Posted November 21st, 2018

✤ Sayna: 1.30 piano over guitar ✤

**pre-warning: unedited. please excuse any typos.**

Rock.

Small, but a rock none the less.

I did not see a rock ahead, too caught with looking at Rihaan leaning against the car with his head lowered to his phone in his hand. His tie was loose and first button undone. He had taken off his school coat. The mid-afternoon sun simmered over his hair, making his normally black hair seem brown, almost a shade of hazel.

And that wretched rock. It pulled me back to reality as I tripped over it. The wet painting in my hand that I was taking home after having completed it in the last block smearing over my clothes, arm, and one side of my face when I stumbled forward and regained my balance.

"Ugh. Damn it!" I exclaim louder than intended. Some students around me snickered. Yes, probably wondering how I could be so clumsy or blind as to fumble over the tiniest of rock instead of stepping over it.

Hearing my voice, Rihaan looks up. His eyes widen at first before he starts trying to hide a laugh. "What did you get yourself into this time?"

Groaning, I hand him the canvas. "Hold this."

He puts his phone away and takes it from me while I check my reflection in the car window. My white school shirt is ruined. Maybe dry cleaning will save it but the dark colors may still remain in a faded manner. I pull my water bottle from my bag and a handkerchief from pocket. Damping it, I try to wipe off atleast some of the paint on my arms.

Rihaan tucks back a strand of my hair and I glance up at him. "You are a colorful mess, you know that?"

I let out a defeated sigh. "Guess I should have known better than to carry around a large piece of wet canvas. How ruined is it?"

He turns it around for me to see, marking an observation of his own. "Not something you can't fix."

Making my own judgement after a look over, I smack my lips. "Not totally ruined, thank God. I am supposed to present this for my final grade in the class." He puts the piece inside the car on the back seat. "That will ruin the seat."

He ignores my concern and takes the dirty handkerchief from my hand, pouring some water over it again. Taking my hand, he leans back on the car door and makes me walk a step closer to stand in between his legs. "Why were you bringing it home then?" He asks just as he brings the handkerchief to my cheek.

"Hmm?" I question having no idea what he just asked, too lost in the feel of his hand circling my wrist, his thumb rubbing unconscious circles on the inside, sensitive skin.

He restates, "When this is for final grade, why were you taking it home?"

"Oh." I simply say as his hand moves down to my jaw. When his eyes find me in confusion, I realize I did not answer the question. "Um, I wanted to finish it with this particular type of paint they don't have at the school."

He chuckles, his hand leaving my wrist and moving to my chin, tilting my head up. "Isn't it cheating to use your personal collection to complete the project?"

Maybe. I had convinced myself using the same counter I give him, "She'll never know."

He teases, folding the handkerchief to use the cleaner side. "And here I thought you had a thing against cheating."

"Hey, if being a painter I can't score perfectly on the final, that's shame on me. So, sacrificing a few rigid opinions to save my pride."

His fingers leave my chin and I swallow just as his hand rests on my other nape. "Practicing the 'no harm, no foul' thing?"

"Uh... something like that." I meekly whisper as I feel his fingers rubbing my nape. Through the handkerchief, yes, but it still has an impact.

His eyes seem to lock with mine when he notices the shift in my voice and shifting weight from one foot to the other. He swallows, standing up on his own weight and drops his hand to the side. He forwards the handkerchief back to me, "Least I do something indecent in the middle of a parking lot..."

Lowering my eyes in a blush, I retrieve the fabric, fingers brushing over his and the electricity it shoots through my skin. As he walks forward, I walk backwards to give enough space to open the door. Picking up the canvas from the seat, he moves it on the floor and slides in. I follow, only slightly mortified that the driver had been inside the whole time.

Ofcourse, it was all very innocent. He was only helping me clean up given I couldn't have properly seen in the window reflection. But still, I keep quiet. He turns the canvas around so the back of it is touching the seat and holds it on his legs. I place my bag on the space between us.

*✧✤--------------------------✤✧*

Entering his room, he places the canvas off a wall. It's almost dry but not quite there yet. Dropping my bag next to it, I take off my tie. "Mind if I use your shower?"

He shakes his head, "Nope, go ahead. I'll get us something to eat."

"Thanks," I answer and walk towards his washroom. While unbuttoning, I remember I need a towel. I call out, "Rihaan?" He doesn't answer and I assume he's already left for the kitchen.

Sighing, I move to his closet hoping he has a spare towel somewhere. Only, the clothes are all over the place it would be impossible to find anything in this mess. No wonder his mom is always nagging him to clean his closet and scolding him when he says he can't find things. How does he expect to find things after making such a mess? I feel bad for their house cleaner.

Then, I tell myself to feel bad for myself at the moment. No towel or spare change of clothes. Looking at the rod by the shower, there's two towels there. One, thrown over in a mess - therefore still slightly damp. I go for the other one that's neatly placed and very much dry. I figure that is clean. I have to take a second to make note of the colors he uses. Well, specifically, the print on one of them.

A 17-year-old using Superman towel. I think I am allowed to judge a little? Even if he happens to be the boy I love.

After a quick shower washing off all remnants of color off my skin, I wrap myself in a towel and stepping out, use the sink to get the color off my shirt. Having no idea where the detergent would be, I just get the layer off, the outer spots still there.

Why am I even attempting to save it? Not like I can't afford to buy another? Besides, only two weeks of school left for this academic year. I still have 4 pairs at home that I can alternate between. I'd bought 5 thinking it would work given I only put my clothes in the wash once a week over the weekend.

Two weeks, I could work with 4. Many people worked with less just fine.

Unknotting my hair from the high bun I had tied them in so they wouldn't get wet, I walk back to his closet and grab the first shirt I see on the hanger - taking that to be a safer bet than those lying on the floor. Hmm. Bigger than the shirts I sleep in at night but it works. I bunch it up around my waist and tie it in the back so it doesn't cover most of my thighs loosely before pulling up the school skirt from previously. Obviously, his tracks won't fit me so this will have to do till I get home.

Spreading out the towel on the rod so it would dry, I step out. Hearing the door click, he looks up from where he has seated on the table having apple juice again - I do not understand his or his father's addiction to them. The second his eyes land on me, he chokes on a sip and swallowing, coughs whereby his eyes water.

I reach him and pat his back in concern, "A-are you okay?"

As his coughing subsides, he wipes his lips and nods. "Uh-huh." I continue to eye him curiously. After gulping, he informs. "I just didn't expect you to be wearing my shirt."

I look down at it, unable to understand what the big deal is. It covers me decently, does it not? "Uh, yeah. I couldn't wear my shirt so..."

"Right." He steers the topic looking at the snacks he brought, "khaman?"

"Oo yes," I saw at once, taking the plate and leaning back on the desk. Given my dad is a Gujarati, I love these gujarati snacks. My savoring is short lasting when my arms start to get itchy. I frown as I use my nails to scratch.

"What's wrong?"

I guess, "I don't think your body wash agrees with my skin." When I see concern starting to rise on his face, I quickly assure him. "Don't worry. Sensitive skin." I brush off my hands and walk over to my bag and squat down to unzip the front pocket where I keep a small size bottle of Johnson's baby powder.

Okay, maybe I can't judge Rihaan's superman towel. I use this baby powder still... but in my defense, it's the one product that goes for any skin type and like I just claimed, mine is sensitive.

Turning to him and walking back to the desk to have another piece, I ask. "So, that tune?"

He swallows, sipping juice, and standing up. "Yes. Tune." He crosses the room and picks up his guitar.

"Oh."

"What?"

"Hmm? Nothing, I assumed it'd be on the piano."

He walks back to me, eyeing me with interest. "Why is that?"

I shrug my shoulder, "It's your favorite, isn't it?"

He puts a foot on the chair and the guitar over his knee. "Hmm, it is. I just had my guitar with me on the trip when I started working on this tune."

I nod along. "Let's hear it then."

Maybe shame on me, but instead of focusing on what he is playing, I get distracted into the person who is playing. His focus on the instrument, the way his hands move strumming the strings, the light taps he does with his feet in a rhythm, the smile on his lips as music is one thing that gives him absolute solace.

By God, the deep dimples on his cheeks. My fingers itch to touch them... kiss them.

I blink out of my thoughts when he blinks up at me, looking at me expectantly. "So, what do you think?"

I shift from one foot to another in a fix. What do I say? "Truth?"

He looks vulnerable in his response, "Please."

It's as if he expects me to tell him it was horrible or ordinary, something that isn't good enough. Oh, bless his innocence sometimes. Inhaling deeply, I push off the desk and take a step towards him. He moves his foot off the chair and on the floor. "I was not paying attention."

His forehead crinkles together, "Wh-what?"

I quickly apologize, "I'm sorry, can you blame me for getting distracted?"

His head bobs to the side and I can tell his debate. He wants to be upset with me for not focusing on something that is important to him and at the same time, wants to bask in the confession that he is a distraction for me just as much as I probably am to him.

I add in hopes to cajole him, "What you did play though, it was good."

His eyes squint in a reprimand, "You did not even pay attention to it."

I suggest, "Okay, play it again and I'll listen this time. Promise."

He puts his guitar on the desk, looking around. Picking up his tie, he returns to me.

"What are you...?"

My question hangs in the air as he covers my eyes with the material and moving his hands behind my head, fixes it in place. "Minimizing the distraction. Now, just listen, okay?"

I frown and grumble, "I would have listened even without this."

He expresses his disbelief, "Like you did the first time? Sure." Unfortunately, I cannot take offense to his lack of trust on my words for he isn't wrong.

So, this time, I listen. And maybe, it is because I can only listen that goosebumps rise on my skin along with the tiny hair on the back of my neck. Whatever I have heard him playing before from his DVD recordings have left a mark on my soul but it does not compare to hearing him play right in front of me. And, those pieces he's played before were someone else's work. This is an original and I find it all the more enchanting.

His work.

Suddenly, I understand why he wanted for me to be the first to listen to it. It takes me to a place I cannot describe. A place where there is nothing. No one. Just blissfulness. A place like heaven filled with only purity and tranquility. The kind of place I go to when I am painting. Where nothing remotely dark can touch me. Touch us.

As he plays the last note, I connect it to something particular in a language that makes sense to me. Red. The feeling I felt our second day in a Kullu village after the snow storm.

Lifting my hand to pull the fabric down and letting it rest around my neck, I blink my eyes open to meet with his. I spare no second in crossing the distance and throwing my arms around his neck, having to reach up slightly as in the past months he has gained a few inches over me.

He seems to catch my feeling as he leaves the guitar aside and wraps his strong arms around my waist. I advise in his ear, words that come straight from the bottom of my heart, "Play it for your dad. Trust me, he will be proud of you like he has never been before."

"You think so?" he questions in uncertainty pulling back slightly to look at me.

Still close to him, I cup his cheek. "You have a gift of creating music, Rihaan. I'll say it as many times you need me to before you believe it too."

He smiles down at me, resting his forehead against mine. "Once is enough. Thank you."

"Don't be silly."

He insists, "No, really. I've dabbled but it's the first one I felt confident enough to share. And you thinking it's that good? You have no idea of the boost it gives me."

I lightly tease, "Even when I don't understand music?"

He brings his hand to my cheekbone, "You understand art and both things are creative. Maybe one and the same. But, most importantly, you understand me."

Once again, he is right. Perhaps it was because I understand him that I was able to grasp the emotion behind this tune, connect it to a medium I do understand best.

I slide my hands down his neck and arms to reach his hands and take them in mine, squeezing them gently. I breathe out at loss of words. There is nothing I can say that will match his. My mind is truly blank in the moment and he catches my dilemma.

"You don't have to say anything," he reassures with an understanding in his eyes.

I understand him, just like he understands me. Stepping back, still his hands in mine, I ask. "So, can you play this tune on the piano?"

"I can, but I'm not sure it'll be the same." He explains how sounds are different on different instruments.

"I still want to hear it." I insist. When he raises a brow in question, I shrug my shoulder. "There is just something... majestic about seeing you playing the piano."

He chuckles, tugging at our joined hands to pull me closer. I almost end up stepping on his foot with the sudden pull. "So, this is for your entertainment, huh?"

Purely.

"If it is?"

The amusement in his eyes transfers to his lips in a mischievous smirk. "Then I will entertain away."

His face leans in and my eyes instinctively close anticipating a kiss. His index finger tantalizingly travels up my arm till my elbows. His nose rubs over my cheekbone, hot breath fanning my lip. I feel short of breath even though he has technically done nothing to touch me intimately.

I feel his fingers brushing the back of my neck as he unknots the tie. While his left-hand leaves, his right moves to my nape, his thumb grazing over my collar bone. I inhale sharply and I am sure he feels me shudder briefly as his fingers dig into my skin, thumb moving to brush over a sensitive area on my neck.

Just when I think he will take pity and kiss me, I feel the warmth radiating off his skin leave and cold air nips my skin. Confused, I open my eyes. His eyes fixated on me, he is walking backwards towards his piano. I did not realize a frown appeared on my lips on learning there will be no kiss until he bites back a laugh at my reaction and winks at me.

If I did not feel frustrated, I would have blushed for it does send a warm feeling to my core.

There is something sexy about his winks. Just like his dimples. And those intense cerulean blue eyes. And that mischievous smirk on his very-kissable lips.

*✧✤--------------------------✤✧*

| Author Note |

Haha, I think these two are figuring their way around each other? Only 4 more chapters for the book...! :/ 

QOTC: What are your expectations out of their NY trip? Coming up next ;) Just want to know ahead what your thought are!

Vote and comment, as always! Love reading them ! <3