Courfeyrac hears piano music in the hallway one day. It’s not an unusual thing, especially not when he’s passing the university choir room. There is something about the melody that draws him closer though; he doesn’t know if it’s because it sounds so familiar or if it’s simply curiousity. Either way, when he pokes his head in through the door, he is surprised to find Combeferre seated at the grand stage piano, fingers flying easily over the keys.
“I didn’t know you played,” he says. It’s not entirely true. Combeferre is a brilliant cellist, and has mentioned being more than capable of playing a handful of other instruments as well, but Courfeyrac never knew which ones. He never expected him to be this good at any of them.
“Just a bit,” Combeferre replies, which is clearly an understatement. “I took lessons as a child, before I found my true love. I guess I never really stopped playing though.”
The melody ends, and Courfeyrac is getting frustrated when he still can’t figure out where he knows it from. He steps into the room, dropping his backpack on a chair before he reaches the piano where Combeferre’s fingers are hovering silently over the keys as if he’s searching his mind for something else to play.
“You’re amazing,” he says, fingers tapping the black painted wood, and he feels Combeferre’s eyes on him.
“You play?” Combeferre’s fingers close over his, and Courfeyrac finds himself pulled down onto the bench, which is just barely broad enough for the two of them. Their thighs press against each other and Combeferre feels so warm.
“The piano?” Courfeyrac asks, remembering the question. “No. I played the guitar for a while in middle school, but that’s it.”
“That’s a shame,” Combeferre says. He’s still holding on to Courfeyrac’s hand, examining it closer. “You have such beautiful hands. They’re made for music.”
“My grandmother always tells me I should play the violin,” Courfeyrac admits, and Combeferre looks at him sharply over the rim of his glasses.
“Actually, I think you’re more suited for the viola.”
“I don’t even know the difference,” Courfeyrac says with a laugh, but it gets stuck in his throat when he sees the serious look on Combeferre face.
“I’ll teach you,” he says, “Or I could teach you how to play the piano.” He lowers their hands to the keys again, taking care to spread Courfeyrac’s fingers over them. It’s a simple offer, Courfeyrac thinks, to teach him how to play, but it feels like so much more. Combeferre’s hand remains on top of Courfeyrac, and it feels strangely intimate.
Courfeyrac considers it for a moment, hoping he’s not misreading anything, qnd when he turns his head, Combeferre is already watching him. It’s still Courfeyrac who leans in and brings their lips together, but Combeferre opens up and kisses him abck whole-heartedly within seconds. He links their fingers too, and Courfeyrac smiles into the kiss.
They part after a few more minutes, but remain seated as Combeferre shows him some scales. Then Courfeyrac asks him to play his favorite song, which turns out to be Ballade pour Adeline. “That’s my mother’s name,” he explains. “It reminds me of her.”
They’re about to leave when Courfeyrac finally asks about the song that’s been gnawing at his mind for over an hour now. “The song you played when I got here, what was that? I recognized it, but I can’t place it.”
Combeferre smiles and takes his hand, lacing their fingers like he had before. “The heart asks pleasure first.” Courfeyrac nods, recognizing it.
“It’s in that movie, right? The Piano.”