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These days, it can be hard to see the light in the world. The way everything's been crushing down on him, the way he's been losing clients in a slow trickle, the way his head aches and he just... he loses spaces of time, loses the way names and faces are supposed to join together, loses spark and sense of purpose.
But there are good days. There are bright moments. And Eda, Eda's very presence never fails to remind him that things can be okay. Things are okay. He's grateful for her. Lucky that she's stayed around, though in melancholy hours he can't imagine why she would have. He's knows he's wronged her. Knows she's more than he deserves, especially after he'd been with Isolde and been back with Isolde and returned once again to Isolde. And now that he's begun running low on money (now that his name no longer sings as strong as it used to, now that he can no longer perform in the ways he used to), what is there to keep her?
Still. She's been remarkably steadfast. And whatever happens tomorrow, she's here right now. Here and asleep in his bed, while he paces quietly near the window, glancing at her, looking away. She's beautiful as ever, will always be beautiful through and through. He's suddenly glad he couldn't sleep last night; it's worth it just to see her here and now, glanced gently by the early morning sun and nestled in the warmth of (he hopes, he would almost pray it) peaceful sleep.
He loves her. He's wild about her. And she is, she truly is the best thing that has ever happened to him.
Eda still can't really figure out why she agreed to get in his apartment tonight. His money is running dry, he drinks far too much for his health, often reeks of someone else's perfume when he talks to her, and overall just seems dim compared to her shine. To be honest, she has no use for such dull things... and people.
But... she went to him anyway, she straight out begged for her and... well she can't really say no to him he's like that. He's pitiable as hell when he's like that.
Eda agreed to an hour of talking, but it turned into sex and an entire night. And that is now Eda is sleeping in his bed.
He used to shine. He used to flare across a world of nobodies. How's he supposed to find that again?
He knows the answer, that there's no finding anything at all, that it's going, almost gone. Knows the answer but won't think about it, doesn't have to think about it as long as he lives. Because what's the point in dwelling on what's lost, right? If only it weren't so hard not to dwell these days. If only his mind and mood didn't fuzz over, anchor him in glumness, downness, moods he's rarely and maybe never felt in his life. He doesn't know what to do about it. He mostly closes his eyes and tries to barrel through. Because there's always a brighter side, isn't there?
And there's Eda. Right now, there's Eda. He keeps almost steady watching her for five minutes, ten, he doesn't know how long. And then there's the itch. The pull toward the bottle of scotch left on the bureau. He'd told himself he wouldn't. That he'd wait until she woke up and they had breakfast (he assumes, lets himself assume she'll stay for that much longer, though really, she shouldn't have to). But he knows from experience that the itch will only become more persistent, the need harder to ignore. And anyway, isn't it better if he has his drink before she wakes up? He knows she doesn't like it; this way, he's at least not doing it in front of her. (As if it won't happen again before she goes. As if there's any way of avoiding it.)
So he pours himself a drink, tries to make it last.
He knows it's a shame to keep her here. To call her back time and again and hang onto her when there's so much for her beyond these walls, beyond him. He should let her go. Tell her to go. Stop begging on and off his knees for her to come back.
But what else is there? He can play at courtroom exploits and sharp banter (harder and harder to do even that, to hold onto a conversation, to remember the ways words can soar). And yes his work still matters, from time to time he feels the accustomed flash of it all and from time to time he's lucid, so clear and so clear to everything he's been and can be, everything he hasn't yet become–
All of that fades, so quickly.
The morning is becoming melancholy, and suddenly it's hard to be alone while she sleeps, hard to let her rest, though he wants to and knows that he should. Her presence here is a gift; he ought to respect that. But he's lonely. But he doesn't want to lose her, and right now she seems too far away. Then, too, because he knows he needs to part with her, a piece of him tries to hold on harder still.
Fallon sets his glass aside, making a vague effort to place it out of sight. "Eda?
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let me know if this is too soft and going nowhere or anything
But there are good days. There are bright moments. And Eda, Eda's very presence never fails to remind him that things can be okay. Things are okay. He's grateful for her. Lucky that she's stayed around, though in melancholy hours he can't imagine why she would have. He's knows he's wronged her. Knows she's more than he deserves, especially after he'd been with Isolde and been back with Isolde and returned once again to Isolde. And now that he's begun running low on money (now that his name no longer sings as strong as it used to, now that he can no longer perform in the ways he used to), what is there to keep her?
Still. She's been remarkably steadfast. And whatever happens tomorrow, she's here right now. Here and asleep in his bed, while he paces quietly near the window, glancing at her, looking away. She's beautiful as ever, will always be beautiful through and through. He's suddenly glad he couldn't sleep last night; it's worth it just to see her here and now, glanced gently by the early morning sun and nestled in the warmth of (he hopes, he would almost pray it) peaceful sleep.
He loves her. He's wild about her. And she is, she truly is the best thing that has ever happened to him.
no subject
But... she went to him anyway, she straight out begged for her and... well she can't really say no to him he's like that. He's pitiable as hell when he's like that.
Eda agreed to an hour of talking, but it turned into sex and an entire night. And that is now Eda is sleeping in his bed.
no subject
He knows the answer, that there's no finding anything at all, that it's going, almost gone. Knows the answer but won't think about it, doesn't have to think about it as long as he lives. Because what's the point in dwelling on what's lost, right? If only it weren't so hard not to dwell these days. If only his mind and mood didn't fuzz over, anchor him in glumness, downness, moods he's rarely and maybe never felt in his life. He doesn't know what to do about it. He mostly closes his eyes and tries to barrel through. Because there's always a brighter side, isn't there?
And there's Eda. Right now, there's Eda. He keeps almost steady watching her for five minutes, ten, he doesn't know how long. And then there's the itch. The pull toward the bottle of scotch left on the bureau. He'd told himself he wouldn't. That he'd wait until she woke up and they had breakfast (he assumes, lets himself assume she'll stay for that much longer, though really, she shouldn't have to). But he knows from experience that the itch will only become more persistent, the need harder to ignore. And anyway, isn't it better if he has his drink before she wakes up? He knows she doesn't like it; this way, he's at least not doing it in front of her. (As if it won't happen again before she goes. As if there's any way of avoiding it.)
So he pours himself a drink, tries to make it last.
He knows it's a shame to keep her here. To call her back time and again and hang onto her when there's so much for her beyond these walls, beyond him. He should let her go. Tell her to go. Stop begging on and off his knees for her to come back.
But what else is there? He can play at courtroom exploits and sharp banter (harder and harder to do even that, to hold onto a conversation, to remember the ways words can soar). And yes his work still matters, from time to time he feels the accustomed flash of it all and from time to time he's lucid, so clear and so clear to everything he's been and can be, everything he hasn't yet become–
All of that fades, so quickly.
The morning is becoming melancholy, and suddenly it's hard to be alone while she sleeps, hard to let her rest, though he wants to and knows that he should. Her presence here is a gift; he ought to respect that. But he's lonely. But he doesn't want to lose her, and right now she seems too far away. Then, too, because he knows he needs to part with her, a piece of him tries to hold on harder still.
Fallon sets his glass aside, making a vague effort to place it out of sight. "Eda?
"Hey, baby?"