Kongpob and Arthit: short stories

The World in Colours

Arthit is both blind and a famous pianist who 'sees' his life through a palette of colours.

Kongpob is his husband who lives in swirls of golden yellow in Arthit's mind.

A snapshot of their world.

A Drabble.

(This is quite experimental.. hope you enjoy!)

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Arthit rolls his wrists before he gracefully seats himself at the piano, checking his distance from the keys with his arms, before he relaxes on the bench.

After the usual announcements, the spotlight burns his skin golden and his hands find the chords, fingertips settling on their smooth surface in touches of baby blue. Then he slides his way through the first song, enjoying the way it splashes in deep sapphire and rich purples around him.

The smattering of applause is background noise as he glides into the next piece. It's red and fiery and it marches in angry strides over the lid of the instrument, pulsing to the rhythm of the notes.

He pauses after it, breathing heavily as the music overwhelms him and the colours clamour for attention in his mind. Slowly, he eases one forward and let's it occupy his arms, and then, in tingles of pleasure and pain, flow down to his wrists and out through his hands.

This third piece is softer; pinks and yellows bursting across the keyboard, coaxing his fingers to play slowly, romantically. His thoughts are full of Kongpob's face. The smoothness of his cheek under Arthit's calloused fingers, and the dip of his cupid's bow above his narrow lips. Up to his soft eyebrows, and eyelashes that tickle Arthit's skin golden.

He's ignoring the audience of course, letting well-loved tunes pour from his hands, the repertoire forgotten as they play what they will. Black and maroon and peach and green, the notes fill the air like fireworks exploding with colour and sound. Arthit lavishes them all with love as the music fills up the room and his piano notes soar above the crowd.

He imagines them dancing over the front row, bouncing off ladies pearls and gentlemen's tie pins. He pictures their journey, dancing over seats and handbags, between shoulders and over heads; until they scramble to the farthest corners of the hall, a little battered, a little bruised but still beautiful, as they lavish shimmering colours on those in the cheap seats at the back.

Arthit's fingers find the last few keys, the hall silent, anticipating. Sweat pools in his collar bones below the plain shirt that Kongpob has chosen and there's a second where gooseflesh rises on his skin. And then it's over and he doesn't wait for the applause, just fumbles his stick into his hand and lets it guide him back to the dressing room and to Kongpob.

Inside, his husband's arms are waiting and Arthit nuzzles into the warmth of his golden neck and asks, "Was it okay?" And Kongpob kisses his cheeks ruby and tells him that it was more than okay and Arthit asks, exhausted, if they can go home.

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Kongpob's voice awakens him, dragging him out of his dreams and into their room where the scent of well-cooked bacon overrides the lingering aroma of good sex.

"...and then Arthit veered from the expected programme, gracing us with the highlight of the night, an achingly beautiful rendition of Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No 2 in C minor." Kongpob's voice is the most beautiful sound, surrounding Arthit with verdant green growing vines, which climb over him, tugging him closer to his husband, who goes on speaking even as their thighs touch and Arthit's hand strokes lines of cherry red into bare skin.