Title: Aftermath II, Part 2
Author: Paul Plesko
Email address: pplesko@hotmail.com
Series/Sequel: Aftermath II
Pairings: Justin/Ethan
Category: Angst, POV
Rating: NC-17
Date:
Summary: Justin meets someone who will change his life forever. It is becoming clear that Justin is still thinking of Brian and wondering if he has made the right choice.
Spoilers: Everything through episode 220
Warnings: None
Author Notes:
Aftermath II, Part 2
by Paul Plesko
The front door buzzer broke the silence of our final preparations with three short blasts. "That's the car," said Ethan. "Like clockwork...always prompt." He lifted the violin case as if it were an infant and waited for me to open the door for him. I wondered what he had done before I moved-in.
The Black Rolls-Royce Park Ward was at the curb with a driver stationed at the back door waiting to open it. "Quentin, this is my friend Justin. I'm bringing him as my guest today," said Ethan in a friendly manner. Quentin nodded, smiled, and opened the door. We hopped into the soft, tan, leather backseat and he closed the door with that recognizable sound of precision craftsmanship and solid construction. The car, looking anachronistic on this run-down side-street, accelerated quietly, escaping to more high-tone main streets and eventually to the northeast out of the city.
"Where are we going?" I caught myself whispering as if I were in church.
"She lives in Highland Park," he explained---"near the old Mellon Estate, where it sits overlooking the River."
"Wow! Ritzy neighborhood," I whispered. "She must be loaded."
"Not really," countered Ethan. "She has an interesting history, though. She and her new husband immigrated from Liverpool when they were 18. He was a struggling artist; she was poorly educated. Somehow they found their way to Pittsburgh where they both got jobs...he as a gardener and she as a maid...in the home of one of the daughters of Andrew Mellon." Everyone from Pittsburgh knew the Mellon family...Canagie-Mellon, the National Gallery in DC, the Mellon Center where the Penguins play. "Pamela and Earnest worked for the Ostrachts for 30 years, eventually working their ways up to be Chief Butler and Housekeeper in one of the big houses on the estate. When Pamela's husband developed cancer and couldn't work any more, the Ostrachts built them a house on the edge of the estate. He died a few years later, and Pamela supervised the house for Mrs. Ostracht until she died at age 90 in 1998. Pamela was left quite a sizeable endowment in the will---but she and Ernest had accumulated quite a comfortable nest-egg over the 30 years; they had no kids and saved and invested every penny, so the inheritance was like frosting on the cake. Pamela decided that she could live in comfort and still share the bounty with young artists...thus the patronage for guys like me. You'll love her. She's a saint." Quentin, overhearing this from the front seat, nodded almost imperceptibly in agreement.
"So what happens?" I asked, trying to anticipate the afternoon. "What will you play?"
"It's the same every time---and apparently it's the same for each of the 6 or 7 proteges she maintains. First there's a walk in the garden, or in the conservatory if it's wintertime. Then there's tea and cucumber sandwiches. But she knows I don't like cucumber sandwiches---they make me burp while I play, so she always has scones with marmalade for me. And we sit and talk. And then I play a few things. Finally Quentin drives me home. It's mostly just to keep me working on new stuff, I think---and because she loves music performed in an intimate setting. I've got a few things prepared---one with you in-mind, actually, although I didn't know you'd be here to hear it---and I'll finish with the "Perpetual Motion"---blow her away with the finale." He smiled, anticipating the triumph. His fingers move over the neck of the violin case as if he were playing what was inside.
"Tell me about this violin," I asked after a moment of silence. "It's not the one you play on the street corner, but you used it to practice this morning. Is it new?"
"No", he said..."far from it. It's an 1864 Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume, made during his Golden Period. She bought it for me. Well, actually it technically still belongs to her---but I can buy it from her in the future for what she paid for it, when I can afford it. Until then, it's mine to play. $130,000---and the bow is $40,000." He paused to let the enormity of it sink in.
"No wonder you play the other one in Mellon Square Park," I countered.
"Yea---that one's from my parents---the only thing I took when I left---worth only a few grand. It sounds like a bagpipe compared to this baby." (Patting the case lovingly.)
The car was slowing now. We had arrived. It was not the biggest house in the neighborhood, but it was still very nice---set back from the road behind a gate with a walled, expansive yard. The gate opened automatically as we approached.
She met us at the door. The formality of the surroundings belied the informality of her welcome. She gave Ethan a hug and shook my hand as Ethan made the introductions.
"Pamela, this is my good friend Justin Taylor. And Justin, this is Pamela Cunningham, the woman I've told you so much about. Her face brightened, knowing she'd been talked-about.
"Come in," she said, tossing her head. "You're right on-time, as usual. Quentin always manages to circumvent the Sunday drivers. Come---this way, Justin."
She was dressed in a soft blue, floor-length dress---classy, but casual---and she carried a broad-brimmed hat that matched the dress. Her perfectly-coifed hair was almost white, although her face looked too young for her age---mid-to-late-50s, I guessed, after doing the math in the car. No jewelry, no exaggerated make-up...and no pretense.
I followed them through the large, two-story entry hall, more like a central courtyard, with a shiny grand piano in the center and a curved staircase to a balcony on the second floor. And then through the dining room and out through broad French doors onto the terrace. Another young man was sitting there quietly.
"Justin, this is Jason, another of Pamela's 'off-springs;' he's a pianist and he'll accompany me, when necessary, and he'll play a few pieces of his own---and I mean literally "of his own" because he writes them." Jason stood and shook my hand but didn't make eye contact---and I noticed throughout the rest of the afternoon that he seldom made eye contact with anyone except Mrs. C. occasionally. He was either very shy, or very near-sighted.
We walked in the garden. Pamela, wearing her hat, identified her flowers by name and stopped to admire each perfect blossom. Ethan seemed agitated and mildly effusive---perhaps the nerves of anticipating his performance. He seemed always to be ahead of the small entourage as if he knew the tour by-heart.
"And what do YOU do, Justin?" she said, handing me a snipped rose.
"I'm a student...an art student," I said. "I draw...and paint a little."
"You must be good, or Ethan wouldn't tolerate you," she said, smiling knowingly. "He's such a perfectionist." Ethan turned, having overheard the remark and shot me an acknowledging smile.
"He's good, all right. Someday, I'll show you some of his stuff."
The luncheon was excellent; but Ethan barely ate a thing. I dug into the resources of my prep-school manners to use the right fork and maintain a conversation at the same time. Jason sat beside me but he didn't speak, so the conversation was primarily about Ethan's music and his preparation for today. Pamela kept watching me as he spoke with an interest I couldn't fathom. Was she trying to figure out the nature of our friendship? I played it "straight" and tried to relax.
After lunch there was more conversation...a little more about my art and my studies. Ethan explained that I was living with him after "being kicked-out by my former roommate." I hoped that she wouldn't ask questions, and she didn't.
"Come. Now it's time for some music," she said rising from her chair; we followed her into the large entry hall. Three baroque chairs had been arranged close to the piano; she sat in the center one. "Sit here by me," she continued, patting the brocade. I did. "And what are we playing today? She asked Ethan. From his pocket he pulled a hand-written list, like a short program, and handed it to her. He had placed the accompaniment sheet music on the piano when we arrived, and Jason was scanning it quickly.
"He can sight-read anything," Ethan explained..."a phenomenal ability." Jason smiled for the first time without raising his head. His fingers curled as if preparing for an attack. And then his demeanor changed dramatically. Hands brushing the keys now, he raised his head, looked at Ethan, and gave him a nod. They paused for an ominous second as if to gather all their strength...and then began.
Pamela handed me the hand-written program..."Scherzo" by Fritz Kreisler, "Liebesleid" by the same composer, a sonata by Frank, and finally "Perpetual Motion" by Paganini. I had never watched a recital from such a close distance before. Well, I had heard Ethan play as I lay between his feet...but that was different. The sound was totally transformed in this large hall; the energy was electric; the impact of the piano's lower notes could be felt like pelting rain; I could hear Ethan's breathing. Jason hunched over the keyboard scanning the printed music but never looking at his fingers. His hands were a blur as they flashed over the entire length of the keyboard. The experience was overwhelming. I felt pride for Ethan...but I also felt awe for his ability, something that had here-to-fore escaped me in the weeks I had known him. I had admire his beauty more than his music at that first recital. The young, lithe man who had lain next to me last night was now an incredible genius. I barely recognized him.
He didn't look at me during the entire first piece, but he fired a glance my way at its conclusion that nearly blasted me off my chair. I had such an urge to applaud...he must have seen it in my face... but as the last notes echoed into the dining room, there were only quiet murmurs of approval. Applause was appropriate for an audience...and we were not an audience.
During the second piece, "Liebesleid," Ethan never took his eyes off of me; his head was lowered, but he looked upward at me from under his dark lashes. His music spoke to me even if I had not been able to see his look. There was love with a hint of passion in it; while there were no words, it spoke volumes. His body moved as if he were trying to seduce me. I looked quickly at Pamela to see if she noticed the wordless communication...and she was watching me. I probably blushed, because she smiled and turned away.
When the music came to an end I gave-in to the uncontrollable urge to say "That was beautiful."
"It was inspired," Pamela said. "Your playing is always technically perfect, but I've never heard such passion as I just did. It was breath-taking."
"Kreisler's sweet, personalized approach to composing hasn't earned him many accolades compared to his more flashy contemporaries...but I thought you might like it," replied Ethan, returning to his usual erudition and breaking the spell.
The remainder of the program continued without a hitch. The Paganini sounded even better than last night. And Jason concluded the program with two solo-pieces...the first, a Chopin Etude, Opus 10, Number 1...and the second, his own unnamed composition...a tempestuous thing that appeared to be a combat between man and instrument. The shy musician transformed into a raving lunatic! And then, just as suddenly, reverting back into his shell as his playing was praised by all of us.
As we bid our farewells, Pamela squeezed my hand and urged me to return. "You seem to have inspired him," she murmured. Ethan responded with a split-second glare...as if his earlier performances had been somehow criticized.
He was silent in the backseat for much of the trip back to the apartment, closing his eyes and leaned back into the soft leather as if he were in a trance. I learned later that is was his way of "coming-down" from a performance...a total turn-off from his surroundings. But eventually he reached for my hand and held it. "Senor Cardenes says I have the makings of the next in the great line of virtuosi," he said quietly. "...Sarasate, Wieniawski, Heifetz, Oistrakh, Milstein, Henryk Szeryng, the greatest bow-arm in history,...I'm next." He paused, then smiled. "Until I met you, my goal in life was to suck-off Joshua Bell. Now he'll have to share me." He smiled again, envisioning himself kneeling between our two swaying cocks, not knowing which to lick next. "Thank you," he said, "for being my inspiration. Pamela was right. I played my heart out...for you, Baby." He leaned over to kiss me, and I caught Quentin watching us in the rear-view mirror. Then Ethan returned to his trance for the remainder of the trip.
"I need you," he said as we entered the apartment. We undressed quickly, never breaking eye contact until he jerked me into a seated position on the edge of the mattress and dove between my thighs to suck me. Sex with Ethan had a certain repetitive quality...he sucked me, then sat astride my chest while he fed his cock to me...and then we 69-ed, finishing each other by-hand. My mind wandered to the variety of positions and techniques Brian used...a never ending novelty...a Master of stimulation and arousal. Was it wrong to think of Brian while I was having sex with Ethan? I tried to focus my attention on the here-and-now...but my thoughts always wandered to whom Brian was with and what he was doing. I lay back and let Ethan wash over me like the music....
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