[Fic]:Zen and the Art of Not Killing the Messenger
Fic: Zen and the Art of Not Killing the Messenger
Character/s: Bob Bryar, Fall Out Boy
Chronologically speaking, this is the first segment of Pedestrian Wolves. cynthia_arrow offered excellent advice and initial betaing [any additional mistakes are my own, of course], and x_dark_siren_x stepped in with pom pom rustling when it was most needed. Thanks to you both. ♥
Also: Andy reads from Gary Snyder's poem "For All".
~~~~~
Andy
Racetraitor isn’t bad - the bassist, who’s apparently just a stand-in tonight, has a ridiculous amount of charisma, which helps draw attention from his shitty bass playing. But it’s the drummer that really draws the eye. Bob has seen Hurley around before- he’s heard rumors about how much of a party guy he was, before he abruptly turned Edge and vegan. That was before Bob’s time; he doesn’t know what the dude used to be like, but this Andy Hurley is one of the most focused, intense drummers he’s ever seen. Andy’s riveting - it’s a good thing Bob has a decent amount of experience under his belt, because he’s distracted, busy watching the tattooed madman at the back of the stage. But really there’s only so much you can do to make mediocre thrash guitar sound good. His fingers move across the board on autopilot.
After the set, he’s focused on the board - there’s some basic wiring problems with the treble range that he thinks he can fix, and Bob’s concentrating so hard on the electrical tape and needle nose pliers in his hands he doesn’t even register the presence next to him. He tears the tape, tucks it neatly and looks up to find Hurley watching him, amusement glinting in his eyes. Bob isn’t quite sure what to make of the appraisal sitting just behind the amusement. He settles back into himself and nods.
“Good show.”
“Thanks. Good sound work. Your rep makes a lot more sense now.”
Bob manages a small smile at that and another nod of thanks. It sounds like a compliment, but there’s something else… “Oh?”
Hurley shakes sweaty hair out of his eyes. “Bryar’s magic ear. There aren’t many Fianin who step into tech roles.”
Bob’s blood runs cold at his casual words. “What the fuck are you…”
“Don’t worry. I won’t betray you.” And despite his sudden fear, Bob believes him. He's not sure why, though Andy's steady gaze and the sincerity swirling through his scent definitely encourage calm.
They stare at each other.
“You busy after?” Andy asks, breaking the stand-off.
Bob arches an eyebrow at the smaller man. Andy shakes his head, laughing.
“I thought you’d want to get a cup of coffee… and talk. “
Bob hesitates, flushing. “Yeah. That would be good.”
There’s a diner, a perfect 50s throwback, down the street from the venue. The two of them drink cups of burnt coffee, eat fries and talk about drums. There’s not a single mention of Fianin or wolves.
That lack lays the foundation for their friendship.
~~~~~~
Bob wonders how Andy knew, how he could tell, but doesn't know how to ask. A couple weeks later, when they meet for breakfast -tofu in peanut sauce for Andy, bacon and eggs for Bob - Andy casually mentions a few guys he knew at college that were a pack.
“I still doesn't know why they told me, but...”
“I don’t know any packs our age.” Bob says. //Or at all.// But he doesn’t say that out loud. He focuses on his last piece of bacon. “I’d like to meet them.”
The tines of Andy’s fork screech across ceramic, skitter against the plate edge, sending peanut sauce arcing onto the table top. Bob winces at the sound.
"Sorry." Andy says, and pulls napkins out of the despinser. He's fumbling, the napkins catching and shredding in the metal frame.
"Oh hey, no..." Bob says.
"They aren't the sort that you'd...” Andy cut in, the words tumbling free. “I don't hang out with them anymore."
Bob can taste Andy's anxiety at the back of his throat. He shrugs, and mops up the last bit of egg yolk from his plate. Even focused on the wedge of rye toast in his hand, he doesn’t miss the relief on Andy’s face.
Bob doesn't ask him about the others again.
From this point forward, the scent of peanut sauce will always make Bob’s adrenaline spike.
~~~
Their schedules don't quite mesh - they both keep busy,working shows - but Andy and Bob find time for late-night cups of diner coffee, breakfasts at a joint downtown that serves tofu scramble. The very erratic nature of their meetings soothes something in Bob. It's not like Bob lacks friends - but this thing with Andy is different. Sometimes he wonders if this is what it feels like to have a brother. The month's pass and Bob learns to relax into Andy's quiet, into the knowing glint of his eyes and his solid silence.
In late May, their schedules work in such a way that the pair of them can get away for the full moon. So, Andy and Bob go out to Kettle Moraine State Park. During the hike and as they set up camp, there’s not much conversation. This is another thing Bob likes about Andy; unlike many people Bob knows, he values silence.
When night falls, Bob is off, a pale-furred ghost in the pines. Needles under paws, slick and fragrant, he races around trunks, skirting the glacial deposits and slow-shrinking kettle lakes. Moonlight gleams on the still waters and he yowls, the sound low, echoing out and back from the circling trees. He pauses by a bog, the tart scent of cranberry flowers, green and bright, obscuring the scent of bog-mud. He follows a rabbit trail back towards camp, more interested in how the creature's path shies away from his own tracks than in the potential meal. Bob's so preoccupied with separating rabbit scent from the cloaking scent of pine, he surprised by the sudden flash of campfire. He sticks to tree shadows, but it only takes a moment to recognize tent and campfire orientation.
It's base camp.
There's a moment when Bob thinks 'home'. He pushes that unworthy thought deep and away.
This is the first time he's had someone to return to at run's end - and even though Bob won't let himself claim this- claim Andy for himself -he lets the feeling soak in deep. Then he moves down into the firelight.
Andy looks up from his book, his smile a mere tilt of his lips. The glint of the campfire is caught in his glasses, blaze of bright hiding his eyes.
"Good run?"
Bob yips an affirmative, trots over and pushes his nose against the book spine. He still can't quite read the cover.
"It’s Gary Snyder."
Bob huffs, settles down next to him. There's a brief silence, then Andy starts to read.
"Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.
Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel..."
Bob soaks up the easy cadence of his speaking voice and thinks of jazz.
~~~~~
Joe
Andy flattens his hands against the steering wheel, fingers spread wide.
"Thanks for doing this." He says, the words quiet, a strange counterpoint to the freight train rumble of drums still pouring, tinny, from the speakers. There's a bit of distortion coming from one of the back speakers that's fuzzing out the mid-range, just enough to make Bob twitch.
"It's cool," he says, and wonders if Andy would let him mess around with the speaker a bit after practice.
They’re barely inside the door when this gangly kid tackles him - he’s young and there’s an innocence in his eyes that makes Bob’s heart ache.
“You’re like me.” He said, delight in his voice.
Bob snorts. “Get the fuck off me, dude.” He growls.
Joe tilts his head, his grin widening. He's wide-eyed and so damn young. Bob doesn't think he's ever been that young.
He glances at Andy who shakes his head at the unvoiced question. The rest of the band doesn’t know about Fianin. Bob nods, pulls Joe outside.
He retrieves a cigarette, offers the pack to Joe.
Joe shakes his head. “I’ve got my own.”
And he holds up the skinniest joint Bob has ever seen. Bob uses the action of lighting the cigarette to hide his grin. The smoke in compatible silence for a bit.
"How long..." Bob starts to ask, and hesitates, as scent gives him a pretty clear idea.
Joe is apparently used to picking up conversational slack. “How long have I known? Since I was young. Maybe six?" Joe frowns, then shakes his head and shrugs. "It skipped my mom, but my Uncles have been cool, taught me a lot. Took me out to the homestead..."
//To keep an eye on you.// Bob thought, as he watched as Joe bounce slightly on the balls of his feet.
Bob likes Joe's scent - it's familiar, smells like family. Bob knows better, of course; he can almost hear his mom's voice - whispers about pack and trust and how they are not built for group intricacies - but he's not around many Fianin, and even fewer who are roughly his age. Bob can't help but indulge in the feeling. When Joe bumps his shoulder and smiles, he smiles back.
They wander back into the practice space, smelling of pot and tobacco. Bob looks over at Hurley. He’s watching Joe with his arm draped across Bob’s shoulders, talking expressively with his other hand. He’s known Andy long enough to recognize the look on his face. It’s approval - the hard knot in Bob’s heart unclenches a bit at the sight.
"I believe this belongs to you?" Bob says, looking at Andy.
Pete answers him. "Thanks, man." And he bundles Joe off.
Bob nods, satisfied now that his questions about the group's hierarchy are answered, as they all head towards their instruments.
Bob takes his contact buzz - mostly from the warm drape of Joe's arm, he's not that much of a lightweight - and cautiously finds a comfortable place to sit on the broken-down couch across from the drum kit. He listens to their practice. They aren't bad - they aren’t great either, but there's potential. He doesn’t say much on the drive back, but doesn't need to, either. At this point, he and Andy have the shorthand down.
Andy grins at him when he drops Bob off.
"Thanks."
"It was my pleasure." Bob replies, meaning every word.
~~~
Several months later, a wretched day and horrible show results in a cell call at two in the morning that tears Bob out of bad sleep. Luckily, their gig isn't too far away. Bob still goes stumbling out to his car, drinks bad coffee trying to stay awake as he drives with the windows cracked. At his directions end, he turns into a shopping mall's parking lot. Bob turns off the car and frowns at the huddled shapes made stark and sharp-edged by the overhead lights as they lean against a van. The body language puts him on edge - they aren't a united group, but have instead become a trio watching their fourth pace in increasingly tight circles before them. Bob can feel the tension even before he opens the car door. Additional layers of emotion swirl towards him on a gust of March wind, and Bob sucks in a breath, braces himself and manages to not stagger back. Bob wants a cigarette so badly his fingers flex, but he just shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps walking.
Bob ignores the three leaning against the van. The tense set of shoulders tells him everything he needs to know there. Instead he steps right in Joe's path. Joe stops pacing a hair’s breath away. When he looks up at Bob his irises are gold.
Bob just spreads his arms and grabs Joe as he collapses. Bob doesn't try to prevent the rumble that rises in his chest - he just tightens his grip. They stand like that long enough for Bob to lose count of their shared breaths.
"I blew it." Joe says, finally. The words are low, too low for the humans to hear, and full of sorrow.
Bob inhales. "No. You didn't," he mutters in reply.
"But..." Joe looks up at him.
Bob turns, arm still draped across Joe's shoulders, and looks at the rest of the band.
"I'm borrowing your guitarist for a couple hours. Go get warm."
He doesn't wait for a response, just manhandles Joe into the passenger's seat and takes off.
The car ride is silent but for the sound of their breath.
They turn off on a dirt road, out into a straggly copse of cottonwood trees before pulling over.
"Out." Bob says, pulling off coat, socks, shoes and shirt, and dropping them on the seat.
Joe blinks at him. "What?"
Bob doesn't reply, slamming the door and shifting in the same moment.
He only has to wait though four breaths before a gangly-limbed timber wolf rounds the front of the car and huffs at him.
They run, winter-worn corn stubble snapping against their flanks, moon full, cold and bright above them. The bite of winter is loose, but still present. For the most part they hold to silence- a few howls do spill free. They run hard and long before turning back, to shiver and grin as they pull their clothes straight. They are halfway back before either of them speak.
"Thanks." Joe's voice is low, almost lost in the hum of wheels on asphalt.
"Not a problem."
"Well..."
"It's not," Bob says, words sure.
"Because of Andy. He knows, right?"
Bob is silent for a long time. "Not just because of Andy."
"No?"
"No."
"Oh."
They pull into the shopping mall's parking lot. The van has moved, is now parked directly beneath a light. Bob parks next to it, cuts the engine.
"You're going to stay?"
"Of course." Bob says.
Joe exhales, a noisy gust that takes tension with it. "Cool. I..."
Bob shakes his head, and grabs Joe's wrist. "Have faith in your pack."
"They aren't."
"They are." Bob has never been so sure of anything before in his life.
That's the belief that has him driving so far, so late. He knows Andy, has a decent read on Pete and Patrick. He knows how this is going to go. "They just needed to know and need time to adjust."
They walk over to the van, Bob's hand firm on Joe's shoulder as he opens the van's door.
~~
Afterwards, Bob sleeps for eighteen hours straight. He dreams of the moon, of the cold wind in his fur, of the sound of a Fianin chorus, multiple voices twining tight. For two weeks, every night, the dream repeats. Then he gets a sound job on tour, and the moon loosens her grip once more.
~~~~~
This entry was originally posted at http://crowgirl13.dreamwidth.org/590953.html. If possible, I prefer comments there.
Character/s: Bob Bryar, Fall Out Boy
Chronologically speaking, this is the first segment of Pedestrian Wolves. cynthia_arrow offered excellent advice and initial betaing [any additional mistakes are my own, of course], and x_dark_siren_x stepped in with pom pom rustling when it was most needed. Thanks to you both. ♥
Also: Andy reads from Gary Snyder's poem "For All".
~~~~~
Andy
Racetraitor isn’t bad - the bassist, who’s apparently just a stand-in tonight, has a ridiculous amount of charisma, which helps draw attention from his shitty bass playing. But it’s the drummer that really draws the eye. Bob has seen Hurley around before- he’s heard rumors about how much of a party guy he was, before he abruptly turned Edge and vegan. That was before Bob’s time; he doesn’t know what the dude used to be like, but this Andy Hurley is one of the most focused, intense drummers he’s ever seen. Andy’s riveting - it’s a good thing Bob has a decent amount of experience under his belt, because he’s distracted, busy watching the tattooed madman at the back of the stage. But really there’s only so much you can do to make mediocre thrash guitar sound good. His fingers move across the board on autopilot.
After the set, he’s focused on the board - there’s some basic wiring problems with the treble range that he thinks he can fix, and Bob’s concentrating so hard on the electrical tape and needle nose pliers in his hands he doesn’t even register the presence next to him. He tears the tape, tucks it neatly and looks up to find Hurley watching him, amusement glinting in his eyes. Bob isn’t quite sure what to make of the appraisal sitting just behind the amusement. He settles back into himself and nods.
“Good show.”
“Thanks. Good sound work. Your rep makes a lot more sense now.”
Bob manages a small smile at that and another nod of thanks. It sounds like a compliment, but there’s something else… “Oh?”
Hurley shakes sweaty hair out of his eyes. “Bryar’s magic ear. There aren’t many Fianin who step into tech roles.”
Bob’s blood runs cold at his casual words. “What the fuck are you…”
“Don’t worry. I won’t betray you.” And despite his sudden fear, Bob believes him. He's not sure why, though Andy's steady gaze and the sincerity swirling through his scent definitely encourage calm.
They stare at each other.
“You busy after?” Andy asks, breaking the stand-off.
Bob arches an eyebrow at the smaller man. Andy shakes his head, laughing.
“I thought you’d want to get a cup of coffee… and talk. “
Bob hesitates, flushing. “Yeah. That would be good.”
There’s a diner, a perfect 50s throwback, down the street from the venue. The two of them drink cups of burnt coffee, eat fries and talk about drums. There’s not a single mention of Fianin or wolves.
That lack lays the foundation for their friendship.
~~~~~~
Bob wonders how Andy knew, how he could tell, but doesn't know how to ask. A couple weeks later, when they meet for breakfast -tofu in peanut sauce for Andy, bacon and eggs for Bob - Andy casually mentions a few guys he knew at college that were a pack.
“I still doesn't know why they told me, but...”
“I don’t know any packs our age.” Bob says. //Or at all.// But he doesn’t say that out loud. He focuses on his last piece of bacon. “I’d like to meet them.”
The tines of Andy’s fork screech across ceramic, skitter against the plate edge, sending peanut sauce arcing onto the table top. Bob winces at the sound.
"Sorry." Andy says, and pulls napkins out of the despinser. He's fumbling, the napkins catching and shredding in the metal frame.
"Oh hey, no..." Bob says.
"They aren't the sort that you'd...” Andy cut in, the words tumbling free. “I don't hang out with them anymore."
Bob can taste Andy's anxiety at the back of his throat. He shrugs, and mops up the last bit of egg yolk from his plate. Even focused on the wedge of rye toast in his hand, he doesn’t miss the relief on Andy’s face.
Bob doesn't ask him about the others again.
From this point forward, the scent of peanut sauce will always make Bob’s adrenaline spike.
~~~
Their schedules don't quite mesh - they both keep busy,working shows - but Andy and Bob find time for late-night cups of diner coffee, breakfasts at a joint downtown that serves tofu scramble. The very erratic nature of their meetings soothes something in Bob. It's not like Bob lacks friends - but this thing with Andy is different. Sometimes he wonders if this is what it feels like to have a brother. The month's pass and Bob learns to relax into Andy's quiet, into the knowing glint of his eyes and his solid silence.
In late May, their schedules work in such a way that the pair of them can get away for the full moon. So, Andy and Bob go out to Kettle Moraine State Park. During the hike and as they set up camp, there’s not much conversation. This is another thing Bob likes about Andy; unlike many people Bob knows, he values silence.
When night falls, Bob is off, a pale-furred ghost in the pines. Needles under paws, slick and fragrant, he races around trunks, skirting the glacial deposits and slow-shrinking kettle lakes. Moonlight gleams on the still waters and he yowls, the sound low, echoing out and back from the circling trees. He pauses by a bog, the tart scent of cranberry flowers, green and bright, obscuring the scent of bog-mud. He follows a rabbit trail back towards camp, more interested in how the creature's path shies away from his own tracks than in the potential meal. Bob's so preoccupied with separating rabbit scent from the cloaking scent of pine, he surprised by the sudden flash of campfire. He sticks to tree shadows, but it only takes a moment to recognize tent and campfire orientation.
It's base camp.
There's a moment when Bob thinks 'home'. He pushes that unworthy thought deep and away.
This is the first time he's had someone to return to at run's end - and even though Bob won't let himself claim this- claim Andy for himself -he lets the feeling soak in deep. Then he moves down into the firelight.
Andy looks up from his book, his smile a mere tilt of his lips. The glint of the campfire is caught in his glasses, blaze of bright hiding his eyes.
"Good run?"
Bob yips an affirmative, trots over and pushes his nose against the book spine. He still can't quite read the cover.
"It’s Gary Snyder."
Bob huffs, settles down next to him. There's a brief silence, then Andy starts to read.
"Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.
Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel..."
Bob soaks up the easy cadence of his speaking voice and thinks of jazz.
~~~~~
Joe
Andy flattens his hands against the steering wheel, fingers spread wide.
"Thanks for doing this." He says, the words quiet, a strange counterpoint to the freight train rumble of drums still pouring, tinny, from the speakers. There's a bit of distortion coming from one of the back speakers that's fuzzing out the mid-range, just enough to make Bob twitch.
"It's cool," he says, and wonders if Andy would let him mess around with the speaker a bit after practice.
They’re barely inside the door when this gangly kid tackles him - he’s young and there’s an innocence in his eyes that makes Bob’s heart ache.
“You’re like me.” He said, delight in his voice.
Bob snorts. “Get the fuck off me, dude.” He growls.
Joe tilts his head, his grin widening. He's wide-eyed and so damn young. Bob doesn't think he's ever been that young.
He glances at Andy who shakes his head at the unvoiced question. The rest of the band doesn’t know about Fianin. Bob nods, pulls Joe outside.
He retrieves a cigarette, offers the pack to Joe.
Joe shakes his head. “I’ve got my own.”
And he holds up the skinniest joint Bob has ever seen. Bob uses the action of lighting the cigarette to hide his grin. The smoke in compatible silence for a bit.
"How long..." Bob starts to ask, and hesitates, as scent gives him a pretty clear idea.
Joe is apparently used to picking up conversational slack. “How long have I known? Since I was young. Maybe six?" Joe frowns, then shakes his head and shrugs. "It skipped my mom, but my Uncles have been cool, taught me a lot. Took me out to the homestead..."
//To keep an eye on you.// Bob thought, as he watched as Joe bounce slightly on the balls of his feet.
Bob likes Joe's scent - it's familiar, smells like family. Bob knows better, of course; he can almost hear his mom's voice - whispers about pack and trust and how they are not built for group intricacies - but he's not around many Fianin, and even fewer who are roughly his age. Bob can't help but indulge in the feeling. When Joe bumps his shoulder and smiles, he smiles back.
They wander back into the practice space, smelling of pot and tobacco. Bob looks over at Hurley. He’s watching Joe with his arm draped across Bob’s shoulders, talking expressively with his other hand. He’s known Andy long enough to recognize the look on his face. It’s approval - the hard knot in Bob’s heart unclenches a bit at the sight.
"I believe this belongs to you?" Bob says, looking at Andy.
Pete answers him. "Thanks, man." And he bundles Joe off.
Bob nods, satisfied now that his questions about the group's hierarchy are answered, as they all head towards their instruments.
Bob takes his contact buzz - mostly from the warm drape of Joe's arm, he's not that much of a lightweight - and cautiously finds a comfortable place to sit on the broken-down couch across from the drum kit. He listens to their practice. They aren't bad - they aren’t great either, but there's potential. He doesn’t say much on the drive back, but doesn't need to, either. At this point, he and Andy have the shorthand down.
Andy grins at him when he drops Bob off.
"Thanks."
"It was my pleasure." Bob replies, meaning every word.
~~~
Several months later, a wretched day and horrible show results in a cell call at two in the morning that tears Bob out of bad sleep. Luckily, their gig isn't too far away. Bob still goes stumbling out to his car, drinks bad coffee trying to stay awake as he drives with the windows cracked. At his directions end, he turns into a shopping mall's parking lot. Bob turns off the car and frowns at the huddled shapes made stark and sharp-edged by the overhead lights as they lean against a van. The body language puts him on edge - they aren't a united group, but have instead become a trio watching their fourth pace in increasingly tight circles before them. Bob can feel the tension even before he opens the car door. Additional layers of emotion swirl towards him on a gust of March wind, and Bob sucks in a breath, braces himself and manages to not stagger back. Bob wants a cigarette so badly his fingers flex, but he just shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps walking.
Bob ignores the three leaning against the van. The tense set of shoulders tells him everything he needs to know there. Instead he steps right in Joe's path. Joe stops pacing a hair’s breath away. When he looks up at Bob his irises are gold.
Bob just spreads his arms and grabs Joe as he collapses. Bob doesn't try to prevent the rumble that rises in his chest - he just tightens his grip. They stand like that long enough for Bob to lose count of their shared breaths.
"I blew it." Joe says, finally. The words are low, too low for the humans to hear, and full of sorrow.
Bob inhales. "No. You didn't," he mutters in reply.
"But..." Joe looks up at him.
Bob turns, arm still draped across Joe's shoulders, and looks at the rest of the band.
"I'm borrowing your guitarist for a couple hours. Go get warm."
He doesn't wait for a response, just manhandles Joe into the passenger's seat and takes off.
The car ride is silent but for the sound of their breath.
They turn off on a dirt road, out into a straggly copse of cottonwood trees before pulling over.
"Out." Bob says, pulling off coat, socks, shoes and shirt, and dropping them on the seat.
Joe blinks at him. "What?"
Bob doesn't reply, slamming the door and shifting in the same moment.
He only has to wait though four breaths before a gangly-limbed timber wolf rounds the front of the car and huffs at him.
They run, winter-worn corn stubble snapping against their flanks, moon full, cold and bright above them. The bite of winter is loose, but still present. For the most part they hold to silence- a few howls do spill free. They run hard and long before turning back, to shiver and grin as they pull their clothes straight. They are halfway back before either of them speak.
"Thanks." Joe's voice is low, almost lost in the hum of wheels on asphalt.
"Not a problem."
"Well..."
"It's not," Bob says, words sure.
"Because of Andy. He knows, right?"
Bob is silent for a long time. "Not just because of Andy."
"No?"
"No."
"Oh."
They pull into the shopping mall's parking lot. The van has moved, is now parked directly beneath a light. Bob parks next to it, cuts the engine.
"You're going to stay?"
"Of course." Bob says.
Joe exhales, a noisy gust that takes tension with it. "Cool. I..."
Bob shakes his head, and grabs Joe's wrist. "Have faith in your pack."
"They aren't."
"They are." Bob has never been so sure of anything before in his life.
That's the belief that has him driving so far, so late. He knows Andy, has a decent read on Pete and Patrick. He knows how this is going to go. "They just needed to know and need time to adjust."
They walk over to the van, Bob's hand firm on Joe's shoulder as he opens the van's door.
~~
Afterwards, Bob sleeps for eighteen hours straight. He dreams of the moon, of the cold wind in his fur, of the sound of a Fianin chorus, multiple voices twining tight. For two weeks, every night, the dream repeats. Then he gets a sound job on tour, and the moon loosens her grip once more.
~~~~~
This entry was originally posted at http://crowgirl13.dreamwidth.org/590953.html. If possible, I prefer comments there.