Closure (bxb)

twenty-three

and i can go anywhere i want

anywhere i want, just not home

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Noah always lost his mind a little during tours, leaving pieces of his sanity trailing behind him as he travelled from city to city. 

Noah was never fully aware of himself when he was manic. Technically, he knew when he was having an episode - could feel it in the thoughts racing through his mind, the blood rushing in his veins, the itch in his muscles to just get up and do something, anything - but he only realizes the full extent of it until it's over and he's coming crashing down again. 

Being on tour was the closest thing Noah would experience to fully conscious mania. Private jets and champagne and way too much cocaine for his own good and hooking up with hot flight attendants in the bathroom. Flashing lights. Being chased by paparazzi. Screaming fans. 

Noah knows people don't usually react like this to authors. Authors are boring. Books are boring. A promiscuous, mentally ill, junkie author, on the other hand, was something else - it bordered on the level of popularity celebrities had. 

And Noah thrives under the spotlight.

His sunglasses rest low on his nose, barely doing anything to shield his dilated eyes from the flashing paparazzi at the entrance of the Four Seasons, and he pulls his leather jacket tighter around his body. With the beginning of October came the warning signs for a cold winter and after years in Europe, complaining about the dismal weather, Noah has forgotten that North American winters make UK winters seem like a warm spring day.

Noah checks into his suite, pushing his glasses onto his head to flash the receptionist a charming smile and a wink as he collects his key and walks away. His bags are already inside when he walks in, kicking his boots off and throwing his sunglasses somewhere. Immediately, he opens the wine fridge and retrieves a bottle of wine, not bothering to read the label. It's not about the quality; it just needs to get him drunk.

Noah drinks directly from the bottle as he walks around the suite, taking in the mahogany furniture and marble finishings. His fingertips brush against the keys of a grand piano in the corner of the room. There's an electric fireplace built into the wall that won't be used for another month or so. Noah peels back the large, cerulean curtains with his free hand and peers out at the view from his penthouse suite. 

I could jump, he muses noncommittally, lifting the bottle of red wine to his lips again.

Noah steps back and throws himself down on the bed, happy to be off his feet after such a long day. He feels himself sink into the mattress, feels the tension in his muscles dissipate - though that could be the wine - and his eyes flutter shut as he sighs deeply.

Noah landed in New York City seven hours ago and went straight from the airport to Carnegie Hall for a book signing event that lasted three hours and left him with a scratchy throat and a sore wrist. It started with a reading of his new book, 'Fuel the Pyre',  where Noah did nothing but cringe at every word choice and scrutinize every comma. 

He answered some questions - some from the interviewer, some from the crowd - and as he gazed into the eyes of his fans, hands folded in his lap and legs crossed, giving them his undivided attention, Noah couldn't help but wonder why anyone on Earth would ever bother buying and reading his books, let alone come to a book signing. Nonetheless, he answered his questions to the best of his ability

'Yes, Casper's mother is a labour and delivery nurse.'

'Astoria's spirit animal would definitely be an otter.'