(no subject)
It's not often Lorne pushes away his piles of Things to Do and Stuff to Read in favor of enjoying a Seabreeze. It's an even rarer occasion for him to have a quiet moment, having turned off his record player, or his iPod to just lean back in his favorite armchair, or to lounge on the two-seat sofa reserved for his guests - yes, it's a bit too small for him to really luxuriate, but he doesn't mind his legs dangling over the edge of the armrest.
If he turns his head to the mass of pillows, if he closes his eyes for just one moment, he can smell the barest hint of cocoa and developing fluid. Maybe it's his imagination, maybe it isn't, but it really doesn't matter either way. The scent, sensory illusion though it may be, is enough on its own to have a soft smile ghost over his lips.
Some things are so sacred, so secret, so untouchably, indubitably yours you'd never put words to them, let alone scribble them down in your journal. Ask any teenager, ask anyone who's ever kept a private journal; some things you just don't write down.
No matter how much you want to preserve them, the moments or the memories of them, you wouldn't dream of trying to describe how they make you feel, or what exactly was so special about it or them...or him or her or it.
Some things are supposed to fade away. In fact, some things only grow more vivid as the details are forgotten. Some memories grow brighter when everything fades away but the details.
A smile. The sound of a low chuckle, or a faded murmur that you can't quite make out. Words lost, but the feeling remains.
He sighs, setting his glass down on the floor beside the sofa, and turns his head back into the pillows and the blanket. Sometimes, even the illusion of a scent is enough.
Sometimes, he doesn't at all mind his big nose. Not when it's filled with the scent of hot cocoa, and just the littlest hint of developing fluid.
If he turns his head to the mass of pillows, if he closes his eyes for just one moment, he can smell the barest hint of cocoa and developing fluid. Maybe it's his imagination, maybe it isn't, but it really doesn't matter either way. The scent, sensory illusion though it may be, is enough on its own to have a soft smile ghost over his lips.
Some things are so sacred, so secret, so untouchably, indubitably yours you'd never put words to them, let alone scribble them down in your journal. Ask any teenager, ask anyone who's ever kept a private journal; some things you just don't write down.
No matter how much you want to preserve them, the moments or the memories of them, you wouldn't dream of trying to describe how they make you feel, or what exactly was so special about it or them...or him or her or it.
Some things are supposed to fade away. In fact, some things only grow more vivid as the details are forgotten. Some memories grow brighter when everything fades away but the details.
A smile. The sound of a low chuckle, or a faded murmur that you can't quite make out. Words lost, but the feeling remains.
He sighs, setting his glass down on the floor beside the sofa, and turns his head back into the pillows and the blanket. Sometimes, even the illusion of a scent is enough.
Sometimes, he doesn't at all mind his big nose. Not when it's filled with the scent of hot cocoa, and just the littlest hint of developing fluid.