Do I like my favorite album by my favorite artist as a birthday present from my boyfriend?
[Bruno laughs, loosening his hold some on Polnareff's neck and resting his forehead against Polnareff's. It seems as though he might be settling down, but not really. Or at least not entirely. There's a giddy energy that hasn't left his smile just yet because Bruno is still over the fucking moon delighted with this present.]
That better not be a serious question, or you're just lucky you're so damn cute.
[He can't help himself; he kisses Polnareff again because it's not just that it's his favorite album by his favorite artist. It's that Polnareff listened and remembered. It's that Polnareff gave Bruno a piece of home that he can share with him beyond just stories and words. Which is why despite the exuberant joy Bruno still feels at receiving this present, he stops teasing. At least for just a moment.]
Grazie infinite, luce dei miei occhi. Per me tu sei tutto.
[Oh. Oh, and he doesn't speak Italian, but he knows enough to understand that. His breath catches, his fingers tightening around Bruno's hips. It's not just the words (though they play no small part in his delight). It's the fact that Bruno so rarely allows himself such permanent affection. Even those I love yous were surprising; to hear something like you are my everything is stunning.]
Per me tu sei tutto.
[He echoes the words clumsily, his accent stressing on the wrong syllables. He means it, though. Every word. Polnareff smiles, his fingers dragging down to wrap around the back of Bruno's neck.]
Mm. You should thank Fugo, too. It cost me a song to get it. He's the only reason that song was any good.
[Bruno feels Polnareff's fingers tighten around his hips, but it doesn't bother him because he's here and he's grounded. The words he's used, well, they aren't always easy for him to say. Not because there's doubt in his mind about whether or not they're true, but always the weight of them. There are some moments though, where it's easier. Sometimes it's a case of the feelings being too big to keep quiet about them. Other times, it's just the moment being a perfect reflection of what love is supposed to look like. Right now and here on their bed (because Bruno sometimes has a hard time remembering that it's just his), it's a little of both.]
I will. Later, [he promises. And then he kisses Polnareff again, slow and sweet, for his clumsy Italian a moment ago. He pulls back and ends the kiss with smaller, gentler kisses as he lets go of Polnareff's neck.] But right now...
[He grins a little wider again, pressing a quick kiss to Polnareff's lips, and gets up to head over to the gramophone. How he's managed to last this long without doing that is really anyone's guess.]
[As Bruno gets up to put the record on, Polnareff clears the bed. He's surprisingly neat about it, stacking everything carefully next to the bed, out of the way where it won't be stepped on. Then he stretches out, settling on what's become his side of the bed, waiting for Bruno to come back and curl against him.]
So do they have individual tracks, or's it just one long piece?
[He curls his arm around Bruno's side, fingers idly slipping under his shirt to tease against his stomach. And . . .
The truth is, he doesn't like it. It's just not his style; he likes music that's loud and fast, with a hard beat. Clubbing music, rock music, anything that gets him energized. This isn't that. It's slow and smoky, drifting from one note to the next. It isn't bad-- he'd probably like it a lot more in the background-- but it's just not his style.
But he loves Bruno, so he keeps quiet and contents himself with enjoying the press of his body.]
[Quiet from Polnareff would normally be impossible not to notice and probably earn at least one comment, but not right now. It's not so much that Bruno's ignoring Polnareff or even forgotten he's there. He's aware of the fingers that have slipped under his shirt and the solid feel of his body next to him. It's just not where his attention is.]
[Bruno could never forget what this album sounds like. He's listened to it hundreds, perhaps even thousands of times, making it so that he knows each track from start to finish. But in some ways, this feels like his first time hearing it after having gone this long without it. He's practically basking in it, relaxing entirely against Polnareff with his eyes closed and a content smile on his face.]
In the afternoons, before my parents divorced, it would just be me and my mother. Sometimes I helped her out with chores around the house, but I always helped her with dinner. She usually let me pick what we would listen to, but I picked this one so many times out of her collection that she actually hid it from me. [Bruno smiles a little wider.] She told me that only lasted for a few days though because the guilt started to eat at her.
I remember it was her turn to pick when she managed to "find" it again. She put it on when I wasn't paying attention, and I was so happy she did, I tried to convince her to let me just make dinner by myself.
[Bruno hums in quiet acknowledgment that it is somewhat of an unusual choice in music for a five year old.]
Mamma listened to a lot of jazz when I was a kid, but this album sounded so different compared to the others she had. I just wanted to listen to it again and again when I was young to see if I'd notice anything different about the songs even though I'd heard them dozens of times.
[He curls up a little closer to Polnareff.]
I also just really liked the sound of his trumpet even as a kid. Miles Davis was so talented, he could tell an entire story or make conversation with only the sound of his trumpet. I don't know of any other artist who can use an instrument like that.
[He doesn't like the record all that much, but he can appreciate that, at least. Polnareff hums his agreement, his eyes closing as he does. He'd been right: he likes the record a bit more when they're lying here talking and it plays in the background. It adds to the conversation, puts him in a wonderfully relaxed mood. Idly, he wishes he had a cigarette, but he won't ruin this for Bruno.]
Are his other records like this? Like--
[He gestures vaguely, indicating the drifting notes of the song.]
[He's not entirely sure what the gesture means, but he doesn't exactly need to to answer the question. Bruno shakes his head a little.]
No, all of his records are something a little different from the others. He didn't believe in doing the same thing over and over again. He believed in that so much that he actually refused to play a lot of his earlier work live in his later career because to him that era of music had passed, so he didn't have any passion for playing it anymore.
It was his constant innovation that kept his career going for so long and influenced so many artists outside of jazz that came after him.
[That's actually pretty cool. Polnareff considers that as his hand once again plunges beneath Bruno's shirt.]
He was that important, huh?
[So like . . . like the Beatles, maybe, if they're going to compare it to something he knows. Changing the entire game around, making it so everyone had to struggle to keep up. He can respect that. It's certainly unlike any jazz he's ever heard (not that he's heard much, but still).]
Mm. Maybe sometime we'll get some more of his records, and we can compare.
[A beat, and then he adds:]
It was kind of a miracle I got this one, that's all I mean by maybe.
[Bruno lifts his head to kiss just once at Polnareff's jaw. His hand moves up to cup Polnareff's cheek and gently turn his head so he can kiss him on his lips. Both kisses are brief and chaste, and Bruno's touch is gentle.]
Thank you again. The album means a lot to me and it means even more to me that you went through the trouble of getting it.
[There was a time when that look in Polnareff's eyes would have given rise to enough anxiety that Bruno would pull away abruptly and with barely any warning. But nowadays... Well, the anxiety isn't all that way gone. There's still a lot of things they need to work through and think about. But it's better. It's so much better that Bruno can't help that things feel fairly close to perfect without the thought being terrifying.]
[I love you, he thinks, but he knows not to push his luck. There's only so many times he can say that without souring things. So he pushes it into his kiss, enthusiastic and eager, as hard a kiss as he can make it. I love you, and he brushes his thumb against the side of his throat, the movement as possessive as it is loving.]
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[Bruno laughs, loosening his hold some on Polnareff's neck and resting his forehead against Polnareff's. It seems as though he might be settling down, but not really. Or at least not entirely. There's a giddy energy that hasn't left his smile just yet because Bruno is still over the fucking moon delighted with this present.]
That better not be a serious question, or you're just lucky you're so damn cute.
[He can't help himself; he kisses Polnareff again because it's not just that it's his favorite album by his favorite artist. It's that Polnareff listened and remembered. It's that Polnareff gave Bruno a piece of home that he can share with him beyond just stories and words. Which is why despite the exuberant joy Bruno still feels at receiving this present, he stops teasing. At least for just a moment.]
Grazie infinite, luce dei miei occhi. Per me tu sei tutto.
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Per me tu sei tutto.
[He echoes the words clumsily, his accent stressing on the wrong syllables. He means it, though. Every word. Polnareff smiles, his fingers dragging down to wrap around the back of Bruno's neck.]
Mm. You should thank Fugo, too. It cost me a song to get it. He's the only reason that song was any good.
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I will. Later, [he promises. And then he kisses Polnareff again, slow and sweet, for his clumsy Italian a moment ago. He pulls back and ends the kiss with smaller, gentler kisses as he lets go of Polnareff's neck.] But right now...
[He grins a little wider again, pressing a quick kiss to Polnareff's lips, and gets up to head over to the gramophone. How he's managed to last this long without doing that is really anyone's guess.]
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So do they have individual tracks, or's it just one long piece?
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This record has one track per side, and the other has two. Each side's between 20 to just a little under 30 minutes long.
[Once it's been cranked enough, Bruno sets the needle, and returns to the bed, settling in against Polnareff as soon as he gets there.]
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The truth is, he doesn't like it. It's just not his style; he likes music that's loud and fast, with a hard beat. Clubbing music, rock music, anything that gets him energized. This isn't that. It's slow and smoky, drifting from one note to the next. It isn't bad-- he'd probably like it a lot more in the background-- but it's just not his style.
But he loves Bruno, so he keeps quiet and contents himself with enjoying the press of his body.]
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[Bruno could never forget what this album sounds like. He's listened to it hundreds, perhaps even thousands of times, making it so that he knows each track from start to finish. But in some ways, this feels like his first time hearing it after having gone this long without it. He's practically basking in it, relaxing entirely against Polnareff with his eyes closed and a content smile on his face.]
In the afternoons, before my parents divorced, it would just be me and my mother. Sometimes I helped her out with chores around the house, but I always helped her with dinner. She usually let me pick what we would listen to, but I picked this one so many times out of her collection that she actually hid it from me. [Bruno smiles a little wider.] She told me that only lasted for a few days though because the guilt started to eat at her.
I remember it was her turn to pick when she managed to "find" it again. She put it on when I wasn't paying attention, and I was so happy she did, I tried to convince her to let me just make dinner by myself.
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Oh, no.
[That's for his mother hiding the record, but the rest of that story is both endearing and perfectly in line with Bruno.]
How old were you?
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Of course you were. That's a hell of a long time to like a record, though. 'M surprised you liked it so young.
[It doesn't seem like the kind of music that would appeal to a five year old, that's all.]
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Mamma listened to a lot of jazz when I was a kid, but this album sounded so different compared to the others she had. I just wanted to listen to it again and again when I was young to see if I'd notice anything different about the songs even though I'd heard them dozens of times.
[He curls up a little closer to Polnareff.]
I also just really liked the sound of his trumpet even as a kid. Miles Davis was so talented, he could tell an entire story or make conversation with only the sound of his trumpet. I don't know of any other artist who can use an instrument like that.
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Are his other records like this? Like--
[He gestures vaguely, indicating the drifting notes of the song.]
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No, all of his records are something a little different from the others. He didn't believe in doing the same thing over and over again. He believed in that so much that he actually refused to play a lot of his earlier work live in his later career because to him that era of music had passed, so he didn't have any passion for playing it anymore.
It was his constant innovation that kept his career going for so long and influenced so many artists outside of jazz that came after him.
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He was that important, huh?
[So like . . . like the Beatles, maybe, if they're going to compare it to something he knows. Changing the entire game around, making it so everyone had to struggle to keep up. He can respect that. It's certainly unlike any jazz he's ever heard (not that he's heard much, but still).]
Mm. Maybe sometime we'll get some more of his records, and we can compare.
[A beat, and then he adds:]
It was kind of a miracle I got this one, that's all I mean by maybe.
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Thank you again. The album means a lot to me and it means even more to me that you went through the trouble of getting it.
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You're more than worth it, you know that?
[He pushes his fingers through Bruno's hair. The music still plays in the background, low and soothing, and Polnareff's smile grows.]
Happy birthday, chéri.
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[So, he kisses that growing smile.]
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