#canaryavalon

     ❝ I DIG your sound -- you could even consider me a fan --      but I think the vision part still needs a bit of work. ❞

       TO MARTIN, THERE  were  few  things  in  life  that  matched  the  pleasure  of  a  naughty  thrill  at  a  hotel  -  nothing  that  would  ruin  a  man’s  life,  but  something  that  would  stir  it  up  a  bit  in  the  moment.  it  could  be  smoothed  over  in  time.  people  got  over  those  things.

      these  thrills  included  stealing  key  cards  from  the  hotel  front  desk,  setting  off  bang-snaps  in  the  corridors,  or  in  some  extreme  cases,  rearranging  the  room’s  furniture  in  a  rather  inconvenient  way.  very  rarely  was  martin  joined  in  his  shenanigans  -  not  that  he  had  a  problem  with  that.  in  fact,  he  seemed  to  like  being  the  only  one  with  enough  gall  to  cause  trouble.  but,  on  the  off  chance  he  was  joined,  he  made  it  worthwhile.

      it  was  during  one  of  his  sessions  of  throwing  snappers  on  the  floor,  the  pop-pop-pop  staggered  and  unpredictable,  that  he  was  discovered  by  another  band  member  from  a  group  he  hadn’t  yet  met.  with  a  quick  glance  over  his  shoulder,  martin  held  out  a  hand  full  of  the  little  devils,  offering  it  to  the  man  approaching  his  vicinity.  he  grinned  wider  after  another  POP  !

      ❛❛  i’ve  only  got  about  ten  left  for  this  floor,  so  make  it  worth  your  time  before  we  get  chased  onto  the  next  floor.  ❜❜

Canary Avalon had just finished recording their complete album titled “ Gypsum Afternoon. “ It was a long and arduous task, often staying late at the studio. Renting an apartment nearby, just so they could take turns getting some much needed sleep. The constant grind however was going to pay off big time, they had made a few hits on the record already. Or at least they were betting they would get some serious radio play, especially with John’s guitar solo’s attached. John was the last one in the studio, finalizing up some of the music with the sound mixer and the producer. Though in all honesty they had been shooting the shit for around 2 hours, putting in about 30 minutes worth of actual work. John rose from his seat, his gaunt and long body stretched some.

A big yawn, before he tilted his head and heard a crack. It sending that certain impulse down his spine. “ Yeah, I’ll be back. I’m just going to go and have a cigarette really quick guys. “ Leaving them and heading down the hallway and out the studio door. Yawning even more. Fuck. He thought mildly. Should have doubled up on the coffee earlier. He couldn’t wait for the band to take their small hiatus for a few weeks. He sure the fuck needed it. Forgetting his coat inside, the slightly chilled air hitting his arms as she shook them around like noodles some. “ Shit..” Huddling close to the brick wall for some warmth. Then the sound that traveled hit him.

“ The fuck ?  “

He said aloud, grabbing out a cigarette and placing it into his mouth. Though before he lit it, the man could feel his hips starting to sway some to the music. That familiar sound. Noticing the dance studio and peering in through the window to see a woman dancing. Lighting his cigarette then, inhaling and exhaling through his nostrils. After sometime watching, he’d seen her walking towards the door. Trying to put the cigarette out by snubbing it with his two fingers. “Ah shit ! shit ! “ The burning sensation. Dropping it onto the ground finally and stepping over it. A deep chuckle some. “ What ? I wasn’t watching you. I was watching the boombox. “ An obvious lie  if anyone ever painted one. “ I uh, I was working next door at the recording studio and decided to come out here for a break. Was that Madonna ? “ Feeling the warm air from inside the dance studio.

   . . . i was watching the boombox—he says. pffft !!!

could that even be considered a lie? what is that? that doesn’t even make any sense.

her expression remains flat, serious. here is where she sizes him up completely—large, bug-like eyes raking over his spindly form with a fine tooth comb. the built-in threat meter she has stored at the forefront of her brain drops at an alarming rate, the scale teetering and eventually landing on oh, he's just a little daft. down at his feet, a thin trail of smoke rises from the crushed cigarette butt and disperses into the night air, never to be seen again.

when he mentions madonna, she doesn't answer him. she’s not finished assessing the situation. heavy brows. bare arms. tired eyes. it’s freezing out. if he's trying to make small talk with her—if it's idle chit-chat he desires, she won't have him outside in the cold. he’ll get sick!

she widens the narrow gap she'd been peeking out of all suspicious, propping the door open with her leg. she’ll poke her head out into the alley in search for red flags: other signs of danger. no back up. the man’s clear. there’s a soft, barely audible sigh from our dancer. she tucks herself back inside the studio, but not before twisting a generous fistful of his t-shirt into a tiny hand and tugging him in with her.

bijou locks the door.

" . . . have you ever heard of the three-second glance? " trust me, stranger, she hasn't either. in fact, she's making it up on the spot, her voice all gentle and honeyed. she brings the pocket knife out from the secrecy of behind her and around to her front, folding the sharp blade back into its snug little slot. clack. a beat for her eyes to meet his. their gaze is held very briefly. just long enough to deliver her next line.

" three seconds is how long you should look at someone you don't know personally, "

and now she'll head for her duffel bag and settle into a squat, unzipping it and sliding the weapon into one of the mesh side compartments. she rifles through the mess, past the cds, turning over a pair of trousers. if you saw inside, you’d assume she was planning an overnight stay. when she finds the proper time to do so, she’ll surely organize it. surely.

" two seconds if it's during the night, " a glance cast over a toned shoulder, skin covered with a light sheen of sweat.

" one if you have a mustache like that. "

~that’s a very, very safe assumption and absolutely something that would happen so we’re ROLLIN WITH IT, BABE!~

He’s far too accustomed to waking up early, and though Elijah couldn’t care less about bein’ a bird going for a silly worm, he’s paralyzed in light of this other gift he’s found come sunlight creeping in through the window panes…

Vita’s still asleep. Right there. In front of him.Eli doesn’t dare even lift his head from the pillow alongside hers.

But his skills of observation have found an entirely new way to show themselves: noting the curve of her shoulder, near enough he could lay a kiss to the bared edge, mark the spot as his own- a show of his appreciation for it’s existence. But if he went and did that, what’s to stop him from leaving a trail of just the same on down her arm, until he can find the fingertips he’d swear had left permanent marks on him from the evening before? NOTHING, and oh, he’s not strong enough to show such restraint… better not to tempt himself, not while she’s so serene, able to rest as she is…

BUT HE IS ONLY A MAN! HOW DOES THE MORNING GLOW EXPECT HIM TO RESIST!?… does he dare? has he ever done anything more daring in his life?

Delicately, precisely, with all the proper attention that’d be doled out for the most fragile and expensive wares he can only imagine are hidden away, too special for man’s fumbling graces- Elijah gives in to the whispers of his own desires… in one swift shift: he’s pulled the blanket up over that shoulder, over that tempting arm, tucks her safely beneath cotton and down… and he DOES dare a kiss, but just briefly, to the soft bit of hidden skin behind her ear. 

Whispered: “You’re cute when you sleep,” she’s cute when she isn’t sleeping, too! cute when she’s singing, cute when she’s teasing at him, cute when she’s laughing about her band mates… And he could, of course, also tell her how she brings to mind the story of Aphrodite, but it’s probably too early for talk of Venus or Mount Olympus… 

During the emotionally unpredictable rehearsals for Concert For George, Dhani had stopped smoking. In fact, he’d never really smoked unless he was intensely stressed, but now he was, or he thought he was- in any case, he wanted a smoke. But since his dad’s death, for somewhat obvious reasons, he couldn’t quite bring himself around to it. The days rehearsing were long, sometimes uplifting and sometimes really dull and taking forever, waiting around in rooms backstage and swivelling on office chair type behaviour. But today hardly anyone was in, only Eric, and he was at a loose end. Wandering down the immaculate Kensington backstreets lined by towering red brick mansions, he worried his lip with his fingers and paid close attention to the wind flapping the fabric of his thin Indian linen tunic, flattening it against his chest until the breeze changed direction. He squinted, dark eyebrows knitting together as he reached the biggest, most ostentatious of the buildings, more like a castle really; the Royal College of Music.