The Musician's Observation by DazWolf

He paces the show room floor, his hands buried in his pockets and his breath coming out in determined little sighs. He looks up to the wall for a moment, shaking his head as he continues on, his gaze falling once more. He wiggles his fingers in his pockets, feeling many objects, and hearing some of them as they clank and rattle against themselves.

Walking to the end of the wall, he pulls a hand free to lovingly stroke the one that has caught his eye. The gentle lights reflect off of the finish, letting it shine almost brilliantly to him. He licks his lips slowly, turning slowly to see that no one is watching. He carefully lifts it from its holder, the ruby-tinted wood feeling warm and welcome in his hands.

He sits with his back against the wall, smiling to himself as he lets his long fingers play over the strings. He is lost in his thoughts and memories, can't even remember the name of the song. He stops, looking down at the instrument sitting quietly in his hands. It's like the rest of life to him, nothing put in, nothing in return.

He lifts it, propping it in his lap so he can really look at it. The red jumps out at him, the streaks of coal making him trace his fingers over the tiger-stripes. Gold pegs glitter endlessly, holding their copper strands in silence. Not as many switches and knobs as the rest he owns, but that doesn't matter.

Leaning it against the wall, he takes another look down the line, finally satisfied that he has found the perfect piece, his new joy. Smiling as he picks it back up, he can't help the warm flood of feelings invading his system. In the same thought, he wishes that all love were as simple as picking it from a row in a store.

He places it on the counter, sending the young man running to find the right case to protect the new gem. He turns, looking towards the other objects in the store, letting his mind wander over the black lacquer drums sitting right in the middle. Realizing that he doesn't need a new set, he lets out a saddened breath, grabbing a set of the sticks instead. He remembers faintly the reason why they were needed.

He had been out most of the night, laughing it up and having fun with who knows, coming home slightly out of his mind. He couldn't even remember where he had been, or what he had drunk while there, but when he woke up the next morning, one of the sacred drumsticks was stuck, buried halfway into the wall. It had made him groan at the time out of his stupidity and plaguing headache, but turned into a humorous minder of what it was to live.

Playing with them for a moment, he beats on an imaginary set until his attention wanders once more. Drifting to the shelves to the side of the counter, he digs around the cases until he finds the perfect picks to go with his new toy, sliding them over next to the drumsticks.

Beginning to wonder how long it really takes to find a case, he walks through another section, thumbing through the books and packets. He stops at the H's, cheekily picking up one of the books and shoving it under his arm. Skipping down a little, he stops again, glancing at the cover of another. He grabs it, mockingly grinning at his expression before playfully poking out his tongue. Placing it in the front of the stack, he gives it a loving pat before returning to the counter.

Finally paying for everything, he carts everything out to his new SUV, carefully loading everything into the backseat. The thought of buckling his new pride up didn't go amiss, but he reconsiders after realizing how ridiculous it would look if someone were to see.

The drive home is short, not even letting him get through the first of a new album he had gotten earlier, a complete loss of time in his standards. The unloading process is almost as tedious as the loading as he pats the case as if it would return his caressing.

He takes his time, placing everything where it should be, the new jewel on a stand by the fireplace. He sits across from it, slowly drinking as he admires the workmanship, complimenting himself on his choice. He sets his glass on the table, eager to grasp and hold the magic in his hands again.

He lights the small pile of wood in the fireplace, letting it illuminate the darkening room into life once more. Holding the glowing instrument tightly against him, he strums some nameless tune he heard on the radio however long ago.

What starts as seemingly meaningless suddenly becomes close to heart as one of his old songs evolves from the chords. His voice is wrong, he knows, but he begins to sing, filling the space around him with vibration. The story of a being, warm sand and freedom plays out of his fingertips, his memory escaping again when he looks up above to the mantle.

A smiling face is sitting there, a simple sketch in a simple frame, but the emotion and memories surrounding it are much more.

A quiet coffee shop, he could still smell the aroma of fresh brewed as he watched the artist work. That was the day fate had decided to make another appearance in his life, in the guise of a man with soft expressions and caring tones. Only, that time, fate wasn't going to fade away like everything else.

He had met with those sapphire eyes when he was about to walk out the doors at 'fate's' advice. He had been startled, but collapsed into a pile of happy mush. Surfing in the sunset, knowing that he wasn't alone for once, that was life.

He had laughed when his companion had screeched at the cold spray of water that had been sent his way. Laughed again at the wet-dog look he sported so well. The only time he stopped to breathe was when he was actually on his board, taming the wildness of the beast beneath him. Of coarse, his companion had laughed when he had wiped out, dragging himself and his board pitifully back up onto the beach before regaining his composure, dashing out to the waves again.

He ends the song, becoming lost in the dancing flame before him. Still, no one is home besides him, and the silence is thundering to his ears. Setting the guitar back on the stand, he watches the light play on it for a few short moments before he is called away, a clock reminding him of a promise and appointment he is meant to keep.

"Good lord, time does go by. Forbid anyone be late to pick Darren up from the airport though. Wonder what he'll say when I tell him that I got a new guitar?"