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Old 04-06-2011, 08:09 PM   #1
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Out Of Control 33

Oh, Phoenix, it's so hard to explain.

Lyric writing is true hell until you get used to it (I would totally be the shittiest musician ever, though)

And the end took a turn for the unexpected, to me...

***

(1986)

Ciarán had found a shallow indent in the wall of the room he was captive in. If he huddled tightly against it, made himself a spark of light in the midst of the wall on either side of him, he could be more easily forgotten. The advantage was that he couldn’t be seen very well from either side of the wall, if he sat here. And the wall was thin in the little hollow. But if he picked at it, it only left him with no way out still. His fingernails were broken and frayed from trying, little halfmoons of blood dried underneath them.

He flattened himself against this space instantly with some sort of instinct, as Marcus and his son returned. What he hadn’t anticipated was the sudden thud of something hitting the ground.

“Looks like we’ve got a new problem,” Marcus declared loudly. Seamus made a noise of protest, in the doorway. “Just let her go, idiot,” he growled.

Ciarán, curious, emerged into the visible world, inching into view so he could see them. Marcus laughed sharply, a single harsh sound, illuminated by the light streaming in golden silence from the half-open door. Seamus stood in the doorway, glaring danger at Marcus. There was a world of confusion in trying to decipher his expression.

“Don’t you dare,” he muttered.

“I’m not my son,” Marcus said flippantly. “Nothing’s going to happen to her.” He looked down at a shape hidden partially by darkness. “Well, I can’t promise that,” he amended.

“Let her leave,” Seamus said in a deceptively calm voice. The sunlight slanted across his body in the doorway, leaving a silhouette much more intimidating than Ciarán was used to seeing. His heart thumped, then raced with the silent urge to the man: please convince him, make Marcus listen…overpower him, hurt him back!

Marcus looked down again, crouching, making the long shadows slant across the dirty floor, reached his hand down and roughly grabbed what was not a shape but a body. Not dead obviously, because otherwise why would they be talking about her? He grabbed her head by the hair, jerking it back and looking at her face. Probably unconscious.

Ciarán’s heart constricted again. He still felt that tumultuous uncontrollable anger at Marcus, and stopped himself from making a sharp noise. He’d seen this woman before. She looked so much smaller, so much more vulnerable than the singer who had seemed larger than life. Onstage, she’d laughed. Here, the watery light was an unforgiving mirror, showing her closed unconscious eyelids as thin and her face unresistant. The blue streak in her hair flashed around Marcus’ hand like a dirty river.

He’d hoped she was someone else, that they were talking about a different ‘she’. Now that he remembered that, he was confused, unsure who he’d thought.

Just as callously, Marcus set her head down again; she turned over and groaned at the impact, but didn’t show any other signs of consciousness. “You think she’s going to get right up and walk out of here? She can leave then.”

Seamus sighed. “Fuck you, Marcus. You can go get us some bloody food.” He looked at the other man sharply. “That is, if you care whether the rest of us live or die.”

“Make sure my boy doesn’t do anything stupid.” Said boy—man—crouched against the wall, groaning, his fists beside his temples, his forehead crumpled, his face against his knees.

Seamus snorted then said, “He’s in no position to. Maybe you should get some painkillers too, Marcus,” he suggested in a tone bordering civil.

“You think I haven’t? They do nothing,” Marcus said heavily, matter-of-factly, and with a glance at his son, left.

The huddled man made a truly pained sound that scraped across Ciarán’s ears and shivered icily over his bones. Ciarán stayed where he was, still frozen, then unfolded himself and came cautiously over to where the woman lay. She had some special name he couldn’t remember, something that seemed beyond human in some way. She looked very human, unconscious and afraid.

Ciarán looked up at Seamus, who was silent. The ghosts of the rays of light shimmered in the air around. He said in a small voice, “It was today you said I should leave if things messed up.”

Seamus looked to him with hopeless eyes. “They’ve fecked up in ways I haven’t anticipated.”

Ciarán just looked at him, biting his lip. It was strange, the accusation in the eyes of a child. So familiar. Seamus took in the shadow of the boy with a sort of despair.

“I hate you,” Ciarán muttered, sitting down and wrapping his arms around his legs, his head in his arms. He sniffed, looked up, and shook his head. “I didn’t mean that. I hate…” He shivered, his eyes bright sparks. “I don’t like hating.” His face was wet.

“I want to go home, Seamus,” Ciarán wailed, sniffing again and letting his head fall back against his knees. “I thought it could happen if I made a sort of promise I’d be better to everyone I was bad to. Or if I just thought it desperately enough. It hasn’t. I don’t care what it’s like when I get back…I need to leave.” He jerked away when Seamus put a hand on his shoulder, and went back to the little chipped hollow in the wall, running small hands along the hairline cracks that weren’t big enough.

“I’m sorry,” Ciarán heard just as he was drifting back into a forgiving sleep. Seamus’ voice washed over him—Ciarán thought something about that voice was familiar, though he didn’t know what—“I need to think of a better way,” Ciarán heard. “So the both of you can escape unharmed. It’ll probably be sunrise, maybe night, some day in a few days’ time…”


Phoenix felt strange, like she was floating. It didn’t hurt, wherever she was, at least for now; she felt only that lightning sense of discovery and that strange other sense, the feeling she’d had as she walked aimlessly and in that way purposely in a direction that ended here…she came back to herself in waves, confused because she saw blue eyes. Bono?

She stretched a little, groaning and gradually growing less dizzy. She still had a sense like a phantom limb. She opened her eyes fully this time and was staring into one of the saddest faces she had ever seen. She looked up, speechless for a moment, still getting used to being awake and existing wherever she was. Then she narrowed her eyes, feeling a wave of disgust.

“You’re not Ruth,” he said to her, and she shook her head curtly.

With sharper movements than she’d guessed, he pulled her up off the floor and frowned intently at her face, his hands fisted around her shoulders.

“What’s your name?” he asked sharply. She had a moment of doubt, seeing the cloudy obscurity behind his eyes that made him blink and squint. The way he looked around him like he had just realized the world existed and didn’t approve of him.

She crossed her arms around her, a tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Fuck you.”

“What’s your name?” he glared, his hands tightening. She could feel finger-imprints on her shoulders bruising into memory. Was this what Eve thought she shared with her? This shivering feeling like she had experienced this before? No…it must not have been…and she wanted very badly to run from this man and slap him, all at once. Neither of which Phoenix tended to do.

“Phoenix,” she said, looking at him with hard eyes to mask her confusion.

“Last name?” he said, releasing her. She rubbed at the imprints on her arms and gained a gradual sly grin. He looked at her expectantly, but did not expect the knee in the groin. With a truly awful noise, he collapsed, which was a little unexpected, but she hadn’t seen the pain he was already in. Phoenix sighed with dizzying relief. That was one problem dealt with.

She was glad, so glad the older man was gone. He scared her, sent the adrenaline pumping through her veins full-speed, and she didn’t know why.

She went to the door to fiddle with the bolt, seeing if she could open it—too heavy, dammit—and her hands dropped to her sides when she heard something. Phoenix turned around and saw something totally unexpected; a dark-haired boy with a grin full of mischief. He looked very small, on the unhealthy side at this point, the look in his eyes unsteady and still vaguely shellshocked. Like he would bolt any second.

“Are you sure you should have done that?” he asked in amazement.

“What?” she asked.

That,” he said, tilting his head over to the mess in the corner. “Thank you,” he whispered. “It means he won’t be bothering anyone for a while. I can maybe get some sleep.” He wrinkled his face, trying very hard not to yawn, and walked back to where he’d been, folding his arms behind his head and not closing his eyes as she’d assumed but looking at her with a sort of desperate awe.

Oh no, Phoenix thought. He thinks I’m able to find us a way out. Her heart sank. She sat next to him, her fingers somehow finding the wreckage of her new guitar. She sighed, looking down at it. The twisted strings curled on the floor like thin fingers of smoke.

“I don’t know a way out,” she said to the boy before he asked. He still looked at her, and tilted his head, seeing the wood and the strings and the broken scattered inlay.

“Is that a guitar?” he asked in a small voice.

“Was,” she sighed, and looked over at him. She handed him a piece of dark-curving wood he stared at like he had found the sun.

“Wish it hadn’t been broken,” he said wistfully. “I’ve got nothing better to do than chip at the wall. I miss music…”

As he turned the patterned piece over in his fingers, it clicked for Phoenix. A fist constricted around her heart and lungs and squeezed them into a pressure in her eyes. She looked at his little fingers, and his skin pale from before the long time without sunlight—how long? It was a week or so at least—and the way his eyes darted smoothly over the shapes. The fist twisted.

Oh god, Ciarán, she realized with a painful sadness.

Was it that she’d known his father? No, it wasn’t that…the vague impressions of something in Ruth’s past…no…just some understanding she had reached as she found this place that made her heart ache when she looked at him. Phoenix asked, “Ciarán?” He looked up.

“I don’t have a way out but I think I know someone who may find one,” she said to him, and the hope in his eyes obliterated whatever within her she had almost begun to understood.

Ciarán mumbled something about his da and Ali and was soon fast asleep, his hands balled into little fists, his head falling against Phoenix’s shoulder. She gathered his little body into her arms and hoped desperately that Eve had a fecking clue where to look.

Eve, c’mon Eve…it’s not just me. In a different cast of thought, she glanced over at the man against the wall. And you won’t believe who’s with me…she shuddered.

***

The approximate five hours between the desert and Santa Barbara passed in a sort of blur for Ali; her mind was fixed on what she’d heard filtering in from the news, not the passing scenery. She’d ran out of bed after what she heard, practically ripping the phone from the receiver in frantic worry. Her mind held a very different landscape right now than the one she saw before her, a charred dead blackness she tried to push from her thoughts.

She didn’t know what she could do if Bono was dead. She tried not to think on that hurt. And Ciarán was probably safe…you wouldn’t have brought him with you to the bar, Hewson?

She calmed down finally, turning on the radio and letting some unfamiliar music clear her thoughts. It wasn’t a station that played U2, thankfully, or her thoughts would have gone full-circle…

Two rooms in my house, a woman sang with a quiet, building energy, the guitar much higher than her voice.
One for me
One for you
Guitar stole your voice
Through the walls,
hear the notes turning blue

And beyond the sunrise
The night growing thin

Two hearts for mine,
One for me
One for you
The rain comes in slow
In your eyes

You open your eyes,
ask “If I leave? what then?”

Two eyes you see with
One’s closed
The other too
I feel you slip away
Open my arms
Hold onto you

You take me to the red room,
two hearts under our skin

Two hearts wearing thin
And the sun rising

Why was it that every song seemed to strike a chord in her? Ali glanced down and turned off the radio. She still felt raw and open from Bono leaving, not to mention everything else.

Five hours passed. With exhaustion a faint film over her entire body, she pushed herself out of the car and began the long process of finding the man. She found a place with the yellow pages, flipped through them and scrawled the phone numbers of various hotels across the palm of her hand, finding a phone booth and asking if Bono Vox was staying there. It took about half an hour for her to find the right one. She walked back to the car, Santa Barbara filling the horizon sharply like a heat haze, and drove over. When she walked through the doorway of the hotel, she saw the back of a familiar curly-haired head, a man beginning to climb up the stairs. She called out his name and Adam turned, walking over to her.

“Ali,” he smiled, a little catch to it. She looked at him sharply—what was that? Did he know something she didn’t?—but gave up; he tended to keep secrets well.

“Is my husband here?” she asked. He nodded. She breathed an overwhelming sigh of relief so intense it almost hurt. “Is he alright?”

“More or less. He’s in one piece.” She hugged Adam hard, letting go when she could finally stand again.

Interesting. He wasn’t being talkative as usual. He had an almost guilty look on his face.

“How’s Ciarán?” Ali asked then. “Didn’t get sick again, I hope…” God, she missed him. She realized that was what had been putting her on edge—it hurt physically for Ciarán to be away from her. It mattered nothing he wasn’t her son by birth.

Adam winced. “Good news and bad news, Ali.”

“What do you mean—was Bon the bad news? He didn’t make a fool of himself drunk or anything, did he? He’d better not have gotten injured, either…”

“He was the good news, actually.” Adam swallowed. “Ciarán’s missing.”

There was a still second where she didn’t understand, before the magnitude of that statement crept up on her and knocked her legs out with the undertow. She bit her lip and was still for a long moment; the air had become rigid, and then fluid, unsupportive. She covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. Adam caught her. She stayed still for another long moment, drained, then stepped back and looked at her husband’s mate, saying, “Ad, can you find Bon—now—“ She turned away from him to hide the look on her face and leaned against the wall, watching the tears slide down the wallpaper, the hotel lights winking against the dark surface.

“Come on,” he said, deep sympathy in his voice, “I’ll take you to him.”

She let herself be supported by him but the second the door opened to her husband’s hotel room she collided with him hard, wrapping her arms around him so tightly his ribs hurt. He smelled terrible; he obviously hadn’t taken a shower yet, and he seemed like he’d just woken up, though there were dark circles under his eyes, and faint stubble on his face from not shaving. (Honestly, the thought hadn’t occurred to him; who gave a shit about facial hair—it seemed ridiculous in the face of everything else) His solid bulk was very real, very comforting. She pressed her face against his shoulder, and he could feel she had been crying, the faint trails of tears cool against his skin. He let out a long sigh, recovering from the unexpectedness of her presence and feeling that little searching absence in him fill up a little. His still-distraught mind was confused by the automatic reaction, Ali’s here, everything will be alright. He realized that little gap, the small shift somewhere between then and now, and pushed a little away from her.

She was a mess, he saw. He was more of a mess, he felt.

“Ali,” Bono said. Not completely in greeting, though a sad wistful note in his voice automatically said her name warmly, and his eyes softened. But he seemed so troubled, so disturbed from his normal state. It was both an acknowledgement and almost an accusation.

“What happened?” she asked—it didn’t matter what he was acting like, though in the back of her mind she noticed the pensive note that had entered his voice. “They only said on the news there was a fire. I thought you were all dead. He isn’t, is he?,” she asked wildly.

His face contorted in abject stricken pain. “Missing, not dead,” he said quietly, and then moved forward again. He couldn’t help it, he had to be near her. He held her in his arms and ran his fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes. When he spoke, the images burned themselves in snapshots behind her eyes, in the pressure of her head against his body and the frantic pace of her thoughts. He explained the fire, speaking very haltingly about the hospital, and she wondered what he didn’t mention. Had he seen something terrible? What was it? He also refrained from detail about the ruins, because it hurt.

She blinked and then frowned. “You could have found somewhere safer,” she said, her words biting. “You didn’t need to leave. You could have left him with me.” She shot out of his arms, staring at him. “God, Paul,” she said with that same afraid edge to her voice that clung to her after the sickening realization that Ciarán might be dead.

No-one had called him Paul since…since…he shook his head. That wasn’t important. But it cut across him like the words before. He found he couldn’t meet her gaze.

“Why did you leave?” she asked, an odd little pause at the end like she had meant to say his name.

“Oh, god,” Bono, a vortex of confusion, said in a strained voice, holding his head in his hands. It came to Ali he seemed a very tired man. Almost like he had aged in the past few days. There was something different about him, that she barely recognized. Perhaps because some of that spark in his eyes had dulled with the terrible realization that the world could be cruel multiple times, heartless. “I shouldn’t have!”

“Stop blaming yourself,” she said heavily, and sat on the edge of the hotel bed, her head spinning. “Stop.”

He came over to sit next to her and opened his mouth. The streetlights outside flashed across his tired face, his pained eyes. Before he could say anything, she grabbed the back of his head, his hair familiar falling past her fingers, and kissed him hard. She still felt that gaping hurt, but the one that had centered around him had fallen away. She already felt calmer, pressed against the heat of his bare chest. He righted the fallen sky in her mind. He could probably straighten the world spinning off its axis. He held her for a moment automatically. Bono sighed against her mouth than pulled away, looking at her with wide eyes.

She waited in silence, her expression asking, and leaned against him. It had hurt, also, to be away from him. That strange dichotomy, so inexplicable…on some level it was comforting just to be near him. She had missed him too.

“I did something stupid, Ali,” he said haltingly, wanting to claw his eyes out rather than admit it. But he couldn’t hide anything from her. It would be wrong.

“Yeah, you did,” she said in a firm voice. “You fucked up. You can’t change it now.”

“No, it wasn’t Ciarán,” Bono said. Ali’s heart, as she lay on her side, skipped with a little catch in the heartbeat. Dread sank through her with a pulling sensation.

“What did you do?” It was a strangely intimate moment: she looked into his eyes, almost falling into them. No shadows of streetlights reached them, only the clear dwindling light of day tracing over the open sky-expanse. They were nearly close as kissing, but she held herself just that much away from him—or he from her—something about it would have been wrong. The tension of everything he hadn’t said until now cut through the air, lying heavy as the darkness.

“It was my fault. Dreams are no excuse,” he began. “You remember how I went back to the fire?”

“And nearly suffocated? That was stupid.”

He shook his head no. “Not that. The woman who was with me.” It was there, it was the catch in his voice, the little heartbeat-skip of it, the lightening and darkening of his eyes. Before he even said anything. “Phoenix.” He was almost afraid of the closeness, as he waited. His arms trembled. Ali wanted very badly to just bury herself against him and pretend none of this had happened. She was caught looking at the passing sun through his eyes.

Something broke and twisted and clawed at her already torn soul. Her heart had that strange slipping sensation again, the sliding moment before it constricted and stabbed.

She turned away from him and wrapped her arms around herself. The air felt thin and sharp. She felt naked in his eyes, vulnerable and cast aside. If she’d been looking into his eyes she wouldn’t have been able to ask—

“Have you slept with her?” she said, her voice matter-of-fact though the world shifted and collapsed under the surface of her skin and the weight of what he had revealed.

“No, I—“ he said quickly. Not so quickly she wouldn’t have believed him, but she turned around again. He flinched. The hurt in her eyes wrapped cold fingers around the base of his spine and wrenched him apart in pieces. He forgot how much Ali had grown into him, they had grown around each others’ presences. Her pain felt like his.

The echoes that had come back with his other name whispered silently, factually: Cath. This feeling was familiar—but different. He’d thought Ali filled all the holes in him…so many deaths…and it was true—but he had grown whole again and he loved her fiercely, for her own right, and this hurt even more. He was losing Ali, but it wasn’t through life’s unexpected end—it was his fault.

His fault, his fault, his fault, his pained heartbeats accused. He stared at her like the world was ending, and—fuck—somehow all the people in his mind collided and he saw the afterimages of Phoenix’s stricken face.

“But you wanted to, didn’t you?” Ali asked in so small a voice he could barely hear it. A part of his mind calmly came up with the thought that halted his thought processes, a nonsense land of denial: Alis’s voice was beautiful, maybe if he gave the music back she would understand.

He couldn’t answer that without hurting her—but that in itself hurt her. She grabbed her coat around her shoulders and, unable to put it on properly, just shoved it under her arm, turning away and walking out of the door as quickly as she could so he wouldn’t have to see the look on her face or the imprints of tears, and so she wouldn’t look back. Her will would have crumpled right there.

She felt like someone had squeezed her heart out through her body, and most of her organs as well, and everything inside of her was a tiny compacted ripped mess, in pain. It was so much at once. She stumbled going down the stairs and steadied herself with an arm against the wall, but somehow didn’t right herself properly, and slid down the wall, sitting against the carpeted hotel stairs hard. She leaned her head against her legs, watching the carpet underneath swim and distort, her face hot and her body shaking. She remained that way for a while, calming down somewhat, and went down to the hotel lobby after straightening her hair and wiping the remnants of tears from her face. She sat down on one of the couches, not knowing what she hoped for or why she stayed. For the moment, she had nowhere else to go. She felt an obligation to know whether Bon was alright, whether she’d hurt him. She put that out of her mind.

“Must be an interesting article,” someone commented over her head. She looked up, confused.

“You’ve been reading the same thing for an hour,” Adam said. Inevitable she would meet up with someone else from the band, if they were all staying at the same place…Ali shook her head. “I don’t even know what I’m looking at.” She looked back down. She’d opened a copy of Rolling Stone Magazine and—surprise!—Bono’s familiar blue eyes and warm smile faced her from the page opposite the article. She shut the magazine fast and pushed it away from her, and then tried to hide her disquiet, looking back up and pretending she’d really had no idea what she was reading.

“Oh no,” he said softly, catching sight of her still tearstained face. “So he told you, then?”

“You knew?” she asked him, rising abruptly and beginning to leave the hotel, not wanting to fall apart in front of him.

“I wasn’t sure,” Adam said from behind her, and then amended his statement, “yes.”

She pushed the door open hard and stomped out, then turned back and yelled, “Why didn’t you fucking tell me? You told me about Ciarán—“ she shrunk a little, remembering things were far worse than her husband being with another woman—“—why didn’t you just say everything and spare me finding out?” she said, her voice quieting down. “From him?”

“I didn’t know how far it went,” Adam said seriously, “and you deserved to be with him before you figured out. You don’t need to hate him.”

“You’re one to talk,” she said darkly. “You’re on and off women every week, practically! You wouldn’t give a shit if you did the same. I don’t know how what he did bothers you at all.” She turned furiously, but the wrong way; she faced him.

“I wouldn’t do that to someone I loved,” he said seriously.

She gave him a confused look. “You do constantly!”

“Love and attraction are different things,” he said with raised eyebrows, and laughed.

“Whatever. He fucked up, I…I don’t know what I’m doing.” She looked forward, confused, then realized…

“You’re heading the wrong way back to your car,” Adam pointed out.

“How helpful. I just noticed that. Really, I think sometimes I could just have a conversation with myself and forget about you guys…” She folded her arms around herself, still feeling so empty. And, she noticed, hungry.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any food on you, would you?” Ali asked Adam, slightly embarrassed; she hadn’t brought any money with her but parking money.

“I don’t think I’d be able to hide it anywhere,” Adam winced. “These pants are effing tight.”

“Right,” Ali said. “I can probably drive back. Five hours isn’t so bad…I won’t have the chance of bumping into him, anyway…”

He cut right through her brave front with an outright “You’d probably crash, the state you’re in. And really—“

“Hey!” He was probably right, though. Ali sighed. He grinned.

“Any of the boys able to keep their hands to themselves?” she asked in defeat. “I don’t really have anywhere to stay either.”

“Well, Edge is gone, Lar’s in a shitty mood and would probably kick you out, and Bon…well…”

“Forget I asked.” And forget you blushed at that question, mister Clayton. That was odd, she thought absently. “I’m going.”

“Wait. Before you go, you’re eating. You are not driving for five hours like that.”

“Like what? And I thought you said—“

“In pain,” he said, and then, “I just said I had no food on me. C’mon.” He grabbed her hand and began navigating the sidewalk.
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Old 04-07-2011, 10:17 PM   #2
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Aw, Adam. You are the calm cool one.

Man, poor Ali. It will harder than back in 1980. I think she needs to run away with Larry. Ruth, Eve, and Phoenix are nothing but trouble.

And Bono needs to do some serious mending. And he needs to get over himself. His kid is missing.

I'll admit that some parts are confusing at times. I figure it will all come in in the end.

So, you thought this would go less than 40 chapters originally, right? And now? It seems like a lot needs to be sorted.
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Old 04-07-2011, 10:58 PM   #3
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"I think she needs to run away with Larry. Ruth, Eve, and Phoenix are nothing but trouble"

I agree. These women...Larry is a no, though. He needs some alone time (though he might not get it. Eve's freaked out that Phoenix didn't come back...) Also, he's been kind of volatile for Larry. Ali would be bothered by him.

I need to have everyone go through some mending, when this is over. They're all going through some pretty terrible stuff, for the most part...gh.

It's not supposed to totally make sense until a chapter or two. I wasn't feeling up to writing the next scene with Ali, so it'll be in maybe a week; I'm going to Santa Barbara off to be inspired by the cold beach and the potential rain!

Less than 40, what was I thinking Everything I tell myself keeps coming back to bite me in the butt (for example, I said I wouldn't ever buy Pop, aaand...) Probably more than 40, at this point. I don't know yet; I need a couple days to think of where I want to end it and whether I accidentally left any loose ends.
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Old 04-08-2011, 06:39 AM   #4
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I hope I inspired your POP purchase.
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Old 04-08-2011, 09:17 AM   #5
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You made me happy that I bought it...who was it that made me get it? wait. *goes back and looks* That was a combination of bonocomet () (for that) and LoveandLogic (for pressuring me )
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Old 04-08-2011, 09:30 AM   #6
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That gif alone could have inspired Please.
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Old 04-08-2011, 09:38 AM   #7
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I know...it's totally why I watched the video, bought the album, etc...
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Old 04-13-2011, 07:02 PM   #8
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Funny, I also said once that I never wanted to even hear Pop- I thought it'd be really bad or something? And I also thought I'd seriously dislike Achtung Baby- what was I thinking?!
Anyway. For starters on thic chapter... GAH! Phoenix and Ciaran, they must save themselves! You can't have two chracters MIA, everyone else must be freaking out with Phoenix's disappearance.
Also:
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He could probably straighten the world spinning off its axis.
That I bet he could.
The lines that followed had me yelling "No, dammit!" at the computer. When exactly did this connection between Bono and Phoenix happen?! He barely cheated on Ali at all. I mean, all I remember is a kiss, and then sticking around in her room at the hospital, but really. If more happened, why aren't you tellling us? (Or perhaps I'm completely missing the point.)
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“Stop blaming yourself,” she said heavily, and sat on the edge of the hotel bed, her head spinning. “Stop.”
I have a feeling someone needed to tell him that...
Poor Ali. I feel bad for her now. I was amzed at how deep her love for Ciaran runs... can't wait to see what she does in the next chapter, if she starts the search again or makes up with Bono or meets all these new people or WHAT...
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Old 04-13-2011, 08:50 PM   #9
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They actually don't know Phoenix is gone Although Mark does (other guitarist/her boyfriend once, remember? he also got nasty burns)...he's freaking out.

More didn't happen (there was a time when I was considering it...hmm) Don't make me think about it! and why is kind of....hard to explain. I don't know how in hell I'm going to do it...

I don't think it helped him at all he blames himself more now, I think. Rightly so.

Ali and Bono obviously haven't had kids yet...so Ciarán's the only one...oh man, that makes me feel bad.

You'll probably be surprised what she does. I hope? If I get around to writing it. I was on vacation/weeklong hiatus (in Santa Barbara! I discovered everything I thought I knew about it/wrote was wrong D and now it's hard to think of writing...I will clear one thing up, though, that you're wondering—it's going to be a little bit before she makes up with Bono. She'd need a good reason.
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Old 04-13-2011, 09:05 PM   #10
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D'oh! Someone's bound to realize her disappearance, though. Poor Mark, I forgot he existed...
Well... then she should go off on her own or something, maybe somehow locate Ciaran and Phoenix singlehandedly? (Oh c'mon, that's never gonna happen.) Teehee... everything you know is wrong... How long's it been since you went there?
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Old 04-13-2011, 09:31 PM   #11
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It's ok, he was there for like a chapter. I don't think I even mentioned his appearance that well...ghh. I always have images in my head but it's hard to translate them without the entire chapter being imagery...

I have so many perspectives I have to write in the next coming chapters it's overwhelming, so I don't know if I can even get to him. It's hard to keep straight in my mind.

Ha, no, Ali has no idea where to begin! Someone else is finding them, with help. Ali does have some important information, though. Remember that piece of paper I kept mentioning in previous chapters that we don't know anything about? It makes a reappearance.

A while, actually XD my mom made about five I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For references today...agh.
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1986, adam, ali, bono, joshua tree era, larry, out of control

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