Opinions of Jesu Bleibet Meine Freude No. 103
By Veste Notus
Delicate fingers fluttered across the keys as Jesu Bleibet Meine Freude hovered ever so softly over the piano and spilled into the music room. He knew no other song to play. He played piano, or so he’d gathered, yet he never played for anyone and he was just fine with that. The decrescendo sent him in a languid whirl from which he did not want to be disturbed. The ‘g-chord’ sent ice to his blood as he froze silently, fingers suspended atop the keys.
His heart fluttered as he, motionless, paused to listen to an airplane fly past the house. He ran to the nearest window to watch it cut through the sky. Effortlessly, the craft droned past the small house and traveled onward, pregnant and ready to deliver to lands far off.
Heero Yuy let his head fall into his chest and a sigh escape his lips. It was soothing; it was unnerving. He returned to the mahogany seat and laid two worn feet onto the brass peddles. He couldn’t bring himself to play.
Footsteps by the foyer alerted him to his own broken solitude. A man in his mid-thirties and gray slacks stoke into the music room.
“Playing piano again, Heero?” he asked without need for a ‘hello’. Heero heaved his aching body up again and padded over to the man standing in the doorway. “Wasn’t that his favorite song?” The man stared down at Heero and tossed a stray brown lock of hair out of his face.
“Yeah, Trowa.” Heero paused. “What are you doing here?”
“Just visiting.” Trowa responded. “Hope you don’t mind. I let myself in.”
Heero nodded. He’d given Trowa the spare key back in ’89. New Year’s, actually. He needed someone to check up on him every so often. He didn’t feel comfortable anymore.
“Would you like something to eat, Trowa?” Heero suddenly offered. “I don’t have much. I think I’ve got some spicy curry in the pantry.” Heero made up with himself and dragged his houseguest into the small yellow kitchen. Trowa had to avert his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness.
“No, that’s fine.” he stammered. “Damn it, Heero. Why’s this room so bright?” he called out in agitation.
Heero shrugged and sorted through his pantry. “It’s instant curry. The powder kind. I really don’t have anything else.” The chilling air made them both uncomfortable.
“I know. It’s fine, Heero. I’m not hungry.”
Heero ignored his plights. “It’ll be ready in five.” With that, he threw a pot of water on the stove and waited for it to boil. “Help yourself to anything you want around here.”
So Trowa helped himself to a lime green chair. Sitting backwards in it, he noticed Heero looking unusually frazzled. His back wasn’t doing so well, even for his young age. His hands were blacked.
“What’s that on your hands, Heero?”
“Nothing.”
“Curry ready?”
“Yeah, eat up.” he said solemnly, dishing out a plateful.
“Best not. Quatre’s waiting for me to come home.” Trowa replied and promptly left.
Heero gave his best wishes and saw Trowa to the door. Turning on his heals, Heero went back inside to pick at his freshly made curry, cooling in the bright kitchen.
I’ll be home for Christmas. I just need to meet up with my fiancé at the airport. The meeting was great. I can’t wait to see you. I hope you’re well. Remember – Flight 103. Try to remember that, okay? 103. I’m wearing that orange sweater you got me last year. Yeah. That’s what I’ll be wearing.
The walls shivered and the piano whispered sweet calls back to Heero. He succumbed and put his hands back on the keys, Jesu Bleibet Meine Freude again wafting in the air and into the radiator. Heero froze at the ‘g-chord’.
The lights dimmed and the blood rushed to his head. The chord he never played was pounding, pounding in his brain, sending him in a fury of screams he could not hear.
The flight’s overbooked. Should I take the next one? They’re offering a bonus trip to Hawaii to those who give up their seats. Okay. Okay, fine. Yeah. Alright. The next flight won’t get me there in time. Alright. Yeah, I’m still seat 12A. Sounds great. I can’t wait to see you again. How’s my favorite koibito? All work and no play? Don’t answer that. My seat’s being called. I see you soon. Don’t forget to say hi to the others for me. Me too, Heero. See you when I get in. Love you.
“Duo… God damnit, Duo!” he yelled, deaf to his own shrieks. The sounds of low flying planes and flickers of emergency lights filled the great room beside the airy music, haunting it… killing it.
The floor shook as the PanAM descended, flaming tail streaming the night sky. The Big Bell bawled for the tenth time and hell ripped through the bright kitchen and, exploding, tore holes through the music room doors and windows. The glasses shattered and debris rained down, everything silent but Heero’s heavy breathing and Bach’s soft piano’s melody. He tore in vain at fluttering music sheets until at last the ink embedded itself in his paled skin. All the while, foreign screams filled the room, overpowered by the elastic tune.
Heero... I won’t be home for Christmas.
“Damnit, Duo… Damnit…” Heero cried, pounding fists into fresh beige carpeting. Twenty years later, he couldn’t stop seeing his lover. Everyone would pass on and everyone would move off to bigger, brighter, and inevitably better things, but Heero never did move on, no.
As the walls pulsed back to a papery white, Heero stabilized himself, throwing himself onto the piano stool. Holding back the sob, he closed his eyes and fell asleep to the dancing of keys.
Jesu Bleibet Meine Freude played on and on.
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