He's curled up behind her in bed. It's not the first time they've slept besides each other, but this might be the last, so he's cherishing every moment of it. "Magda... will you sing to me?"
It’s an underrated luxury; the ability to simply sleep beside someone. There’s no clamouring urge for decisive intimacy, no complication thatotherwise accompanies the more scandalous definition of the word.It’s just simple. An act of trust that so often goes unrecognised. Whenyou sleep, you’re at your most vulnerable, you’re cut off from the world, lost in your own - but to have someone at your side is a groundingprivilege, a kind of bond that tethers you to the reality you ultimately have to return.
Magda’s always been in two minds about how she’d prefer to sleep. Somedays, she’shappier alone, neither touched nor bothered by the presence of someone else - yet on others, she needs the contact, sheneeds the reminder that there is someone else there, when nightmares claw their way from the depths of her subconscious, encroaching on both subconscious and waking thought alike.
It’s a comfort to hear someone else’s heartbeat, to feel the warmth oftheir hand when you entwine fingers and retreat into the safety of someblissful dream. She doesn’t think much of the request when he asks it, it’s not the first time - yet the thought still tickles as she offers up a smile. The brunette doesn’t turn to look at him when she tugs his arms around her middle, fingertips drawing lazy circles over the hairs on his arm out of habit as much as anything else.
A long pause follows, neither moving nor speaking, until at last the silencebreaks with a quiet tune sung with the utmost serenity.
❛—When you wish upon a star Makes no difference who you are Anything your heart desires Will come to you.
J. Moriarty.
Somewhere nice.
With lots of books.
And no villainy. Ever. Honest.
Charles keeps telling me to read more. So I did. I read a book about you. Except it can’t be the real you, because you’re a softie and not a criminal mastermind, but it was a good book, about this English detective called Sherlock. I didn’t really like him though, or his sidekick Watson. Moriarty and that other chap, what’s his name? Moran? They were the ones I liked. They were the ones that felt like real people, the kind of people you could understand and get behind. I think Sherlock’s a bit too analytical for me, plus I admittedly didn’t understand some of the words, but that’s not the take home message here. The take home message is that I may have stumbled upon your literary doppelgänger and I had to come and tell you.
I think I’m going to try The Three Musketeers next. I saw the film recently, so I want to see how the book stacks up. Plus I have a soft spot for French things. I’ve never actually been, but it’s one of those places I think I’m going to go before I die. It’s on my spade…no, bucket list. I want to go to Versailles and get lost in the gardens, and maybe climb to the top of the Eiffel tower and take a photo of the world from the clouds. I want to be a tourist. One of those really cheesy foreigners that has no idea where anything is and speaks terrible French while picking out postcards and having adventure after adventure. Have you ever been? I hear they make the best pastries, and I’ll let you in on my little secret - I have the sweetest tooth, it’s a wonder I have any left at all.
How’re you? How’s life? I don’t see or hear much of you these days. I think that must be the peril of living on opposite sides of the world. Maybe we should write more? Or send postcards! I could send you so many from here of random buildings or flowers. We have a surprisingly large amount of tourist merchandise for such a small place. You could always visit either, if you ever have the time. I can show you the new flowerbeds and the rabbits that live in the bottom of the garden. Nobody much comes to see them, so you can be the first. The honorary bunny watcher, even.
That sounds really childish when I actually write it down. I forget how immature I can be when left to my own devices, but it’s nice to be talking about something that isn’t politics or crippling trauma. You’re like my arts buddy. Talking about books and music and philosophy, maybe the odd bit of cinema thrown in for good measure. All the happy things that make a mind and heart healthy, the little bits of life that make it worth living, you know?
Have you seen any good films lately by the way? I still haven’t found anything to top Casablanca yet. I think Rear Window came close, but nothing beats Bergman. Not even Grace. Which is probably showing my age and taste in movies now, but I used to love going to see them. I used to sneak into the back of the cinema with Max and see how long it took for anyone to notice we were in there - we were almost always caught, but we saw enough of those films to make them last. The iconic scenes, the memorable scores, it was perfect. I almost miss the way it was. I know the world’s evolved a bit since then, but the nostalgia is still strong.
I think it’s the same with music. I know the sounds are changing, the jazz is losing it’s traction and we’re getting more R&B, a lot more soul. It’s an evolution I like though. Give me Etta James and I will dance the night away until I’m too sleepy to stand. Or James Brown. I love him. I love the rhythm, the passion, the exuberance he pours into his performances. Have you heard him yet? I’m the same with Hendrix though. The fluidity, the originality, the way it’s energising and soothing at the same time. Does any of this make sense? Or am I just saying words again? I’ll have to send you some records. Give you a taste of the music I’ve found myself hooked on. I know more people are swayed by the Beatles, but I think I’m more of a Ben E King girl. Or Nina Simone. Oh, god, I could talk about music for days.
Wouldn’t that be a nice life? To envelope yourself in good music that makes you feel happy and alive? The kind of music that always has you dancing, or smiling, even when you’re half sprawled with a glass of wine in hand, foot tapping away while you sing along, even if it’s off beat or off key. The simplicity of it is unmistakable, but the significance profound. You should try it. Or I’ll try it and report back. At least one of us should live the dream.
It’s getting late here. I should probably go, before I accidentally knock a candle over and set fire to something. Don’t be a stranger, alright? Write more. Visit more. Send terrible postcards or ring at 2am if you have to. Just let me know you’re alright once in a while, okay?
Stay out of trouble - and don’t go harassing any London based busy-bodies who’re pretending to fight crime.
"Fuck– come on, don't make this to me now." He mumbles to himself as he tried to open the door that he thought it was his own, the damn thing wasn't working for obvious reason but still god knows how he managed to get in.
Everything was too dark for him to see, Anthony stumbled over a thing he didn't know what it was and fell on the couch.
"This will do for now." The professor whispered, slowly falling asleep while trying to ignore the sensation of the spinning room due the alcohol.
James sniggered and followed him, nodding. "Sounds good to me. You can choose what we watch, and I'll even let you hold my hand during the scary bits." He teased, still going to find some cake. His sweet tooth must be satisfied.
“Thank you, I don’t know what I would do without you.”He smiled and started to take out the necessary to make thesandwiches.“The bottles are over there, take whatever you want.”
James leaned into the kiss, smiling against his lips. "We should open a bottle of wine, eat cake and watch films, how does that sound? You've been working too hard, you need to relax sometimes."
“I’m up for the wine..but maybe I need a little more than cake. I’ll make some sandwiches, yeah?”
