5-
He loomed over his acoustic guitar like any young man his age would have; holding it up to his gut and heart while strumming the hell out it with stinging fingertips. The instrument was as if. . .as if, in some ways, like a father. Or sometimes it'd be a bad dream or horrible taste in the mouth. A bruised, swollen arm or a dull headache. Whatever it was, it meant something to Seth Wallace. Deep down. It meant everything or nothing, but like a forgotten lover it wasn't easy to let go. It wasn't easy, you know, to have the urge to carress rough fingertips over his guitar in silence or press the body of it against his chest tightly. It wasn't easy for him to remember why he loved the damn thing so much and why it meant something to him when it never possessed the quality of loving him in return. It never got him anywhere in the days of his youth when he craved to be much more.
Seth remembered the day he first had it; the day he bought it with his own money scraped together right before college like a stupid kid would. The acoustic rosewood first, of course. Old Blue, that campy electric guitar of his that he treated no better or worse than a best friend, came up later in his life. The rosewood was always his favorite because it was his first like a first kiss or a first perfect summer. Got it at some instrument shop down the road; pass the old cemetary and industrial buildings in his hometown where the gray skies hang high and the sun burned a hole. He even taught himself to play and all of that. Never considered himself "really any good" but Seth managed in a week to get a hold of the right strings when he plucked his fingertips over them and how to cradle the guitar correctly.
Voices.
He knew who they belonged to seeing as he recognized them day in and day out; through and through. Never bugged him before. Hell, he even enjoyed hearing -his- voice. It made him smile softly and pull up his knees closer just by the sound alone. As soon as his friend passed by the hallway and saw Seth wearing nothing else but his black t-shirt and raggy-scarred jeans, the boy gave Hudson a guilty grin.
As always and as soon as he left, that flame in Seth's stomach would burn out and a realization would strike when the flush of his cheeks died quickly. Wallace knew better than to have a fixation on a simple object or person he couldn't touch or breathe with a cherished glance. Even if Mr. Bran always had that 'magic talent' of making him feel like he belonged or made him laugh, Seth knew the story on him. It was simple as one-two-three. Surprise! He's not interesting in anything! Especially not you, Sethy.
This man. . .this Hudson Bran, this. . .friend. God, in a way he really did care for him, deep down. In ways where it would be considered sinful by others. But, Seth understood that looking through those copper-colored eyes at times never meant that they would try to find those dull blue ones. The old dull blues that hid behind a room as they perched in the head of a young man who sat alone in his room on the bed with his first love in his hands.