LITERARY|Maestro's Adonis

Maestro’s Adonis

by Jennica Lianne

I see bright and vivid colors in my surroundings, and it makes me sick.

The last drops of frozen water have fallen from the sky, the freshly-sprouted stalks of grass smells stale in my nostrils. Whichever Supreme Being created this (if there are any at all) must have been on an unnecessary happy hour when they created this wretched world. How could anyone stand this this much lightness when nothing really is?

Neighbors walk by to say hello, make small talk, and try to get to know me better. It’s as if I’m a hometown celebrity, the suburban star. I can’t say they’re wrong, though, I may have become one in my own right over time, as I delivered what the people loved most through my art and prose.

I’ve written about love, life, and lust—all these being the main factors that led to this lucrative life I live in right now. But those are merely just underlying themes in my work that I allow my readers to discover. After all, the things borne out of my pen and paper are pure products of playtime.

Years would pass by to turn to the present day, and eventually, my idea of “play” became rather tiring. What more could I tell people if everyone already knew who Alonzo Portavira was?

Moonlight glimmers through the study’s windowsill—and for the likes of people such as myself, it’s usually the best time for me to draw all sorts of inspiration. The big sphere in the sky is my spotlight. It’s directed at me, as if signalling me to begin my magnum opus.

Pages that flutter tenfold in the hands of a single person is enough for them to know quite much about me. After all, I wrote every word and drew every face that personified them. I give life, practically much better than my own mother could. And at moments like these, I would know that it would be high time for me to deliver another lovechild.

“Alonzo?”

“How long have you been observing me this time, Blaise?”

“Not for long. But I have been looking back at all your other works and I wanted to ask you…”

“...Why don’t your characters ever smile?” Blaise sits down beside me, and he starts flipping through the pages of my last work, “Casablanca”.

“Casablanca… the man who is bland, so misunderstood. Always confused with ‘Casanova’, as contrary to this name, his heart had nothing but pure intentions, especially for the woman he loved most. That he could build a home for her— where they could give everything they had for each other…”

“…but the rumors remain incessant that it bothers him no more. He was content that only his beloved knew him for who he truly was.” I filled in the lines of the passage he was reading.

Somehow, I had written it during the first year I had been with Blaise, and yet, as my reputation would allow it, I was still spending most of my years writing about the conflicted—maidens and elites who seem discontent despite having everything they’ve ever wanted.

“I know the women who adore your work love their Maestro. Isn’t it high time you showed the people the man my Alonzo really is?”

He was right. Writing about kings’ riches and the strength of their men made me realize that what was most important was just right in front of me.

No one can ever understand the true feeling of his touch, nor of his lips brushing along with mine. All my sorrows, all my successes, he’s witnessed. The warmth we give each other within the corners of our chambers is second to none. I know no woman can be at par with my beloved, ever.

We continue on a sharp staccato, while he sustains, keeping us in perfect sync each time. Though I’m more an author than I am a musician, I’m penned as “Maestro Alonzo” for a reason:

That though I play the heartstrings of maidens fair, some simple fiddling with the strings of his long, silver hair, and the tempo of the two of us together always seem so much easier.

Because it is only then that I hear the music to my ears—our sensual sonata— composed of our soft hums and sweet nothings that fade with the moaning of the wind. Now tell me, what can be more magical than this?

I sit up and my gaze is on “Casablanca” again, left open from where Blaise started.

“You asked me why the characters in my books never smile? Well, I think the answer’s always been so simple.”

The closeness between us is electric, one that I feel will never burn out. As we are still sitting on the desk near the study’s windowsill, I whisper,

“It’s because they have yet to meet someone like you. And they ought to know that their maestro is nothing without his adonis. And that is no one else but you, Blaise Ventanille.”

I steady myself and slip a sapphire ring on his finger, its perfectly-carved gem glowing in the unfading moonlight.

“Our story will be my magnum opus, filled to completion with you by my side.”

He nods his head, smiling, and his lips meet mine once more.

“I love you, Maestro.”

It was then that I knew for certain that he would fill the pages of my heart forevermore—Blaise, and my Blaise alone.

Illustrated by Jasmine Bernadette Bembo