@daiisychain we r soooo back
dont be afraid
dont delay
Dominic’s scenes weren’t usually Morgan’s scenes.
That was to say – 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 couldn’t quite place. An itch she couldn’t 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 didn’t have something on the tip of her tongue. When it wasn’t dreary out and she wasn’t pacing her flat restlessly, waiting for something to avail itself to her. Waiting for –
What exactly? Morgan’s thumb idled over the screen. Dominic was seemingly typing and stopping, then typing again.
Waiting for something. A nameless thing. A flavor she didn’t know. A scent without notes.
Grey Day. A garage band that Dominic loved, and was so proud of saying they’d graduated from someone’s mom’s garage to dive bars to bigger venues. Opening for bands with greater success and more topless fans. She’d gotten him backstage tickets as a surprise, and he’d 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 weren’t for Dominic’s 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 weren’t 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 wouldn’t let her wet socks (fucking puddles. Goddammit, this felt awful) be for naught.
They hadn’t 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 it’d 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. Morgan’s 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 hadn’t listened to them despite Dominic’s insistence, but – hearing them now – 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 they’d wear it next time – when they needed more of a wow factor.
Her eyes fell on the guitarist. Dominic’s 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. That’s 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 Morgan’s opinion. Not really the air you’d associate with a wannabe rockstar.
Not all that important, Morgan thought. But she kept looking at him anyway.
The tickets she’d gotten for her brother were a meet and greet – 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 he’d 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 wasn’t 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 they’d been brought backstage. Dominic’s expression brightened, and she let him go like an unruly dreidel.
At least it wasn’t 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.
She’d 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 wasn’t so desperate as to yearn, but it was more than a simple craving.
Big hands, great big eyes. Unimportant. A touring guitarist – not even part of their usual lineup. Just some guy.
Morgan’s smile was small, and she glanced back to where her brother was cracking wise.
“I liked the show. Why aren’t you with the rest of the band? Creative differences?”
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