A/N: This is a little Trent drabble I came up with while reading "Instructions" by Neil Gaiman.
It was night time, and a boy with shaggy black hair and bangs that covered his eyes sat in a striped arm chair with a guitar in his lap. The room he sat in smelled like smoke from the cigarette which continued to burn in the ashtray, forgotten the moment his hand touched the polished wood of his acoustic guitar. The boy sat with the guitar in his lap and his head leaned over the back of the chair, eyes closed and his calloused fingers idly picking at the strings. It was a very pretty tune; one which would be forgotten the moment he stopped playing, just like every night.
It was at this time, as the boy played his guitar, that magic would spin in the air, and all the creatures would come out from between the pages of books, the movies on TV, the pictures on the walls and they would join the boy. His home, his guitar, his fingers were the only magic left in the town of 5000.
At 16 and ¾'s the boy, whose name was Trent did not believe in magic, nor fairies, trolls, goblins, and elves, but in his state of in between being awake and sleep but for ten years he serenaded them and brought them to life. Ten years prior, at the age of 6 and ¾'s Trent was lousy at the guitar, but played as earnestly as he could and attempted to bear his six year old soul to the world. Maybe that's what coaxed the fairies out - or maybe it was his eyes. A deep set of emerald which sparkled with enchantment every time he came in contact with his guitar. So beautiful and imperfect in a way that he could only be marked one of them - a faerie.
Whatever it was they loved the boy named Trent. They believed in him, even if he did not feel the same.
"Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that witches are often betrayed by their appetites; dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always; hearts can be well-hidden, and you can betray them with your tongue"
- Instructions, Neil Gaiman