Five Unrelated Drabbles

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4. Minuet

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The sweltering summer nights allow for little restful sleep, the humidity hanging thick in the air like a heavy shroud. James is dreaming restlessly of music, the clarity of piano notes floating in and out of his subconscious and when he rouses with a weary groan, he feels the sticky discomfort of sweat bathed across his naked body.

The bed is large, House’s side of it empty, and the moonlight that is streaming in from the window shows the rumpled outline on the sheets of where House had been sleeping. It takes Wilson a moment to gather his bearings, shaking off the remnants of a groggy and listless sleep, and as he rolls from his back to his front, pulling Greg’s pillow against his chest and curling around it, he hears the piano notes that he’d heard in his dream, drifting quietly from House’s lounge room; a blues number, one that Wilson doesn’t recognise.

He presses his face into the pillow and inhales the scent of House imprinted in the pillow’s covering, wishing that summer didn’t have to be so cruel with its unmerciful heat, and he briefly considers attempting sleep again before he relents and pushes himself up.

His bare feet touch the wooden floor, the brief shock of its coolness sending a quick, pleasant ripple of goose bumps across his perspiring skin, and as he walks silently from the bedroom out into the lounge, the melody House is playing changes to a livelier classical piece, a minuet; another one that James doesn’t know. He sees the straight posture of House upon the piano stool, as naked as Wilson himself is, and he approaches him quietly from behind, making his presence known with a hand upon House’s shoulder.

Greg doesn’t change or miss tempo, his long, slender fingers trilling expertly across notes to form complicated chords as Wilson slips onto the stool next to him. He feels the sultry heat of their sweaty skin pressed against each other and as House builds the piece he is playing into a slow crescendo, Wilson slides an arm around House’s waist and pushes himself up against him, his other hand snaking across to Greg’s cock.

He hears the distinct sound of a few unintentionally clashed chords and wrong notes played as he begins to slide his sweat-slicked fingers up and down House’s prick, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and tasting the subtle, salty tang of perspiration upon his lips. He watches House stare intently down at the keys, playing with his brows furrowed in concentration of both what his fingers are sounding out and of James’ skilled hand moving up and down his cock, the tempo of the minuet growing choppier with each passing measure.

Wilson gradually increases the speed of his strokes and over the music he hears House panting quietly, the final bars of the piece thumped out in a cacophony of jumbled notes as he peaks. Wilson watches the way Greg arches his neck with his eyes closed, a restrained groan coming from his parted lips. The music is forgotten and Greg’s face is a simple, rare expression of pleasure, glistening trails of sweat running in rivulets down his temples and down the slope of his throat. House’s fingers remain held down upon the final keys he’d played and the resonating peal of notes slowly ebbs away into the silence of the stifling room until there is nothing but the sound of House’s heavy breathing.

Pulling away from him, Wilson smiles faintly in smug satisfaction as he reaches up to the piano keys and he presses his finger down on one of the notes, feeling House’s eyes on him. He can hear Greg is still breathing heavily and as Wilson begins to play the only thing he knows how to play -- an out-of-time, one-finger rendition of “Hot Cross Buns” -- he feels House’s warm, sweaty hand curl around his cock and Greg's hot, moist mouth press against the side of his neck.

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