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For hours, he's awake: not being a composer he doesn't create anything new but he does play. He plays without singing, just to have something to do and he goes through his entire repertoire before deciding that tomorrow he's going to drag his guitar and amp down to that lounge and set up and play, because there's no way he can do justice to a lot of this music unplugged.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow: finally he undresses, discarding clothes casually and without the least hesitation, and climbs into his bed. Before he reaches over to turn out the light, he stares up at the ceiling as if memorizing some pattern only he can see.
I can't go home.
If he thinks logically, logic dictates that this place becomes home but the word home carries special significance; it's not to be used lightly. There are some number of words that can't be used lightly and there are some that carry such weight he rarely if ever uses them. With a sigh, he turns off the light, trying to revel equally in the darkness.
Sleep is evasive. Finally, his eyes shut out the rest of the world and he sleeps, and when he sleeps he dreams, and his dream is full of his court, being called before his cousin to explain his actions. It's a dream based heavily on recent experience, full of accusatory phrases like you displease us, Willy Silver and for that, you belong here in name and blood only but if he's intended to cave and cower, he doesn't do it. Instead, his chin takes on a haughty tilt all its own and he looks her straight in the eye and speaks in one of the old languages: slán, banríon before standing and walking away. In a matter of court, one doesn't turn one's back but in a matter of pride one does and he hears her words: pride will be your downfall.
Maybe that's true. In his dream all he knows is that he steps away and into the arms of a woman, vital and alive, with dark hair and huge hazel eyes and a voice that likes to catch in her throat and a heart that likes to race against his chest as if it's never had a chance to beat before. In his dream he doesn't stop at the idea of a kiss. In his dream, he stays by her side. In his dream, she invites him under the covers with her. In his dream, things are perfect and there's no guilt, no shame, no hesitation, even as their sweat and bodies cling to one another. In his dream he stays the night to wake up by her side.
It's only a dream.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow: finally he undresses, discarding clothes casually and without the least hesitation, and climbs into his bed. Before he reaches over to turn out the light, he stares up at the ceiling as if memorizing some pattern only he can see.
I can't go home.
If he thinks logically, logic dictates that this place becomes home but the word home carries special significance; it's not to be used lightly. There are some number of words that can't be used lightly and there are some that carry such weight he rarely if ever uses them. With a sigh, he turns off the light, trying to revel equally in the darkness.
Sleep is evasive. Finally, his eyes shut out the rest of the world and he sleeps, and when he sleeps he dreams, and his dream is full of his court, being called before his cousin to explain his actions. It's a dream based heavily on recent experience, full of accusatory phrases like you displease us, Willy Silver and for that, you belong here in name and blood only but if he's intended to cave and cower, he doesn't do it. Instead, his chin takes on a haughty tilt all its own and he looks her straight in the eye and speaks in one of the old languages: slán, banríon before standing and walking away. In a matter of court, one doesn't turn one's back but in a matter of pride one does and he hears her words: pride will be your downfall.
Maybe that's true. In his dream all he knows is that he steps away and into the arms of a woman, vital and alive, with dark hair and huge hazel eyes and a voice that likes to catch in her throat and a heart that likes to race against his chest as if it's never had a chance to beat before. In his dream he doesn't stop at the idea of a kiss. In his dream, he stays by her side. In his dream, she invites him under the covers with her. In his dream, things are perfect and there's no guilt, no shame, no hesitation, even as their sweat and bodies cling to one another. In his dream he stays the night to wake up by her side.
It's only a dream.
