Music and Movement

[Morgan LaLuna]

Early in the day, before the holiday started in earnest, Morgan was arranging the last of a few tiny plastic reindeer he'd found sitting next to the lost and found box in moving through... He couldn't help pick them up. They called to him! Arranging, of course, meaning he was fiddling uselessly with them. He leaned heavily on the counter, and blew a breath out before plucking his phone from his pocket, and sending a text to a name that hadn't found a way into his recent contacts in months. A small smile touched his lips as he shot off a text. He put the phone on the counter, and turned to get water in the kettle for later. Just as he was finished setting it on the heat, the acrobat's phone chirped. Hands roughened by rope and leather, no longer accustomed so much to the soft silks of before, were dried vaguely on a hanging dishtowel. He turned the device into his hand casually, glancing at the screen. There was a pleasant surprise that came from the almost bored curiosity, and he swiped up the screen to hit dial.

"You don't miss me at all?"

"Mhm. Happy whatever to you, too..."

"Yeah we should totally meet up for lunch, and..."

"Right. No, I get it. Yep. Mhm. Flake. The biggest."

The acrobat scrubbed his face with his palm, and grinned into it.

"Whatever. I have some stuff floating around in my head--"

"Wow. Fuck you."

"Alright. I'll text?"

Morgan hung up, and grinned at the backlit screen before rolling his eyes and swiping to his music, hitting that play button. And for some time, he lost himself to the movement of sound, moving through the cottage like seagrass caught up in the tide.

[Morgan LaLuna]

A gentle rock, the creaking of wood as it fought to keep shape against the water that buffeted it, the ever-present taste of salt in the air— The captain was content to sit at his desk in his cabin, poring through a ledger and ticking through lists written on parchment to the side. It had become something of a game, figuring out true route vs. what was written. There was always a thread of truth to the stops, the routes, the planning. And nobody could have taught him this better than Drotar. Bosun. Morgan still called him Bosun. A former merchant sailor himself, he could pluck those threads, and had taught Morgan to recognize them.


Just as deconstructed the tapestry before him bit by bit, his phone chirped, and he paused, seemingly brought to by the odd digital noise. Mumbling something about service, he pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and tipped it up to his ear to talk, tucking it between face and shoulder as he tapped his pen on the desk.


"You got it? Good."


"I have a few days I've taken to work on this."


"Who else?"


A frown. "I had planned it out with us in mind, actually. I won't be mad if you don't want to, but—" he paused, and was silent for some time as the voice on the other end spoke. After whatever was said needed to be said, a slow smile touched his lips.


"Good. Be ready. We have new sheets to get all tangled up in." He gave a rifle-crack bark of laughter, then hung up, slipping his phone back into his pocket. After a stretch of silence, staring at the papers and ledgers, Morgan got up rather abruptly and moved to the chest at the foot of his bed. Immediately, he threw the lid open and began to rummage through fabric and the glitter of jewels, most things getting pushed to the sides as he went deeper.


He was looking for something he hadn't touched in some time, it seems.