AN: Sorry that there have been no updates on anything for about a week and a half, I’ve been away traveling by car around the USA, visiting colleges with my father, decided I’m applying early decision to Oberlin, and now I just have to pray that both the college of arts and sciences and the conservatory accept me. Because I really want to do their double degree program, anyway. Here’s the fifth chapter, enjoy. There’s a bit more Tristan in it, and some of Matt’s better qualities.

Moutons Noiree: Glad you like Matt, he’s pretty important in the development of our little Blakey, awww, isn’t he cute….

Wolfwitch: Thank you, my goal was to make Blake funny, in an arrogant way, good to know that I’ve succeeded.

DarkAngel With WhiteWings: Glad you like Blake, he’s my favorite of my characters, with Skylar following close behind, although they’re rather similar. Yay more people share my Blake obsession. Glad to know that my descriptions aren’t going overboard.

Ddz008: Thanks. You’re supposed to see why Blake can’t stand practically anyone, so I’m glad I’m succeeding at making you take perfectly likeable people aka, Matt, and turn them into an annoying creature. Blake’s a fun little asshole isn’t he? LOL. Thanks for reviewing.

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“Blake Kent,” Alexis pounds mercilessly on my door, “Wake the fuck up before I come in there and pull you out of bed.”

            I groan and roll over, “I sleep naked, and I know you don’t want to see that, although why I’ll never understand, I really am wonderfully attractive and-“

            “I hate how you constantly stroke your own ego. Now get your oversized head-“

            “I prefer gargantuan,” I respond, burying my face further into the pillow.

            “I’m talking about the head on top of your shoulders, not between your legs, you sick fuck,” Alexis’ patience gives out and she stalks into my bedroom. Why did I ever give her the keys to my apartment? Oh yes, I didn’t the record label did, after I showed up late for the nth time. I hate my label.

            I hate Alexis too for that matter. Maybe I should make a list of things that I hate. It’d be far longer than the list of things I like and thus probably much more interesting.

            Women would have to be the first thing. Well all of them except for Meg, but women in general are evil. They are conniving bitches, who aren’t even attractive. I much prefer the male body.

 There’s something I like, men… Mmm, hot men, hot men wearing no clothing. Hot sweaty naked men, I should call up Matthew tonight. It’s only been three days. He hasn’t managed to get onto my nerves too much. Well not yet, and besides, if he ever annoys me, there are good ways to shut him up, that involve my dick and his mouth. One of Matthew’s redeeming qualities is his willingness to give pleasure. I always liked giving people.

            Alexis unfortunately, has other plans for me, that don’t involve fantasizing about really good mind blowing head. She in three seconds rips the covers off leaving me very exposed and very cold, as it’s winter, in New York City, and I hate sleeping with the heat on.

            I don’t hate her, no loathe would be more appropriate, want to chop up into a million bloody pieces before hanging her off the top of the Empire State building is more appropriate.

            “Are you wearing anything?” She asks, eyes tightly shut as she holds my blankets away from me.

            “I told you I sleep naked,” I responded, get off of my bed, and grabbing a towel off the ground. “I’m going to go and shower now,” I announce to her, sauntering towards my bathroom, “And I’m going to make sure to take as long as possible, just so that we’re still late,” And with that, I slam the bathroom door shut.

            “I’m going to quit someday,” Alexis tries to threaten.

            “Please do,” I respond twisting on the shower, and tossing my towel onto the side of my sink.

            “You’ll miss me when I’m gone,” She yells through the door. I stare at myself in the mirror as the water warms, damn I’m attractive. Modesty, haha, I’d think the world would know me better than to expect that noble attribute by now. Actually I do not consider modesty to be remotely noble. Modesty is for simpering idiots.

 I’m sure Alexis continues to scream at me, but I’ve stepped into the shower, and chosen to ignore her.

……………………………..

             Watching me go safely into the studio, a good fifteen minutes before I’m called (I took a hour long shower, and then realized, upon glancing at the clock that it was 6:30 am, and that no matter how hard I tried, I could not make us late, as I wasn’t called till 9:30, and my hot water tends to run out after about an hour, I know, I’ve experienced it. I was in the middle of wonderful sex with my then boyfriend Mark, and well, let us just say that a sudden rush of cold water, ruined the mood very nicely. So at 7:30, I jumped out of the shower, and angrily greeted Alexis, informing her that she was the world’s worst manager for putting me in so much pain on a daily basis.), Alexis drops me off into the large building.

            It is oddly quiet, usually there’s someone in the middle of warming up, and someone in the middle of recording, and people running left and right trying to get from point a to point b, before a deadline. Instead, I find Tristan splayed out across the black leather couch.

             He’s in black suit pants, and a button up shirt, one hand resting on his forehead, long fingers splayed out through his hair. The other hand spreads out across his well shaped thigh. Fuck, I’m going to come, or have a very embarrassing problem on my hands, very soon.

            A noise escapes my mouth, and Tristan turns to look at me, “Hey, what’s up?” Josh wanted me to tell you that he went out to grab coffee, but will be back in a half hour.”

            “Great,” I mumble, “Alexis got me up at 6:30 for nothing.” I collapse dramatically onto a nearby armchair. Slumping down, arms crossed over my chest, a pout on my face.

            “Whiny little brat,” Tristan teases, sitting up on the couch.

            “I’m a singer, I’m allowed to be,” I answer my lower lip still stuck out.

            “You’re probably the reason that all those tenor stereotypes are around.”

            I shrug, “Probably, but if the stereotypes will get me pampered, I’m all for it.”

            “You know, Josh did say that you should warm up before he gets back, as he wants to start recording immediately.”

            I reluctantly get up from the exceedingly comfortable armchair. “Alright, I’ll see you later then.”

            “Wait,” Tristan grabs onto my arm. Oh, his hands feel amazing, he’s just gripping my arm, and simply the way his long, sculpted fingers dig into my wrist is amazing, my god, would I love to see what else he can do with those hands, and not just in terms of what they can do in bed, but on a keyboard as well. “You want me to warm you up?”
            I choke, “What?” Is he saying what I think he’s saying, warm me up? That sounds sexual, very sexual, and normally I’d be ripping off his clothing, but he’s straight, and unfortunately engaged. I hate fate. Hate it.

            “You’re voice,” He blushes, oh I love his blush, it is so cute, it makes me want to kiss him right then and there. “You know, play a few scales, maybe run through some of your songs. I am a pianist.”

            “Oh,” I laugh, “right.”

            Now this is an odd request, because any singer worth his shit, knows how to play some elementary piano. I can accompany myself for the most part. I can’t play the entire piano parts of most of my songs, but I can play more than enough to get my voice ready to sing. Tristan I’m sure knows this, and yet he seems to want to spend time with me, time he doesn’t have to spend. Reading into his proposal much? Yeah, just maybe.

            Regardless of how useless what he’s offering is, I’m not about to give up the opportunity of being in a small room, with a gorgeous pianist, while his hands are flying across the keyboard. Yes flying, because I happen to know that Mozart’s piano accompaniment is not easy to play.

            “Yeah, sure, we’ll use practice room three,” He follows me in wordlessly and sits down at the piano. He flexes his fingers once, as I stretch out, yawning a couple times to relax my jaw. He cracks every knuckles with a distinctive pop and then places his hands across the piano keys.     

            “What do you want to start with?” He inquires, long fingers stretched out across the white keys, if I could paint, I’d be painting the scene before me, and probably having an orgasm at the same time. “Blake?” He asks, at my dumbfounded expression.

            “Oh, right, yes, um, 1,3,5, 5,3,1, going up by half steps.”

            He nods, and starts to play. Just the way his fingers go down on the first chord is beautiful, they fall perfectly, pressing just lightly, creating a beautiful sound that fills the room, he plays the sequence, and I’m shaken from my fantasy where his hands are doing something else completely, and begin to sing, my eyes closed lightly, so as not to be distracted by his playing. He may just be playing scales, but it’s enough to make me want to ravage him on the piano bench.

            Sex on a piano bench, I’ll have to try that one, preferably soon. We switch through different warms ups, scales, runs, diction exercises, until my voice feels free as it arches over my passagio and through the higher notes that have created my fame.

            “So, you want to run a song?” Tristan asks slightly nervously.

            “Yeah sure,” I open up my bag, pulling out the binder of ‘death related songs.’ I don’t really understand why Alexis had to pick such a depressing theme. She claims it’s because all the songs are dramatic, and dramatic fits my voice. But I blame it on constant PMS. The woman always seems to have a stick shoved up her ass, no wonder she can only think of death. I would too if I always had a stick up my ass, I’d much rather have my dick, in someone else’s ass.

“The first one” I order.

            He smiles, “Good choice.”

            “I didn’t pick it.”

            “Alexis?” He inquires, placing his hands over the proper keys of the F key.

            “Of course,” I smirk, before giving him a nod to signal that I’m ready.

            His hands hit the opening notes, beautiful sound pours out of the Steinway grand, as his fingers run across the keys, through the complex introduction. It seems effortless. I’ve tried to play this opening on several occasions, and find that I’m forced to stick with the chords, and forget the actual notes. But his long fingers reach across octaves like they’re a small puddle that you can step over. His eyes are trained on the music, but somehow I’m sure he’s got the piece memorized. He sits straight, passion written on every part of his body.

            I’m so consumed by the picture of beauty in front of me that I almost miss my opening note. I catch it half a second late, and force myself to stare at the mirror, instead of Tristan. Thank god he’s not my accompanist. If he were I’d never be able to sing a thing. But he’ll never be my accompanist he’s far too good for that.

            My voice and his playing twine perfectly together. Spinning around each other to create a combination of flawless perfection, my entire body feels like it’s on fire, and suddenly I find that I can no longer remember the words to the song, because my mind keeps projecting images of what Tristan looks like as he plays. My eyes open, and the sound from my mouth comes to a sudden standstill, to find Tristan’s eyes tightly shut. His hands run over the keys as if he were making love to them.

He’s making love to the piano. He’s playing with so much emotion, so much adoration. And suddenly I find I’m rock hard, and there’s nothing I can do about it. He finishes the piece without realizing that I have stopped singing. I didn’t think he would. I now understand why he’s a solo artist, not only is he far to good to play second class citizen as someone’s accompanist, but he turns all he plays into a creation that revolves around him, and no one can contest that.

            He finishes the piece with a flourish, before opening his eyes and seeming to snap out of a trance, “Why’d you stop singing?” He raises and eyebrow, “We sounded beautiful together.”

            “We both know you sound all the more beautiful alone.”

            He shakes his head, “No, voice and piano were meant to be together, one is not complete without the other.”

            “So why do you play alone?”

            “Because I’ve never found someone before, who can hold his own against me,” He responds, fingers dancing playfully across the keys.

            “I’m flattered,” An uncomfortable silence takes over the room, as if he didn’t mean to say what he did.

He clears his throat, “So how about another piece?” He flips the page and I nod my head. Twenty seconds later, we’re creating music together. This time I’m not afraid to watch him, because as I do, I know that nothing will ever be more beautiful than the sound we’re creating together.

            When we finish, the room crackles with tension. His cheeks are slightly flushed, and I’ve somehow managed to find myself next to him on the piano bench, facing him, wanting to kiss him, wanting to make the moment if possible, more unreal.

            Our hands meet and we’re both shocked to find that the other is truly there and truly in existence.

            The way my blood is pounding through my body informs me that I’ve never wanted anyone quite like this before. My lips moisten, and I find that my breath has quickened. Damn if I don’t want to kiss him, damn if I won’t. I lean forwards, I can practically taste him already, his body shivers once in anticipation-

            “Blake, are you warmed up, I want to start,” Josh barges into the room, and Tristan flies to the other side of the bench faster than I thought humans were capable.

            “Yeah,” I reply disappointment coloring my tone, “I’m ready,” I stand up, one hand shoved firmly into my pocket, hiding as much as possible, my now rock hard cock.

            A glance behind me at the way Blaiz has both hands firmly shoved into his own pockets informs me that he wanted me just as bad as I wanted him. Maybe he’s not as straight down the line as he appears.

            God, I hope he’s not as straight as I’d thought, because I think I may have just discovered what life is all about.

……………………..

            “Hey,” I greet Matt with a kiss as he enters my apartment.

            I don’t let him respond to my greeting before deepening the kiss as he kicks the door shut with his left foot. I drag him against me, taking a step backwards to collapse onto the couch. “Mmm, Blake, wait. I want to show you something.”

            “Show me later, I want you right now,” Ever since my near encounter with Tristan, I’ve wanted on thing: sex, and my desire is about to get out of control.

            “No hold on,” Matt lifts himself up from on top of me, and reaches into his pocket, to pull out a crumpled packet of paper. “I composed something for you.”

            “Don’t you use computers? I thought everyone did these days.”

            “I always start with pen and paper,” He responds, standing up to move towards the piano, and spread out the music on the piano, “I think better that way,” He sits down at the piano bench.

            “Can’t we do this later?” I ask, coming around to kiss the back o his neck, and unbutton his shirt to reveal the upper part of his smooth hairless chest.

            “I really wanna show you this now, because I’m pretty proud of it, and it’s about you.”

            “About me?” I inquire, now that’s a bit creepy.

            “Yes, about the way you look when you sing, or that’s what inspired  me,” He shrugs, “I started it a week ago, after seeing you at the Met. You have so much passion when you perform, and I wanted a way to capture it.”

            I shrug, ok, a little less creepy, in fact, I’m flattered. I inspired a composition. The real question is: is Matt any good at composing, because if he isn’t, then I’m not sure how flattered I’ll be.

            He places is hands across the keys. He’s a decent pianist, he doesn’t quite have the hands, and he’s no Tristan, but his music, oh his music. The notes are slow, and drawn out, they speak of undying adoration and love of song. They twist in perfect harmonies.

I close my eyes, and find that I’m imagining Tristan at the keyboard instead of Matt, the way he’d be moving, the way the music would enthrall, no capture his soul. I’m so caught up in my fantasy that I don’t realize the music has stopped.

            “That bad huh?” Matt asks, seeing my dumbfounded expression.

            I shake my head. Maybe I’ll keep Matt for more than two weeks, although he does fish for compliments, “No. That good. Put words to it, I want to sing it.”

            “Well,” Math shrugs his shoulders, “it still needs a lot of work, and I’m not sure about the ending yet at all, it’s not my best but-“ I decide I’m sick of his voice, and the way he’s putting himself down in hopes that I’ll bring him back up, and kiss him.

            He responds eagerly, letting me push him back down onto the piano bench. But then I unzip his jeans, to release his straining erection and he stops me. “We should take this back to the bedroom, I wouldn’t want to ruin the piano.

            Damn, so I don’t get my fantasy tonight, but hopefully, I’ll get head from him. So I lead him back to the bedroom, lock the door behind us, and go back to the very interesting job of stripping him naked.