He hardly ever woke later than his company. Yet, he was particularly spent the night before. So spent was he that his memory of him was more hazy than acute, more raw was the desire for him that night than what already came natural. Ah, but he was gone again, of course, always fleeing before morning light. The half-elf sat at the window, in the still fresh sunlight, dragging old strings from his bag. Strange, after all that--still he feels only spent. He plays, idle, lazy somehow in the accuracy and precision of the notes, a voice sounding as if just remembering the words he would speak in melody, "....Oh how I'm flying like a bird to you now. I was housed by your warmth, and thus transformed, by your grounded and giving and darkening scorn...remember me, love, when I'm reborn...as the shrike to your sharp, and glorious thorn."
Most times he would leave right away, when he's been around long enough to not be seen as outright rude, but not so long that the silence becomes awkward. Sometimes he rests for a few hours, before he quietly leaves.
Lately, they've shared a bed a few times. Out of convenience, of course. The nights have grown colder, and he can always appreciate a comfortable, warm and already paid for room to meditate until morning. Back to back, trying to keep his mind distracted from the warmth of the body lying beside him. But even he had to admit there was a charm to not sleeping alone for a change.
The female voice in his mind playfully teases him about his life decisions during their conversations at night. He's pretty, she says. Not as pretty as Fallahan himself, but she enjoys the view. The warlock chuckles quietly.
Still, he gets up and gets dressed before the sun is up. The aroma of fresh bread fills his senses as he intends to leave the establishment, and though he would rather not risk seeing him again — not during this day, at least —, he stays for breakfast. Just a little longer.
And once again, after he's finally out in the streets, his steps come to a halt. The pavement is still wet from last night, and as the faint smell of petrichor comes to him, so does a familiar voice — he stays put, back against the wall, where he's sure he won't be seen, and listens.
He tends to forget the power a few notes and a simple melody can have over him. How the music moves and soothes him. The shivers, the tingle in his chest. The butterflies. The escapism. His heart feels warm and full, and so comfortable that he, for once... doesn't feel like running from it.
The bard closes his eyes and sinks into the melody, and this bit of stolen intimacy.
Maybe he will stay in town today, and ask for a place to play for the evening.
