KNIGHT #2
I get the feeling that any therapist in the world would say this should not be done without professional supervision.
Even this conversation feels too deep to have without someone here who could drill a little deeper into Sullivan’s unique psyche without the fear of triggering him or, especially in my case, rejecting him.
“Hey,” he says. “How about this—you play the violin, and I’ll correct your positions. Then you’ll see what I mean. I really don’t think it’s that big of a deal. It’s such a small thing.”
Sullivan isn’t impossible to say no to, but it doesn’t roll off my tongue easily either. He’s always on the hunt for a compromise, and I figure I should give him those when I can. It’s what any good boyfriend would do, right?
He’s already up, opening his violin case and pulling out the instrument. “Go sit at the table in one of those chairs. It’ll be easier.”
“I can’t play violin.”
“I always said I’d teach you something, didn’t I?”
“I don’t wanna learn ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.’”
“Don’t worry, champ. I’m not gonna start you off with a masterpiece.”
I manage a laugh and get up. At the table, I pull a chair out and turn it around.
He’s closer now. He’s growing his hair out again, and it’s pulled back today in a small bun, showing off all the magical planes of his face and his large features that shouldn’t work but absolutely do.
With his bow and violin in one hand, he grabs me by the chin and plants a kiss on my mouth.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I admit, I’m kinda counting on that. Have a seat.”
I do. He gives me the violin, makes some adjustments with the shoulder rest, and demonstrates how to hold the bow. “You might never want to play again after I scar your ears with this,” I say.
“Excuse me, are you saying you don’t think I’ll make a good teacher?”
He’s a very distracting teacher in his shorts that hit him mid-supple thigh and the t-shirt with a way overstretched collar falling off one shoulder.
He’s just so fucking beautiful—so everything I’m not—and I find it endlessly fascinating.
If someone asked me what my major is, I’d probably say Sullivan Scott.
He wrestles with my left hand on the fingerboard, getting all my fingers to be in the correct places, only on one string, the lowest string, and tells me to run the bow up and down just that one.
While the noise I make isn’t off pitch, it is scratchy and uneven. It’s also quiet when I’d prepared myself for ear piercing. “What’d I do wrong?”
“Okay, here’s where the corrections come in. Pay attention. Pretend you’re learning a new offensive formation or something.”
He moves the elbow of my bow arm, then he has me sit up straighter by putting a hand on the small of my back.
He runs that same hand down the back of my arm, eliciting a shiver from me while saying, “Loose and relaxed, but intentional. Poised. Also, you have to press harder on the string with the bow to make actual music come out of the instrument. Don’t be shy. ”
I pull the bow straight down the string this time with more pressure, and it makes a not too unpleasant note ring out. After another complicated rearrangement of my fingers, he has me play the two bottom strings and laughs at the sound it makes. “Anyway, you get the idea.”
“I don’t know how the fuck you managed to pick this thing up and just start playing it.”
“Well, I don’t know how you throw a ball forty yards with a hundred percent accuracy with twelve men charging toward you, so I guess we’re both entitled to our gifts.”
I hand the violin over. “Play me a masterpiece.”
He gives me a fake purr. “Yes, sir.”
“Fuck you,” I say when that makes my dick twitch.
He wants to stand rather than sit, reminding me of the words he used that night in the tunnel. Conservatory style.
“Now I’m gonna play, and I want you to—”
“Wait,” I say. I don’t like this. I think it’s a terrible idea. “I don’t wanna feel like a fucking creep.”
Sullivan’s big blue eyes lock on mine.
“I mean—why don’t you just play for me, without anybody touching you, and I’ll watch.”
“That’s not gonna—”
I give my head a sharp shake. I won’t do this. “I can’t take away what he did, Sullivan. But I can give you a much better audience.”
His face falls expressionless. He sets the violin and bow on the table and says, “You’re right. It was just a thought.” Then he walks into the bedroom, half closing the door behind him.
I run my hands through my hair, eyes closed as I work in a few deep breaths.
God fucking knows I want to fix all of this for him, erase every bad thing that’s ever happened and fill his head with all the new, wonderful memories he can handle.
But that’s not the way brains work, and I don’t think it’s how trauma works either, not after getting more familiar with the sharp angles of his over the last few months.
Finally, I go into the bedroom to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs spread and his head hung. I sit on the floor in front of him, making him have to work hard not to look at me.
“Do you blame yourself?” I ask.
He nods.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I know. And I don’t blame myself for all of it, although, there’s an argument to be made that says I was asking for it every time.”
“That’s what they wanted you to think. That you owed them something. But that was a manipulation, and they knew the game better than you did, so it wasn’t really fair, was it?”
“I get that.”
“Part of this has to be you taking yourself back. Not giving it all to me but taking it back for yourself. You and the violin—any violin—have a—like a bond. Like it knows you, and you know it. Like me with a football, right? That was in you a long time before that asshole ever came around. And maybe that’s what you need to remember.
Maybe all it takes is five minutes a day.
One minute if that’s all you’ve got to give, but I really think rebuilding comes from the inside out. Not the other way around.”
He’s silent for a long moment, and then he lets out a breath. “Okay, so maybe you’re not such a dumb jock.”
“I’m good at algebra, too. As you know.”
Still with a defeated sigh, he says, “How do you stand it? Shouldn’t I be getting better by now?”
He’s not talking about algebra. He’s talking about himself. “I refuse to put a timeline on this, and I don’t want you to, either.”
He glances at me, his dimples creasing his cheeks. “You’re obnoxiously perfect. I have yet to find a single thing wrong with you.”
“Well, don’t look too hard, all right?”
He slides off the edge of the bed, and I accept his presence in my lap as he wraps his legs and arms around me. I hug him close and kiss his neck. This I know we can do. This is progress, and in moments like this having him in my arms feels like the only thing that matters.
“I love you so fucking much,” he whispers.
“I love you, too.”
All he has to do is say the word, and I’ll change my entire life for him. It’s not even a question anymore. When I’m with him, he is the only place on earth I know I belong, and I’d give up anything to stay here.