jeevey
Rock n' Roll Doggie Band-aid
Edge opened his eyes to see a silver drop leave the end of his nose. It landed on the back of his wrist like a rain drop, leaving a chiller spot. There was a shift of weight beside him- Bono working his backside down to the cold concrete, threading an arm around him.
“I'm sorry about that, with the table. That wasn't very nice.”
“Piss off. It's fine.”
“Thanks.” The surface of Bono's leather jacket was like ice, but where it opened around his neck there was warmth. Edge allowed himself to shiver just once, then uncontrollably. Bono pulled him tighter.
“There, mate. It's going to be okay.”
He looked down at his hands, familiar and faintly embarrassing, broad enough at the palm but dainty at the tip like a girl. He had held many things in his hands: axes, awards, the handshake of luminaries and heads of state, the sound of airplanes and just for a moment, everything he needed. But when he turned them over now, they were empty.
He dropped his head against the open jacket. Bono's collarbone was hard and comforting.
“I'm so cold, B.”
“Let's go in, then. It must be almost morning.”
Morning. Edge pulled his feet in to stand. Even the blood clotted walls of the Pallas were preferable to East Berlin in the disastrous light of dawn. Bono swiped up the sunken bottle and stood to reach down with the other.
“Here you go. Up. Whoops- careful there.” Bono hoisted too hard, or Edge was drunk and clumsy, and he stumbled. He found himself steadied against Bono's chest and two fingers of his whiskey hand. He was swaying, looking down his nose at the sudden nearness of Bono's face. Near enough that Bono's inhalation rocked him slightly on his heels; so near that that the beath of his nostrils was a soft pressure on his upper lip. His lungs were filled with the scent of it. The tiny hairs nearest Bono's mouth were flushed with gold. The scent of his breath, two fingers against his chest, the tiny golden hairs, an inhalation that swayed him slightly-
“I couldn't do it,” he said. “I tried, but I couldn't be enough for her.”
Bono gave him a steady look of infinite acceptance. “Come on,” he said. “Let's get you to bed.”
The air in the room was close and stale. He bent to work wearily at the laces of his boots, then slid between the chilly sheets. His chin rasped against the pillow. There was a quiet clink of bottles from the table.
“Bono. Do you think they'd send up another blanket?”
The plastic clank of the phone, and then a pause.
“No one is answering at the front desk. I'll go see about it. Will you be all right for a bit?” The door swiffed shut behind him.
Alone in the darkness Edge thought of his daughters. Everything that he had done in life so had placed them a covered spot, a place of safety where no rough winds blew. He had made for them a shell secure there was no door back in. There was no place for him there. The silence grew very long. Around him spread the Pallas, dull, vast, endeadening. He fingered arpeggios in the empty air. There was only silence here, and black dawn leering through the curtains. He was a singular note with no sustain and no twin harmonic, plucked breifly and fading. He hid his hands under the pillow. The silence was gigantic, voracious.
He was no longer alone in the room. Bono bumped and rustled like an indefagitable elephant around the chairs and luggage. Edge pressed his face to the pillow, then moved to cover the wet imprint left there. He felt the light settle of a blanket over his body.
“This one is mine,” Bono said, bumping again. “There was no one at the desk to get another so I just brought it along. And this-” he produced, improbably, a cup of tea and a book. “Is it all right with you if I just crash here? It's too late to sleep now so I was just going to read for a while.”
“Sure. Hgm.” Edge's voice was uneven. He cleared this throat and tried again. “It's fine, no problem.”
Bono clambered onto the bed like a child, noisily settling himself on top of Edge's blanket and under his own. “Oh, I brought you this.” He leaned over Edge to place a water bottle on the night table. “You'll want that in the morning. Or your head will, at least. ” He thrashed pillows this way and that, propped himself against the wall and scooted close so that his leg made a long line of solid warmth down Edge's back. Edge tried to relax into the feeling, but Bono still continued to fidget and twitch.
“B. Would you please shut the fuck up and be still?”
“Right. Sorry about that.”
Now his breathing began to deepen and slow. In his imagination he walked the halls of his house. He tucked the girls into their beds and closed the shell around them, and left the room where Aislinn lay sleeping untouched. Rage would wait for tomorrow.
Hands were near him, moving gently. He focused on the sensation with an effort. Bono had removed the tie from his queue. He pulled it apart, spreading his hair on the pillow with such delicacy that Edge's scalp stung. Bono continued to work. He grasped careful handsful and pulled it with a steady, gently traction, moving over his whole head with a measured tug and release until the painful prickle subsided, leaving wakefulness and warmth.
Edge squeezed his eyes shut. This tenderness was more than he could stand. He tossed and shifted as though he were uncomfortable. Bono coiled his hair loosely and tucked it up on the pillow where it wouldn't cling to his neck the way Edge did himself before sleeping, and reopened his book.
“Thank you,” Edge said when he could.
“Piss off. It's fine.”
He reached back to scratch Bono's knee through the blanket, and felt a warm scrub against he shoulder in reply. His back felt liquidly warm, his hands alert and weightless. Dawn peered through the curtains, all her hostility worn to sadness and patience. He ran his fingers over the chords in his mind. They rang quietly, as they should. He exhaled deeply. This was going to be enough. Rage would wait until the evening, but for now what he had right here would do.
“I'm sorry about that, with the table. That wasn't very nice.”
“Piss off. It's fine.”
“Thanks.” The surface of Bono's leather jacket was like ice, but where it opened around his neck there was warmth. Edge allowed himself to shiver just once, then uncontrollably. Bono pulled him tighter.
“There, mate. It's going to be okay.”
He looked down at his hands, familiar and faintly embarrassing, broad enough at the palm but dainty at the tip like a girl. He had held many things in his hands: axes, awards, the handshake of luminaries and heads of state, the sound of airplanes and just for a moment, everything he needed. But when he turned them over now, they were empty.
He dropped his head against the open jacket. Bono's collarbone was hard and comforting.
“I'm so cold, B.”
“Let's go in, then. It must be almost morning.”
Morning. Edge pulled his feet in to stand. Even the blood clotted walls of the Pallas were preferable to East Berlin in the disastrous light of dawn. Bono swiped up the sunken bottle and stood to reach down with the other.
“Here you go. Up. Whoops- careful there.” Bono hoisted too hard, or Edge was drunk and clumsy, and he stumbled. He found himself steadied against Bono's chest and two fingers of his whiskey hand. He was swaying, looking down his nose at the sudden nearness of Bono's face. Near enough that Bono's inhalation rocked him slightly on his heels; so near that that the beath of his nostrils was a soft pressure on his upper lip. His lungs were filled with the scent of it. The tiny hairs nearest Bono's mouth were flushed with gold. The scent of his breath, two fingers against his chest, the tiny golden hairs, an inhalation that swayed him slightly-
“I couldn't do it,” he said. “I tried, but I couldn't be enough for her.”
Bono gave him a steady look of infinite acceptance. “Come on,” he said. “Let's get you to bed.”
The air in the room was close and stale. He bent to work wearily at the laces of his boots, then slid between the chilly sheets. His chin rasped against the pillow. There was a quiet clink of bottles from the table.
“Bono. Do you think they'd send up another blanket?”
The plastic clank of the phone, and then a pause.
“No one is answering at the front desk. I'll go see about it. Will you be all right for a bit?” The door swiffed shut behind him.
Alone in the darkness Edge thought of his daughters. Everything that he had done in life so had placed them a covered spot, a place of safety where no rough winds blew. He had made for them a shell secure there was no door back in. There was no place for him there. The silence grew very long. Around him spread the Pallas, dull, vast, endeadening. He fingered arpeggios in the empty air. There was only silence here, and black dawn leering through the curtains. He was a singular note with no sustain and no twin harmonic, plucked breifly and fading. He hid his hands under the pillow. The silence was gigantic, voracious.
He was no longer alone in the room. Bono bumped and rustled like an indefagitable elephant around the chairs and luggage. Edge pressed his face to the pillow, then moved to cover the wet imprint left there. He felt the light settle of a blanket over his body.
“This one is mine,” Bono said, bumping again. “There was no one at the desk to get another so I just brought it along. And this-” he produced, improbably, a cup of tea and a book. “Is it all right with you if I just crash here? It's too late to sleep now so I was just going to read for a while.”
“Sure. Hgm.” Edge's voice was uneven. He cleared this throat and tried again. “It's fine, no problem.”
Bono clambered onto the bed like a child, noisily settling himself on top of Edge's blanket and under his own. “Oh, I brought you this.” He leaned over Edge to place a water bottle on the night table. “You'll want that in the morning. Or your head will, at least. ” He thrashed pillows this way and that, propped himself against the wall and scooted close so that his leg made a long line of solid warmth down Edge's back. Edge tried to relax into the feeling, but Bono still continued to fidget and twitch.
“B. Would you please shut the fuck up and be still?”
“Right. Sorry about that.”
Now his breathing began to deepen and slow. In his imagination he walked the halls of his house. He tucked the girls into their beds and closed the shell around them, and left the room where Aislinn lay sleeping untouched. Rage would wait for tomorrow.
Hands were near him, moving gently. He focused on the sensation with an effort. Bono had removed the tie from his queue. He pulled it apart, spreading his hair on the pillow with such delicacy that Edge's scalp stung. Bono continued to work. He grasped careful handsful and pulled it with a steady, gently traction, moving over his whole head with a measured tug and release until the painful prickle subsided, leaving wakefulness and warmth.
Edge squeezed his eyes shut. This tenderness was more than he could stand. He tossed and shifted as though he were uncomfortable. Bono coiled his hair loosely and tucked it up on the pillow where it wouldn't cling to his neck the way Edge did himself before sleeping, and reopened his book.
“Thank you,” Edge said when he could.
“Piss off. It's fine.”
He reached back to scratch Bono's knee through the blanket, and felt a warm scrub against he shoulder in reply. His back felt liquidly warm, his hands alert and weightless. Dawn peered through the curtains, all her hostility worn to sadness and patience. He ran his fingers over the chords in his mind. They rang quietly, as they should. He exhaled deeply. This was going to be enough. Rage would wait until the evening, but for now what he had right here would do.
I like your writing style.
