nothing gonna wake you now

& — To return to the deepest reaches of solitude, the lonely light shining its narrow beams against an isolated land, a room with no exit in sight; this was no way to live, and certainly so for a girl with such kindness embedded within herself (buried beneath years of neglect, perhaps, but a gem still shone even despite its grime and she, too, would reveal such plentiful beauty, even in the most unsuspecting hour). She seems so hesitant to face this for what it truly was: a change, possibly for the better (though he is ever wary of declaring such a valorous thing, lest he stake claim to this progression of clean light that washes over her; he is nothing more than a boy in love. He carries no cleansing news on winged shoes, he brings not springtime once the cold winter has drawn its final breath). His foot stalls its fevered tapping, pressed now firm and flat against the tiled floor beneath him, and the confusion that previously painted his expression begins to easily slip away, revealing a tender underbelly; this has never happened to her, and he wants to ask her this: what has not happened? Has no other man given to her the love she so obviously deserves? How could the world be so cruel, so as to preserve from her the glowing radiance of love, in all its multi-faceted wonder? Oh, the world was a cold and dark place; Eurydice deserved much more than just an unfinished vow of dedication. She deserved more than a melody, strung by fire and fear; ay, she deserved the world (though, he knows all too well, providing her this will prove itself a never-ending task, one he is entirely willing to dive into, never again to bring his head above water).

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises her, a truth he believes, in the moment, to be the most honest thing he has ever spoken (and lo, doesn’t every promise start this way? With love, with dedication — then, with doubt). A hand nervously goes to the back of his neck, resting there as his nerves get the best of him; he, too, doesn’t possess a very long list of past relationships. A few, with women who opted to go elsewhere, with friends turned lovers turned ‘this isn’t working out, I need to go find something that will’. He blames them not for their endless search for a suitable end; he has now found his, even if he can count their meetings only on one hand. Love judged not based on frequency, but by depth, and oh, he is choking on this emotion (he will drown in it, deeper and deeper, keeping his head lower and lower beneath the surface of this blind following). He looks to her softly, though not condescendingly, as he continues. “Eurydice, I promise you. I won’t leave you.” and oh, he wishes to hold his hand out, to take hers into his and call it an anchor (to call her light the beacon; to call her smile the stars). Instead, he just looks to her, anxious, anticipating. “I…if there’s anything you ever need, if you ever need to just be with someone…let me know. I’m always free for you, okay?” 

(    *   & . She won’t deny ever hearing of promises like these before. Even so, in this moment she believes him more than she believes the world turns. Eurydice ponders his own world, the way he sees things. She’s been to his home; only once, and knows the world has been unkind to him just as well. Perhaps they were more similar than she originally assumed. Giving kindness, love, too, is something that seldom happens for her. It used to pour out of her, only to have passerby’s cup it in their hands and throw it back into her face. She grew tired of it, sticking around for empty promises and keeping arms open for those who would never hold onto her as tightly. The reflection is clearer now, and deep within Eurydice’s being is determination to stay put for him, come what may.

& — Alas, as she speaks he, too, regresses to nervous tendencies, foot tapping inaudibly ‘gainst the speckled tiled flooring; her words (”you confuse me”), they echo through his mind like a chord sounding of dissonance, like two notes just a half-step from harmonization — was it cruel, then, to wish for things to change? To wish his actions were more distinct, to wish his intentions to be more transparent; he never dreamt of being difficult to read. He never imagined a girl would sit before him and present him with this evidence to a deaf jury, these footnotes to a tale barely written; how he wishes clarification could acquit him of this foul injustice, how his mind begins to turn with sentences upon sentences upon sentences, syllables into words into what would soon become but a flimsy defense. She wants to know where this is going, and confusion itself paints an explicit reaction ‘cross the young man’s face; had his actions been more clear, more definitive, then she would know all too clearly of the pangs of admiration that ring throughout his mind (to divulge this would be to speak the truth, yes, though foresight reminds him of this: she is not accustomed to stagnancy. She is not accustomed to burying roots.) His gaze falls to the table, with its condensation and light falling victim to wood that decelerates its path, and he wonders if she anticipates rejection. He wonders if she is expecting him to back down, to lay claim to ignorance and go about his evening as if meeting her changed nothing; he digresses. Stay in the moment, dear Orpheus, lest she slip from your grasp.

“I do like you,” he begins, this proclamation that of irrefutable verity; had he not liked her — platonically, romantically, or otherwise — then why all of this effort? Why would he actively jettison from the hopes of others (that dream of writing a song to change the world, or of fixing the wrongs this land has wrought), if he did not believe it to be worthwhile? How foolish a thought, he would later consider, that of him spending time with her for any reason other than love. He frowns a bit to himself, corners of the once-bright smile now down-turned, and he steals a hesitant glance towards her; she looks so unsure, almost frightened in a way, and he acknowledges his guilt like a weight in the bottom of his chest (like a shell left to rot in the pit of his lungs; he breathes, and with each breath, he is reminded that this is his fault, that her pain is his fault). He continues. “I’m sorry I’m…not very good at showing it, but I do really like you. I…” his mind repeats the once prominent mantra: Orpheus, don’t come on too strong; he ignores it. “I don’t have much to offer you, but…I’d like to see where this goes, too. Even if the wind changes on us, even if the world gets…well, a lot darker than it already is. I’d like to be there with you for it, if you would let me.”

(    *   & . His reaction only makes things a bit worse. Her gut tells her to backtrack and tell him to forget it, only for her to runaway from the bar, perhaps the city. But, in spite of herself, she stays glued to her seat, knowing full well that she’s in too deep to change her mind. He confirms her curosities, but it doesn’t loosen her chest, nor straighten her spine. The look of guilt spread across his face in turn feels like it’s pointing out her own insecurities. Being desired was something that Eurydice never felt she could be.  Forgotten, as good as dead, is what she was. “It’s not your fault,” She counters, not knowing if that would be enough for the moment. And it’s true. Maybe the signs were obvious enough, but Eurydice didn’t know what a sign like that would be if it landed in her lap.

& — The reassurance that she hasn’t been waiting long brings comfort to his heart, a warmth that spreads like an epidemic through his vitals (and somehow, despite it all, it still feels cold; oh, how kindness aches, like the cold that surrounds them, like love being blinded). He nods a bit at this, faint yet acknowledging; the sound of his name being spoken is like a tune he’s known all along, an old song the gods must’ve sung long ago (when the world was simpler, when times were easy and camaraderie lived not synonymous with ill-intent); he notices her fidgeting, but opts not to mention it — at least not yet, anyway. Calling attention to a quirk such as this could prove unfitting, bordering upon unjust; he can assume it is a nervous habit, and he has many of his own to bear, lest he imply hers are more daunting than his own  a wicked sort of thought, one he hesitates to speak aloud. This sagacious boy, with winding melodies lilting in his mind (most sung by the voice in front of him, like honey, or a lullaby), he is briefly concerned with her comment regarding his appearance not entirely being necessary; truly, he could’ve easily postponed. He had prior obligations, after all, but what is a man, if he curls into doubt? What is the use of a backbone, if he never stands upright? Lo, he knows abandonment to be a word made of velveteen: soft, yet sturdy, and he ought not build a noose of this, he thinks, though he knows demise due to love to be the worthiest of deaths a man can endure.

“No, I…I wanted to,” he assures her, with no clear doubt in his voice; though hesitant at times, this stems more from uncertainty of how to structure statements, and less from doubt bred from fear. His smile begins to dissipate, if only to support the gravity of the lofty conversation. “I’m here for as long as you need me to be. Or…want me to be.” the two, he is all too aware, carrying different connotations in a relationship such as this; is this even to be called a relationship, he would later wonder, if no real title has been applied to it? Is love still love, if it hasn’t been put from mind to paper? Is sorrow still sorrow, if it hasn’t yet been expressed? 

(    *   & . Her head is clouded with confusion. Once blunt, straightforward, and a rigid byproduct of her experiences, she’s a bit warmer now, despite the temperature outside. The rumor mill of New York City being a ‘sink or swim’ place to live is nothing more than a rumor, it seemed. Eurydice tries so hard not to get her hopes up but she can’t seem to help it. At least, not right now. Orpheus tells her that he wanted to be here, and it relieves some of the tension on her back she didn’t realize she was carrying. Being with her for as long as he can brings the double-edged sword of comfort and nausea. The desire to ask why burns at the back of her throat, but she keeps her mouth shut. There’s nothing special about her. At the end of it all, she’s a hungry young runaway who doesn’t even know if she has a purpose in this world. So why does he look at her like she gave him his?

& — To claim that Orpheus was naive to the world would be to place innocence upon the stoop of his urgency (which is to say: perhaps, but what good does this implication provide itself if no one looks to see it?). He is currently holding down a part-time job at a local establishment, serving partially as a server and partially as a bartender (though the former is his preference; it is easier to place blame elsewhere in that aspect, as doubt creeps in like a steady wind too insistent to ignore); he is scheduled to work tonight, well into the late evening hours, but chance is a fickle thing. He knows this just as well as anyone, and who is he to deny the request of a woman who holds such honor, such untapped eloquence, such undeniable beauty? Perhaps this is where the descriptor “naive” should fall into play; perhaps, too, this is where the young boy should stop to reconsider. This girl, one he barely knows anything more than a name of, could pose a threat; she could be a poor girl with darker tendencies, with connections in the underworld (that which houses beauty, yes, but even in its neon glow, contains an infinite darkness paralleled only by that can be found in the hearts of soulless men). He should decline the sudden invitation, sure, but he has waited so long now to find a purpose in this life; trusting the gods will provide will only get you so far, as his mentor so oft reminds him. And so, he quickly goes to his manager at the small pub, insists that an engagement has come up — all too abrupt, yet all too urgent — and he has to leave, he has to abandon these earnings he works for so feverishly. Is it selfless? Perhaps, but he is all too aware, also, of this undeniable fact: he would do anything for this girl who, even before they met, he felt he has known all his life.

He arrives to the bar, stains on his jeans, denim jacket pulled tightly ‘round his shoulders; it is cold tonight — the winter seems unbearable, as if it came on too soon — but he will persevere, nonetheless. He scans the establishment, spotting those he assumes regulars, and those he assumes have begun to lean too strongly into a recurring habit; a shame, he thinks, though he has no room to object (for isn’t he, too, leaning on a habit? Music is a habit, just as revolution and love are habits; good, yes, but self-destructive, even despite themselves). He spots her nearly immediately, smiling timidly as he approaches her table in the corner. With a small wave, he greets her.

“Eurydice,” he says, the name falling from his tongue like a melody he’s always known. He slides into the seat her opposite, eyes gleaming in the dimly lit space; even in these mahogany auras that surround her, she is just as beautiful as when they first met (too, when she came to his cramped apartment, furnishings scarce but admiration plentiful). He smiles at her, nervous and awkward, as he continues. “Sorry if I’m late. I kind of, uhm…” pray tell, should he admit he has abandoned his pay for this girl he barely knows? Shall he profess dedication so early on; the words of his mentor echo in his mind (Orpheus, don’t come on too strong); he digresses. “…I got here as soon as I could.” 

(    *   & . Upon seeing what she assumes to be Orpheus ( brown hair, blue eyes, and a red bandana wrapped around his neck ), she sits up a bit taller. He sticks out of the crowd with ease. Despite being close in age, it seems as though he hasn’t seen the way the world was, and how cruel it could be. Eurydice decides against being the bearer of bad news and opts for the smile to match his, a hand gesturing to the seat in front of her. The weather’s wicked out there, but it’s how it’s always been, no matter where she goes. At least, until someone comes along to bring the world back into tune. For now, though, she’s grateful that Orpheus showed up, even in the bitter cold. There’s the feeling of guilt in the back of her mind before it’s squared away at the sound of him calling her name. It’s strange, being cared for.

(    *   & . Picking at already chipped nail polish, mahogany hues flit around the rather cramped space. She opted for a table in the corner this time around, foot tapping impatiently on the tile floor. It was getting more difficult. What was, you may ask? Even she didn’t know. The longer she stuck around, the closer she got to people.. it felt weird being alone. She feels a breeze press against her back, hands clutching her half-empty glass before looking over her shoulder to see-- nothing.