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NOTE: I stuck in a few song lyrics here and there for some artistic effect; you'll probably be able to recognize them.
Jeff could feel a soft, apologetic touch upon his cheek. A brush, skin against skin, and then it was gone. He couldn't hold back the soft mew of protest that escaped his lips - he wanted that contact again, needed it. Whatever it was... whoever it was... He wanted to feel those soft fingertips upon the rise of his cheeks, a fond whisper of a touch. The warmth of it felt so familiar. But... it couldn't be...
Was he dreaming? His muddled brain told him yes; his rational side disagreed. How could he be dreaming? He wasn't sleeping. (Was he?) He hadn't slept for what felt like eternity. But his eyelids felt heavy and his throat tight and parched. His muscles were sated and lazy. All the signs of sleep.
'yearning for the sleep that will never come'
When he finally sat up, he noticed with surprise his guitar was still in its case. There were no frantically-scribbled, scatterred papers littering the floor. The place looked in relatively sane order. But how could this be? It hadn't looked like this for something close to half a month now.
He padded quietly through the neat apartment, the silence making him uneasy. His guitar, tucked away in a corner, stared expressionlessly at him. Its long, graceful neck protruded into a patch of mid-morning sunlight. The wood and lacquer gleamed. Jeff continued into the kitchen, completely bemused.
Had he slept last night or not? Had he returned faithfully to his midnight music, or had it finally released him and flown the nest? Why couldn't he remember?
Pondering nervously, running himself in circles, Jeff poured a glass of orange juice and checked his messages. The usual suspects, of course: Matt, Gary, Mike (who sounded slightly hungover but chipper as hell), and a disgruntled one from Mick that Jeff barely listened to. The message itself was terse and meandering, and his voice sounded distressed. Odd. Jeff grabbed a scrap of paper and scrawled Mick's name on it - a reminder to call him. The other three could wait, as could Jeff's music. Instead, he pressed the repeat button, rewound Mick's (lengthy) message, and propped his elbows on the counter while he stared in puzzlement at the answering machine, and listened again closer.
"Jeff, man... Hey... It's Mick." Here he paused to clear his throat and gather his thoughts (or so it sounded). Jeff took a sip of juice, watching the message machine over the rim of the glass as if it might jump up and stroll away. Mick's voice continued: "I've been thinking alot lately. I've kind of... well, I dunno. When I'm around you, man, I always get to thinking. Which makes me think even more - do you know how much you've changed my life? You're like the driving force in everything I do these days. Sometimes, I close my eyes, and I can just see your smile."
"Oh, please, Mick, you're making me blush," Jeff drawled sarcastically as if Mick was there to listen. "Get to the point, you fucking bed-wetter."
"And the weird thing is I seem to be the only one who's noticed something's going wrong here. I talked to Mike about you. Half an hour ago, I'd say. He says you and he went to the studio a day ago but you were acting weird."
Jeff cringed, remembering stepping into the studio the other day, and suddenly getting this resolute feeling that he did not belong there. Something was there, warding him off, telling him to go home. Telling him to go anywhere but into the recording booth. He had gotten scared, confused, and accidentally snapped at Mike and turned on his heel and left. Apologies were in order, it seemed.
"But, I mean, he had this rational explanation for it," Mick's voice went on. "He said you didn't look as if you'd been having any trouble sleeping."
"Did anyone ever tell you that you'd make the perfect Jewish mother?" Jeff muttered, taking a gulp of OJ and letting it sit on his tongue a moment before swallowing it. Mick had always been the 'mother hen' sort of figure, but this was going too far.
"And you fool everyone. You know it." Suddenly, the recorded voice had a formidable wistful - almost mournful - tone. "You know your smile can hide all the pain in the world. Everyone believes you when you tell them everything's fine, because they think, 'Jeff Buckley? He's a gem. Everything always goes his way.' But... I mean... I don't want to worry like this - I know you hate it - but... you..."
There was a long pause. Jeff closed his eyes, the confusion he had felt on his brief visit to the studio rising to the surface again. What did Mick want? Why was he so hot on Jeff's trail? Whatever he was digging for, he wouldn't find it here.
"What the hell is going on?" Mick said softly. "What's going through your head, right now, as you're listening?"
"I'm thinking, 'Did Mick miss his medication today?'"
Mick sighed. "You're probably thinking I'm a big dork. I am. Right now, I really am. But, Jeff... i don't know. I've said all that I can. I need to see you."
Then abruptly, Mick hung up.
Jeff eyed the machine for a second longer, wondering if that was really the end. After a few seconds of silence, he decided that it was. With a heavy sigh, Jeff turned and rooted in his fridge, yanked out milk and an apple and perched upon the tabletop to feast. He sipped the milk straight from the carton - his glass of juice sat forgotten by the silent answering machine - and took big, noisy bites from the apple while he ran Mick's words over and over in his head.
"You have all these crackpot theories, but you don't know anything. You make stuff up to plug the holes in your story. I mean, what do you think is going on? Do you think I'm some kind of druggie?" Jeff spoke aloud to the large, framed photograph of the other four members of his band that hung on his kitchen wall, specifically to Mick. Then he glanced down at his wrists - long, smooth, unmarred - and gave Mick's photographed resemblance a dirty look. "I'm clean, you know it. I don't need drugs. Everything I create..." He tapped his temple with the hand not holding the apple. "It comes straight from here. And here." He placed his palm over his heart. "So just take your cynical theories and shove it."
There was a brief, pregnant silence, in which Jeff thoughtfully devoured his apple.
"And another thing," he mused, rather heatedly, now speaking to the half-eaten apple in his hand. "If I had all the pain in the world, I wouldn't bother to hide it behind a smile. I'd make peace with it."
The apple was silent. Jeff pulled a face at it and cried, "I just don't know you anymore! What happened to the love we used to share?" With that, he hucked the offending fruit at the sink, where it bounced in with a resounding thunk. Jeff grinned, sour mood forgotten, and returned the milk to the fridge.
"And!" he barked, waving a finger in the air as he kicked the fridge door shut. "Who says no one else notices that there's something wrong with me? Mike and Gary and Matty could be completely aware. But you just keep digging deeper, Grondahl. It's getting you nowhere. Nowhere, except maybe China," he added impishly after a second's thought.
"Realistically, though," he continued, pacing about his small kitchen. "Let's think long-term, Jeffrey. Would Mick actually believe me if I told him that every night for the past two weeks, my muse has been going crack-whore crazy? Sure, he might. But what benefit would it get me?"
'It's my secret,' Jeff thought. He walked into the sun-drenched sitting room and sighed. 'My little quirk. My temporary insanity. Do I really want to give that away?'
"No," he muttered, in answer to his own question. But his untouched guitar still sat in the corner, and the wounds on Jeff's fingers had just begun to heal. So did this mean his temporary insanity had ended? Did this mean Jeff had nothing left to do except gather up his cronies and begin recording? (Although that might be difficult, until Jeff either got rid of or made peace with the thing that kept him away from the studio.)
"I'll be left here, like a stuck pig, waiting and wondering. You can't do this to me now!" Jeff moaned to his absent muse, sitting on the carpet across from his guitar. "You can't just up and skedaddle whenever you goddamn feel like it! You've still got to think about me!"
He regarded the guitar blankly. His eyes wandered down its satisfying curves like a starved man before a feast - "And no matter how my hands bleed, I'll always be back for more," Jeff whispered, pulling his knees to his chest and trapping them to him with his arms.
'when will i find the strength to bring me release'
He remembered the ghost touch that had drawn him from his light, murky sleep. It came back to him abruptly, and he ran his fingers over his stubbled cheek, almost in an attempt to recreate the feeling. He had an urge to... well, look for someone... the something that had caressed him so gently. But there was no one here. What the hell was he thinking? No one had cupped his face lovingly in such soft, strong hands since he was young. Since his father died.
"So real," he murmured. The touch had been so real.
With a sigh, he leaned forward and firmly took the guitar into his lap. He leaned over it, breathing the soft scent of it in for a quick, private instant before placing his hands on the neck and poising his fingers over the strings. He was ready for action.
A great white blank opened and unfurled like a harsh blanket of ice in Jeff's mind. Nothing flowed from his subconscious to his waiting fingers. A moment of devastating emptiness wracked his body and made him shudder so hard he let out a tiny distressed wail. His breath sobbed in his throat, and he rested his cheek against the cool wood of the instrument in his lap. He was dizzy. The jackhammer beat of his heart echoed in his ears.
This... this complete lack... He had never felt anything like it before. It was like death itself. Barren and hopeless. No way out.
"No... What have you done?" he hissed, shutting his eyes tightly. "What have you taken from me? Please... oh, Lord... I need it back..."
'if i had all the pain in the world, i wouldn't bother to hide it behind a smile. i'd make peace with it.'