tuned scales

08-23-25

701 words

Frederick Kreiburg adjusted his gloves for the third time, the fine leather creaking softly as he tugged them snug. The study was spotless–every book aligned to the millimetre, every paper stacked into neat, measured towers. The sharp scent of alcohol polishing lingered in the air. Clean. Controlled. Exactly as it should be. Even the brass doorknob gleamed from the vigorous polishing he’d given it not five minutes ago.

Which was, of course, precisely when Luchini Diruse decided to enter.

The door creaked open with a lazy shove, and there he was–hair unruly, coat slung half-off one shoulder, and his hands... Frederick’s stomach turned. His hands were stained black and grey, a cocktail of ink and chalk that left dark smudges along the edge of the door he leaned on.

“You–” Frederick’s voice caught halfway between outrage and disbelief. “Do you ever even attempt basic hygiene?”

Luchino arched a brow, lips tugging into a grin as he strolled further inside. “Good evening to you too, Kreiburg” he spat out his last name like an insult. The composer only furrowed his brows at this. He crossed the room with long strides, trailing a careless hand along the polished desk. When he lifted it, he left behind a perfect print of blackened fingertips.

For heaven’s sake, Diruse.

Frederick’s eyes widened in horror. “That desk was immaculate!”

“Didn’t I make it better?” Luchino replied, smirking as he sprawled casually into the nearest chair. “Change your clothes at least, will you? You’re covered in dirt and grime–where did you even come from?! Get off the chair!”

Frederick lunged for a cloth, already scrubbing furiously at the mark. “You are intolerable, Luchino Diruse.”

“And you,” Luchino drawled, “are far too easy to provoke.” He leaned forward in the chair, bracing his elbows on his knees. “All that fuss over a smudge. Yet you look like you might faint from more than disgust.”

Frederick stiffened. He did not dignify the remark with a response. But he felt it–the prickling heat climbing up his neck, the way Luchino’s eyes tracked every twitch of his hands.

“Ahh,” the professor said softly as though savouring a revelation. “It’s not just irritation.”

He stood, closing the space between them with unhurried ease. Frederick instinctively stepped back, only to collide with the edge of his desk. Luchino’s grin widened.

“Luchino–” Frederick’s protest cut short as Luchino caught his wrist. His grip was wamr, ungloved and Frederick could feel the faint tackiness of ink smearing against his pristine leather. The urge to recoil warred with the strange, shuddering heat that locked him in place.

“You hate it,” Luchino murmured, lifting Frederick’s hand as though to study the contrast of black stains against pale glove. “But maybe you hate wanting it even more.”

Frederick’s chest rose sharply, every nerve alive with conflict.

Luchino buried his nose into Frederick’s neck. His hot breath made the composer shudder. “And you–” he whispered, “you smell terrified. Sweet.” His teeth grazed the shell of Frederick’s ear. “Like soap and panic.”

Frederick’s knees weakened. The rational part of him screamed that this was filth, contamination, wrong. But beneath it was something darker, a coil of heat twisting at his gut each time Luchino pressed closer, each time that feral, earthy scent filled his lungs.

“You don’t even realize it, do you?” Luchino’s voice was velvet, low and relentless. “Everytime you clean, every time you polish yourself... you’re this neat and clean composer but under that... under me…” the professor cupped Frederick’s jaw, smearing another black across pale skin, “under me you stink of desire, Frederick.”

Frederick shuddered violently, trapped between revulsion and aching want. Gloves over callused hands clutched at Luchino’s collar, dragging him closer.

“See? What’d I say?” Luchino laughed, soft and predatory. The composer shushed him with a kiss.

Their tongues lapped around each other, chasing each other for more. It was messy–the taste of smoke slid over Frederick’s tongue. The clean crisp scent of his own world shattered under the sheer force of Luchino’s presence–all must and damp earth and heat. Frederick melted against his desk, control unraveling as his senses drowned.

Frederick tried to gasp for air but instead craved Luchino’s scent, digging into his chest to smell sweat and grime.