Notes: For ranchelle who lit the spark to my imagination when it is at its driest *cough* i.e. I am at work....
"My hands are too small."
Liszt ran his hand through his long, brown hair and continued pacing up and down the room, his long legs easily eating up the few feet from the door to the wall and back again; his self-pitying friend slouched disheartenedly over the piano, studying his hands gloomily. He had no idea how their discussion on Chopin's latest piece had degenerated to the composer's usual obsessive nitpicking of his physical features and he wasn't even going to try.
"For the last time, your hands are not small." He growled out as he swung around for his sixty-seventh round. "They're fine."
"And my nose is too big." Continued the mournful monologue and Chopin touched that offending feature gingerly with his small hands, prodding at it.
"No." He snapped again. "It is not."
"How would you know?" Chopin answered waspishly, finally roused from his bitter stupor to his friend's denials. "With your small nose and big hands that can reach all the keys and fly across..."
Coming to an abrupt halt by the door, Liszt stopped and bored down menacingly on the older man who trailed off uncertainly, suddenly alarmed by the dark, dangerous gleam in oak brown eyes. Seizing Chopin by the arm, Liszt dragged the slender man up to meet him, mouth bearing down, hot and hungry on suddenly slack lips.
"Because, you," Liszt finally answered, pulling away from kiss-bruised lips, panting. "... are perfect."