Who? Hemingway & Abi Where? Abi's apartment When? Sunday night, late, after the CB singing. What? Sex, and deep chats about life. Rating? High Open? Hell no.
Of course he had never intended for the first song to be broadcast, never mind everything that had followed. From sheer pain, to sickening love, to sheer filth- every time he'd tried to just speak, another song had come pouring out of him. Thank God, in a way, that the island was doing the same thing to her. It was much less humiliating that way than it could have been.
But he couldn't take it any more. He needed to stop singing, he needed to see her, to talk to her normally, to- well, fuck, all that singing about sex he obviously wanted more than just to talk to her, but it wasn't necessary. The talking was.
It was late, but he knew she was awake from all the singing. He was a little messy, his shirt mostly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, ink-stained fingers that had left a little smudge of black on his right temple. He'd slipped on some shoes, and quietly made his way down the stairs, flattening his disheveled hair with his hands as he went, trying his best not to sing again.
It was late, and he didn't want to wake Charlie- although with all their singing, maybe he had done that already- so he only gave the door a gentle tapping to try for her attention. And he willed himself not to sing.