might irritate you to listen to me trying to adapt Otherworld music to Earth instruments,” Oberon said. “I think it sounds a little strange to human ears.”

  “You’ve been listening to me torture the mandolin for weeks.”

  The vibration coming from Oberon intensified: probably amusement. “I have sometimes muted your mandolin practice,” he admitted, gently tugging Ángel’s hair.

  Ángel smiled. “I wouldn’t mind it, Oberon. You shouldn’t stop playing for me. Shouldn’t stop doing anything you like, because you’re worried about me.”

  He closed his eyes and crossed his arms on the chair by Oberon’s side, resting his cheek on his arm. Oberon’s smell was shifting, the scent of spice emerging, the musky undertones. Ángel suspected those smells meant sex, associated them with the touch of Oberon’s hand. His heartbeat picked up. But he didn’t move.

  “You’re still fighting with yourself, Ángel.” Oberon tugged Ángel’s hair again.

  Yeah, but I’m losing.

  “It’s because I’m a monster,” murmured Oberon regretfully. He gave Ángel’s hair a last quick pull and released him.

  Ángel’s eyes flew open. “You’re not a monster!”

  “I am. You can’t bear to look at me.”

  “That’s not why!” protested Ángel. “God, you must think I’m such an asshole.” He met Oberon’s transparent-jade eyes steadily, though his cheeks heated with a blush. “No. That’s not why. It’s just that your face doesn’t ever move. So it seems—if you were one of us, I’d think you were hiding something. Like a mask. And it’s a little—it’s a little spooky. That’s all, Oberon. I know that’s normal for your face, but it’s distracting. But if I don’t look at you, I can concentrate on your voice and I can smell you, and I think I understand you better.” He paused. “It’s not—you know—that I think you’re ugly.”

  “Oh,” said Oberon softly. “I didn’t understand that. Thank you for explaining it to me.” He added, “You can look back at the chair now, if you like.”

  Ángel smiled, dropping his forehead back onto the cushion.

  They sat together in companionable silence for a few moments, then Ángel added, “I really don’t think you’re a Thing. My monkey-brain thinks you’re a pride of lions, but it’s starting to get used to you.”

  “Monkey-brain is a metaphor for your primitive instincts?” said Oberon, his voice amused again.

  “We evolved from . . . well, from something like monkeys. Very nervous about lions.”

  “We . . .” Oberon’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. “We live in trees. We love leaves and flowers. We love to sing and to learn. We aren’t predators.”

  “I wonder why you’re so much braver than we are. There’s one of you and billions of us, and we’re all freaked out, and you’re, like, a songbird.”

  They sat side by side, close enough to kiss. Ángel ran through the mandolin harmony Oberon had played—so beautiful, so unique but so exactly right—which gave him the courage to ask, “Do you have sex the same way we do?”

  A resinous smell, like pine, mixed with cinnamon, mixed with musk. A purr. Oberon said, “No one has ever done an adequate study of the question, but judging from the videos and pictures I’ve researched, yes, it’s essentially the same.”

  Ángel opened his eyes and looked at him sidelong. “Did you just make a joke about watching porn?”

  “I did. Was it funny?”

  “Not bad.” Ángel laughed. “You should wiggle your eyebrows a little, so I don’t have to ask.”

  “I don’t have any muscular control over my eyebrows,” Oberon said, thumbing his brows. “Or I would.”

  “I’m sorry I’m such a coward, Oberon. I’m still sort of—”

  “It’s all right, beloved. Anything you like.”

  “Touch me.”

  Oberon’s palm was warm and broad on Ángel’s neck, fingertips sliding around to his nape, under his hair.

  He wasn’t getting used to that magic touch—never. He’d never get used to it.

  But it was time to stop pretending that he didn’t love it.

  Nerve endings fired throughout his body, as he had known they would. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, feeling the goose bumps tingle all over his skin. The hair on his arms stood up. His nipples tightened to aching points. Breath stuttered in his lungs, his heart pounded, and blood rushed to his groin. His cock stretched and stiffened in his jeans, pushing of its own will up under the waistband of his underwear.

  Just that, one fae hand on his neck, and his whole body was prepared for sex, his skin on fire for more of that touch, his dick and balls and taint and ass all alive and ready and wanting it.

  Oberon had to be able to feel Ángel’s excitement. Ángel’s sense of smell told him that Oberon shared it.

  He lifted his face and leaned into Oberon for a kiss. The instant before their lips touched, Oberon’s hand on Ángel’s neck tightened, pushing him away.

  Ángel blinked open his eyes to see that Oberon had averted his face from Ángel’s kiss. No answers to be found in Oberon’s face.

  “Tonight. Will you come to my room, Ángel?” Oberon’s hand was still on his neck.

  “Tonight?” Not right now?

  “Take some privacy first,” said Oberon. “And then come to my room.”

  “No.”

  Oberon dropped his hand.

  Then Ángel added, “You should come to mine. Mine doesn’t have cameras.”

  Ángel took some privacy—a very hot, very thorough shower. He brushed his teeth and hair, shaved his face smooth, nervously considered manscaping his scant body hair. Oberon had beautiful hair, but none (as far as Ángel had ever seen) on his body.

  Oh, who was he kidding? He could never
hope to reach Oberon’s state of physical perfection, not if he groomed himself for an hour. He just wouldn’t worry about it.

  Then he settled himself cross-legged on his bed in the dark, barefoot and shirtless and in flannel pajama pants, his hair curling with damp.

  He thought about the passage of time. Oberon hadn’t told him how much privacy to take: fifteen minutes? An hour? Two?

  And also: eight years.

  Oberon had been on Earth for eight years.

  How would it feel to be Oberon right now, to be thinking, Tonight I am having sex for the first time in eight years? With Ángel, of all people. Ángel was excited and nervous, on edge with a mix of hunger and fear; how much more nervous would Oberon be?

  But while Ángel’s moods and needs and emotions pushed him around from hour to hour and day to day, Oberon rarely seemed out of control. Why was that? Because he was older? How old was he?

  His lover didn’t keep him waiting for long. Ten minutes later Oberon came in without knocking, fully dressed but barefoot. Even his feet were beautiful, slender and white. He stood beside the bed, leaning on one of the spiral wooden bedposts, graceful as a wisteria vine, eyes like sun-struck water. Ángel, sitting on the bed, stared back at him, half-erection shamelessly filling the front of his sweats. When Oberon didn’t move, he raised his eyebrows at him.

  “I’m trying not to act like a pride of lions,” Oberon explained.

  “So don’t kill and eat me,” suggested Ángel.

  “Or stalk you, encircle you, or pounce on you.”

  Ángel smiled involuntarily—being stalked, encircled, and pounced upon by him sounded pretty good—and rose up on his knees on the edge of the mattress, opening his arms. Oberon stepped into them.

  He smelled like happiness and sex, combined with a sharper rainforest scent that might be nervousness. He pressed Ángel to his body, cheek to his hair, and purred. Ángel closed his eyes and forced himself to relax against Oberon’s chest, shuddering, inhaling his scent. Though his skin was protected from Oberon’s by a shirt, it was still like being embraced by something electric and strange—a rush of magic that shorted out his defenses, overpowered his senses.

  Just what he wanted.

  Ángel gave in to the temptation to bury his fingers in Oberon’s thick green-streaked wheaten hair. Oberon slowly ran his hands over Ángel’s bare back, a sure and confident exploration of the planes and angles, making Ángel writhe with discomfort and pleasure. Ángel breathed against his throat and hesitantly put his own hand under Oberon’s shirt collar, touching the warm, dense skin at the nape of Oberon’s neck with his fingertips. His nerves quivered.

  One of Oberon’s hands was on his collarbone and throat, cupping his jaw. As natural as breathing, Ángel closed his eyes and lifted his mouth for Oberon’s kiss. Instead, Oberon nuzzled the crook of Ángel’s neck and shoulder. He brushed his cheek against Ángel’s, rubbed their faces and throats together like a big cat, vibrating softly. Disappointed, Ángel tugged his hair.

  Oberon pulled back and, crossing his arms, pulled his black shirt off over his head. The distraction worked: Ángel caught his shoulders in his hands and held him at arm’s length so he could stare at him.

  “God, you are pretty.” He tried to keep his tone light, but Oberon's beauty almost daunted him. He hesitantly ran his hands over Oberon's winglike collarbone down to his biceps, his palms tingling. His fingers were irresistibly drawn down to the strong cords of Oberon’s forearms, which were sheathed in buttery skin. The rosettes began to appear on Oberon’s chest and belly, flushing up pink from under his skin. Ángel traced one on Oberon’s pec with his fingertips, and his hand thrilled and burned.

  Oberon snagged his hands and pushed him backward onto the bed; Ángel, not quite ready for full-torso contact, twisted, pulling, flipping Oberon over so that he lay on his back, Ángel on top of him. Ángel straddled his hips and, a little hesitantly, put his hands on Oberon’s abs, exploring the flat white scar of his navel, the sweet groove beneath his obliques. He was shaking constantly now with a combination of excitement and alarm; Oberon’s hands on his back were whisper-gentle, ticklish.

  He stretched out full-length on Oberon’s body, running his palms up Oberon’s chest to his shoulders, shuddering as he allowed his body to lie against Oberon’s. His cock, sandwiched between them, was protected from the electric touch of Oberon’s skin only by layers of stretchy cotton.

  Oberon turned his face so that Ángel’s kiss landed on his cheekbone.

  Ángel went still, on top of Oberon, feeling the heat of his body rise up through him. He was quaking like a leaf, aroused and scared both, his body’s reaction to Oberon as plain as day. Oberon was unmoving beneath his hands though.

  Ángel felt no swelling in the fae groin beneath him.

  Controlled? Not turned on? But what were those rosettes on his skin, if not arousal?

  The touch of Oberon’s hands on his back suddenly felt uncomfortable. Ángel squirmed, grabbing Oberon’s wrists, pushing his hands down onto the bed beside his head. Oberon put up a token resistance—just enough to remind Ángel that he could easily break free—and then allowed himself to be pinned. They breathed each other’s air for a moment.

  “Question,” Ángel said huskily. “And I don’t mind if the answer is no. Do you have a penis?”

  One good thing about Oberon: whatever he might think, he never laughed. “Yes.”

  Ángel slid his body against Oberon’s, belly to belly, groin and hips and thighs, his hands still trapping Oberon’s wrists. “Where?”

  “Exactly where you think it is. I’m keeping it small for now.”

  Ángel nuzzled Oberon’s chest, inhaling. He smelled like browned butter, brown sugar, cloves, and underneath that, a heady musky smell that could only be sex. Ángel reminded himself that Oberon was not a bullshitter. “You what?”

  “I am controlling the size.”

  “You can control the size?”

  “To an extent. Can’t you?”

  “Uh, no,” he said, with a suggestive roll of his hips. “What you see is what you get.” That was intended to be illustrative, but it felt so good that he did it again. “Oberon?”

  “Yes, Ángel?” Oberon broke the wrist-hold and wrapped his arms around him, a hand cupping Ángel’s ass—not demanding, just feeling him.

  “Why are you keeping it small for now?”

  “I suppose I am being careful with you.” Oberon’s eyes were closed. His only signs of excitement were the flushed rosettes on his skin, the hot animal smell, his slightly unsteady breathing.

  “Am I going to run away screaming?” asked Ángel. “Or, wait, does it have prongs? I read that cat penises have prongs.” He ducked his head and touched the tip of his tongue to one of the purplish mottles that marked Oberon’s shoulder, tasting him for the first time. They both shivered. “You like that?”

  “No.”

  Ángel hesitated.

  Oberon’s hand tightened on Ángel’s butt. “Yes, I like that. No, no prongs.”

  Ángel laughed. “Oh. Good.”

  He kissed the center of Oberon’s chest, rubbing his tingling lips against the suede-like skin, letting the taste fill his mouth. Oberon’s heart was throbbing steadily beneath his lips. Oberon’s hand was still on his ass, warm and possessive, holding Ángel snugly against him. Apparently Oberon had eased up on whatever he was doing to control the size of his cock, because Ángel felt it now, hard and slender, a warm inflexible stalk against his thigh. Not very big, but that was okay. Ángel wasn’t judgy.

  He could kiss down or up.

  He went up, kissing Oberon’s collarbones, sucking on his throat, and Oberon arched his neck, purring. So beautiful, the way he moved, powerful and liquid. Ángel’s lips followed the strong tendons of his throat up to his jaw. He shifted his hips and their cocks aligned, bumped. Ángel, on top, ground against Oberon through their clothes, squeezing Oberon’s hips with his thighs. He caught Oberon’s jaw in one hand, tilted his face for a k
iss. Oberon turned his head.

  Ángel breathed unsteadily for a moment into Oberon’s spearmint hair.

  “You’re definitely avoiding kissing me, right?” he whispered. “It’s not just my imagination?”

  Big hands clasped his head. Oberon turned to look straight up into Ángel’s eyes, his nose brushing Ángel’s, lips an inch away. Ángel stared down at him.

  Oberon gently massaged the back of Ángel’s head with his fingers. “My people don’t kiss.”

  “You kissed my neck before,” he objected.

  “Yes. I did.” Oberon’s thumb traced over the freshly shaven, slightly raw skin under Ángel’s throat. “I mean, we don’t kiss mouth to mouth, the way you do.”

  “No?”

  Ángel’s imagination went, grimly, to his dentist. Bacterial growth, plaque. Gingivitis. Oberon was more sensitive than a man. Could he taste . . . that? “Is it, um, is it gross? My mouth?”

  “No,” said Oberon immediately. His gaze dropped from Ángel’s eyes to his lips, a gesture that looked so much like a prelude to a kiss that Ángel’s heart kicked. But Oberon held him still, just examining him, still stroking his jaw.

  “No,” he said again, quietly. “But you . . . In your culture, a kiss is tremendously significant. You have stories and songs of transformative kisses that are thousands of years old. Jesus was betrayed with a kiss. Animals transmuted into men by kisses. The dead awakened. The sick cured. Kisses that symbolize every kind of love. Kissing is of great consequence to you. I . . .” he hesitated, his eyes coming back to Ángel’s. “I’ve never done it.”

  The room was dim; Oberon’s eyes were the color of moss, dark, his pupils wide.

  Ángel pressed his lips together against the smile that threatened to stretch across his face. “I guess . . . if you don’t get it right, there’ll be a really scathing paragraph about it on your Wikipedia page.” He bumped Oberon’s nose with his. “Which would reflect badly on the Otherworld forever. Or I might leave a negative review on Yelp. One star. Would not kiss again.”

  They gazed at each other for a moment, and then Oberon, still cupping Ángel’s skull, leaned up and kissed him on the mouth. A sweet kiss, a meeting of tingling lips, a little pull. A little caress.