Marius
Present Day
I’m dreaming.
I’m dreaming that I’m floating.
No, not floating, I’m not… buoyed by anything. I’m flying through it.
White lace, or liquid silk or vanilla-scented cotton candy.
It’s soft and delicate.
But divine.
I wake up.
And I’m in a bed.
But it’s still there. That same… essence of my dream.
It’s blissful.
I should be feeling hungover.
Last night at the bar I’d foregone any further conversation with Jez’s sister and joined in with a rowdy table of fans instead. They had seen our performance and knew who we were but were too drunk to be star struck.
That’s my favourite type of fan.
I know the others weren’t happy that I’d left the group considering that Jez had wanted us to get to know his sister better and Cadence was leaving in a few days, but their temporary annoyance is probably better than their outright anger or loathing at what I might’ve done with Anca.
Why? What were you going to do? I catch the devil on my shoulder asking me before I can brush him off.
The truth is, I don’t know.
I just know that she gets to me. Her.
And I’m going to have to find a way to stop her from joining us on tour.
I don’t want to see her, I don’t want to hear her play, I don’t want her hanging around us, when we’re supposed to be relaxed and enjoying these moments in our life, our success. I just don’t want her around. Seeing her smirk every time I say something, or her judgment every time I do something.
She just rubs me up the wrong way.
You sure it’s the wrong way? That annoying devil challenges me.
“Yes, I’m fucking sure!” I say out loud. Just in case someone else can hear the devil on my shoulder as well.
And I’m going to have to make that clear.
Harp or no harp, replacement for Cadence or not it’s irrelevant. She has to go.
Not to mention, every time she looks at me with those jade/chocolate eyes it’s like she knows what I’m thinking. I can barely get a sentence out without fumbling over my words.
“She’s a witch. We can’t have a witch on tour with us guys,” I say out loud again, practicing how I’m going to break to it every one. I should probably find a different word. Devil spawn? Maybe not. I’ll keep working on it.
I sit up in the hotel bed and stretch, my arms rising high above my head and then behind me as I take in a deep, deep breath. There’s a slight popping of bones moving into place, aligning as they should, and my head clears a little bit more.
Even though I have an apartment in London, now that we’re only a few days from leaving to go on tour, Dennis has gathered us all up and holed us up in the penthouse of the Four Seasons so he can keep an eye on us, making sure we’re not roaming around causing mischief somewhere, and are available to rehearse 24/7.
Of course, I don’t mind. It’s better than the tour bus, and cleaner than my own apartment. And frankly, I like being around my friends and bandmates.
I look around me, taking the room in. I’m not sure of the interior design-y terms, but in layman Marius-y terms, this hotel is luxurious as shit. It’s like they went out and found the most expensive version they could of everything carpet, bed linen, wall paper and crammed it into this room. I’ve wondered at times, if they get their toilet paper from a special millionaire’s bathroom store, ‘cos that stuff is soft on my ass. I chuckle at my own thoughts and lay back against the pillows for a moment, enjoying the satin smooth finish of the sheets and sigh. Bliss.
I slide out of bed, reaching for the pair of shorts I kicked off before falling asleep. At home, I might feel free to wander around naked, but I’ve been told under no uncertain terms that it is not welcome when we’re on tour and the guys are around. Not that I mind, but there’s nothing I can do if they’re all a bunch of prudes.
That floaty feeling, it’s still there. I still can’t quite make out what it is.
I scratch my stomach and wander over to the window and pull open the curtains to a typical London mid-morning.
Grey.
There’s a surprise.
But I don’t mind.
It’s the colour of my youth. My childhood. Sebastian’s always harping on about how much the weather is so much better in Paris where he’s from, and now Cadence is constantly mourning sunshine, coming from Australia.
But the sombre heaviness of the low hanging sky of London appeals to me.
I close my eyes and press my forehead against the window, bracing for the cold of the glass against my warm skin.
I breathe in. And out.
5 counts in and 5 counts out.
5 counts in and 5 counts out.
There it is again.
White smoke weaving in and out of my consciousness.
I keep my eyes closed and follow it. I use my fingers tracing against the wall to lead me to the door, the door that opens into the living area adjoining my room with Jez’s.
I open it, eyes still closed.
And freeze.
It’s music.
That blissful, untouchable something.
Soft, ambient, ethereal music.
The sound of one note being plucked and another and another. But never really revealing where one starts and the other ends. Cascading over one another into a glorious waterfall of sound.
The tune, it’s so familiar, what is it?
I can feel my brain cleaving to each note, trying to place it against the lifetime of musical phrases burned into my psyche.
Da da da da da daaaa, I hum under my breath.
Of course.
The Power of Love. But different. This has less of the 80’s ballad feeling of the Frankie Goes To Hollywood version. No, this is moody, sombre, utterly heart-breaking. A declaration of love… no matter the odds.
I open my eyes, not sure of what scene will greet me.