Beguiling. Pulsating. Stirringly sublime. It was always like this, the clear melody flowing mellifluously in through the curtains covering the open window, ringing throughout the intimate but immensely cluttered room. For how long, or how many other times he had sat here in the peace of morning, with the echoing of music and the light dancing all around, he could not say. Time somehow seemed faraway and unimportant. All there was was this one, infinite moment.

As the music came to a lingering halt a short while later, Tanim begrudgingly opened his eyes; he would have willingly reclined upon his chaise lounge and listened until the skies darkened and the morning hawfinches emerged to warble their songs once more. As much as he always dreaded the music’s end, the very fact that the music had stopped meant its creator would soon be making an appearance down in the tiny front garden. This was an occurrence that Tanim could not pass up; the young composer rarely ventured outside, so when he did... Tanim forced himself to slowly finish off the dregs of his Darjeeling as he watched the clock’s little black arm tick achingly slowly to a carefully random destination upon its ivory face. It had to appear properly coincidental, of course—he would be irate if he knew Tanim was listening at the window again. Donning his dark frock coat and doeskin gloves, he left his confined haven behind.

He moved out into the forenoon sunlight, emerging into what was not so much a garden as it was an overlarge patch of grass and scrubby bushes, hemmed in by the low brick wall that separated his building from the street. This particular patch of growth was shared by the neighboring townhouse, although the two buildings were separated by a narrow alley that was just wide enough to allow two broad men to pass through, cheek by jowl.

It was into this alleyway that Tanim ventured, with measured casualty, and immediately spotted the subject of his efforts. His elusive neighbor, in heather-gray waistcoat and shirtsleeves, leaned heavily against the alley’s back wall as he held a bent-stem briar pipe clenched between his teeth and stared vacantly at some spot halfway up the opposing wall. Tanim stopped a comfortable distance away and brought out a matchbox and his own meerschaum pipe, which was carved in the likeness of a hippocamp, then loaded the bowl with finely shredded Perique tobacco and lit up. After taking a few puffs he looked ‘round at his neighbor. “Morning, Daren.”

A faint murmur and slight cough were the only semblance of a response he received. Tanim held out his match. “Your pipe’s gone out, you know.”

His companion started and quietly accepted the light, allowing Tanim the opportunity to move closer. Close enough to smell the exact point at which the distinctive scents from their smoke became one. He made a careful stab at conversation. “So how’s your toccata progressing?”

“It isn’t.” Daren’s eyes shifted briefly to Tanim’s face, fluttered away toward the threadbare garden. “I’ve started a new nocturne.”

“Oh.” Tanim feigned surprise. “Did your sponsor request it?”

“No. I haven’t been to see him since last month.”

“Have you been anywhere since last month?”

Daren shrugged noncommittally.

“You should get out of the house more. That can’t be good for you.”

“It’s nothing I’m not used to.” He coughed, then pressed on a tad too quickly. “How goes the business?”

“Same as always. A bunch of rich bastards caught up in dreams of the Orient, buying overpriced foreign treasures they understand nothing about.”

“Aren’t you one of those rich bastards? You snatch up anything you can get your hands on.”

“Perhaps,” Tanim grinned ruefully. “But at least I acknowledge and appreciate their historical and cultural value. I’m not just buying into some fad so I can stick a sacred Hindu mukha linga in my parlor and amaze my friends.”

“They don’t appreciate you decorating your house with their sacred relics either way, I’m sure.”

“I don’t think they mind, what with all the trade it brings. In fact, the museum is funding an expedition into Jaipur, India soon.”

“You’re leaving.” Not a question. “When?”

“I should be collecting from around Bhangarh by the end of the month.”

The sudden silence weighed as oppressively as the sere sky above. This time Daren pulled out a fraying handkerchief to catch his sharp fit of coughing. He ignored Tanim’s questioning gaze and quickly tucked his ‘kerchief away, muttering, “I should get back to my nocturne. Excuse me.”

Tanim nodded, somewhat taken aback, and watched as Daren swiftly overturned his pipe bowl and tapped the remains of the tobacco out. Their eyes did not meet, and Daren disappeared down the short alley. As always, although perhaps even more so this particular time, Tanim quelled the urge to call him back, or to perhaps simply seize him without a word and draw him further into the depths of the alleyway where they would be quite alone to—ah, but he could not linger upon such thoughts, or he would be moved to action.

He glanced up at Daren’s window, ears perked, but no music seeped from beyond the ragged sable curtains. Three quarters of an hour passed before he finally emptied his own pipe’s contents into the dirt; he took perhaps a bit longer than necessary to arrange his pipe case, and then there was nothing left for him to do but retreat back into his surfeited hollow.

+ + +

Late afternoon a week later found the sky brighter and less baleful than it had been in months. It was as if a shroud had been folded back from the withering face of London, allowing the oft repressed flora that eked out their existence between the cracked cobblestones a brief chance to display the natural depth of their hues. The genial sunlight had not yet begun to fade as Tanim, in full dress suit with silken top hat and sleek blackthorn walking stick, neared his destination. He was accompanied by a similarly dressed individual, who only from a close distance could be determined to be female, and with whom Tanim conversed rapidly in French.

“L’Inde? Quelle chance,” the woman said, voice tinged with a hint of jealousy.

“Ah, et t’as jamais voyagé à l'Orient?” Tanim’s French, though perhaps tarnished somewhat by his English accent, seemed almost too perfect in its studied informality.

“Le Japon, c’est pas L’Inde. D’ailleurs, on fera la fumerie avant ton voyage, bien sûr. Tu me dois.”

“J’dis pas non, mais—” Tanim stopped as he caught sight of his neighbor, sitting on his front doorstep and smoking his pipe. “Ah. S’il t’plaît, Aurèle...?” He tipped his hat in a gesture of dismissal.

“Bah foutre. Apprécie l’ordonnance.” She returned his gesture with a grin, and strode back up the street.

Tanim let himself through the gate and into the front garden, moving past the sparse fauna and up the footpath until he stood by his neighbor’s doorstep. He carelessly dropped his walking stick onto the ground, did likewise with his top hat, gloves and coat before taking the step below Daren’s. “Mind if I have a puff?”

Daren surrendered his pipe and exhaled slowly, but brought out his ‘kerchief to muffle several hacking coughs. “Must be the Latakia,” he said weakly.

“This cheap Syrian stuff is always harsh,” Tanim remarked, blowing a casual smoke ring. “Aurèle brought me a gift today—better than any doctor’s prescription can get you.” He pulled a translucent, dark green decanter from within his shed coat. “Undiluted laudanum. Even the weak stuff causes elation, so this should cause sheer euphoria. I’ll share if you’d like.”

“I don’t know why you bother with it. There are better ways of producing euphoria than drinking poison.”

“Would you care to demonstrate such methods...?”

“Oh, please. Do you think of nothing else?”

“Not when you’re around.”

“You realize that it’s broad daylight and the neighbors could be peeping out their little windows as we speak?”

“I don’t care.”

“If you insist.” Daren seized his companion’s lapels and poised his lips tantalizingly close to Tanim’s, smoky breath hot against his cheek and slender fingers tangled in the fabric at his neck. Tanim felt an accelerated fervor rise within him and moved to close the distance between their lips; but just as abruptly Daren broke the contact, reclaimed his pipe and leaned back with the hint of a smirk. Tanim struggled not to squirm under his watch.

“That’s all the demonstration for now, I’m afraid. If you want more, you’ll have to join me elsewhere.” With a final, sultry gaze Daren slipped inside. Tanim quickly collected his things, not bothering to don his coat, and followed.

+ + +

The last remnants of sunlight soaked the humble room in carmine and copper, highlighting pale sheets and paler flesh. Bodies still, but minds and pulses racing. Shadows trembled lightly upon the walls. After a time, Daren untangled himself from arms and bedcovers and stood, seeking the cool comfort of the piano keys against his fingertips. The notes rang softly, hesitant and tenebrous—a nocturne, mourning the day as eventide rose from its ashes.

From the bed Tanim drank in the sounds, not only the music, but every sigh and muted cough that slipped from his lover’s lips. Silhouetted against the dusty window and piano frame, he looked caged and fragile. Exquisite. He propped himself up on one elbow as the music dwindled. “Come with me,” he breathed.

Distractedly, “Where?”

“To India. The ruins of Alwar.”

Daren did not answer, and the melody wended on. Finally Tanim prodded, “Well?”

A faint sigh. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Tanim sat up defiantly. “You need to get away from this city. Both of us do.”

“My place is here.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Come with me.” Urgent this time.

“I can’t.”

“But I need you—”

“No.” The younger man had clearly grown weary of the discussion. He abandoned the piano to join Tanim on the bed once more, encircling his lover within his arms. “Please, darling, let’s not waste the time we do have together.”

In the dying light he was fey and perfect, and Tanim could not refuse him.

+ + +

Tawny sands dotted with patches of scrub grass stretched in every direction, glimmering under a red sun and a cavernous, cloudless sky. The erratic outlines of countless ruins were nestled into the cliff at every stratum. Two solitary figures in ecru suits stood before the husk of what must have once been a grand temple.

Tanim shielded his eyes from the sun as he checked his bronze compass against the coordinates on the rough map. “This has to be it. The Temple of Bhangarh. We’re finally here.”

A grin lit Tanim’s face, and he made his way up the deteriorating stairs, followed silently by Daren. They passed under a tall trefoil archway and into a chamber that was open on all sides to the dry air; it was held aloft by a circle of mossy columns, and allowed a perfect view of the cliffs that partially encircled the temple. The high, rounded ceiling was covered in carvings of the incarnations of ancient deities, from elephants to sadhus to kings. Life-sized nagas and naginis curled around the columns, their gomed eyes and smiles eternally fixed upon the entryway.

“It’s beautiful. Just think of how long all this has been here.” It was difficult for Tanim not to run his hands over the priceless relics. He stood marveling at the intricacies of the reliefs until he realized just how profound the silence was. He turned to face his companion, but found himself quite alone in the temple. “Daren?”

Visually searching the surrounding area past the columns, he caught sight of the man down by the cliffs. Tanim hurried to follow, but at the bottom of the stairway he slipped and barely caught himself. Glancing down, he realized what had caused his fall; a thin, fragmentary line of blood led from the stairs out across the sands. A panic caught Tanim, and he sprinted the rest of the way to the face of the cliff. The bloody trail ended with Daren’s footprints. Daren himself sat dangling his feet over the edge, but Tanim saw no sign of a wound or blood anywhere on him. He called uncertainly, “Daren, what—?”

“I shouldn’t have left. I told you.”

“Come away from there, Daren.” Tanim held out a hand, pleading. Daren accepted, but did not move to stand.

“I told you. But it’s alright, darling.” His smile was frightening, his grip unyielding. “This way, you can join me.”

With his free hand he pushed off, and they both plummeted.

Tanim woke with a jolt, sheets clinging to this sweat-soaked body, vision filled with the cliffside. He sat up and tried to shake the dream away, but even in his oneiric daze he knew something was still wrong. His lover quivered beside him, frail body wracked with an endless frenzy of coughing. When the convulsions finally ceased and Daren wearily let his hands fall away from his mouth, a cold thrill slid down Tanim’s spine.

Moonlight fell from the window in slanted shards across the bed, clearly illuminating the crimson that stained Daren’s hands and lips. Their eyes met, but there was a hollow between them.

It was Daren who broke the silent cacophony, his whisper suffused with regret and longing and something unrecognizable.

“I’m sorry, darling.”

+ + +

Live, he had said the evening before he had stopped saying anything at all. Live, he had commanded before gifting him with a penitent embrace and a lie of a smile, and then he was gone with the dew by dawn.

But what had he to live for? No amount of opium could reproduce the solace of his touch, nor was there a spirit strong enough to mask its absence.

A dark green decanter found its way into his hands. He uncorked it and downed its contents in moments. Mirages of light and shade striated across his vision as he left his body behind. The ashen sky devoured and dismantled him, a nocturne echoed from within the unraveling horizon, and finally all was mercifully black.