would it be foolish to ask for some rewind? come on, say it again, slower, and then faster, scream and whisper, do as you are told. repetition could be good, reassuring. mads had some crazy thoughts — nicknames got its reasons to exist — and one of them was to believe that some moments could be just very real dreams. and what if then? what if the boy — the man — in front of him was nothing but a very powerful imagination trick taking hold of the weak wheel of his brain? he had been told about his fertile imagination more than twice.
side bodies pressed together and mads did look at them. an arm reached for a waist, just to keep himself in place. ramón was an anchor then, stronger, older, so different. what else has changed? he didn't care about the cabin, paying it no mind and breathing deep to catch some of his scent. still a smoker, mads thought, deadly habits die hard. “ come on now, man, don't be silly. of course it's fun. ” a pat to his waist, a stare to eyes, nose, lips, chin ... beard. “ i will show you something fun. ” the promise did not die at the tip of his tongue. mads lost his balance when ramón's waist got far away, but he had to use both hands to grab his guitar case and show the baby inside it. “ can't live without her, who would put myself as a married lad? ” his smile was proud, as if the electric guitar was indeed a nice fiancé he could show around, and not a stolen musical instrument. “ talking about babes, ” he adjusted his rings, picked at his painted nails, any distraction to keep him from staring too bluntly again. “ how's your heart, puce? how's your head? how's everything, really? ” but not from touching : chest, curls, shoulder; holding there, thumb pressing against cloth and mind cursing the thickness of it. “ let's catch up while i roll us some, shall we? ” he let a wink finish his sentence, resting the uneasiness of his body on the couch, preventing himself from tiring his anchor too soon.
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