A glance. A touch. A longing. A love. A secret desperate to break free. A desire to jump and a debilitating fear of the fall. A deep dream and the looming threat of sunrise. A boundless love carried by hands in chains.

A year after they first came to understand the love they share, the organists playing alongside the choir today now maintain a second, simultaneous performance. To be discovered would mean the end of their careers. But suppressing their desires may prove an impossibility.

They’re good at hiding. They’ve done it their whole lives. But we’ve spent ours observing. Reporting. Nothing escapes the gaze of an Alternate Universe journalist.

They keep their eyes on the console, their hands on the keys, but their minds always on each other. They converse through the music. We listen.

“Don’t do that,” Organist #1 conveyed to Organist #2. “Don’t look at me like that. Not here.”

“Then where?” Organist #2 played back. “Where can I look at you through my own eyes rather than those of a mask?”

“Look around you, Organist #2. Anywhere but here.”

“Love isn’t a keyboard, Organist #1. We can’t control it. We can’t play it.”

“Focus on the actual keyboard, then. The one you can play. The one the world is counting on you to play.”

“The longer we play this organ, the longer we neglect the one that matters. The one in here,” Organist #2 kept his hands on the keys but mentally gestured to his chest.

Theoretical tears welled in the eyes of

Organist #1. “All my life I’ve chosen the safety

of the shadows over the warmth of the sun,” he

mused. “But I’m cold, Organist #2.”

“Step into the sun with me. You’re the only safety I need.”

“You’re right, Organist #2. Love isn’t a keyboard. But maybe I am.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I make a sound when you touch my