In Flagrante

Kyle Fitzpatrick was always destined to go up in flames, but he'd never dreamt it before that night.

He was onstage at the piano, hours into a lengthy practice session. The session had started with new works, as they usually did, but the piece that consumed him now was one he'd very nearly mastered. Concentrating on perfecting his performance, Kyle barely noticed when another man joined him on the stage.

He wasn't a stranger to the feeling of the maestro behind him. The man had taught him everything. In those many years at and against the piano, Sander Cohen had cultivated his talent, nurtured his passion. By now, Fitzpatrick found it second nature to be watched as he practiced.

Kyle continued, absorbed in the musical landscape. Even when Cohen pressed closer, he didn't falter. The scent of greasepaint and sweat and long dead jasmine blended with the rise and fall of the melody as his fingers flew over the keys.

The arrangement was natural and beautiful and almost effortless.

Cohen usually called out direction as he watched, but this evening he was silent and still. Even his breathing was slow. A proud smile formed on Fitzpatrick's face. Could it be that he had finally impressed the master? How wonderfully unexpected.

When the maestro grasped him, it was even more unexpected. Physical passion rarely interrupted musical passion, even with a teacher as consumed by wanton artistry as his. The notes soured and trailed off as Cohen wrapped his arms tightly around him, leaning in. He almost cried out when the damp handkerchief was pressed against his face.

The ether acted quickly. That cloying smell. Panic rising in his chest. A brief moment of uncoordinated struggle. Then the world went watery before his eyes and his body sagged, held upright by the practiced grasp of the maestro. Pulling him from the bench, Cohen dragged Kyle backstage to prepare him.

His consciousness drifted back a sliver at a time. Between bouts of senselessness, he saw the blurry flicker of firelight, heard the melodic voice of his teacher. Only as he fought to regain full consciousness did he register the details of his predicament.

Fitzpatrick found himself kneeling on the settee in Cohen's dressing room, heavy cord looped around his throat and binding his wrists and ankles behind him. He struggled to tilt his head, but the bindings kept his eyes firmly angled skyward. Tears trickled slowly down his cheeks. A cloth was fastened in his mouth. It tasted of bitter perfume and copper and plaster. His throat ached.

Cohen was leaning over him, gloves off and fingers enflamed. His head was bent as he worked, the firelight reflected in his eyes. He was whispering excitedly, but Kyle couldn't decypher his words through the anesthetic haze. Something about greatness and creation and sacrifice and beauty.

Kyle realized that the warmth of the fire was close, too close. He felt the radiating sting of the flames on his bared chest. The wet, prickling sensation. The contraction of his flesh as it burned. Pain drifted in and out of his thoughts, glowed and ebbed and took hold beneath his skin.

The crackle of the flames was almost too much to bear.

Fitzpatrick groaned, resonant even through the bunched gag. He tried to lean away, to escape the heat, but it was no use.

"Still. Stay still, cara mia," murmured the master pianist brightly, "I've almost finished my masterpiece. I know you're excited to see it, but you must stop moving."

True to his word, Cohen ceased his work after another few minutes and stepped back for one final critical look. Everything seemed to be in order. He pulled his gloves on and released the cord around Fitzpatrick's neck with a flourish, gently directing the younger man's gaze to the mirror on the vanity table before them.

"My finest work. For you," he announced, savoring every word. "...you will play it for me."

Fitzpatrick stared. The image before his eyes was almost unreal. Raised marks of broken flesh covered his torso, glistening and red with charred edges. No – not just marks – musical notation.

He blinked, trying to focus on the notes even as his head lolled and his mind raced. What had Cohen done to him? Had he seen this work before? What would it sound like? Why was the maestro doing this? Why him?

Kyle realized then that he was never the artist. He would never be the artist. He was the work.

He had never been more terrified.