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October 21st, 1990. Berlin.
It always seemed to rain at the start of a recording.
Berlin was no different, except the rain didn’t stop. It just kept going, keeping the slowly reunifying city grey and bleak and utterly inhospitable. As it stood, Berlin wasn’t inspiring, it was life-draining. It was filled with people who didn’t seem to know where to go or how to get there. There was so much anger, and confusion, sadness, and quiet rage that bubbled up in people unseen, puffing them up with desperation and anxiety until it exploded out in a messy display of emotion. It was messy, it was lonely, it was all too intimate and crowded, and you just couldn’t close your eyes to it. Berlin, this once-hopeful city of promise and progress, wormed its way into all the cracks in one’s heart and left its chilly, poisonous claw marks there. He wondered if it was raining back home at Killiney Beach. If Aislinn felt the same despondency he did. If the rest band would make any progress today at all.
They didn’t even have one song .
They’d been working for three weeks this Saturday. Today. God, had it already been three weeks?
This is a disaster , Edge thought to himself as his entered the nearly deserted studios, shaking off his umbrella. He placed it resignedly in the stand next to the door, unwound his scarf, and resolved himself to keep an open mind. Something had to give. They just had to trust each other, as a band. They’d made it this far together. He grabbed his guitar and started to tune up.
That had been eight hours ago. It was nearly 5 o’clock, and they still had nothing to show for the hours they spent bickering and desperately trying to grab on to the songs they could feel, but couldn’t hear. Not together, anyway.
As the minutes dragged, Edge started to recognize with greater frequency the subtle cues of danger and disaster. He studied the tired lines at the corner of Bono’s piercing, manic eyes, the way he kept pushing his hand through just-slightly-too-long hair, looked at the tight, thin set of Larry’s mouth, at the tension in Adam’s shoulders, and just knew in the pit of his stomach that this day was not going to end well. He could practically see the countdown on the ticking time bomb that was their band.
“Stop, stop,” Bono said imperiously, waving his hand impatiently at no one in particular. “Can we loop that bit again? It’s no good as it is right now, is it, Edge? We can’t even stay together, we sound worse than a gaggle of sixteen year olds playing their prom. Would it kill you to actually play on the beat, Larry?”
There it was, the claws were out.
“Gee, Bono, I had no idea you cared how I sounded, what with how badly you want to use those techno tracks in every fucking song,” Larry bit out harshly. “But yeah, sure,” he said, quickly feigning calm and an agreeable tone, twirling the drumstick in his left hand a bit maniacally, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank God for that,” Bono huffed out, already turning on Adam. “And maybe, I don’t know, Adam, you pull that line more to the front in the chorus-” Adam was slowly turning redder and redder, his hand flexing around the neck of the bass, like it was Bono’s neck he had his squeezing fingers around instead. Edge put down his pick and picked up his water bottle, trying not to draw any attention to himself. “-really drive it up to the D, you’ve got to do something different, right now you’re too tentative, we’re going for passion, fire, sex -come on, how many times have I got to say this?- it’s like all the fun has just up and run from you-”
“You know what?” Adam snarled and yanked his bass over his head. "You tell me what to play and I'll play it. You want to play it yourself? Go ahead.” He held it out in front of him, and, after a but moment’s hesitation, shoved it into Bono’s hands. “Are you happy, now?” He shoved his way past Bono, knocking him into Edge (who spilled some of his water over his hand) and crashed into a stand covered in sheet music, sending it all to the floor in his haste to leave the room. The door slammed behind him. The silence it left behind was ugly and heavy in a way that reminded Edge too much of being home.
Bono looked down at the bass in his hands with blue eyes so intense it seemed they might burn a hole in it just by sheer force of will. He muttered something too quiet for the others to hear.
“You’re a fucking arse sometimes, you know that, Bono?” Larry scowled, setting his sticks aside. “It’s like you don’t even want to try and compromise- and I can’t work like this. It’s like I’m invisible. Your opinion is the only one that matters to you.”
“Is that right?” Bono snapped, temper at the surface. “Why the fuck are you still here then?”
“Hell if I know,” Larry said quietly, then, suddenly: “You know what?” He got up, shaking his head and swinging his bag onto his shoulder. “I’m done, too. Come find me when you actually want to write an album. Or don’t.” His exit, though quieter than Adam’s and far less whirlwind, was no less devastating.
He glared sullenly at Edge. “I suppose you agree with him, then?”
“I think we should be done for today, Bono,” Edge said, not unkindly. “We hadn’t been making any progress for a good hour before this. We can try again on Monday.” He put his back to Bono and started methodically cleaning up the studio, stowing their music, the guitar he left there at the studio, Larry’s abandoned sticks. What am I going to tell Brian? Edge tried to push away the darkness encroaching on his thoughts and focus on the tasks at hand. “Put away Adam’s bass, Bono. He won’t thank you for leaving it laying around.”
“You say that like he’ll actually come back.”
Bono sounded young and very, very tired.
Edge shut the closet door with a deep, steadying breath and looked at Bono. Really looked, at the pale, wan skin and jutting chin. Looked at his hands, trembling slightly as they held Adam's bass. He ran his eyes over the tousled hair, the proud mouth, the lines of heartbreak and exhaustion on his face, and the circles under Bono's eyes. They looked empty and maybe a little wet.
He looks like a dead man walking .
The thought was disturbing.
Distracting.
"Of course he will," Edge soothed as he reached for the bass's soft case. "He and Lena both. They just need some time to cool down. No one wants to fight, Bono. We're just having a hard time operating as a band right now. It happens." He opened the case, let Bono lay the instrument inside and zipped it up, placing it on a stand. "You just need to keep in mind that Adam and Larry are human, too."
"I know that-" Bono interrupted, indignant.
Edge held up a hand, and for once in his life Bono stopped and actually let Edge continue. "Remember that you are not the only one in the band with ideas," he said a bit sharply. "Otherwise, nothing is going to get done, and we'll be lucky to get even a half decent single, and we're just going to have more days that end like this." Edge laid a hand on Bono's shoulder and softened his tone as he continued. "You know I'm on your side, musically, but Christ, Bono, we have to at least try."
Bono leaned into Edge's hand a bit, then back. "I'm so exhausted, Edge. It's all just too much, sometimes. And lately I've been having more dark days than good. Sometimes I just want it to stop."
His breathing was uneven and harsh after the painful rush of his words. Bono swayed back into Edge's support, seeming touch-starved, eyes wild and a bit desperate, and then threw himself abruptly on Edge, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and tilting his face into the crook of Edge's neck. Edge let his arms come around Bono in turn. He felt the small puffs of Bono's breath on his neck slow their frantic, shallow pace as Edge held him. Just as he was about to let go, step back, suggest dinner and maybe a bottle of wine, Bono spoke. A whisper.
"I'm not sure we should be a band anymore."
Edge froze. His heart clenched.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edge pulled back from Bono and held him at arm’s length. Bono looked deadly serious. “You’re overreacting about a little spat.”
Bono shook his head. “You know it’s more than that, Edge. You know it.” he said tersely.
“We’ve just had a bad go of it today, that’s all.” Edge tried to insert a note of finality in his voice as he turned away from Bono and towards the exit. This was the last sort of conversation he wanted to have.
But Bono wouldn’t listen, never did, came after him, just always kept pushing - “Just like we did yesterday, and the day before that, all the last three weeks, and before we even got to this hellhole in the first place!” His voice rose almost hysterically at the end of his exclamation. He was so close the Edge could feel the heat radiating off of his wound-up body.
“Enough, Bono.” He was surprised by the silence that followed those two words. Nothing but a sigh passed Bono’s lips. Edge refused to look at him. He picked up his coat, slipped into the warm, stiff black wool, and let the tightness and the weight of it on his shoulders center him. Edge pulled his umbrella from the stand, opened the door, let Bono pass him and step into the damp, chilly street. They began their walk back to that dismal hotel, torn between dragging their feet for the dread of returning to their lonesome, desolate rooms, and hurrying along to escape the eyes of everyone else and the sharp near-winter ice in the air.
There was something of a melody clattering around in his head, just out of reach. It sounded melancholy, resentful, and somehow hopeful, all at once. Maybe...
Just a few steps from the hotel, Bono brushed the Edge’s shoulder with his own, his hands still buried deep in his pockets. Edge glanced at Bono, looking away from the cracks and imperfections in the pavement he’d studied nearly the whole walk home after an unfortunate eye-contact-induced encounter with an absurdly enamoured blonde police officer.
Bono tugged Edge’s arm and stopped them, clasping his hand. “You know I’m right,” Bono murmured. His cheeks were flushed with the cold, his lips red like they’d been bitten one too many times. Edge couldn’t think of anything more to say. Bono took his silence for agreement, it seemed. He shook his head once and went around Edge into the hotel, greeting the doormen with a tired, yet genuine, smile and a wave.
Edge stood for a minute and watched the cars drive by. The car lights were reflected in the road, painting it silver in the dark cover of the night. The people on the sidewalk moved around him like a river around a stone, only to come back together again once it passed beyond the obstacle it had encountered. Edge noted the sounds of life all around him. Engines, chatter, horns honking, bells ringing, the breathing and rhythm of the city. People were going home, going to work, going out, going to someone . People were living. Yet there was a sadness and confusion that lingered over all this life. The rebirth of Berlin, the creation of this new Germany was not what he thought it might be. But it was something.
It had stopped raining.
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The knock on Edge’s door, though inevitable- you know him he knows you he had to come how could he not - took longer to arrive than he would have thought.
Interesting.
The- the interlude - it felt wrong to call it a reprieve- had given him enough time to shower and watch some crap tv before he gave up and stood at his window, smoking nearly four cigarettes in a row before the knock appeared and forcibly dragged him back out of his own head. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill and went to open the door, pausing to check and make sure it actually was Bono.
Bono stayed in the hallway when the door opened instead of just barging on in like his usual hurricane, holding a number of things and looking faintly apologetic. He bounced up and rolled back on his toes with nervous energy and shoved some of the bags into Edge's hands.
"Here, love, I got some Indian takeaway, and there's a bottle or two of wine in there, too, I think- I just didn't want to go anywhere else tonight, thought we could spend the night in and do something productive. Maybe. There's something else here for you, too, you've seemed too quiet lately, and when I saw this on the shelf I just decided, hey, why not? -You're good with Cabernet, right?" He smiled like he hadn't just rambled himself to hell and back.
Edge sighed fondly, shaking his head. "Just come in."
Edge closed the door with his hip and locked it after transferring both bags to his left hand while Bono deposited himself on the couch in center of the room. He arranged himself until he resembled a lounging cat and pulled a plain brown paper package from one of the bags and waved it in Edge's direction.
"Sit with me here. Just leave the food on the coffee table. I'd like to give you your present now. I'm afraid I can't wait."
"You really didn't have to get me anything." Edge took the package, turned it over in his hands, and set about ripping it open.
"Ah, it's nothing- just a little fun, that's all."
It's a book. Not a very thick one, maybe 280 pages or so. It’s big, though. Called The Creation of Matter: The Universe From Beginning to End.
It's quite lovely, as books go, nicely bound and printed on sturdy, glossy paper.
"What do you think of it, Edge? I know how you love space and science." Say something. But what to say? Why was it words always seemed to fail when Edge let himself feel? "Why, that time right after we came out with December back in ‘81- do you remember, we played that little show in Cleveland, and it snowed for absolutely ages. And then, when the sky finally cleared, we went and all laid on the roof of that young man's house we stayed with- God, what was his name? Steve? Anyway, we stayed up and just looked at the stars while we drank that flask of whiskey, and you said to me-"
Edge found his voice suddenly. "I didn't think you remembered that at all," was what tumbled out as he opened the book up at the center, revealing the most detailed map of the sky he’d ever seen. He changed his course. "No, no that's not what I meant. Tt's wonderful. Thank you, B." He found himself smiling gratefully at Bono, who flashed him a dazzling smile and a dismissive little wiggle-wave of his hand.
"It's nothing at all, really. It's the least I could do, to thank you for putting up with me." Bono started unpacking the boxes, and the warm, inviting scent of curry filled the air.
"Oh, I think you could do a bit more than this," Edge said with a teasing smirk as they started eating. "Heaven knows what I did to deserve putting up with all your bullshit."
"That's why I brought this all, too," Bono said with glee, lifting two bottles of wine and a smaller bottle of vodka up and onto table. "Tonight's the night to drown our sorrows, Edge. Who knows, maybe it'll be good for us. We might even write something decent tonight."
It sounded pretty great. "Yeah, yeah, we'll see if you're up to anything after all that, you great lightweight," Edge joked.
Bono grinned and opened up the first bottle of the night with a resounding pop. "Ah, but what would you do without me?" He reached across the table to grab so glasses- tumblers, not actual wine glasses, but they'd do- and poured himself and Edge two extremely generous helpings. "Drink up, love," he laughed, handing Edge his glass and clinking them together with a merry chime, kissing him quickly on the cheek.
They finished their meal mostly in companionable silence, with a bit of good-natured ribbing and joking here and there. The clean-up was quick and easy, which was for the best as they'd nearly finished first bottle of wine between the two of them already.
Edge stood with the last of his wine and went to the still slightly open window, digging his cigarettes out of his pocket as walked. He lit one and took a long drag of the toxic liquid gold, looking out over the city again as he let the subsequent nicotine-fueled glow race through his veins and heighten the slow buzz of the wine. He was high enough up he couldn't quite see the sidewalk below him on the nearest side of the street. Bono poured the rest of the bottle into his own glass and came up beside Edge. He looked at Edge instead of the city, his gaze almost palpable as it glanced over his face, clothes, posture, and back to his face. Edge wordlessly offered him a cigarette, barely looking away from the window. Bono accepted one and tucked it in his mouth, feeling at his pockets.
"I don't have a light," he said softly after a quick investigation. Edge pulled out his lighter again and handed it to Bono, watching as he lit his cigarette. He put the lighter on the windowsill with the ashtray instead of handing it back. Bono shrugged at Edge’s questioning look. "Might need it later."
Oh . "No problem."
Bono took a drag, then another, like he was steeling himself to say something.
"Edge, what's going on with you and Aislinn?"
Edge inhaled and coughed a bit. "What do you mean? Why do you ask?"
"You haven't talked to her in at least two weeks," Bono said gently. "And you don't talk about her or the kids at all, other than when you told me at the start of the sessions that you'd had a row. At first I thought it was just the album, stress, and all, that maybe you'd forgotten, but not anymore." Bono took another drag. He didn’t cough.
"Doesn't every couple fight?" Edge sighed, trying to avoid where he knew this was headed.
"Not like this," Bono said earnestly, smoke clouding the air with his speech. "Even when Ali and I disagree, we still-"
"We can't all be you and Ali, Bono," Edge said harshly, turning to glare at Bono. "Not everyone can have the perfect romance you do."
"Wow," Bono said, taken aback. "Tell me how you really fucking feel, why don't you? I just thought you might want to talk about it. Guess I was wrong, huh?" He laughed bitterly, violently smashing out his cigarette.
"Look, I'm sorry," Edge started, trying to pull himself back together. "I was wrong to say that. This isn't about you and Ali."
"You're damn right it's not." Bono looked ready to hit someone, or cry. Perhaps both.
"But." Edge had to look away from Bono again, back out at the night sky and cityscape. He continued, "But- you're right, Bono. There's a lot going on. She's- uh, I'm- we're not happy." He choked on the words. And just saying it feels awful, Bono, this is why I didn't say anything. "We've been trying to make it work, for the kids, but it's not. Not right now. And we decided, since I'm here, and she's home, we'd separate for a while." He, too put out his cigarette, then threw back the rest of his wine, relishing with not a little bitterness the slight burn of the alcohol as it made its way down his throat. He closed the window.
"I'm sorry," Bono said after a moment, clearing his throat a bit uncomfortably. He made an aborted move toward Edge, presumably wanting to offer some sort of comfort, but instead seized the next bottle of wine and swiftly opened it. "I had no idea it was that bad. I shouldn't have pushed it. I just... I care. You know?
"It's alright, Bono," Edge said. He let Bono refill his glass halfway and took a gulp. "You couldn't have known. There's nothing to be done about it anymore, anyway. It just is what it is, now. Either it'll get better, or it won't. It's alright," he repeated, trying to convince himself. Don't cry, don't cry, don't-
Bono touched his hand, feather-light, then took his glass away and set it next to his own on the table. "Come here," he said, understanding and sympathy coloring his voice as he took Edge by the arm and led him to the bed, with its hard mattress and too-thin sheets, seating himself up against the headboard and drawing Edge to him, letting him lay his head on Bono's chest. He put his arms around Edge's shoulders and stroked the back of his neck and the little hairs there.
"It hurts, so much," Edge whispered, twisting his fingers into Bono's shirt. "It feels like I've failed."
"It's ok to let yourself feel the hurt," Bono said, rocking him gently. "It happens to us all. We do it to each other. If you didn't feel this, if you didn't fail, you'd be a machine, and you're not. I don't ask you to be perfect.” His voice hardened. “I don't want you to be."
Edge snorted a strangled laugh and shrugged off Bono’s arms. “You’re just about the only one, then.”
As he sat up, he caught sight of the new book he’d left open on the nightstand at the start of their meal, with all the history of the universe caught in its pages.
He flipped through it and pointed to the book’s illustration of the future, of a universe decimated by dark matter, empty and cold. “It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” He paused, tapping his finger on the picture, humming briefly in consideration, before quirking the corner of his lips into an ironic little smile and dragging the open book over to lie between them on the bedsheets. “It gives you a rather terrible feeling of peace, doesn’t it, to think that one day all this will be gone? Insignificant and meaningless. All of the failures of the human race, all of the suffering there ever was- will just be erased, like it never existed.” Looking at it, Edge felt small.
“Well, actually, love,” Bono said, reaching for him across the stars, “that will be trillions and trillions of years, yet.” And looking at Bono, Edge felt limitless. He reached back, and kissed him, smiling, over the intersection of the stars. He drew back with a sigh, leaned his forehead against Bono’s.
“I can wait.”
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Edge woke up gradually. His eyes still closed, he noticed with only mild surprise the soft warmth of another body lying in the bed. The weight of his companion was comforting in his arms, solid and grounding. Edge couldn’t imagine moving, not when he was finally so comfortable after week after week of fitful rest. He felt light-years away from his earlier loss of control.
His face was tucked into the smooth curve of Bono’s neck and shoulder. Edge tentatively took a deep breath, not wanting to disturb his friend’s sleep. Bono smelled faintly of cologne and clean, salty sweat, and something a bit icy and smoky that reminded Edge of the city. Every breath threatened to lull Edge back into unconsciousness. The quiet of the room was just barely interrupted by muted sounds of the city and the mild rustling of sheets every time Bono shifted in his sleep, puffing out contented little bursts of air. Edge opened his eyes a bit, not desiring in the least to get up.
It was still dark outside. No point in moving at all.
Bono's profile was lit from behind by the light of the city night by the window. He didn't look peaceful, exactly, but the day Bono was peaceful Edge would declare an absolute miracle.
It was remarkable that the body sleeping beside Edge held such a dynamic, forceful, vital man. He slept just like everyone else, and was mortal too, even if he sometimes forgot that his body was not, in fact, indestructible. Yet Edge could see something in the strong angle of Bono's jaw, the fine, high cheekbones, softly parted lips, and his heavy eyelashes, something preternaturally compelling that practically screamed "This man is dangerous!" But rather than ruin Edge, or the world, as he likely could, Bono chose to help them. Care for them. Incredible, that someone with so much power and the extreme charismatic potential for control instead chose a life of love and peace.
Edge gathered Bono even closer to him and shut his eyes, quickly falling back asleep. Just as he drifted off, he felt Bono twist his hand even more securely into the fabric at the side of Edge’s shirt, humming lightly with apparent satisfaction when the side of his pinky finger grazed the skin of Edge’s waist. And once again, Edge descended into the easy embrace of sleep.
-----------------------
The next time Edge woke up, he was cold and alone on top of the dully hued quilt. He needed the loo, but the call wasn't too urgent yet so he took a few moments to just lay there on the bed. Cold, grey light streamed in through the window, beyond which lay a world in white. Glittering obstinately like a diamond set in a rusted, tarnished band, Berlin seemed even colder and more disagreeably inhospitable this morning than even the rainiest days had before. The city paid the snow no mind. Everyone just carried on with their little business and their little lives, as lost today as they had ever been and ever would, apparently, be. A thump in the bathroom and a truly impressive string of cursing jolted Edge from his musings.
So he wasn't alone, then.
He could hear water running in the shower now that he had a mind to notice it. He sat up and stretched, cracking the stiffest vertebrae in his neck, relishing the satisfying give and pop of his sleep-heavy body. Casting his gaze about the room, the mess of last night was not instantly recognizable. They'd cleaned up, mostly, before things had gone south. The only evidence of their argument and hasty retreat to the bed seemed to be their empty glasses, one re-corked, barely opened bottle of wine, and the overturned, drained bottle of Cabernet. Edge couldn't spot the cork belonging to that one. It had probably rolled off somewhere, or more likely, Bono had pocketed it when he got up this morning. He had the funniest ideas about that sort of thing, resulting in the likes of a whole collection of wine corks stashed in a massive jar somewhere. Why, the Edge had no idea. But then, sometimes Bono just did things that defied the understanding of even him.
He set about clearing up the glasses, storing the bottle of wine for- perhaps- later that day, and started up the coffee machine on autopilot.
The dark, bitter taste wasn't the Edge's favorite thing in the world, but it was something necessary for him these days. He found it difficult to work well when his head was aching and fuzzy from lack of sleep, and the caffeine helped dissipate some of the clouds. The heat of a mug of the substance cradled in his hands was something he enjoyed, seeping into his palms and relaxing his hands. And if he occasionally burned his tongue on the steaming liquid as he tried to run out the door in the mornings, the searing pain wasn't the worst thing he'd ever experienced. At least it reminded him he was alive. And he preferred life to the alternative, certainly. The coffee pot dripped steadily, a sympathetic little counterpoint to the current of his thoughts.
This city had a way of making you forget about all that. Or worse still, it made you lose sight of why it mattered to live, and not just survive from day to day. It seemed like, if he wanted, he could blame just about everything on Berlin. He knew it was irrational, but why else couldn't they- he, Bono, Larry, and Adam- even write one song?
Maybe they were wrong to come here. The coffee pot beeped, letting him know it was done. Edge poured himself a mug allowed it to cool a bit on the counter, digging some clean clothes out so he could change in a bit. He always hated sleeping in his clothes. It left him feeling rumpled, lazy and dirty. No matter now though. He'd feel better after a shower.
Confident that the coffee had cooled enough to drink, he returned to the mug and let himself enjoy the way the heat flushed his face and how each swallow radiated tiny, sunny trickles of warmth through his body, waking him up and chasing away the slight chill in the air- and immediately settling in his bladder.
Now he really needed to piss. And Bono was still in the shower, humming some vaguely pitchy, fragmented string of melody like he hadn't a care in the world or a thought spare for the Edge's plight. It wasn't even Bono's room. Damn him, that hedonistic little minx.
Edge went to the door and knocked, to no reply. He knocked again, harder, his knuckles smarting as he rapped them firmly on the thick wood.
The song stopped. "Yeah, hello?" Bono's voice inquired through the door. "Edge, are you up, then?"
"Morning, Bono," he said wryly, "Any chance I can take a minute in my bathroom anytime soon?"
"Oh, just come in," Bono said. Edge heard the water shut off, and after a few moments he opened the door.
Bono stood at the sink in just a white towel, brushing his teeth, and where did he get that toothbrush? So help me, if it's mine- and turned to Edge with a roguish grin after he rinsed out his mouth. "I know you've seen it all before, love," he laughed, his blue eyes sparkling with barely contained laughter. "But you're so adorably shy, dare I say it? Well, you're here now, do what you must, piss, shower, wank-"
"Hey!" Edge interjected, letting out a laugh at Bono's absurd predilection for inappropriate humor.
"Why not?" Bono asked, his obscenely blue eyes wide with feigned innocence. "I did!"
Edge seized the hand towel and smacked Bono's glistening shoulder with it, forcing him out the door like a pest. "Out, out, you," he laughed, shutting the door.
Bono called out, "Enjoy your alone time, babe!" And after a few rustling movements indicating he was clothing himself, he left the hotel room entirely, likely making his way toward somewhere he could get something to eat.
Edge relieved himself promptly, brushed his teeth and turned on the shower.
Just as he was about to step in, he noticed a small note laying forgotten next to the sink.
Edge , it read in scrawled, looping writing: Gonna get breakfast and grab my guitar. Meet you back at mine at 10, bring yours- if you're up by then, you lump. I'm gonna shower here. Maybe that'll get you up. You're sleeping like the dead, honestly. How do you do it? -B
He smiled affectionately at the note, shaking his head and stepping into the steaming shower. Today they'd dream up something big. Write something great. He could feel it.
The hot water fell all around and on him, striking tile and clouding the air with its vapor. The smell of clean, minty, ocean scented soap enveloped him.
He could hear it now, the progression that had been in his head since the walk home yesterday. He could feel it in his fingertips. Maybe magic would finally happen today.
Edge closed his eyes and tilted his face up into the best kind of rain.