@daiisychain we r soooo back
dont be afraid
dont delay
Dominicâs scenes werenât usually Morganâs scenes.
That was to say â Dominic seemed to have some inexplicable fondness for tacky surfaces, sticky floors, and being pressed up against people like sardines in a tin. Morgan had no such proclivities. The less people, the better. Or if there had to be people, they could keep their distance. Telling certain men she had the swine flu never seemed to deter them, and since those type of idiots always seemed to crop up where Dominic liked to be, it was best to steer clear.
Morgan Sanguine would walk through fire for her brother, but she would rather pull teeth than be half as social as he was.
But it was foggy, and she had one of those vague, nameless cravings she couldnât quite place. An itch she couldnât scratch. It was like trying to choose a flavor of ice cream but not knowing what you wanted when you were at the front of the line. Dominic saved her from her proverbial hemming and hawing for once. A text chiming in her pocket while she opened her fridge for the fifth time, frowning because no miracle food had suddenly willed itself to existence beside her leftover salad.
[ grace has the shits ): have an extra ticket for grey day. come with?? ]
Any other day, Morgan would have said no. But that was a normal day when didnât have something on the tip of her tongue. When it wasnât dreary out and she wasnât pacing her flat restlessly, waiting for something to avail itself to her. Waiting for â
What exactly? Morganâs thumb idled over the screen. Dominic was seemingly typing and stopping, then typing again.
Waiting for something. A nameless thing. A flavor she didnât know. A scent without notes.
Grey Day. A garage band that Dominic loved, and was so proud of saying theyâd graduated from someoneâs momâs garage to dive bars to bigger venues. Opening for bands with greater success and more topless fans. Sheâd gotten him backstage tickets as a surprise, and heâd wanted to take a friend.
Grace had raging diarrhea, apparently. And Morgan had been waiting for A Something. A miracle to replace her sad cobb salad.
She only paused for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line.
If it werenât for Dominicâs hand around her wrist, Morgan might have turned around at the door. It seemed even stickier than his usual haunts. The alleyway smelled like piss, and Dominic had mentioned that the chicken wings here werenât much to cry home about. A dive bar with mediocre bar food? It was a travesty. But Dominic was tugging her along like a toy train, and Morgan supposed she wouldnât let her wet socks (fucking puddles. Goddammit, this felt awful) be for naught.
They hadnât banked on it starting to rain. Or, rather, neither of them had bothered to check the weather before leaving. Dominic had thrown his hoodie over her head, but itâd done little to nothing. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, the back of her neck, and her shoes were soaked. The venue was packed tight, and everyone was more than a little damp. Some people had neglected deodorant, or maybe they never knew what it was to begin with. Morganâs mouth twisted in a moue, but Dominic distracted her with a beer.
She would indulge him. After all, her brother was always patient when she wanted go to art galleries. Dominic had sat through melancholic German art films for her sake, the least she could do was try and be invested in the band he liked.
It turned out Grey Day was good. Morgan hadnât listened to them despite Dominicâs insistence, but â hearing them now â she was pleasantly surprised.
A classic sound complete with classically lanky lads behind their instruments. All they were missing was the classic rock eyeliner. Mayber theyâd wear it next time â when they needed more of a wow factor.
Her eyes fell on the guitarist. Dominicâs words had been muffled over the music. Not their usual guitarist, he was practically shouting, but it was still hard to hear. His hands were cupped around his mouth. Thatâs Cian.
Just Cian. As if that was supposed to mean something. Like that was important.
A shock of dark hair, great big eyes, big hands. Not much presence, in Morganâs opinion. Not really the air youâd associate with a wannabe rockstar.
Not all that important, Morgan thought. But she kept looking at him anyway.
The tickets sheâd gotten for her brother were a meet and greet â because apparently Grey Day was big enough for that. And Dominic liked them enough to have thanked her profusely for it. Morgan had never thought to be apart of his moment when she bought them. She would bask in his thanks (Dominic usually repaid her in weird trinkets or whatever tubes of paint she dropped unsubtle hints about) and let him be.
But Gracie had the shits (poor thing), and Morgan had agreed when heâd asked.
Her brother was the type to make friends in under five minutes (she had timed it once). Rubbing elbows with a bunch of grubby musicians? It came to her brother as easily as breathing. She left him to it. No one gave Morgan much flack because of her pretty face, and it wasnât as if this sort of venue had more than two exhausted bouncers at any given moment.
A meet and greet with Grey Day. Minus the guitarist.
Her interest waned immediately when theyâd been brought backstage. Dominicâs expression brightened, and she let him go like an unruly dreidel.
At least it wasnât as sticky back here. When the curtain fell, it was as if a veil had fallen, too. The thrum of the crowd seemed softer here, muted. Sound techs were meandering to and fro, their arms laden with cords and miscellany, but no one was jostling her. No elbows in her ribs, no unwashed armpits in the general vicinity of her head.
No separation between her and the guitarist, apparently.
Lanky and pale, loitering about like some unwanted child.
Sheâd never been shy. Reserved, yes, but never shy.
Her socks were still wet, and she was sure her hair was still damp. Morgan brushed her braid back impatiently. Damp, probably smelling of booze, and more than a little bedraggled from the rain.
But the hunger was waning. It was the best word she could use to describe it. It wasnât so desperate as to yearn, but it was more than a simple craving.
Big hands, great big eyes. Unimportant. A touring guitarist â not even part of their usual lineup. Just some guy.
Morganâs smile was small, and she glanced back to where her brother was cracking wise.
âI liked the show. Why arenât you with the rest of the band? Creative differences?â
turnnoffyourmind
kianamaiart
kaledo-art
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
vaporwave