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You’re blessed with pianist’s hands, his ma would tell him. Meant for loving not fighting. A memory that rings through him quietly anytime he patches up Rick after the occasional brawl breaks out in the cafe. Usually some hot around the collar young ‘un, all fussed about his girl mooning after Rick. “Wish you’d exercise a little restraint, Sir.” He tsks like he always does and grabs the cloth from Sam. His hand half envelopes Sam’s as he does before he gives his forehead a cursory wipe.“Stop fussing, Sam.”So he does. Sam always stops when Rick asks.
In the old jazz house in the forgotten Paris square, before they tore it down, he’d sit and watch the others take their turn at the piano, each slinking off one by one as the night wore on and the clapping wore thin. He always dragged it out, drawing out his one drink for most of the night, letting each song weave through him, before he finally made his way to the keys. One night his shoulders prickle, like they do when anticipating the warmth just as you’re about to put on your coat. He doesn’t stop playing though. He makes his way through the notes. Owes them that much. When he finishes, he turns around, no performance pause. His gaze slots with the dark eyes. They’re slightly narrowed, already bracketed by lines even then. Sam stares and the lines become more distinct. Rick - he didn’t know it was Rick then - lifts his cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply. He seems to suck Sam in with it. Sam’s at his table. “A man could make a religion out of your music.” His eyes drag at Sam.A smile waits behind Sam’s closed lips. “He could. I wouldn’t mind just as long as he paid me.” There is a flicker in the dark eyes, something Sam can’t catch. “Well then. I’ll pay you with a congregation every night.” The lines around his mouth soften.Well then. A world of promises in those two gruff words. Sam was already prepared to sign before Rick had finished speaking.
Her entrance is inevitable. He’d let the flings go by, entertained by them even, water off a duck’s back like they said. But this, he can’t shake this off. It holds to him like oil. He sees how Rick’s hard eyes go liquid for her. Not usually one for jealousy and it’s a shock when he feels the blue moon urge to crack his knuckles against something. But his are pianist’s hands. Made for loving, not fighting. So he loves them. He loves their love. He writes for their love. In the end, it’s easy. It’s like writing for himself. The fundamental things still apply.
The winter coat warmth at his back. There every night. It’s become so that Sam can’t seem to end the night until he’s sensed it, playing into the late hours for only a few stray figures wilting at the bar, until his fingers twinge. Some nights Rick comes to stop him with his fingers pressing over Sam’s, bringing the notes to a discordant standstill. “Enough, Sam. You earned your congregation and a half tonight.” One of his hands will take Sam’s, massage it.“Stop fussing, Mr. Rick.” But Rick doesn’t stop massaging. He doesn't always listen when Sam asks.
He figured she’d take the liquid softness with her. But there are glances in which he spies something a little less than the granite that stops questions, the granite that demands devotion. Sometimes, he thinks, almost short of breath, it’s as if Rick is offering devotion. A breath-stealing kind of notion. A case of do or die. Too dangerous for the likes of him.
He didn’t bank on her return. He does feel like a daredevil then, playing too easy with an open flame. His fingers burn, and his heart cracks for Rick. His knuckles prickle with the need for stinging. But he holds back. His ma’s voice comes to him, made for loving not fighting. So he loves. He holds back the anger, the fury at life’s cruelty, and instead tries to veer Rick away from the worst of it. Tries to shield Rick from the inevitable. He fears the inevitable for Rick. For himself, he longs for it. And then, for penance, he regrets it. Wipes away the wishful visions. Conjures up a future in which Rick is happy without him, a future in which he is without Rick.
His conjurings prove too strong. He understands that Rick is planning to flee with her. Rick will take back the future that was taken from him. He envies Rick his bravery, his entitlement. It is not something that Sam has ever considered. He will sit back and coax the same notes from the piano as he always has. And the shadow at his back, the winter coat warmth, he will have to sacrifice it. He resigns himself. He always has. He wears it well. It’s what has protected him all these years. But then comes the thing most dangerous to a resigned man. Rumors of Rick in the Congo, not America. Rumors of Rick alone, not with her. Rumors that pour hope into him, sticky and unrelenting. And resignation is no longer a possibility. Because hope makes way for that rarity, the sweet, sharp conviction to reach out.
He tries to hold back, like he always has. He expects to. But when he sees Rick, what comes out isn’t what he expects."You left." His voice shakes and he swallows. He curls his trembling fingers into unrelenting fists. "I made sure you and the others were well supported. That you'd need for nothing."He feels the betrayal spear his gut, the anger simmer until it bubbles hot at his throat. “That I’d need for nothing?” Sam’s laugh is low and brief, the drag of Rick’s eyes stoppering sound. The lines sit heavier on Rick’s forehead. “Mm, I thought I’d considered everything.” His rasp is thoughtful. He tugs at the coat hanging on Sam’s arm, but Sam holds it tight."Why did you leave, Mr. Rick? You always putting yourself on the line for others." What he wants to ask is why Rick left him. "Come on now, Sam. I ain't no hero. Besides, it's easy to do that when I got someone watching out for me."Sam blinks at him. "Has Brazzaville turned you into a praying man?" He feels his brow wrinkle in surprised confusion.Rick’s laugh sounds less like a laugh and more like he's trying to clear his throat."No, Sam, no." He looks up, the smile falling from his face. "Or, perhaps in a way, I always was. How many Gods wait quietly for their non-believers to come to them, to become believers?" This time when he tugs at Sam’s coat, it comes easily. Sam shakes his head. “Mr. Rick, you’re not talking sense.” Rick moves closer."Then again, how many Gods follow in the footsteps of their non-believers?"A kiss is just a kiss. But there is nothing just about this kiss. Rick still watches him with that heavy look. The same look that he’s always pinned on Sam, pinned Sam with. “Have you…” Sam has to fight to get the words out. “You mean me?”“You’re making a believer of me, Sam.” Rick’s rough hand warm at his cheek. An accusation and a declaration, both. A sweet duality to Sam’s ears.
Later, much later, Rick pushes himself up onto his forearms. “A man could make a religion out of you.” His eyes drag at Sam.A smile waits between Sam’s panting lips. “He could. I wouldn’t mind just as long as he loved me.” And Rick does.
“Rick… Don’t stop.”And he doesn’t. Sometimes Rick listens when Sam asks.