general fiction; Living Room
It became more than just making music with you in that living room.
Those walls seemed to put us all into a level of concentration we could connect through. We didn't need words to talk during those days; we had our instruments and we played them until the song pulled to a close. I had a lot of things going on outside of the fictional life I had created with you, but whenever I was inside of that life, breathing that pure air and seeing those crisps rolling mountains behind the windows of our van, none of it seemed to matter. The knots in my back became loose and my lungs weren't really all that tight. We smiled together even without the liquor we drank a little more than occasionally and in the end that's what it was all about.
It was somewhat hard to deny the fact that I wasn't so angry or sad or depressed was because of you. Your way of curing me wasn't just something one friend passes to another; this incurable infection infatuating me down to every last cell was only relived when our eyes locked.
We were old enough to press pass the ages of impractical thoughts. I knew what was coming, and even if it was anticipated, the morning I awoke with the realization that I loved you it still hit me like a train. You were so much more to me than a friend. We were surrounded by three others at all time with cameras constantly capturing us, yet you were the one I was always beside. I always had a choice as to who I would be with, but you were who I pick each and every time the thought of pairing came around.
Out lives were simple yet the publicity chose to grow them into something much more complex. I didn't particularly hate our jobs, maybe because we got all of the fame and glory from it, but it was still stressful at times. The hours on the road were long, but there were always times you fell asleep and your head accidentally fell onto my shoulder. You wouldn't notice, but I'd always pretend to be sleeping so I wouldn't have to wake you. I enjoyed those back aching car rides more than I should have.
The way you breathed in your sleep became a pattern I grew accustomed to. It wasn't that I was studying it or anything of the sort, but whenever you would fall asleep it would be what I chose to fixate on to keep myself awake. You pushed your skull into my neck, short hairs comforting the rippled skin, growing accustomed to the shape of my body. Every curve of my build was yours at that moment, every breath I took was in dedicated to keep your sleep full of comfort. Somewhere in the darkness of noises and washed away colors I would fixate on the breathing too much and slip away into the same slumber you were in. Our breath was on count, slow and steady. What air went in your nose probably came out of our mouth. We passed that breath back and forth until I would awake in the middle of the night and hate myself for getting this attached to you and knowing that there was nothing I could do to change how I felt about you.
Days passed and weeks, months but never years and I knew I'd never tell you how I felt. I didn't need to express myself; we'd never be a whole, and I suppose I was alright with that. You and I are artists alike; we live in this stunning world that was give to us blank at birth but left to be painted in with our creativity. While you saw different chords to strum on your guitar I saw images of you and I together in some desire I'd never be able to say was reality as I beat away at my drums. I couldn't tell you why, but I was happy. The thing that I wanted most was something that I would never have, but I was at least satisfied with having a few night of falling asleep in the same bed or afternoons of us singing old songs as if we were under intoxication when we weren't.
I don't know what it was the drew me towards you. Maybe it was the way you wore your hats and the way you walked, your etiquette or your talent. I wouldn't be sure, however I'd like to believe it was because you were drawn to me. Me, of all people, you chose to befriend. Our lives intermingled into some blissful concoction of a newfound joy I'd never turn back from. Then there was the day I got a taste of what a deeper relationship between us might be; what a connection referred to as love would be.
It became hard to be around you during those times. You'd ask me for advice on women you cared for as I did you, and wanting only the best for you, I'd give you my advice. I healed you through more hurt than you should have ever been caused and I was never given back what I wanted. Even if I never got to walk with you as lovers, never got to hold your hand or even kiss you goodnight, I was thankful for what we did have that nobody else would have:
Our music.
That was what kept me breathing some nights. It was hard to push on through all of the clouding thoughts of our relationship and how I should have been pleased with how stable it was. I was selfish, yet more appreciative than I should have been for our friendship. I loved you, and corrupt or not, it was a hard fact I had to face.
You saw the differences between me. You knew the days I was in a haze and the days that I wanted to laugh with you. My melody would be off, and while you wouldn't get angry, you discomfort with our final outcome would be positive. I'd watch you as you long fingers pressed at chords and the way your body curved to fit the guitar perfectly. I took too much enjoyment in simply watching the way your lips parted and eyes sealed in euphoria.
We'd break away from the music in your living room, pull ourselves off of the couches and shagged rugs and leave the house. The brisk November called for the tea we were craving, and while it wasn't what we had usually taken part in, it seemed to fit. Our liver had protected the two of us through rough nights of Jack Daniels and anything else we'd intoxicate ourselves with. We shoveled greasy pizza away into our stomachs and fell asleep as we let it settle.
That was why a simple cup of tea at the small diner on the corner seemed so perfect to the two of us. It was rare for us to sip at such things, which is what gave it such a lovely light.
The way the chamomile clung to your lips and the way you licked it away, the thick clouds of steam cutting into the November atmosphere. It was all a perfect sight for me. You'd never see it how I did; you kept talking about something I'd remember far too well as I saw you and smiled in a way that I shouldn't have. The way the beverage burned through our taste buds and fought through the brisk air calmed me. Our noses were red and eyes glossed and chilled as the air blew past them, although none of that could be upsetting simply because I was spending that time with you.
I wouldn't remember what we did the rest of that day, but I would remember coming back to your house --- kicking off my shoes in your living room --- and falling asleep on your couch. Something was playing the television that night, a horror movie that was on such a low budget it became a comedy, that we fell into a deep rest during it's play. When I awoke a few hours later into the middle of the night our positions hadn't changed; you were sleeping at a right angle as you sat upright and I stretched my body as far out as I could as I planted my feet in your lap. Your mouth was open, a thin line of spit shining at the morning of your ajar mouth. The glaze shone in unison to the flickering image on the television screen. With your hat askew and eyes sealed shut, the depth of your doze was apparent. After a few moments of mentally deciding whether to remain in discomfort or to awake us both to your bed, I pulled myself to a sitting position, doing my best to ignoring the cracking of my back.
A small word of my presence is pushed out with an exhale. The word is heavy with the restraints of my sleep, but a few more do the trick. Your eyes shiver open, and without any more lifeless vowels being exchanged, we pull ourselves to our feet and walk to your bed as if it's a choreographed dance. The carpet of the living room floor tickles the bottom of my bare feet, and as we pass into your bedroom the difference in carpet makes it feel as if I'm in an alternate world. Our bodies shake as they hit the bed, a safe distance apart from one another. You shift a few times and even with my eyes clothes I can paint a perfect image of you. My fingers graze across the fine stitching in your sheets, giving me something to fixate on other than the way your substantial yet peaceful breaths sound pumping in and out of your lungs. The air is settling, warmth is plentiful between us and the hour is late.
But suddenly, I'm not as tired as I was a few moments ago.
I can tell you that you rested well that night simply because I did not. I didn't stay up the whole night, not even an whole hour, but it felt as if I did. It took you a short amount of time to fall back asleep and it felt like every second after that I allowed my infatuation with you get the better of me as I fixated on the idea of you being at peace. To me, that was all that mattered and once that thought had circulated enough in my hazy brain I settled into a well needed slumber.
You always awake before me, breakfast ready for the two of us to share. We don't sit down and eat, we casually eat from the pan until we're full. Our television is never on the local news and I feel as if we should clean a bit more often, but at least in your living room we're in a serene state of mind that makes me smile more than any other room in any other building on the planet.
We may to live together normally, but we end up picking up what we do best once it's all over with. I play my drums, you strum the chords on your guitar, the others will come and join us and I'll admire you from a distance the whole time we do this. I'd pass up a drink or two with the rest of the guys to stay home --- your living room, which had really become my home --- with you. It wasn't to stray away from alcohol, either, because the moment the others closed the door and left us alone you opened the refrigerator and tossed me a beer. It tasted bitter on my tongue and curved around the spot I had burnt from the tea. Despite the taste we always silently complained about we finished whatever was left in the refrigerator.
Nighttime came fast and we weren't as drunk as we could have been, but we were still happy with our outcome. I caught my phone vibrate with life a few times in my pocket, but I chose to ignore it's presence. Because in the end, all I wanted to do was make music with you, simply because together that was the perfect harmony we could make.
The moments in your living room were the moments when I was at my happiest, and nights like that were there to prove it.