He loved him.
His rough, chiseled features… the large, muscular build of his stature… how his skin gleamed in the sunlight as if it were a millions different elements all packed into a present; with modest wrapping. No mane to tarnish his perfect features with thousands of strands of hair… Which the thought of him having one would simply let his mind stray to seeing it damp and falling across his enthralling, dead-eyed stare. It was peaceful romance.
They would play often together, usually one offering his love-filled touch to his lover, exciting the submissive to cry out in beautiful tones. The best part was that nopony cared to see the two of them "do it" in public, or rather, they would pay to see the two of them go at it.
But nopony knew.
Nopony knew the true emotions either was experiencing; the feelings of promise and truth behind such a relationship that others would call “distasteful” or “impure”.
But outsiders loved it all the same.
Frederic Horseshoepin knew his love would last, always by his side. Or, at least, waiting for his recital. After all, a piano is still a piano. It has legs, but can’t walk.
Frederic would stay late after his recitals all the same, “practicing” his notes, he called it.
“More like jacking off…” He thought, his mind and heart racing. Frederic felt his face and neck grow warm with the idea of somepony walking in whe- IF he ever did that to his love.
He’d stopped his -ahem- ‘Moonlight Sonatas’ back when he’d heard the giggles of Octavia and her own electrically-maned wife (fiancee at the time) playing with Octavia’s bass bow in the next room.
I don’t believe I’d need to tell you what he saw the two of them doing with said bow.
Seems like everypony’s got a music fetish, apparently…
Frederic Horseshoepin made sure that his conductor assigned him the position of closing down the music house, and Frederic himself checked earlier that nopony was left inside but him… But… Should he?
“Yes,” The piano soundlessly begged to him. The gleam of the overhead lights made it’s ebony coat turn alabaster. Frederic’s ear twitched in expectancy. He then took a deep breathe and started his favourite melody, the familiar anticipation rising in his throat when he played music with his instrument.
He was playing a tune of his own making, the lilting notes filling the empty hall with gleaming sounds and passionate cadenzas for each song. Note after note was birthed from the instrument, a cry of it’s own creation. Each tone gave an icy sound, imitating a soft snowfall. It’s sound belonged to nothing else. Snowflakes dusted the ground in Frederic’s mind. The snowflakes of his piano. He’d never felt more together with himself. He reached a faster-paced part of the song that required a lot of… “Oomph,” He would say.
Frederic’s tan hooves moved faster, the keys moving up and down with his timing. His forelegs started to ache, the pressure building up inside of his body in more ways than one. His song was now higher, faster; as if millions of white snowflakes were spinning into a icy blizzard that escalated more and more. Sharp, paced, and harmonious with each other, tying the song into itself.
He reached his crescendo and felt as much in harmony with the piano as he ever did. Frederic’s love had found a home in the instrument’s features, and in song format also. He then let his hooves relax, effortlessly moving over his partner’s body as he wove the seductive song into a lullaby. He knew what he felt. And it wasn’t the warmth in his thighs or the sweat beading on the back of his neck that let him know for sure. It was the passion he held for the piano, the joy he felt when he touched it. The hours and hours sitting by it, blossoming happiness and dependency from merely nothing at all, seeing the beauty in a inanimate object… That should be the purest form of affection.
Frederic finished the song, and leaned down to kiss his true love on the keys.
“You’ve never wronged me, sweet piano.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Snnrk!”
“Vinyl, shut up! He might notice us!”
“But Octavia!”
“Hey, you wanted to get this on video; be glad I’m helping.”
The pair of mares were whispering behind the curtain of the stage, suppressing laughter in fear of becoming known to the tan-and-white stallion. The Octavia’s camera lens peeked ever so gently out from underneath, capturing all of pianist’s actions on film.
This is for giving Octavia more weekend hours, you jackass.
“Hey, Octy, why didn’t you record us when we were going at it?”
Octavia managed to slap Vinyl as quietly as she could, red-faced in the beam of light coming in from underneath the curtain.
“Because that wouldn’t be very ladylike or dignified at all, you ruffian.”
“Said the mare who likes it up the-” Octavia clamped a hoof over her wife’s mouth, and shut off the recorder.
