Title: Material Fatigue

Title: Material Fatigue



If it's not the drink then it's the drugs, and if it's not that then it's the magic, always the magic. And the headaches in the mornings. The nose bleeds when he doesn't pay attention for even a moment. Still as professional as ever on paid jobs, but his own leisurely magic is slipping from his grip, it's not handling right. He needs a break, needs his rest. Even lawyers get weeks off every year.

If it's not the drink then it's the drugs, and if it's not that then it's the magic, always the magic. The nights are clear but the mornings hazy. He used to have a direction, a path, and he was always sure of his step. Less so now. He knows something important is missing, but isn't sure what. He needs a retreat, someplace quiet to sit with himself and think.

If it's not a night in a pub then it's home alone with a bottle of scotch. Nothing sadder than a middle-aged man drinking himself into a stupor while gazing at the wall. If it's not a quick smoke, sprawling on the carpet next to the record player, then it's a line on the mirror in the bedroom, just a pick-me-up in a moment when it rumbles straight into his brain, or even worse, a needle in the bathroom, dirty fix that makes him fall asleep with a smile and wake up with bile in his mouth and an understanding that this, this can no longer go on.

The magic pays, for all the drink and drugs, for this apartment in this really rather posh building, but when has magic turned into nothing but work, nothing but a chore to do and be done with; when has the magic gone out of it, since when has he been disgusted with himself. He thinks about a cave in the country, a small place he's familiar with, used to be nothing but the chirps of birds and the brook nearby, and now there are miles and miles of buildings covering the land. He needs someplace with a sacred well, someplace to sit alone, touch the grass, look up at the sky and remember the magic. Always the magic.

Title: Bright Eyed

Title: Bright Eyed


BREATHING is also ADDICTIVE, says the sign in the window, and Ethan smiles. Nothing wrong with a bit of fun if you're on top of it, nothing wrong with a clean, harmless high, no side effects, no hangover. He barely drinks anymore, only socially, and hasn't touched a drug since - since that horrible hair period somewhere in the early 1980s. All he takes in now is his magic, and this wonderful, shining world around him.

Everything is addictive, if you look at it a certain way, but magic is the one thing that he can create by himself, do for himself, enjoy, even make money off - and not suffer in return, not a single drawback. A bit like masturbation, but he hasn't done that for money in quite a long time, either. He grins to himself, shakes his head and walks away.

Next shop says SALE in huge letters, bright red and yellow, offering mass-produced clothes for half the price, and still ten times more than their worth, and sixty times more than whatever poor soul in Asia who made them earned in a month. Shop's full of young people, bright eyed and excited to waste their money. Ethan needs a tie, but decides to postpone buying it until tomorrow. There will be ties tomorrow. He bestows a quick look on the poster of a model, showing the clothes on her skinny, air-brushed body, smiling vacantly. Selling an illusion, just like him, but his works. Hers just tells all the shoppers that if they only buy this, and that, fix this, have a surgery on that, they too will be happy, be high. Ethan twists his fingers just so, and the squeals from the shop are so loud they can be heard all across the street. Everyone inside now looks like a model; it will go away once they step through the large glass doors. Only the mirrors in this shop will allow them to appear this way. He wonders idly how many will starve to death in the stylish room, refusing to leave.

So yes, maybe he can't stop. Maybe he takes his pleasures too far, too high. And he's left this harm none pledge behind long ago, but still, the magic is as pure as ever. Beautiful as ever. The street grows cold as the sun sets, and Ethan tightens his coat around his frame, waiting for night to fall. Time for magic.

Title: All Souls

Title: All Souls
Character: Ethan
Time: off canon
Summary: Ethan drinks for the dead

*

It is All Hallows Eve, and Ethan sits and drinks, toasting the memories as they come, one by one.

Today of all days, the veil is thin, which is a good reason to do nothing but sit on his arse, like most creatures of the night plan to do. He has no particular wish to encounter long lost loved ones, or less loved ones. Those who are gone, should stay gone.

Still he drinks in their honour; the little girl in the orange dress who stood by the side of the road on a darkening evening; the pale-faced teen, lips almost colourless, with the dark circles around his eyes; the old man who died silently in his bed, pain turning to relief as death took him over. Ethan toasts and drinks only a sip to each, but the night progresses with no end in sight, and he's getting a bit tipsy.

To Randall; to Randall, who knew what he was getting into, who was a grown man like the rest of them - young, but fully aware, and not a novice. To Randall, who paid the price they all wagered.

To Linda, who messed with what she shouldn't have, sought the wild pleasures and disappeared. To Helen, who wasted away in an illness, and was so chalky towards the end he couldn't bear to see her hand in his. To John, who wasn't careful enough in an age when the party's already ended. To Lyman, who was simply too young for it.

To all of them, all the ones he knew.

May their souls rest in peace.

He hopes his will, tonight.

[end]

Title: Be Careful What You Wish For

Title: Be Careful What You Wish For
Character: Ethan
Time: pre S2
Summary: Ethan drinks and thinks

*

It is All Hallows Eve, and Ethan sits and drinks, toasting the memories as they come, one by one.

Today of all days, the veil is thin, which is a good reason to do nothing but sit on his arse, like most creatures of the night plan to do. He has no particular wish to encounter long lost loved ones, or less loved ones. Those who are gone, should stay gone.

Still he drinks in their honour; the little girl in the orange dress who stood by the side of the road on a darkening evening; the pale-faced teen, lips almost colourless, with the dark circles around his eyes; the old man who died silently in his bed, pain turning to relief as death took him over. Ethan toasts and drinks only a sip to each, but the night progresses with no end in sight, and he's getting a bit tipsy.

To Randall; to Randall, who knew what he was getting into, who was a grown man like the rest of them - young, but fully aware, and not a novice. To Randall, who paid the price they all wagered.

Personal responsibility was a dying concept, he thinks bitterly. Everyone expects someone else to pay for them, their mum and dad, the government, some Higher Being who could care less. They all play without a worry, never bothering to clean up after themselves, so sure the world will catch them when they fall. Playing with ghouls and ghosts on Halloween, turning a blind eye to the real monsters.

He gets an idea. It'll take a while to perform, and it's too late an hour now. Too late a date. He puts the bottle down. Next year, perhaps. Next year, he will shine alone in the empty black skies of the Halloween night, and the cheerful things who parade in the streets with no care in the world will tremble as their safe little nest turns into a lion's den.


[end]