His fingers closed around it reverently. "How many... donors have contributed to your work?"
"Many. Each brought something unique."
For the next hour, I guided him through the process, teaching him to harvest what we needed—bone, specific tendons, cartilage—each component carefully separated and preserved in specialized containers. His hands were unexpectedly adept. By the time we finished, his fingertips were stained with the chemicals we'd used, preservation scent embedded in his skin.
After collecting everything we needed, I carefully cleaned our tools and work area. Every element of the pianist's hands had been utilized, bones for ash, tendons for binding medium, even the skin cells for specialized pigments.
"Will you use the rest of him too?" Micah squeezed his moth as I secured the cabin.
"Yes," I replied. "Each component requires its own processing time." I turned away from the cabin. "How do you feel, Micah? About tonight?"
He hesitated. "More alive than I can remember feeling. Even more than when I gave you my finger."
"That's the paradox of death-adjacent work. Nothing makes us feel our own vitality more acutely than proximity to mortality." I cupped his cheek. "You did well tonight, my boy. Better than I dared hope."
His breath quickened, and he leaned into my touch. "Ezra…"
"I know," I murmured. "I feel it too."
My hand slid to the back of his neck, holding him in place as my lips crushed against his. He yielded immediately, opening with a soft sound caught between surrender and relief.
He tasted of mint and adrenaline, sweet with the chemical signature of desire. My other hand gripped his hip, pulling him against me.
When the kiss broke, he trembled. "Please," he said, clutching his moth against his chest with one hand while the other gripped my arm.
"Not here," I said, allowing roughness to edge my voice. "Not like this. When I take you tonight, it will be in the proper setting. With the respect such a moment deserves."
"Yes, Daddy," he replied. "If you say so."
"Good boy. Let's go home."
The drive crackled with tension. Micah angled his body toward me across the center console, leaning dangerously close whenever we rounded a curve. His breathing came quick and shallow, filling the cabin with anticipation.
As the miles passed in silence, his restraint gradually unraveled. His eyes never left my profile, tracking every subtle movement of my hands on the wheel.
When we turned onto the final stretch of road toward my home, moonlight flashing through the trees across our faces, he could contain himself no longer. He reached up, placing his hand over mine.
"Ezra," he said, my name carried the weight of prayer on his lips.
I slowed the car and lifted one hand from the wheel to stroke his lower lip. "Tonight you've proven yourself, Micah. You're ready for everything now. The exhibition, my collection, my methods... my full trust."
His eyes darkened at my words, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remained. "I want all of it," he whispered, his voice rough with need. "Everything you are. Everything you do. I've never felt more alive than tonight, with you, with your work." He tightened his grip. "Transform me like you transform them. Turn me into your masterpiece."
The raw hunger in his voice satisfied something profound within me. It should have satisfied me. Instead, it scraped at something tender I hadn't named. I guided the car up the final curve of my driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The house stood dark and waiting.
We moved through the front door without speaking, the only sounds our footsteps across the marble floor and our quickened breathing. I placed the harvested material in the refrigeration unit for later processing. Tonight required a different kind of attention.
I led him up the stairs to my bedroom, where he had stayed once before. Tonight carried a different weight as he returned, not as a guest but as a willing accomplice. I instructed him to take off his shoes and lie on the bed, which he did eagerly.I followed him down onto the mattress, hovering over him. Moonlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in silver and shadow.
I cradled his face between my hands, suddenly stunned by what I found in his eyes. Something unfamiliar and dangerous stirred in my chest. All my practiced composure abandoned me. The man who had meticulously sorted and controlled every emotion now stood drowning in unexpected longing. I crushed my mouth against his, tasting salt and copper and raw hunger. His moan vibrated against my lips as his arms wrapped around me, his body yielding with intimacy that threatened to consume us.
"Say it clearly," I commanded against his lips. "Who do you want to save you?"
"You," he whispered, then, with growing fervor, "You, Ezra. You."
My mouth traced his pulse, teeth grazing skin, drawing gasps. "Not God?" I asked between bites. "Not Jesus? Not your grandmother's vengeful deity?"
"No," he moaned as my fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, slowly exposing the pale canvas of his skin. I slid the fabric from his shoulders. Micah kicked off his shoes and pants, then stood there patiently while I removed my shirt. Moonlight painted his chest silver as I lowered my mouth. When my lips closed around his nipple, applying calculated pressure before biting just hard enough to make him cry out, he arched beneath me, wordlessly begging for more.
