by neko

Obsequious sits staring out the lounge window, one knee perched delicately atop the other, foot jiggling slightly in nervous boredom as he waits for someone else to wake up. At four-thirty on a Wednesday morning, he should still be in bed, but he finds himself unable to sleep through even the slight drizzle at his window.

He has never liked the rain.

Tired of the washed-out light from streetlamps and cars of night shift workers heading home, he turns his attention to the small, round piece of glass in his palm.

Out shopping yesterday, Ecstasy and Epilogue came across these decorative stones and decided to bring everyone at the theatre a small gift. Just because, they had said.

Obsiquious' piece is a brilliant ultramarine that shines almost green when held up to the light. Supposedly the colours have been assigned at random, but Obsiquious looks at his again, skeptical. It is the same colour as his eyes: aqua.

He puts it down on the sill and spins it gently like a top. It looks fluid, liquid, light dancing dizzily inside.

Outside, the gutters are flooded, drains clogged with leaves, and raindrops bounce off of the surface of the puddles, jumping up briefly before dying again. The colour and image recall two memories, two feelings: an old betrayal, desperate and longing, and a more recent disbelieving hope.

Obsequious hates the rain.