“Just for a walk. I must exercise to stay in shape on days when I’m not dancing.”
Bored with practicing the same song over and over, Henri donned tennis shoes and followed Seb out the door. The late spring sunshine beat down, but this high up in the mountains the day held a bit of cool. Pine and sunshine. Not a hint of smog. Henri could get used to this.
Seb hummed and loo-looed to the edge of the tree line Henri had noticed from his bedroom window. Surely he wouldn’t have to put up withthatduring their walk. “Do you constantly warm up?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“My tour group’s season ended in May and starts again in September. I begin rehearsals in late July. However, the Central City Opera here in Colorado has a lively summer season, and they’ve called me to fill in for sick performers. And I guarantee you, every member of my company is practicing as much as I do. You wouldn’t want me to fall behind, would you?” He exaggerated a pout, with lips a shade too full for the rest of his face. Kissable lips, or lips made to wrap around a cock. The anonymous fuck in Vegas had happened too long ago. Henri needed some action.
But “fall behind”? Damn, opera singers were more competitive than rockers. “You take your singing seriously.”
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s my life, my livelihood. All I’ve ever wanted to do.” Seb picked his way around a boulder, following a meandering path up a short rise. Wildflowers created a riot of blue, pink, yellow, and lavender amidst green grass, and the sweet scent of blossoms rode the breeze.
Henri followed a few steps behind. “Really? Even when you were a kid? Didn’t you want to be a fireman when you grew up?” The Henri of today snickered at his younger self having once aspired to be a cop. As if.
“No. My mother was a soprano. My whole life I’ve been surrounded by music. I was even born in Modena.” Sebastian’s voice held a note of pride.
Modena. “Is that in Wisconsin?”
Sebastian snorted. “Modena, Italy. Where Pavarotti was born. I toured with my mother, and some of the greatest voices in the world sang me to sleep at night.” He launched into an, “ahhhh-ahhhh” that echoed off the mountains. A half smile erased years from Seb’s face, allowing Henri to glimpse how he might have looked during childhood.
“I bet you were a handful.” He imagined a little Seb wandering around backstage, getting into mischief.
“I was. But many of the performers missed their families while touring. They adopted me. And they taught me their native tongues.”
“If you already speak them, why do you study languages?”
“It’s not enough to merely mouth the words. You must understand them, feel them, live them.” Seb launched into one of the more soulful pieces in his vast repertoire, the one that had gotten Henri misty-eyed in the theater.
Puzzle pieces from Seb’s life slipped into place. In the few short days they’d known each other, Seb had never sounded like a man in his twenties. His philosophies, his outlook on life, even his speech at times, seemed much older. “Were there ever any other kids to play with?”
“Who needed other kids? I had music.” This time the smile didn’t reach Seb’s eyes.
Henri only toured in his late teens and as an adult, partying into the night, surrounded by willing bodies to keep him company. Or at least at first. Now, no matter how many people tagged along, he still felt alone. Was that how Seb had felt, the only child in an adult world?
“Occasionally I stayed here with my grandmother, but she died when I was twelve.” Seb stopped to examine a flowering vine.
“How old were you when your mother passed, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Not at all. I was six months shy of my seventeenth birthday. She dedicated herself to her craft, ignoring her own health. And found out too late about her breast cancer.”
Seventeen, his sister’s age. Damn. As independent as he was, and as angry at his folks, Henri still couldn’t imagine being alone in the world so young, or his mother dying. “Where did you go?”
A shadow flitted across Sebastian’s face, gone as quickly as it had come. He averted his gaze and resumed his hike through the trees. “A family friend took me in and continued on as my patron.”
A tightening of Sebastian’s lips said there was more to the story. “What does a patron do?”
“He backed me financially until I began drawing an income, helped me apply to the Met’s young artist program, and ensures I have everything I need.”
Yes, definitely more here than met the eyes. No one did something for nothing, not in Henri’s world, anyway. “What does he get out of it?”
“Why, the pleasure of being a part of my success.” Seb’s laugh held a bitter edge. “Actually, he’s a huge supporter of not only me, but the opera itself. He’s extremely generous with the Met, as well as some smaller companies. If he or a friend throws a private party, I’ll attend and give a concert.”
Wow! Must be a pretty rich guy to have his own pet opera star. Henri kept the words to himself.
“This way.” Sebastian veered down a path to the left. “I’ve neglected my walking while you’ve been here. I need to get five miles in today. Are you game?”
