âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Jeff Buckley (III) •

Currently working on a part two to my previous Jim Morrison story - should be out in the next couple of days, but it's super long. I got inspired to write this last night, which is definitely not super long. Dedicating this to FruitSnack09, who commented about more Jeff Buckley chapters a few days ago, and got me thinking about this almost instantly. I don't think Jeff gets enough love at all. Enjoy!

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Central Park is alive with spring, the season's epicentre in the urban paradise of New York. You can't deny how much you love the twists and turns of your city's streets, but there's no hiding your adoration for the weak sun falling on your face through the flowering branches from where you lie near Cherry Hill.

Somewhere in the park, a gardener's hard at work, cutting through grass and weeds, the low, mechanic rumble a constant reminder of ongoing life. You thank God he hasn't made it to your corner of the universe yet.

A deep inhale. The heavy smell of freshly cut grass, of lawn mower oil, of flowers, of summer falling on a city unsuspecting. And Jeff. Wherever you go, the smell of Jeff lingers. In your apartment's living room, in your bed, on your clothes, in your car.

Now, it engulfs you. You're spread out on the blanket Jeff brought, head cushioned on his lap by your jacket. He's sat up against the tree trunk, legs stretched out long, happily picking daisies from the lush grass.

He's spent most of the afternoon hunched over beside you, switching between scrabbling at his notebook and plucking at his guitar. He didn't even stop when you brought out the food; instead, he'd encouraged you to feed him as he'd continued to play. Although both of your giggling had made this more of a hindrance than a help to his creative process, it seems to have inspired him to put the guitar down for a while.

His Gibson L-1 acoustic now lies in its open case beside his legs, glistening in the afternoon sun. However, his hands are occupied in your hair, letting it fall through his fingers like a waterfall, gently untangling knots as he comes across them. Through your sunglasses, you can see the curve of his cheek and the edge of his jawline as he looks out over the Lake. His eyes, alight with life, watch passers-by (both on land and water) with keen interest, leaning into their conversations and body language. The writer in him can never switch off.

With his rough hands stroking at your temple, the sun hitting your skin in warm waves, the faraway lullaby of children at play and cars stuck in traffic, you find yourself drowsing. The city's endless rhythm presses on easily without you.

You're dimly aware of Jeff pressing a kiss to your forehead, hand stilling to cup the top of your head. Then, something slides in between the strands of your hair, small and thin, like a clip. You feel Jeff's fingers maneuvering it into place. However, when they release it, the thing tumbles down the back of your head.

He tries once more, in a different spot.

After a few attempts, you can't help but ask, in a voice as drowsy as your consciousness, "What are you doing, love?"

"Shoot, did I wake you up?" His hands stutter in your hair. "I'm trying to put these flowers in your hair, I thought you'd like it when you woke up."

"I wasn't asleep," you murmur, a lazy smile spreading across your face. "But thank you, that's very sweet."

Jeff huffs. "The damn things won't stay in."

You feel him gently twist a lock around what you assume to be a daisy stem. Instantly, your hair uncurls, and his bumbling fingers lurch to catch the falling flower.