This is what lack of sleep does, it makes me write oneshots late at night. I'll probably wake up in the morning, re-read it and think 'wtf?'
Anyway, not sure where this came from. I just sat down and typed and this happened.
Not much else to say except a disclaimer: as always I do not own the Boosh!
xxx
He waits for a star to fall.
He sits on the roof, he always sits on the roof when he wants to be alone from anything and everything. It's the one place he feels free, he has to admit it isn't an ideal place to sit if you don't want to be spotted, passer-bys would always see him up there and gasp clearly thinking he was about to jump.
He never did jump.
He thought about it though, nothing could stop him thinking about it.
The stars were brighter tonight than they had been the previous few, tonight there are no clouds in the sky at all and the Moon is at his fullest sat up there in the big wide world of Space. Surrounded by galaxies and planets, the Moon is never alone. Not really.
He is.
He always feels alone on the roof but he likes it.
Slowly he fumbles with a piece of his jacket while crossing his arms across his chest and hugging his knees to himself, he never remembers to bring a blanket or a thicker coat up on the roof with him. The chilly breeze flows through his hair cooling his skin until it shivers blue with goose bumps, every so often he rubs his hands up his arms to gain some heat.
He likes the cold really.
He likes it because he associates cold weather with snow.
Two blue icy pupils stare up at the early morning sky, it's still dark and he's lost track of the time and never wears a watch on the roof. He tries to read the stars or judge where abouts the Moon in the sky is but he knows it never means anything, he just likes to think it does.
He doesn't really care about the time.
He thinks time stands still when he's on the roof.
His fingers feel numb, he can hardly move them with the cold. He brings them to his mouth, cups them gently and blows hot air into them and rubs them together frantically as though he wishes to start a fire. He longs for a hot mug of tea to nurse but won't fetch one up onto the roof.
He'll have it when he goes back.
He always has a cup of tea when he goes back through the skylight.
It's become a tradition to him now, sitting on the roof. At first he did it to escape a mad sword-wielding Shaman who threatened to kill him but now he sits up there often and more frequently usually because he feels the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.
His shoulders are lighter now.
He thinks being on the roof lets the wind blow all his troubles away into the cold night never to be seen again.
Another glance up to the stars, he watches them for a while and remembers what Howard had told him, that the stars were billions of galaxies all clustered together. They twinkled in his blue orbs making them seem brighter and intrigued about Space but he isn't thinking about the stars now, he is thinking about his first time on the roof.
He wishes a star would fall.
He waits on the roof and watches for a shooting star so he can make his wish.
When it doesn't happen, when the stars are stuck firmly in their places refusing to budge and the sun threatens to break the darkness, he creeps back through the window and closes it to go make his cup of tea.
He hopes his luck will improve on the roof.
He hopes maybe one day a star will fall for him and he will get his wish.