"I play goddamn bassoon better than I sing," Dan says, laughing to hide that he's disappointed to be turned down. "I'll play you to sleep. Grieg, Chopin. Roberta Flack."
And so when he goes back to the farmhouse, he grabs a bottle of wine from the cellar; he's already gone through the whiskey and vodka on the serving trolley in the study, because a house full of recreational drinkers would never have enough on hand for one alcoholic for two weeks. He doesn't pour himself a glass because he doesn't see the purpose; he just drinks straight from the neck as he practices the softest, most lovely melodies he knows.
When he starts missing notes, he moves to a new project, de-griming a shower that had a little mold before all the deaths and now has a bloom, and by the time he's done with that he's feeling a chill from the night air. He finishes the bottle of wine, gets another, and draws himself a hot bath, where he sinks in and thinks over how big the bed he's going to sleep in is, how over the last few days it's started to feel not just big but vacant.
Aster's telegraphed his disinterest a few times, and Dan knows that's for the better. It's just that knowing something's for the better doesn't make Dan want it. Knowing something's a bad idea frequently intrigues Dan, and trying to sleep with his boss is a textbook bad idea.
But he doesn't think that's why he wants to pull Aster into bed with him, to wrap himself in Aster's arms, to show Aster's lips the same tender attention Aster's shown his cuts and scrapes.
The tub is so positioned that Dan can smoke a cigarette while both holding his hand out and exhaling out the bathroom's French doors without letting anything linger in the room, something he wouldn't dare do anywhere else in the house. He burns down three cigarettes and rests his head on the edge of the tub, drifting off with the second bottle of wine empty as the water starts to cool.
no subject
And so when he goes back to the farmhouse, he grabs a bottle of wine from the cellar; he's already gone through the whiskey and vodka on the serving trolley in the study, because a house full of recreational drinkers would never have enough on hand for one alcoholic for two weeks. He doesn't pour himself a glass because he doesn't see the purpose; he just drinks straight from the neck as he practices the softest, most lovely melodies he knows.
When he starts missing notes, he moves to a new project, de-griming a shower that had a little mold before all the deaths and now has a bloom, and by the time he's done with that he's feeling a chill from the night air. He finishes the bottle of wine, gets another, and draws himself a hot bath, where he sinks in and thinks over how big the bed he's going to sleep in is, how over the last few days it's started to feel not just big but vacant.
Aster's telegraphed his disinterest a few times, and Dan knows that's for the better. It's just that knowing something's for the better doesn't make Dan want it. Knowing something's a bad idea frequently intrigues Dan, and trying to sleep with his boss is a textbook bad idea.
But he doesn't think that's why he wants to pull Aster into bed with him, to wrap himself in Aster's arms, to show Aster's lips the same tender attention Aster's shown his cuts and scrapes.
The tub is so positioned that Dan can smoke a cigarette while both holding his hand out and exhaling out the bathroom's French doors without letting anything linger in the room, something he wouldn't dare do anywhere else in the house. He burns down three cigarettes and rests his head on the edge of the tub, drifting off with the second bottle of wine empty as the water starts to cool.