caught in a dream [sam]

dublin // 2 april 2003

This was late — five days — but Quinn’d make it up to him one way or the other. She saw him briefly on Sam’s actual birthday, but it was the day before a match; while the Tornadoes weren’t exactly a very challenging team, she was humble enough to know that she wasn’t peak-fun Quinn, not drinking, unable to focus on anything else. Her early night paid off; her team won (of course), her boyfriend’s team won (dumb luck), her ex-boyfriend’s team lost to The Cannons (divine intervention). So: five days late, better than never.

Four months of dating was more like two for people with busy schedules. Quinn wanted to take him out, show him (and herself) off; even though it had been only four (two) months, she knew better. It was his birthday, of course, and she should try to be considerate but no press was bad press. Still, it was his birthday. She could still show herself off in the comfort of her own home.

She supposed that some of it — making dinner at home when she wanted to go out — had to do with the feelings that were there, somewhere. And if she had them, he probably (definitely) did, too. She didn’t want to say anything first, naturally, but she was halfway into a bottle of wine before Sam had even shown up.

But there was plenty of wine and he was perfectly punctual. She let him in and pulled him close with one arm — her other hand was still preoccupied with her wine — with a kiss and a, “Happy birthday.” She stepped back and let him let himself the rest of the way in. “I’ve made cocido madrileño—“ a Spanish stew her mother liked to make— “Kind of. The family recipe adds some Guinness so it’s mainly just.. stew.” Her expanse of cooking knowledge wasn’t too vast.

She took another step back and made a full turn, the fringe on the end of her short dress twirling with her, her wine only sloshing a little, fully fishing for the compliment. “There’s beer, while we wait.” Conveniently, they still had a little while before dinner’d be ready. “Sorry I missed birthday birthday.”

@Sam Lynch

Sam wasn’t as busy as he liked to be, lately -- usually at this point, months after returning home from a tour, he and the boys had already started working on new music, but Charlie was preoccupied with his divorce and Liam preoccupied with whatever he was preoccupied with, so all Sam had to show for months at home were a few drum lines and a few bars of a chorus of a song -- the words, eventually, would be Charlie’s domain, but he imagined it would be very metaphorical and very cool, once they got around to writing it.

Anytime, now. Though he and Liam had put a fair amount of music together, back when Charlie’s preoccupation had been with his marriage, Sam couldn’t wait until they were all together again -- there was nothing like the camaraderie of the band, the ambience of the studio, the fellowship of the art. (That would also make a good song, he thought, as he was shrugging his jacket on; he paced quickly across his living room for a quill and the back of a napkin to write that down.)

He’d been running late -- barely -- and had to forgo his original plan of walking over to Quinn’s place (the weather was a little nice today, and he thought she thought he looked good tousled with wind) in favour of the cheater’s route of ducking into an alley and Apparating, which put him there just on time -- he knocked. Coat collar turned up and a cursory wine bottle tucked close to his side, Sam smiled and let her pull his face down for a kiss.

“Smells like heaven,” he said; she already had a glass of wine, so he left the bottle on a table near the door to shake off his jacket, and shut the door behind him. A stew with beer in it sounded like heaven too; Quinn did a little spin, letting her dress fan out a bit, and he whistled through his teeth and said, “You look very lovely.”

There was beer, she said; Sam got the wine bottle back from the table, offering it wordlessly to her, and said, “Sure, I’ll have a beer.” He followed her inside, laughed. “You didn’t totally miss birthday, birthday,” he said, “We just didn’t celebrate it long.” She’d had a game the next day -- and it’d been a good one, which he could readily admit because it hadn’t been against his team -- and he’d understood.

“Don’t mind having an April birthday, either,” he added, “Feels more like spring, I think.” It had rained a day or so ago, and been perfectly hideous outside, but it’d felt like spring.

Sam had always been pretty useless at cooking -- his mother had done most of it for most of his life, and since he’d moved out he’d subsisted primarily on takeout and bacon. (He could cook bacon like a pro.) Even so, he peered at her pot of Spanish stew -- he could neither remember nor pronounce its name -- and nodded approvingly, as though he knew anything about it. “Didn’t think you cooked much,” he said; they weren’t a couple, thus far, that chose often to stay in and make dinner rather than go out. He’d kind of assumed they were going to order in tonight.