A/N: video is Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata

The majority of this story is first person from Gray's p.o.v., but there will be a few points that aren't - these will be written in third person. To make it even more complicated, some of these will be flashbacks - so they will be written in past tense instead of present (I will italicize flashbacks in a bid to make it more obvious)

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François sat in the center of the front row, as he always did for Conservatory performances. He adored orchestral music and found attending these soirees was an excellent way to catch up and coming stars before they arrived. He was equally as fond of the Philharmonic and the Opera House, but loved the raw passion in these, often unpolished, geniuses.

They had just finished a resounding rendition of the first three movements of Beethoven's Fifth and François was floating on joy. His eyes were closed, feeling the echoes in his mind, when the quiet tones of Beethoven's Sonata No. 14 began. He kept his eyes closed. This was possibly his favorite piece and he couldn't believe his luck – it hadn't been advertised as a Beethoven soiree and he embraced the internal shudder of delight that ran through him.

Even more to his surprise and happiness, the second movement continued, suggesting that this virtuoso was likely performing all three movements. When the excitable notes of the third movement began, François' eyes snapped open. The furious and technically demanding movement could not be played by just anyone, and this pianist was expert – far more skilled than François had heard before at this training school.

He audibly gasped when he saw who was behind the piano. A god of Greek proportions – golden hair and golden skin, high cheekbones and pouting pink lips, a well-fitted suit suggesting strength and musculature. His eyes closed in passion as his long fingers traveled the keys, coaxing the sounds of beauty from within.

It was that look of peaceful delight, the slight turn of the head as he felt the music, the tiny furrow of the brow that denoted complete concentration, that had François desirous of seeing those movements under him, being forced from the boy's exquisite body as he fell undone for him.

After the concert, the remainder of which François barely heard – the Moonlight Sonata playing inside his mind on repeat – he traveled with almost unseemly haste, his large, muscular body deftly evading slow-moving concert-goers as he made his way to the lobby, gratefully taking a glass of red from a passing waiter. Not because he wanted to drink, but because he needed a distraction so his hands didn't clench embarrassingly while he waited for the amazing young man to make an appearance.

He shouldn't have rushed. He was beginning to realize the boy would not come, although there was still the faintest hope in his mind, when he heard two performers talking quietly.

"Where's Ellis?"

"You know he doesn't come out for the party if he can get away with it."

"Yes, but how's he getting away with it? He just had a huge solo, and nailed it too. Why's Brubaker not forcing him to come out? You know he always does as he's told when Brubaker pushes it."

François couldn't help the slight growl from his throat at those words. He knew they were talking about his boy, Ellis his name was. Yes, that seemed right – it suited him. And he wasn't happy about any other person making his boy follow their bidding. That was his job.

He went to find Brubaker, who was the Director of the Conservatory, a large, domineering man who didn't have a hope against François' far more focused domination.

"Mr Brubaker," he greeted coolly.

"Monsieur Girard, c'est un plaisir de vous voir," Brubaker smarmed.

"Oui, je suppose que c'est," François stated with the smallest smile.

He'd been instrumental in increasing donations at multiple fundraising events in the past, largely because of his myriad of wealthy Dom friends, who also had interest in the arts, and as a result Brubaker always looked upon him as some kind of king.

He did also insist in speaking French with a painfully heavy American accent, but François let him have that one little affectation.

"Le pianiste soliste, Monsieur Brubaker, ou est-ill? Je voudrais le feliciter."

"Desole, Monsieur. Il est dans son dressing."

Brubaker pointed up the stairs, to the corridor that contained the musician's dressing rooms.

François simply nodded and calmly walked up the stairs, Brubaker staring after him, as if debating whether to stop him. He clearly saw sense, as François made it to the top of the stairs without molestation.

The doors were labelled with the various sections of the orchestra, until he got to the end, a slightly faded and peeling red door, with 'Piano Soloist' written on cream card stuck to it. He knocked, once, sharply.

The door swung open after a moment.

"Mr Brubaker, I told you, I don't feel up to coming down," François could hear the slightest shade of a soft Southern drawl in his accent.

François had a moment to examine him – not quite as young as he'd first thought, which he had to admit to finding something of a relief, perhaps around twenty, skin even more angelic and glowing than he'd been able to tell in the dim hall and now, as his large eyes flicked upward in shock at realizing this was no Mr Brubaker, he could see they were a stunning shade of azure.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sir," François stomach tightened at the way the word sounded falling from his full lips, "I thought you were someone else."

"No, just me," François made sure his voice was as deep and smooth as possible, wondering whether it would speak to the boy's internal desires.

He was rewarded with those deep ocean eyes widening even further, and the smallest mewl coming from his throat.

"Let me take you for a late dinner," François insisted.

"No, no thank you, Sir. I'm tired after the performance. I need to rest so I can practice tomorrow."

"You must let me," but the boy's eyes narrowed.

"You can't force me, Sir. I have more important things to do."

"Yes, me," François' voice was laughing in confidence, expecting Ellis to give in, as everyone gave in, especially as he was showing some extremely positive submissive signs.

But instead, his eyes flamed, his hand rubbing hard at his elbow, as if it were causing him pain, "No, Sir. You have no power to tell me what to do. Please leave, and don't bother me again."

The door was slammed in his face, and François was left standing, bemused and incredibly turned on.

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A/N: The French:

"Monsieur Girard, c'est un plaisir de vous voir," Brubaker smarmed. - Mr Girard, it's a pleasure to see you.

"Oui, je suppose que c'est," François stated with the smallest smile. - Yes, I suppose it is.

"Le pianiste soliste, Monsieur Brubaker, ou est-ill? Je voudrais le feliciter." - The piano soloist, Mr Brubaker, where is he? I would like to congratulate him.

"Desole, Monsieur. Il est dans son dressing." - Sorry, Sir. He is in his dressing room.