bloodyrockgod | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Charlie sits on the bed crossed-legged and writes.

Last night with Bartleby, he did . . . something. In my head. Moved something away or sheilded it or covered it or something. So I was still sick and sore, but I wasn't begging for horse anymore. That's a step up.

He's a real, actual angel and that must be why when I'm with him I feel ~~like someone worth saving~~ so damn good.

Nothing about this place makes any sense if you look at it in parts, but if you look at it all together, it's really quite wonderful. It's a bit like the island, really: a hodgepodge of people with their own histories, coming together out of necessity.

~~I just don't want to disappoint anyone this time.~~

Got to play for hours and no one complained of the singing. I blame the Muse entirely.

He puts the notebook aside and curls up on the bed.

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"It's no problem," Bartleby says. "It's... helped me. To help you. My mind's a steadier place."

"Despite getting into the chaos of mine? Hm." He turns onto his back and leaves his hand loose at his side--an invitation, not a demand.

Bartleby either doesn't pick up on or ignores the invitation. "It's not right now, but for a while? My mind beat yours hands down." He grins a little.

"Yeah, that trying-to-wipe-out-existence thing." He waits a few second more then pulls his hand back.

"Yeah. And the whole insane thing."

Charlie doesn't know what to do or say--but he does hold out his arm in a more obvious invitation. "Come keep me warm."

Bartleby scoots over, settling himself easily. "This makes it more likely that you'll kick me, I take it?"

"Suck it up, angel," Charlie answers comfortably and starts stroking Bartleby's hair. "Shove me over if it gets too much."

Bartleby grins. "I'll do so, bassist. G'night."

"Good night," Charlie murmurs and falls asleep with his hand in Bartleby's hair.

[ooc: schmooptastic! Whee!]

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