Thursday: Catharsis
Jan. 16th, 2009 11:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fey_fireCatharsis ... in need of.
It might not have happened if they hadn't been playing Any Means Impossible.
It certainly wouldn't have happened if he hadn't looked at Pippa's latest posts shortly before practice.
But they were and he had, so Rory's usual means of playing a technically demanding piece, a focus so intense and zen-like that it erased conscious thought, had transformed into actively Not Thinking. The effort of achieving effortlessness found expression in the increasingly aggressive movements of his fingers on his favourite guitar. Very tricky proposition, this not thinking about something.
A certain something whose name was Marcello.
Marcello, Pippa's dear old friend with whom she'd reconnected. Marcello, who took her out dress shopping and plied her with wine to get her to unwind. Marcello, whose house key she now wore around her neck. Marcello, whose adoption of Pippa as his photographic muse was gradually convincing her once more that she was beautiful, when Rory's own musical, physical and emotional adoration of her apparently had not been up to the task ...
Stop it.
Marcello, who'd captured Pippa with his camera in a series of very striking, lovely, artistic, and in a few cases semi-nude photos ...
STOP IT.
The hell of it was, he knew that his hot surge of jealousy was at least partly inappropriate, knew that Pippa wouldn't have included him on the filter of people allowed to view those shots were there anything more than photography and friendship between her and the man taking the pictures. She wasn't that insensitive. He knew that.
Or would know if he let himself think about it, which he wouldn't. Wasn't. Was. Not.
So he couldn't get angry, couldn't lash out, couldn't do anything but stuff every Marcello-shaped thought in a box and just ... keep ... playing ...
“Shit!”
Rory followed up that very English expletive with a few more inventive and blasphemous ones in Gaeilge. The fifth string on his guitar had snapped under his fingers and one end had gashed the heel of his hand, drawing blood.
He nearly applied the bit of energy it would take to heal the wound before remembering that he wasn't alone in the room. Looking up, he found his five fellow band mates looking back at him with variably thoughtful expressions on their faces.
“Sorry, everyone.” Summoning a tight smile, he knelt by his guitar case to pull out a replacement string, string winder, pliers and a couple of clean cloths, one for the guitar and the other to staunch the bleeding.
“Got something on your mind, Rory?”
He glanced up from loosening the broken string at Junie, who had spoken. “Nothing in particular, a chara. Why do you ask?”
He knew he'd made a mistake in tacking on the question when she arched a very expressive eyebrow. “I ask because you don't normally treat a guitar pick like a knife and Cliodhna there--” She nodded at the Gibson Les Paul Supreme in his arms. “--like a leg of lamb you're trying to carve. No wonder she fought back.”
“You want me to dig up a couple of pairs of boxing gloves so we can go a few rounds?” Kreske asked dryly from behind his drum set. “Might be better than taking it out on your very expensive baby girl of a guitar.”
“Sorry,” Rory muttered again, feeling the back of his neck warm as he bent once more to his task. “I've just ... got a few things to work through is all.”
Gaeilge – Irish Gaelic
a chara – my friend
Pippa Kerr (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sand_andwater) is mentioned with her mun's permission. These events take place after http://sand-andwater.livejournal.com/62964.html (warning: NSFW picture) and http://sand-andwater.livejournal.com/62627.html.
Muse: Rory MacEibhir / Rory Stone
Fandom: The Grey Horse by R.A. MacAvoy
Word count: 592
It might not have happened if they hadn't been playing Any Means Impossible.
It certainly wouldn't have happened if he hadn't looked at Pippa's latest posts shortly before practice.
But they were and he had, so Rory's usual means of playing a technically demanding piece, a focus so intense and zen-like that it erased conscious thought, had transformed into actively Not Thinking. The effort of achieving effortlessness found expression in the increasingly aggressive movements of his fingers on his favourite guitar. Very tricky proposition, this not thinking about something.
A certain something whose name was Marcello.
Marcello, Pippa's dear old friend with whom she'd reconnected. Marcello, who took her out dress shopping and plied her with wine to get her to unwind. Marcello, whose house key she now wore around her neck. Marcello, whose adoption of Pippa as his photographic muse was gradually convincing her once more that she was beautiful, when Rory's own musical, physical and emotional adoration of her apparently had not been up to the task ...
Stop it.
Marcello, who'd captured Pippa with his camera in a series of very striking, lovely, artistic, and in a few cases semi-nude photos ...
STOP IT.
The hell of it was, he knew that his hot surge of jealousy was at least partly inappropriate, knew that Pippa wouldn't have included him on the filter of people allowed to view those shots were there anything more than photography and friendship between her and the man taking the pictures. She wasn't that insensitive. He knew that.
Or would know if he let himself think about it, which he wouldn't. Wasn't. Was. Not.
So he couldn't get angry, couldn't lash out, couldn't do anything but stuff every Marcello-shaped thought in a box and just ... keep ... playing ...
“Shit!”
Rory followed up that very English expletive with a few more inventive and blasphemous ones in Gaeilge. The fifth string on his guitar had snapped under his fingers and one end had gashed the heel of his hand, drawing blood.
He nearly applied the bit of energy it would take to heal the wound before remembering that he wasn't alone in the room. Looking up, he found his five fellow band mates looking back at him with variably thoughtful expressions on their faces.
“Sorry, everyone.” Summoning a tight smile, he knelt by his guitar case to pull out a replacement string, string winder, pliers and a couple of clean cloths, one for the guitar and the other to staunch the bleeding.
“Got something on your mind, Rory?”
He glanced up from loosening the broken string at Junie, who had spoken. “Nothing in particular, a chara. Why do you ask?”
He knew he'd made a mistake in tacking on the question when she arched a very expressive eyebrow. “I ask because you don't normally treat a guitar pick like a knife and Cliodhna there--” She nodded at the Gibson Les Paul Supreme in his arms. “--like a leg of lamb you're trying to carve. No wonder she fought back.”
“You want me to dig up a couple of pairs of boxing gloves so we can go a few rounds?” Kreske asked dryly from behind his drum set. “Might be better than taking it out on your very expensive baby girl of a guitar.”
“Sorry,” Rory muttered again, feeling the back of his neck warm as he bent once more to his task. “I've just ... got a few things to work through is all.”
Gaeilge – Irish Gaelic
a chara – my friend
Pippa Kerr (
sand_andwater) is mentioned with her mun's permission. These events take place after http://sand-andwater.livejournal.com/62964.html (warning: NSFW picture) and http://sand-andwater.livejournal.com/62627.html.Muse: Rory MacEibhir / Rory Stone
Fandom: The Grey Horse by R.A. MacAvoy
Word count: 592
