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As the Seasons Grey	By : christinecornell Category: Celebrities - Misc > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 46 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Started life as kinky Christmas-related short stories in 2022 and took on a life of its own shortly thereafter. 100 fiction, none of this is real, and I own nothing except for the character of Christine.

Chapter List
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“I was hoping you’d make it.”
Alex showed me that sweet little smile as I walked on up to him through the darkness. It was nearly midnight and he had asked me to join him for a little something special. Something “immersive” as he called it, just in time for the world of Christmas. No snow had begun to fall in the Hollywood hills behind us as of yet, but I knew it was coming up there in the meantime. One wouldn’t think of Los Angeles as being all that festive, especially since he toured with the East Coast wing, but he and I were both adamant about it when I had met him back in New York City.
He took out a small, brass key from his pocket and he unlocked the back door to the concert hall for me. When I emerged into the patch of dim light courtesy of the street lamp off to the side there, I noticed the soft reddish sheen to his jacket: a deep red wine shade of velvet for a luxurious evening. Though neither he nor I had a lot of money on hand at the moment, we would make do of it all.
He then held the door for me with a thoughtful look plastered on his handsome face.
I bowed my head and showed him a shy smile as I walked in through the door there. He closed it right behind us and then he turned to me, still with the thoughtful expression on his face.
“What’d you say your name was again?” he asked me: given we were inside, he needn’t have to speak so loudly; his voice was so gentle and warm, like a pouring of wild fresh honey on freshly crisp toast on a cold morning.
“Didn’t. It’s Chris. Short for Christine.”
“Okay,” he said with a slight nod and a little smile to accompany it, “Chris, short for Christine—come with me.” He was so adorable with the way that he talked, almost out of one side of his mouth like he was about to crack me a really bad joke somewhere along the way. He reached behind me and flipped a couple of switches there on the wall by the door, one for the backstage area as well as the actual concert hall itself beyond there.
Alex led me along the backstage area until we reached a spot of brighter light, right before a heavy black curtain with sparkles embedded within, and once he turned to me, I was better able to look into his face and those deep-set soulful eyes of his. Though he was approaching forty, I never would have believed it from the smooth silkiness of his skin. I had the strangest desire to suddenly kiss him on the neck, right underneath his chin, just to feel the softness there, to see if he really was in fact that tender and soft.
He had brushed his shaggy rag mop of jet-black hair, which had grown out to where the ends caressed his shoulders. Though I absolutely went ape shit over his long lush curls as a young buck, he looked rather cute with scruffy hair. He also reminded me of Sweeney Todd with that little sole plume of gray at the front of his head.
I took a glimpse down to his body, to the crushed deep red velvet that encapsulated his slim body, the black vest underneath as well as the white silk button-up shirt. I spotted the delicate little silver Star of David about the size of a dime around his neck, as light as freshly fallen snow.
He turned to me, still with that smile on his face: he had prominent dimples that only made me want to kiss him more. He set his hands on the lapels of his coat and I noticed the fine, narrow light spot on his left ring finger. Recently divorced, and a sight that gave me a whole manner of questions no less.
“Ready?” he asked me.
“Ready.”
He reached to the right and pushed the curtain back, which in turn revealed the concert hall to me. Rows upon rows of seats extended back into the shadows at the far side of the vast room, as if it went on for an eternity. I glanced up to the ceiling and the chandelier right at the center of it all: the color and the shape of the whole thing reminded me of the anatomically correct shape of a human heart. I lowered my gaze to the stage right next to him, big enough for the whole entire performance, the orchestra as it awaited for their turn in the coming nights, and yet we had the time to have the building all to ourselves.
“Ta-da,” he declared.
“Beautiful,” I muttered. “I almost feel like I’m at the North Pole.”
“You should see the snow when it comes down during some songs,” he assured me as he led me out to the middle of the stage, right next to the stools where the bassist and one of the guitarists were directed to. “Especially during ‘Wizards of Winter.’ The snow just comes down in a vortex while I’m soloing.”
I turned my head again, that time for a better look at the four V.I.P. seats right before the stage and the orchestra pit. The plush upholstery of the seats made me yearn for a mug full of hot chocolate with those little marshmallows inside.
Alex knelt down to a cabinet right next to the platform for one of the drum kits and he took out a big green bottle of dark red wine, an old-fashioned corkscrew, and a pair of crystalline glasses. He set them both down atop the cabinet and he undid the cork with a flick of his wrist.
Soft skin and he was very strong as well.
“A little Porto to set the tone for us,” he proclaimed as he poured the wine into the glasses, one right after the other. The wine was in fact the same color as his jacket, and he was eager to hand me the glass.
I cradled the glass in the palm of my hand as I would a glass of brandy in anticipation of his being ready for a little toast of sorts. He returned to me with a slight rosiness to his face and the collar of his shirt undone to show me some skin.
“I notice you have a tan line on your ring finger,” I told him, to which he raised his left hand at me. The thoughtful expression returned to his face and I could only put two and two together.
“Oh, you poor man,” was all I could say, but he shrugged his narrow shoulders at that.
“The fire is alive and well, my little snow bunny,” he vowed to me with a raise of his glass to me.
“I hope this isn’t a rebound,” I confessed to him as I held the glass of wine out before me,
“I promise you, Chris—it isn’t. The feelings have been water under the bridge for quite a while now.” He tipped the glass back onto his full, sensual lips and took a hearty swig. I followed suit: though it wasn’t hot chocolate, it was sweet and lush, and it did feel quite warm within me. The taste of the grapes washed over me, and I held it down to my waist.
He gestured to the seats right at the edge of the stage.
“Have a seat,” he coaxed me.
I doubled back towards the rail where I spotted the walkway down to the aisle down in front, and ultimately, the step up to the small but cozy V.I.P. section. I took my spot in the one closest to the stage all so I could put my feet up in the seat to my right. I swirled the wine in the glass and I watched him.
He was like a dark prince with the way that he moved about before me on that stage, a ghost with the shadows at his back and the great wide unknown right before him, a thief in the night. He sipped on his wine and gazed up at the chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, and I noticed that the bottom of his vest was pushing his silk shirt up his body a bit. The soft white light in the hall washed over him and his milky skin to the point it softened the sharp prominence of his brow and brought those deep blues forth out of the shadows of his face. The plume of gray shone as if it was made of glitter and garland: the black of his curls reminded me of the blackness of night eternal.
He was snowy and ghostly at the same time; and when he closed his eyes and arched his back a bit so as to relax himself a bit more, I caught a little glimpse of his bare waist. Snowy, ghostly, and childlike all at the same time. Young and ancient at the same time. Slim and yet so shapely, and the caress of the wine only made him all the more lush and opulent, even with the presence of humility.
Another sip of wine and then he turned and set it down on the stool next to him.
He picked up the beautiful cherry red acoustic guitar from the rack on the side of the stage next to him and he slung it over his shoulder. Without sparing another moment, he strode over to the very front of the stage, a mere few feet away from me. I nestled down in the seat and I awaited him for his solo performance.
“So, what’s on the menu for tonight, my prince?” I asked him. He showed me a playful little smirk and ran his fingers through his black curls: all the while, I caught a quick glimpse of his silver streak by the roots.
He bowed his head for a brief moment, and then he raised it up at a slow pace so the light could cross over him and nourish every curve and soft smooth contour of his face and neck.
“A desire to leave the world behind,” he announced in a fuller tone of voice. “Christmas is everywhere we turn and to the heart of the deepest shadows, we retreat and find solace from it all.” He turned towards me and he locked eyes with me for a moment: a few feet away from him and I could feel his power.
“An escape,” I followed along.
“An escape while sharing our time together in the universe,” he added. “I am Jewish and I’m by myself on Christmas. I know that you, too, are alone.”
“Indeed, I am,” I confessed to him. He turned to the stool right behind him and took his seat with that red guitar plunked across right his lap.
“I wish to take you for a little ride, my dear,” he told me as he adjusted the seat of the stool. “A ride of the mind through the heart and soul of the holidays. May I take you into the corners of your mind where the holiday cheer meets with the feelings you didn’t know you had. The season, the darkness, every last part of it—everything you can imagine and then some. Allow me to indulge in you, and I shall allow you to indulge in me.”
Those eyes, as deep and hypnotic as the clear night sky that followed a day’s worth of hefty snowfall, gazed right back at me in all of their rich royal blue glory. I sank down into the plush seat and I brought my knees up to my chest as if I would at a roaring fire’s edge.
The tales of Christmas, like I had never witnessed before, as vast as Siberia itself.
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As the Seasons Grey