"Wake up, sweetie."
I moaned into the pillow, cursing in the direction of his voice, too warm and too complacent to take his wheedling seriously.
"Cadence. . . "
The former night's tangle of emotion and ecstasy had not yet fully seeped into my skin past disbelief and incredulousness and into his arms. His holding me- hand resting on my hip bone, his heart beat insistent and protective into my back -was reassurance enough.
"Get up, you shameless cunt, it's 3 in the afternoon."
I looked up, groggily from his side of the bed, "What sort of good morning is
that
to your loving, devoted sub?"
"It'll get better, honey." he grinned dangerously from his dresser, slipping into a crisp white button down.
"Wait, what? It's 3?" I bolted up, panicked, forgetting the residual warmth of the covers. Slipping out onto the cold hardwood floor, I looked to Julian's relaxed frame, confused, "What are you still doing here?"
"Baby, don't worry about work, I-" his words cut off by a sudden slash of concern through his nonchalance.
"God, Cadence, look at you."
Following his gaze down the line of my body, I was confronted with fresh bruises and bites on my chest, my wrist had sustained some damage, I judged, from a stinging soreness not to mention the cuffs still attached to the frame of the bed.
"
God
is right." I couldn't suppress a grin at my array of unsightly badges. "So last night did happen."
" I can see that, yes." He exhaled, moving closer. "How could I have . . . "
His cologne stung my nose as I buried my face in his chest, his arms were wrapped around me. I felt his body tremor dangerously, and I looked up into a mask of remorse.
"Julian. . ."
Passion is oddly elusive, fantastically intangible. It comes in odd intervals, waves. It ebbs and flows and shows itself in different forms- a changeling of love, lust, remorse, and destruction.
"Sweetie, I'm so sorry. . . "
It's dangerous, the stuff that intoxicates the earth and sky, making everything fertile and vibrant. It's why I couldn't explain to him that I wanted his love like I wanted his bruises. It's not something you can easily convey, no matter how intimately you know someone. It has dangerous connotations, the willingness to ache, to bruise, to love unabashedly through what would be the most painful sort of draw to a sadomasochistic relationship; It's dangerous, and that danger, that passion, exemplified Julian..
He was a chance I took that in every way made me ache with uncertainty. With enough chemistry and blind acquiesce to lewd, primal proclivities; I was famished for his familiarity. We were, in our rawest state, playing with gasoline and fire- tangled in words and denial and love, and whether we would allow ourselves to be vulnerable enough to be set aflame. Ours was a passion I wasn't prepared for, one that couldn't wait for hesitation. It was explosive: a natural disaster but more devastating. It was all truth and whether I could afford to let him take control.
His passion had a sort of potency that was obvious when he was doing what he loved that made it clear that what he loved would take precedence over everything else, and as it turned out unpacking into his new apartment. I found this out while he was moving into my building. I didn't know a thing about him, but wanted to after I heard him one night as I was passing through with my dirty laundry. It took me a moment to recognize it- the Sibelius violin concerto.
His door was slightly ajar and the melody hummed, swirling in the air like oil on water. I was drawn in, as though there were magnets at play. The smooth, velvety sound pulled me, yanked me, really, making me seek it. I found myself inside his apartment, standing just inside the door.
I saw his confident stance there before I saw his actual form, his back was facing me. The bare windows cut the remaining daylight into fractions, casting slanted rectangles across the room, and illuminating his frame. His head had been swiveling and bobbing, his body bending where the piece needed him to go. It's the dance of the impassioned, when one is wholly consumed by the music they so masterfully produce. This is where they go; they retreat into the sound. I could tell by looking at him that his eyes were closed.
He tensed, stopped, feeling my presence. I was intruding on this holy moment and it felt like sacrilege to interrupt it. Lowering his instrument, he turned to stare at me.
I was despondent at best when it came to getting to know my neighbors. Admittedly, I was a veritable hermit and cared little for my appearances in the complex. My main concern had been comfort, and so my charming ensemble consisted of a fleece robe, slippers, and a page boy cap.
"Oh! I'm sorry! I just- your door was open and I just. . . it was so beautiful. I wanted to . . . Sibelius, right?" I felt an unstoppable blush burn under his skeptical look.
His gaze was fixed on me like I was some exotic bird that had flown in from the window and had perched on his bureau. He was studying me, wondering if I was okay to touch. It was then that I noticed all of the unpacked boxes piled everywhere, spilled over, its contents poured on the floor. The only thing he deemed necessary to christen this place was the sound of his violin.
"Hi," he blinked, shaking his head, as though I had just roused him.
"I live, down, in. . . I live here too," I stumbled over my words until he held up a hand.
"Okay, sorry. I thought you were trying to rob me." he gestured to my sack of laundry.
"I'm Cadence," I had to laugh, "and these are my dirty clothes." I sort of waved with the bag.
"Julian. Hi. Wow. I . . . " He stopped and smiled, in a way that could only be described as charming to collect his thoughts. "Well thanks- about my music- I just can't believe I left my door open."
"Oh right! You just moved in." I gestured to the unpacked boxes.
His eyebrows rose.
"Yeah," I explained, "your door does that sometimes. I have to admit, I'm glad the former tenant moved out. I saw a bit too much of . . . well he usually forgot to lock his door."
I bit my bottom lip, not sure of how to steer the conversation and myself back out of his room.
"Huh. I didn't see that on the contract . . ." He seemed more at ease with me, now he was certain he wouldn't have to be on constant watch for too-familiar neighbors. We chattered on but kept things superficial, and when I was about to make my exit his face brightened and he invited me to see the concert that night held at the university.
The air that night was swollen with a warm breeze, the streets illuminated by white strings of lights, coiled around the small, bare trees implanted in the side walk. The sheer contradiction of these cheerful little bulbs against the stark, straight lines of indifferent buildings gave the whole city a new feeling, a buzzing excitement to wash over and overwhelm the mundane. Culturally slaked, I was eager to get out of my stale apartment and away from all of the paint fumes I had been suffocated with, so I, of course, went. It was just the sense of spontaneity I needed.
I was all nervous excitement as I took my seat, the lights dimmed, and the orchestra was illuminated in the chilled auditorium. I strained to find him among the violins as they sat in their easy posture, speaking loosely in muted voices. I was confused, as I couldn't find him at all. The first chair was absent, and I assumed that was where he would sit. I was taken by surprise when a severe-looking girl with long, dark hair and exquisitely beautiful, sharp features began to walk across the stage, casting the room into silence. Giving the orchestra an "A" to tune to, she soon took her place.
The orchestra rose to their feet, and the audience gave their appreciative applause as Julian, dressed in a suit, crossed the stage, taking his place at the podium. I could see him breathe in after phantom-conducting a measure, his body leaned into the melody as it mourned in the notes of its entrance. It wrapped its deep, melancholy tones around my spinal cord in smooth, velvet streams. The sound was encumbering, like the song was made of deep blues and maroons to cover me like a blanket and absorb into my bloodstream.
Even through the raw emotive draw to the music, I caught myself tuning out the music and began to focus on Julian. He seemed to be in a realm of his own, breathing in the music that drugged him and controlling it at the same time. His confident stance arched and maneuvered as though his body was just a vessel to translate the sheet music into the siren song veiled over the audience. His students were marionettes of his, his gravid cues and dramatic gestures were thin, translucent strings connecting them, the whole affair charged by his obvious passion. I watched him translate all of the emotion of the minor key in his loose form. Growing entranced, I imbibed the dulcet tones with an insatiability I hadn't known I was capable of. I was intoxicated, but not by the music.
After the performance I was filled with an eagerness that surprised me. I truly felt that someone who could feel something so profoundly that lived in such close proximity had to be a sign. I had to have him, or, in a dramatic sort of sense, miss out on something terribly life changing. I felt in my bones that he could breathe life into me with his obvious passion. I could tell from the fact that he felt so deeply for his music, that we had something profound in common, an understanding of emotion, or maybe, what was truly important. I made my way up to the stage, and found him shaking hands with some older couple in the midst of the auditorium seats.
