milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The piano attracts him like a moth to flames; he can't keep away.

He circles around it, getting nearer and then walking away. Watching, waiting, wondering.

Then someone else sits down to play and Gren's not sure if he's relieved or annoyed or if he just doesn't care. After all, doesn't he have all the time in the world? It feels as if there have been days of nothing, nothing at all. Just reliving (reliving? is that a joke?) what happened the past few days before he was here.

Instead of watching the piano and listening to the beauty of the music it produces from close range, he takes the seat nearest to the corner stool at the bar. Old habit.

He misses making music. Wanted: one tenor saxophone, a box or two of reeds, a swab cloth. No sheet music required.

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The tea is hot and despite his own warmth radiating, it still feels good in his hands. "I met... a crazy girl with a knife named Alice, I think, and a very pretty boy. His name was Nathaniel. There was a girl named Ed who lost a frog named Phil, and a young woman named Kim who told me about flowers called lilies." He sips the tea.

"Have you?"

She's silent for a long time.

"No."

Spike doesn't count.

"Nobody?"

Tilting his head to the side, he simply watches her.

Why nobody for Julia? That's not fair. Setting down the teacup, he rests his arm on her shoulder. He could be flippant, but that would just be irritating and why bother? This is Julia. Julia.

"You have me. Don't forget."

"Nobody," she echoes.

She turns her head to him.

"You're the only person I want." She takes a bite of the food and smiles. She swallows. "It's why I agreed to eat, after all."

Smiling (sadly), he kisses her cheek; he thinks it's time to tell her what he's been contemplating.

"I think the only reason I'm here is because of you. Otherwise, I would just be..."

Gren's fingers, long and thin and delicate, make a fluttering motion as if floating aside on some unseen breeze. He knows he doesn't need to finish the thought aloud.

"So I'm what's holding you back?"

She looks at the counter.

"Do you think the alternative will be better?"

Pausing, he studies her intently. "I don't feel held back. Just the opposite: I feel..."

What's the term he wants? Liberated? Lucky? Profoundly relieved?

"...blessed." With a firm nod, he squeezes her shoulder. "I told you before: I always thought of death as the end. Just the end: nothing more. Things just... stop, and you can't be sad about them because you have no awareness of any of it. But I know I'm dead and look: look at how much it has to offer. Look at it. It's like a whole different phase, a different level, a different... plane. I can see things like I never saw them before, and hear things like I never heard them before, and touch things like I never felt them before, and smell things like I never smelled them before, and taste things like I never tasted them before. It's such a gift, Julia. Such a gift, and I feel like a child, full of wonder and full of joy and full of curiosity. There's no holding back. None at all. This is the alternative."

Slowly, he shakes his head. "So... thank you."

She smiles sadly.

"I envy you," is all she can say.

She doesn't see.

(Maybe it's the red-eye. And if so, that's his fault.)

Gren sets his hands on her hair, brushing it back from her face. "Don't envy me. Instead, let me share it all with you. Let that be my gift. Will you let me do that for you?"

"And how do you propose to do that, Gren?" she says warily.

"I don't know."

Self-conscious, he moves his hands away from her and folds them across his chest.

"I don't know yet. But I know I can if you'll let me. It won't be a sexual thing," he assures her quickly. "You know that's not my style. I will find a way, though. I will."

The clarity of his purpose is startling, like a piercingly bright light that obscures all else.

He wants to bathe Julia in the light.

"I'll let you try, Gren, but don't be disappointed if it fails. Some people are just beyond saving."

Does she even want to be saved?

She's not sure she deserves it.

His eyes narrow and there's a bit of an angry flash in them, but only for a minute.

"All I ask is that you let me try."

It could, after all, be that he's wrong about purpose. Maybe that's just a smokescreen for something else. He hates to think there's no purpose, though.

He won't let it distress him. But he's not sure how long he can be a wealth of optimism for someone who's chronically depressed.

He will try; turning back to the food he doesn't need to eat he picks up his chopsticks and, a little perfunctorily, eats.

And is caught off guard again by how exquisite and enhanced everything tastes. Why is this his experience and not hers? Why?

Gren knows he won't figure it out right here, today. He can't. It's like a puzzle: the pieces need to fall together over time.

The food squishes as she pokes at it absently with her chopsticks, no longer hungry.

She puts the chopsticks down and reaches into her pocket, pulling out her cigarettes. She would offer one to Gren, but she knows he doesn't smoke. She pulls one out and lights it.

She exhales away from him.

"Do you miss your sax?"

The question takes him by surprise.

"I miss it like you wouldn't believe."

She runs her hand across the bar.

"She might be able to give you a new one. If you wanted."

He hadn't thought of that. He knew about the clothes and the food, but...

"Really?" He grins, and it widens.

"I think it can provide just about anything. It provided the clothes you're wearing."

She takes another drag.

"Worth a try."

He's tempted, sorely. But Gren pauses before asking for it.

"Maybe I shouldn't be in such a hurry to try to replace what got lost. I don't know, Julia. I don't know. It almost makes it too easy." His fingers play over invisible keys on an invisible saxophone, more habit than anything and he almost asks the bar for one.

But he decides to wait. It's late and he's tired and he's not sure that the easy answers are the right answers.

He's not sure the difficult answers are the right answers either.

The only thing he knows for sure is that his hands long to cover and uncover the keys, and his mouth longs for that taste of reed, and his soul aches to make music. It's the one thing that's always been his greatest comfort, his most secret lover, his lull into happiness.

He's not sure why he's denying himself this one thing, but he insists.

(For now.)

She nods.

"Then what do you say we go have a good night's rest? When where you do not sleep in the chair." She gives him a pointed yet playful look.

There it is. A spark, a hint of spark, the start of something that could grow into a smile on her face given enough time. He's not sure why she likes sleeping with him -- it's not like they do anything other than hold one another -- but she does, and it's more comfortable than taking turns in the chair.

Maybe it's just the holding.

Maybe everyone needs to be held.

"All right."

But before they go, he leans over and whispers something to the bar. It takes a moment, but finally something unexpected appears on its surface. Picking it up, Gren nods. "Thank you."

Simple enough: a pencil and blank sheet music. He won't ask for the sax just yet, but he can still make music. He reaches for Julia's hand, tucking the paper under his arm for safekeeping. Her hand is cool, but not as cold as it sometimes is.

I will warm you, Julia. I will.

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