| Piano Fingers |
| "Hold up your hand." He gives you a strange look, and you think it's perfectly understandable. After all, you're both lying in bed, pitch black all around you, just talking nonsense to each other. The two of you do it a lot. Whether you're both actually awake or not, you talk to each other. You think that maybe you enjoy talking to him more when he's asleep because he's more agreeable that way. When he still doesn't hold up his hand, you wish he were asleep now. You bat your eyelashes at him, and then curse the dark because he can't see you. What good is a pair of puppy dog eyes to get your way if he can't see you? Sighing, you roll over and flip on the bedside lamp. You both flinch against the light at first, but as your pupils adjust to the harsh brightness, you roll back over and look at him. "Come on Josh, hold up your hand." He sighs dramatically, and it makes you grin and roll your eyes because he's such a drama queen. He finally holds up his hand, and you set yours against his. You frown and stick out your lower lip. When he chuckles you glance up. "Lance, what's with the face?" he grins, reaching out and running a finger over your bottom lip. You scowl, but it just makes him grin wider. Sighing, you hold out your touching hands. "My hands are too small," you whine, pulling what Justin would call a "Perfect Ten" pout. He bursts into giggles; not laughter, but actual twelve-year-old girl giggles, and it makes you grin despite your bad news. He reaches over and pokes you in the stomach, causing you to squeak and him to laugh harder. Really, you're trying so hard to glare, but it just isn't working. His smiling eyes and soft giggles are enough to have you grinning like a fool for days. After he's calmed down a bit, you sigh and raise a perfect eyebrow. "What, pray tell, is so funny?" You sound stupid and you know it, but you don't care. Not when it's Josh. If he can giggle, then dammit, you can talk fancy. He grins at you and squeezes your hand. "What brought on this sudden knowledge that your hands are too small?" You shrug because you really have no idea. It's just that, well, you have small hands. He has big ones. Joey has big ones. Justin has really big ones. Chris has small ones, but you figure that small people must have small hands, so he pretty much evens out. "Your hands are bigger than mine," you say. "So?" "Justin and Joey's hands are bigger than mine too." "And?" "And I think I should have bigger hands," you whine. "Guys are supposed to have big, rough hands right? Mine are small and," you scowl, "pretty." He grins and grabs your right hand, planting little wet kisses all over it and up your arm. "I like your hands," he says just as his lips reach your ear and start to nibble. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound because *he's* the giggler, not you. Each partner has a job in every relationship. In yours, Josh is the giggler. He giggles. A lot. And you? You are the freak with small hands. Oh joy. He senses that you're still worrying about your hands, and sighs quietly. Holding up his hand and yours again, he puts them together. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe you have normal hands and I have freakishly large ones?" Your face scrunches up in thought because, no, that hadn't occurred to you. After mulling it over for a few minutes, you shake your head. "No," you say, completely sure of yourself, "your hands aren't too big. You just have long fingers. Piano fingers." Holding up his hand in front of your face, you trace the outline of it with your fingers. You've always loved his hands. You love it when he runs his fingers through your hair at night. It never fails to soothe you into a good night's sleep. You love to watch him write anything. His handwriting leaves something to be desired, but you couldn't care less as long as get to watch him write. Watch his fingers curl around a pencil and compose a gorgeous ballad in one sitting. He never fails to amaze you. You love that he has piano fingers. You think that if given the opportunity, you could watch Josh play the piano for hours on end. You love to watch his long fingers caress the ivory keys, always stopping to reintroduce himself to the instrument before each song. Then, he plays. Oh boy, can he play. The music just seems to come from somewhere deep inside of him, every time, and it flows through his fingers like ink from a pen. Sometimes he plays haunting melodies, songs that rip at your heart and leave you gasping for air. Other times he'll play meaningful ballads, the ones that you have you reaching for the tissues every other minute. He even plays light, cheerful songs that have yet to fail in brightening your mood just a little bit. Most of all though, you love how his fingers connect perfectly with yours, like pieces in a puzzle. Your small hands fit perfectly inside of his larger ones, and you realize that you wouldn't trade that for anything in the world. Sighing happily, you look over at him and find him watching you with a smile on his face. "You looked pretty happy for a minute there," he says softly. "What were you thinking about?" "You," you say with a smile. Grabbing his hand, you give it a kiss and tuck it close to your heart. "And your piano fingers." THE END |