#el001

In the days leading up, Ella had worried the edge of the paper so much, it had grown soft and fibrous. There was a hole right in the middle, where the creases from the folds met. Still, she felt calmer now, more at peace than she had since she’d texted Logan. These drawings were precious to her, yes. But if anyone would understand, it was someone who had known her for so long. Someone who knew...well, maybe not everything she went through, but certainly more than most people in her life. Logan would understand what this meant to her.

Ella had been to the shop more than a few times; she was perfectly comfortable there. The bell above the door rang lightly as she entered, though she announced her presence with an additional, “Hello?” as she walked in. Logan had offered to see her right at the end of the day, but she knew he was always booked up, so if he was with a client, it might be a moment.

Ella made herself comfortable in the lobby, though she didn’t have to wait long before she heard footsteps behind her. She turned slowly, rooting through her bag for a moment before looking up to greet him. “I didn’t want to bring anything that would be heavy to carry home, so I just have bread.” She held the small loaf out, offering it toward Logan with a smile. “I hope that’s okay.”

down upsight_ 

half-a-heart-beat in difference, notes not quite meeting the pitch, dance too made of frippery and they could feel the extra missing beat, 3/4 instead of 2/4 and that gap ached like a missing tooth. minimal beat but the unfinished phrase lingered in their head and the drums needed something more feral and sun-baked.

eleanor had played something after the coronation, touches of the blood-splattered stairs, of the cracked and broken crown in their music. not quite ottoman, not quite home, but it was a concept that they’d long learned to shed.

still, the refrains drummed in their fingers, war music begging to spill from their throat once again. part preparation, readiness for what they knew was coming, part a desire to go back home. 

it was driving them mad

that rhythm pulled them forwards, after-thoughts of melodies ghostly memories down the corridors.

so sayf followed, footsteps near-silent drums on stone floors, before stopping infront of the music practice rooms. mostly eleanor’s haunt, and not one that they’d ever had cause to visit before. but here they were, and the silence itself seemed to play music in their ears.

impatience dripping from tense muscles before they concede, something like sticky indulgence causing the corner of their mouth to curl as they step inside, close sound-proof doors behind them.