tomorrow, spring will come and then [open]

[goodweather]

Who: Phil & you!
What: September catchall; chilling in the sauna, hanging round John's, testing some waters
When: Throughout the month
Where: Around the ship
Warnings: allusions to tendencies of self harm, discussion of suicide



bright eyes and laughter [meta]

[ Right. So.

If there's something to make of what happened, he's not sure what. He shuffles his nightstand a little more insistently. He still sees the kids praying in the truck in the back of his head. He feels the ground speeding past his ears, but that sticks in his craw less like a trauma and more like a "whoa, weird." He's at the piano more often. Less often. More often. It's harder to concentrate on it, and he wonders if he just needs to freshen it up with new music. He eats fine. He checks his weather instruments less often. He stares at the clipboard filled with rows upon rows of the exact same numbers, staring at him like a neighbor stares at you from across the road. The itch, always there, is stronger now, but it's nothing he thinks he should worry about yet; still he sticks to finger foods in the dining hall. Just in case.

What does he make of that, though? ]



i. tomorrow, there will be sun (sauna)

[ The stitches came out just a little bit ago. It's all still a little tender, and he's been too nervous to preen extensively around there since Joan first put them in. Just being cautious. Keep it clean, yes, but Phil wasn't in the mood to go in and try and screw with everything around there.

Now, though, he figures he's got no choice.

Fuck everything. It's a spa day. Phil strolls down into Calgona; he doesn't come here too often, both because it's self service and half the shit here doesn't accommodate his wings, but the sauna does just fine by him. Anybody is welcome to walk in and find a rather handsomely built man picking his way through a wing. Seems it could use the care. He's missing most of his lower feathers. ]

ii. but if not tomorrow (john's)

[ His haunt as always. Practice is never pretty, though sometimes it's worse than usual; he just can't seem to screw his head on right. His concentration keeps slipping off. Sometimes he really gets it, though, and those are the days he can just fall into it and let go of everything for two or so hours, at least until it's time for the ghost to get back up and do its Billy Joel.

It's anyone's guess what it sounds like when they find him. Staring crossly at the music, stopping and starting, repeating the same eight-measure passage over and over for a whole hour, or running through an entire piece--all fair game. ]

iii. perhaps the day after (on the ship)

[ Later into September, Phil feels confident enough to try his luck.

There's not much to this. He's trying to clamber onto rooftops like a moron. He's still got a surgical wound hanging around, so one wing stays folded, but the other flaps and does quite well for him. Better when the other snaps open on reflex, even if it does ache. ]

iv. wildcard
[ got any other ideas? hmu! ]