After concluding his typical shower yodeling session (though some might've just considered it incoherent screaming), he exited the bathroom with a grin and a towel over his shoulders. Siroco paused and shook his head, sending water droplets flying from his yellow-spiked hair before he carded his calloused fingers through his sopping wet, yet still voluminous locks. He loved his fluffy hair, even if it was a pain to tame at times.

He took the time to dry himself off before he approached the somewhat haphazard pile of clothing in the middle of the floor. His hive was a mess, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to find anything otherwise. This was Organized Chaos. Luckily for him, he quickly found his desired attire and plucked the items from the pile before he yawned and walked back into the bathroom.

The Goldblood stood before the mirror, viewing himself from the neck up, and he gave a fanged grin at the sight of his vibrant eyes and sunny-yellow freckles as he stretched, clasping his hands together high above his head and leaning left, then leaning right and repeating the motion before he brought his hands down and slowly rolled his shoulders. Evening stretches were always important to a healthy body... healthy. Siroco subconsciously touched the shoulder of his prosthetic arm.

The lowblood took a few breaths as he gripped the first item, a grey-toned binder, and shook his head once more to dislodge any excess water before he slipped it on. So far, so good, maybe he wouldn’t- damn it, he was stuck. Siroco scowled and furrowed his brow as he grumbled to himself. Why were these things such a pain in the neck? In time, however, he successfully worked his way inside and wiggled his shoulderblades to their briefly-inconvenienced freedom. Ah, that was better.

His dark gray T-shirt and black cargo pants were uneventful in comparison save for a rogue pin lightly pricking Siroco’s leg. No harm done, or at least none that he bothered to check. All that was left was his hair gel, deodorant, breakfast, and he was all good to go... yet at the same time, he felt like he was forgetting something. Oh well, he would probably figure it out.

He did not figure it out. Even after everything else was said and done, Roco felt like something was missing. The Goldblood paused as he looked around with a pout. What was it? He’d done everything that he needed to do; his routine was in order, as it generally was. What he did know was that he was running out of time, and it would defeat the point of waking up early if he ended up being late anyway, right? He’d just have to cut his losses and leave.

Which is exactly what he did, running out the door and locking it before he pulled it shut. Unfortunately for him, his keys were still on the counter. Again. 

Gog. 

Fucking.

It started with an innocent query from one of your fans on Chitter. “Siroco, how do you feel about Ronnie Can you tell us in-depth your emotions about your blind buddy?” It’s no secret that you’re fond of him. You love all of your band, but the question has been lingering on your thinkpan, putting too many of your thoughts into an incomprehensible haze. You sit back with a quiet huff and groan to yourself.

You tap your pencil eraser twice against your temple to beckon yourself back to Alternia, but as you look down at your paper, which is marked with yellowing from age, scribbles, and little doodles you made to try to help yourself focus, it all seems to feel distant. It’s not like you to dwell on much of anything, so what is it about that fan that keeps dragging you back? You’d like to think that you were pretty upfront and honest about the question. What is it about Ronnie, you wonder, that makes you keep having to draw back to that single post?

Ronnie’s the one whose smile lights up the room. You love that about him. You love how his voice rings pleasantly in your ears. Good voice, good face, and you’ve seen enough thirst posts from your fans to know that they agree, even if the thought causes you to feel perhaps somewhat dour. You love his tattoos and how they’re somehow so simple yet so clever at the same time. You love his dorky bandana, and you snicker to yourself as you realize that he probably still has no idea that you drew on the inside of it with a marker. You love it when he lets you touch his tattoos. You love the feeling of his grip on your arm as he trusts you to lead him along. You love how he whispers in your ear almost too loudly--

You’re getting off track. Aw hell, the train derailed fifteen minutes ago.

No, nevermind, it’s back on its tracks, but it’s going mach speed in an entirely different direction. Now, all you can think about is your dearly beloved drummer. You’re thinking of how his voice brightens your day, how his smile causes your bloodpusher to beat just a little bit faster, how whenever he touches you, you sometimes can’t help an enthused psionic spark, and his everything is just perfect to you. If there was one thing you would wish for, it would be that he could at least see how he truly was: picture perfect without a need for a filter. Gog, how you flush for him- wait- no, that wasn’t--

You freeze, and you drop your pencil onto your notebook. Your breath catches in your throat, and you’re unaware of the buzzing sound emanating from your charges. You’re flushed for him. That’s it. You’re flushed for him, but should you tell him? What if he’s flushed for you, too? Or maybe you’re pale? You feel like it’s hard to choose. All you know is that you adore him. You jump to your feet almost on instinct, and you accidentally release a significant enough pulse that the lights suddenly flicker before everything goes dark. Damn it! You just caused another power outage, and you hear the startled curse of one of your bandmates immediately after. Normally, you would be ready to dodge bullets if Antini was ready to legitimately throw down, but right now, you’ve only got one thing on your mind. One PERSON on your mind.

You stumble over the hotel room’s worn-down coffee table that you just bashed your shin on, and you curse aloud as you hop for a moment before running into the next room, calling out the name that suddenly feels so much more important than any song.