I wrote this pretty quick, so it's not my best work. Even so, I hope ya'll like it. Feel better soon, Lu!
Even when the theater is empty, it still looks so beautiful.
Buster glides through the aisles, running his fingers along the plush red velvet seats. The carpet underneath his feet mutes his steps and carves an endless path to the stage.
Ah, the stage… the heart of the theater, the soul of his being. Every fiber of him is intertwined with the very existence of this gorgeous stage. He climbs the steps one at a time, taking a few moments to savor the view as if he were savoring a delicious taste.
The theater is, essentially, a flavor for him. It tastes sweet and bitter at the same time, two aromas combining to form a unique flavor. The theater has seen the lowest of his lows— the bitter— and the highest points in his life— the sweet.
He runs over the stage, relishing the smooth, polished dark wood gleaming up at him. He twists and he twirls like a ballet dancer, moving all the way across the impeccable surface leaving nary a scuff mark.
The backstage is beckoning him next, the curtains reaching out to him with velvety, tasseled arms. It's an embrace he is so ready to accept. He's nearly completed the last few bounds when, out of nowhere, there's a harsh nudge in his side.
He startles awake, eyes flying open. Ms. Crawly is looking at him with a lopsided grin, a stack of papers held up in her shaky grip.
"Forgive me, Mr. Moon, for having to rouse you," she apologizes. "But I wanted to know what you want me to do with these?"
She offers the papers to him, and he takes them with one hand while rubbing his eyes with the other. His jaws split into a wide yawn as his bleary gaze peruses the documents.
Gradually, his eyes grow wider, then quickly reduce to narrow slits. He shifts the papers away from his face and frowns at his assistant. "Where did you find these?"
"On the floor in front of your desk," Ms. Crawly informs him calmly.
"But I don't… oh." The realization hits him like a bag of bricks. He springs up from his chair as swiftly as if he'd sat on a thumbtack. "Ms. Crawly," he says distractedly, "I'm afraid I have to go run a quick, er, errand. Mind watching the place for a bit?"
"Not at all," the iguana says. She hobbles over to her desk and sits down, already back at work squinting at her computer screen and typing away.
Buster zooms out of the office and down the stairs. The papers are rolled tightly under his arm, with his free hand serving as a temporary paper clip to keep them together.
Here before him is his beloved stage. It's not the same one as in his dreams, however. As much as he adores his brand new theater, it is the original one that he will always treasure the most. It was the old stage that introduced him to the very world he loves immersing himself in. He knows in his heart that none of the memories went down along with the old theater; it just sometimes feels that way, when with each passing day he forgets yet another element of the original building.
He mounts his trusty old bicycle in the lobby, taking the bumpy but brief ride down the front steps. He swings the handlebars to the left, coasting along the streets. It's a quieter day on this end of town, the tourists sparse and the cars even more so.
Buster barely has to think as he rides along. The route he's on is so ingrained in his mind; he is prepared for every bump in the sidewalk, every pothole, every narrow turn. Despite the familiarity of these back streets, he still feels a little thrill course down his spine when his eyes land on his destination.
He hops off his bike and secures it against a rack. A smudgy window serves as his mirror, and helps to point out the tuft of gray fur sticking up on top of his head. With a quick swipe of his tongue over one palm, he's able to slick the tuft back with his homemade hair gel. He checks his teeth for any residue left over from his earlier eucalyptus sandwich; nothing. The final touch to perfect his look is the buttoning up of his classic dark blue suit. He slides his thumb over a crease in his shirt, straightens his jacket one final time, takes a deep breath, then steps to the side and places a few gentle knocks on the door.
When the door swings to the side, it reveals a stunning face that he hasn't seen since last night. She grins, uncertainty written in the way her brows are knitted together, and in the glittering of her eyes.
"Moon?" Ash asks. She speaks his name in a different way now, and it bothers him. He hopes the slumping of his shoulders is not too noticeable.
"Please. Just call me Buster now," he says. "I think… I think we've reached a point where there's no need for formalities."
"Okay," she says simply. They stand frozen for a few seconds on her doorstep, like two statues gazing at each other. Buster would believe the two of them are made of stone, if it weren't for the crackle of electricity between them.
She swallows audibly. "Um. Come in, I guess."
Ash shuffles backward, and he walks inside her apartment. He doesn't waste any energy to swing his eyes over the place; he's been here more times than he could count on all his fingers.
Once she closes the door, their chief source of light is gone. Only a few thin strips of sunlight filter weakly through the blinds. Otherwise, the front room is plunged completely in shadows. She guides him to the sofa, brow still furrowed.
"Do you want something to drink?"
He nods. "Yes, actually, that would be great. Do you have iced tea?"
A minute later, she returns with a frosty glass of his requested drink. He takes it gratefully, letting the cold liquid slide slowly down his parched throat.
"So why did you come here?"
"You forgot these," he says while swallowing, holding up the music sheets. "Last night, at my… in the… office."
She grabs the papers back, scanning over them momentarily before tossing them onto the coffee table. "Jeez, Buster."
"What?"
"Does this… I mean, why are we making this so awkward?" she asks. It seems to take effort for her to lift her eyes to meet his. He lets himself wander in those pale blue depths, his grasp on the cup loosening with every thud of his heart.
Then he lowers his head, tearing his gaze away from hers. He knows what happens when he goes too far into that mystical blue forest; he becomes lost, and he drags her right down with him. Last night is Exhibit A of… well, that.
"Trust me," he begins. "I don't want this to be any more awkward than it has to be."
"Then let's not make it awkward," she says.
Buster startles when one of her hands rests on top of his. Her paw is soft and light, embracing his fingers like a curled feather.
"I still don't get why, out of a million other guys in the world, you choose me," he admits. "I'm more than twice your age. I've lived through events that you've read about in history textbooks in school."
"Age does not matter to me." He's surprised by how fierce her voice sounds.
"But—"
"I've told you so many times," Ash goes on as if to berate him. "It's just an insignificant number. The year we were born in, the generation we come from, none of that matters. We live in a society where we can pick a significant other based on love. It wasn't always this way. We should be grateful to have this freedom!"
He watches her carefully. "Ash…"
"Buster, I want to be with you. I don't care about a number, okay? All I care about is… is you. And me. Together." She takes both his hands now and squeezes them. "Please. Can't you understand that?"
The koala gulps, closing his eyes as a torrent of emotions overwhelms him. He wants to say yes to her. God damn it, he really does. But there is still something holding him back, maintaining an iron grip on his coattails, leaving him jogging in place trying to get to her.
When he lifts his heavy eyelids again, she's still peering at him. He studies her extraordinary face, then leans in for an experimental kiss.
Her lips meld with his flawlessly, and they fit like the last two pieces of a puzzle. She tastes bittersweet, and he laps up every bit of her flavor. He can feel her start to lean back, inviting him to a full-on make out session on the couch, but he yanks himself away at the last second.
"Why?" The word is a faint whisper that barely makes it off her tongue. But he hears it, and he feels like a deflated balloon.
His shoulders sag, and his head hangs. He can feel the tuft of fur on his head sticking up again, but he doesn't bother trying to flatten it. He just stares at her.
"You look very tired," he says suddenly.
"Gee," she says dryly. "Thanks."
He bites his lip. "No, I didn't mean to—"
"Buster. Listen. I know, I look like I was hit by a truck. I was just up all last night after… after what happened. After we… did stuff."
"Did stuff," he chuckles. "That's one way to put it."
"I came back home and I sat up all night just… thinking. About us, about what I really want when it comes down to it. I tried writing another song for the album, but nothing really came of it."
His gaze flashes to the music sheets on the table, then back to her. She catches this and tilts her head to the side with a sigh.
"Yeah, well, that's something. But… it's not that good."
"I doubt that," he interrupts.
She shakes her head. "No, honestly, it's shit. But, Buster, what I'm trying to say is I've put a lot of thought into this. A hell of a lot. And in the end, it boils down to one thing."
He lifts his eyebrows. "What's that?"
"I'm nineteen years old, which makes me a legal adult. And that means I can do whatever I want."
"I thought age doesn't matter."
"It never mattered to me," she says with a smile. "I just hoped that would make you feel a little better."
Buster laughs. "I guess it does. Just a little bit."
He's about to chuckle again, but she pulls him back in for another kiss. As soon as their mouths touch, she snatches his breath away. His eyes slide shut, and the room spins around him. At one point, it even feels like the two of them are floating, soaring through the sky with the wind sifting through their fur.
A new thought, like an anchor, drags them back down to earth. He severs their connection and talks in a low voice.
"I've never liked anyone the way I like you."
He expects her to find a joke somewhere in that, but this time no teasing smirk makes a corner of her mouth curl upward. Instead she stays silent, waiting for more.
"A- and I think it's because… there's never been room in my heart before for a love like yours. It honestly feels like the only serious relationship I've ever had before is with the theater." His thoughtful frown deepens as the gears continue turning inside his head. "When I met you, Ash, you swept me off my feet and brushed the dust off my lips. You make me feel so alive— and I'm reminded of that whenever I see you, with the way my heart pounds in my throat. I always used to regret never investing myself in any relationships, but… after all we've been through together, I've realized that there is nothing to regret. The theater is like the base of our relationship; and the rest is up to you and me." Now confidence is blooming in his heart, filling his veins with this fiery burst that roars and crackles in his ears. His smile is so wide, stretching his elastic cheeks. "You make me feel this way, Ash, because I'm in love with you."
She throws her arms around him, hugging him tightly. He rests his hands on her arms, staying mindful of her quills. When they separate, her smile mirrors his.
"You know, you'd make a really good songwriter," she points out.
"How about this— I'll help you write a song if you promise to get some rest."
Her giggles are interrupted by a yawn. "Oh, alright. Fine."
Her eyelids are already drooping as she settles back on the sofa. He curls up close to her as they shoot each other drowsy grins.
"Love you," she mumbles.
"I love you too," he replies.
The minutes slip by, and in no time the two are fast asleep, roaming in each other's dreams. Buster is happy to see that, when he opens his eyes to see that old stage, there's a familiar porcupine performing on it.