And then for something a little different...
All of the text..!
He sighs, running his hands ruefully through his short hair, trying to pull a few strands forward, but unable.
His father's condescending insults ring in his ears still, it's what inspired him to go get it cut. Once long flowing locks of hair, his pride, or so he thought, now littering the floor in some cheap place with the audacity to call itself a 'salon'. The mice in the walls probably laugh.
He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, grimacing as one finger finds a hole in the bottom of one, he scowls, kicking a rock further down the street as he pokes at the worn fabric, though as he's nearly lost in his revere, he almost doesn't hear it... A quiet noise in the distance, though the sharp wail of a guitar grabs his attention, making him look up, glancing around in wonder at finding himself farther from his intended path.
Several cross streets away from home, farther than he's actually ever been before, but he didn't want to go home... And besides, now that he can hear the dwindling wail of a guitar, he can't help but follow it, like a rat in a maze, following his instincts.
Loud noise, bright neon window lights, and the smell of too many people in too small of a space... His nose crinkles at the scent of all the smoke, sweat, and alcohol, though after another deep breath, he finds it comforts him, helps him carry on. It's a comforting scent, if cloyingly... Rich. The smell of humanity, the smell of people happy, or at least too drunk to care.
He makes his way into the bar, the bouncer looks him over, but just shrugs before going back to a years out of date Hustler, so the boy just smiles at his luck and makes his way to the bar, dropping the crumpled remains of what he'd been sent to the so called 'salon' with on the counter, and claiming a frothy glass of beer for his troubles.
Sipping it down as he leans against the bar, looking around in wonder. This was the first time he'd ever been into one. Through the murky smoke and crowd of people, he finally makes out a glimpse of the stage, the band intent on their performance, the loud arc of music notes across the room, he can practically feel them, rich thrumming sounds, the thump of the drums, the singer's voice rising and falling over it all... But that's not what gets his attention, no, what gets his attention is the guitarist, intently watching as the man's deft fingers dance over the strings, his hand sliding up and down the neck of the guitar, easily obscene pantomime, but blindingly beautiful when combined with the sounds he pulls from the instrument...
The boy can't help but think the feel of each note akin to kissing a hummingbird, the higher notes seeming to flutter against his skin, the lower ones stroking ever downward, gripping something deep inside him and never letting go, not even when the last note rings across the air, and his drink long forgotten, the catcalls and thundering applause are jarring on the death of that one beautiful note, shockingly abrasive.
He shakes his head and glances toward the door, he can't help but feel he should leave, and yet he doesn't, instead something pulls him inexplicably onward, drawing him one faltering step at a time closer to the stage. Uncertainty makes him chew his bottom lip, sparing one unsure glance back before he ducks down the hall, following the wake of the departing band like a silent wraith.
He's not sure why he does it, can't place the reason, let alone the strength, but he does it... He introduces himself, names are exchanged, he's friendly, more approachable to them than he thought himself capable, and they are just as familiar, just as friendly. The only shyness that bleeds through is in furtive glances toward the Guitarist, the quieter one still off playing his guitar, clearly unwinding from the show, his fingers dancing over the strings, though the instrument is silent in the room, muted without it's monster backup of a huge stage amp.
Yet the boy doesn't care. A small joke is made at his expense, directed at the guitarist, but he doesn't care past a quiet laugh, until the guitarist finally looks up, shaking his long hair out of his face, his blue eyes seeming to pierce through the boy like a pin through a butterfly, his quiet gasp goes unheard, as the others find distraction in drinks and old conversation, the world seeming to go on around the boy, though he feels trapped in the guitarist's liquid ice gaze. Unfamiliar feelings of uncomfortable heat flood him, sparking thoughts unbidden, those delicate fingers trailing along skin heated with pleasure, teasing little noises from a lover, trailing ever downward before wrapping around something much more heated and appreciative than a guitar, but stroking it with the same skill and passion.
A quiet gasp breaks the stalled moment, the boy shifting uncomfortably, suddenly over-warm in a previously comfortable room. The guitarist smiles and invites him off for a private drink, the boy nods shakily, and he takes his hand, pulling him away from the noise of the band, to a back private room, where the boy is startled to have a chilled bottle pressed into his hand, the cap already removed, and he drinks it down gratefully, finishing the bottle a bit too quickly and setting it aside. Stammered apologies end, interrupted with a heated kiss, and the boy finds himself quickly in a wash of lust and need, something strangely passionate, they both feel it. Different than any other, though the boy has little experience to be sure. A low chuckle and a smile offer the boy comfort, one he takes readily as passion builds, kisses more desperate as clothing is lost, and before long he finds himself sitting on the edge of a desk, those oh so perfect hands that pulled such beautiful chords from the guitar, now squeezing and caressing him, stroking him and making him want to weep for the guitar, knowing it gets to feel this all the time.
Even a shift in position, the heat and discomfort as the guitarist eases into him, the flash of pain before the pleasure sets in nearly making him cry out, but a kiss steals the sound, and a skillful stroke rekindles the pleasure, both panting raggedly, creating their own different kind of music as they share those moments, stolen in a back office, but never an ounce less passionate and needed, lust and need so powerful the room grows unbearably warm, though neither cares to feel it, so lost in their pleasures.
Hours that feel like eternity later, both emerge from the back, oddly closer. Returning to the band is all the more awkward for the boy, but the guitarist distracts them with yet more beer, and spares him from much else than teasing commentary.
At the end of the night, more than a little drunk, fairies dancing amid the alcohol haze in his blood, making him feel warm and tickle, he tries to return home, but they deny him, inviting him to stay... Far too knowing looks exchanged behind his back, the guitarist looking sad as he reaches up to brush the boys short hair back. Past his drunk haze, he doesn't notice it had gotten in the way, much longer now than when he walked into the bar... He fights to think about it past the alcohol, but the fairies in his blood muddle his thoughts, singing old tunes as they play and dance here and there, drawing more out of him than he can comprehend.
And so he decides to stay with them, too exhausted to fight instinct, and too happy to care anymore about the family that never wanted him.
He sighs, running his hands ruefully through his short hair, trying to pull a few strands forward, but unable.
His father's condescending insults ring in his ears still, it's what inspired him to go get it cut. Once long flowing locks of hair, his pride, or so he thought, now littering the floor in some cheap place with the audacity to call itself a 'salon'. The mice in the walls probably laugh.
He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, grimacing as one finger finds a hole in the bottom of one, he scowls, kicking a rock further down the street as he pokes at the worn fabric, though as he's nearly lost in his revere, he almost doesn't hear it... A quiet noise in the distance, though the sharp wail of a guitar grabs his attention, making him look up, glancing around in wonder at finding himself farther from his intended path.
Several cross streets away from home, farther than he's actually ever been before, but he didn't want to go home... And besides, now that he can hear the dwindling wail of a guitar, he can't help but follow it, like a rat in a maze, following his instincts.
Loud noise, bright neon window lights, and the smell of too many people in too small of a space... His nose crinkles at the scent of all the smoke, sweat, and alcohol, though after another deep breath, he finds it comforts him, helps him carry on. It's a comforting scent, if cloyingly... Rich. The smell of humanity, the smell of people happy, or at least too drunk to care.
He makes his way into the bar, the bouncer looks him over, but just shrugs before going back to a years out of date Hustler, so the boy just smiles at his luck and makes his way to the bar, dropping the crumpled remains of what he'd been sent to the so called 'salon' with on the counter, and claiming a frothy glass of beer for his troubles.
Sipping it down as he leans against the bar, looking around in wonder. This was the first time he'd ever been into one. Through the murky smoke and crowd of people, he finally makes out a glimpse of the stage, the band intent on their performance, the loud arc of music notes across the room, he can practically feel them, rich thrumming sounds, the thump of the drums, the singer's voice rising and falling over it all... But that's not what gets his attention, no, what gets his attention is the guitarist, intently watching as the man's deft fingers dance over the strings, his hand sliding up and down the neck of the guitar, easily obscene pantomime, but blindingly beautiful when combined with the sounds he pulls from the instrument...
The boy can't help but think the feel of each note akin to kissing a hummingbird, the higher notes seeming to flutter against his skin, the lower ones stroking ever downward, gripping something deep inside him and never letting go, not even when the last note rings across the air, and his drink long forgotten, the catcalls and thundering applause are jarring on the death of that one beautiful note, shockingly abrasive.
He shakes his head and glances toward the door, he can't help but feel he should leave, and yet he doesn't, instead something pulls him inexplicably onward, drawing him one faltering step at a time closer to the stage. Uncertainty makes him chew his bottom lip, sparing one unsure glance back before he ducks down the hall, following the wake of the departing band like a silent wraith.
He's not sure why he does it, can't place the reason, let alone the strength, but he does it... He introduces himself, names are exchanged, he's friendly, more approachable to them than he thought himself capable, and they are just as familiar, just as friendly. The only shyness that bleeds through is in furtive glances toward the Guitarist, the quieter one still off playing his guitar, clearly unwinding from the show, his fingers dancing over the strings, though the instrument is silent in the room, muted without it's monster backup of a huge stage amp.
Yet the boy doesn't care. A small joke is made at his expense, directed at the guitarist, but he doesn't care past a quiet laugh, until the guitarist finally looks up, shaking his long hair out of his face, his blue eyes seeming to pierce through the boy like a pin through a butterfly, his quiet gasp goes unheard, as the others find distraction in drinks and old conversation, the world seeming to go on around the boy, though he feels trapped in the guitarist's liquid ice gaze. Unfamiliar feelings of uncomfortable heat flood him, sparking thoughts unbidden, those delicate fingers trailing along skin heated with pleasure, teasing little noises from a lover, trailing ever downward before wrapping around something much more heated and appreciative than a guitar, but stroking it with the same skill and passion.
A quiet gasp breaks the stalled moment, the boy shifting uncomfortably, suddenly over-warm in a previously comfortable room. The guitarist smiles and invites him off for a private drink, the boy nods shakily, and he takes his hand, pulling him away from the noise of the band, to a back private room, where the boy is startled to have a chilled bottle pressed into his hand, the cap already removed, and he drinks it down gratefully, finishing the bottle a bit too quickly and setting it aside. Stammered apologies end, interrupted with a heated kiss, and the boy finds himself quickly in a wash of lust and need, something strangely passionate, they both feel it. Different than any other, though the boy has little experience to be sure. A low chuckle and a smile offer the boy comfort, one he takes readily as passion builds, kisses more desperate as clothing is lost, and before long he finds himself sitting on the edge of a desk, those oh so perfect hands that pulled such beautiful chords from the guitar, now squeezing and caressing him, stroking him and making him want to weep for the guitar, knowing it gets to feel this all the time.
Even a shift in position, the heat and discomfort as the guitarist eases into him, the flash of pain before the pleasure sets in nearly making him cry out, but a kiss steals the sound, and a skillful stroke rekindles the pleasure, both panting raggedly, creating their own different kind of music as they share those moments, stolen in a back office, but never an ounce less passionate and needed, lust and need so powerful the room grows unbearably warm, though neither cares to feel it, so lost in their pleasures.
Hours that feel like eternity later, both emerge from the back, oddly closer. Returning to the band is all the more awkward for the boy, but the guitarist distracts them with yet more beer, and spares him from much else than teasing commentary.
At the end of the night, more than a little drunk, fairies dancing amid the alcohol haze in his blood, making him feel warm and tickle, he tries to return home, but they deny him, inviting him to stay... Far too knowing looks exchanged behind his back, the guitarist looking sad as he reaches up to brush the boys short hair back. Past his drunk haze, he doesn't notice it had gotten in the way, much longer now than when he walked into the bar... He fights to think about it past the alcohol, but the fairies in his blood muddle his thoughts, singing old tunes as they play and dance here and there, drawing more out of him than he can comprehend.
And so he decides to stay with them, too exhausted to fight instinct, and too happy to care anymore about the family that never wanted him.