He hugged her and held her tightly. A firm hold that showed no dominance. Union. He ran his hands along her. Gently. Did not want to disturb her. Did not want to tarnish or stain her. He could play her, and she knew how to respond with the right notes. In the right tone.
She was an extension of him. A mouth with no lips. Eyes that never opened. Her life was breathed into him through his palms, came in wisps from his finger tips. She was him, a part of him – but not always. She could be separated. Detached. Stored away. Brought out. Displayed. Not always needed.
Tonight, though, tonight she was.
He played, and she vibrated back against him. The echoes of his emotions reverberated, returned to him, and what could he do but weep? Weep that he had been able to release them. Weep that she had received them. Weep that she had returned them. Weep that what quivered within him could shake part of the world. Weep that pain is a mortar.
About this boy in the corner in the chair much can be written. We could describe his hands and clothes. We could describe us as we watched him. We could describe how he held himself, how he held his cello. We could describe those things, but the only thing that mattered to Liam and the only thing that matters to use is how Liam saw the world, which was not very well since he eyes never opened, and what Liam said to the world, which was not a lot because his lips never parted.