Coldplayland

His eyes fixed on that tiny little piece of plastic on the floor. By itself it didn't mean anything; to an ordinary person it was an ordinary piece of plastic. But to him, it was everything. It was a well of hidden secrets (as if there were any other kind), that dug deep into the earth of his heart, but it was never usable. No one could get the water out.

So, he reached out to pick it up, but a hand caught his. The pick lay under his palm, but he remained motionless. The feel of the other hand on his was rough, yet smooth. Taunting, yet delightful. He didn't dare look up.

"I'm just helping," he said.

"I told you to go home."

"What's the use?" he asked, cynically.

"You need to sleep."

"I'll only sleep when you're holding me," he whispered, just softly enough to keep it contained within his region. Then the hand was gone, and he grabbed the pick off the floor. The other hand grabbed the pick from him. "Here."

"I don't need your help."

"I need you," he said.

"I'm fine on my own."

"I'm nothing without you," he whispered. "Why are we so different?"

"Please, just go home and get some rest."

"Why do you do this to me?" he asked in a near cry.

"Do what?" An odd time for ears to work. Nothing else he said had gotten through, but this was different. He actually said this.

The pick was still on the floor. He was drifting off into another world, staring at it like that. He shook his eyes from the plastic and upwards to a hat supported by some face.

"You know," he said. The hat sat down beside him, kneeling on the floor. "You know, every time you look at me, you know what you're doing."

"I'm looking at you now. I don't know what you're talking about."

He wanted to look away. He always wanted to look away. He never did. He never could. He just stared at the hat. He wanted the hat. He always wanted the hat. He never told. He never could tell. He just kept his mouth shut.

But the hat wanted his mouth. He wanted it open, always, joining them together in everlasting love. Or he wanted to know what it felt like, what it tasted like, and if it was all right to want such a thing.

A hat and a mouth, a love story untold because it didn't exist yet. When the pick fell out of the shaking hat's hands, shaking because the mouth was just too much, and the mouth reached for it, but stopped... that was the once.

The 'Once Upon A Time' in a land where all the best always happens. A hat and a mouth can have their love story, and not be afraid, because there's nothing to be afraid of.

So, he reached out to grab the hat, pulled it off the face, and ran his fingers through the hair that the hat kept from the world. Like his well, the pick that fell to the ground. It was the hat's pick, the face's hat, and that face was beautiful to him.

Forever he would sit there, holding the face in his hands, if he had the time. He had the time, all the time in the world for the face, but he had no patience. He wanted more. His mouth wanted more.

The face let him do what he wanted, because the face wanted it, too. Always wanted it, could never want anything else in the existence of life but to be with the mouth. The time was there, everlasting for their love, and it had come to tell them that.

A kiss from the mouth to another mouth. The face trembled and touched it's shaky hand to the mouth's face. Soon it was all the same, a face and a mouth and an everlasting love that time held the door open for. A longing, a desire for more slipping past the entrance, but they were already fine with what they had. They were already each other, and soul mates as it were.

A finger belonging to the mouth, a finger belonging to the face. In the pattern they laced together until there were no more fingers left. Five of each, but ten of one thus. The mouth picked up the hat and placed it over it's own face, and smiled.

"You know what I'm talking about," he said, and the face smiled back.

"I didn't think I did before."

"I wanted to tell you," he sang.

"I just wanted you."

"It would have been nice for you to tell me earlier," he laughed.

"I still want you."

"You can have me," he whispered. "You can have all of me. I'm yours."

"How does that work out? Because I'm yours."

"Then we're each other's," he replied. He brought himself closer, grazing his nose against the face's cheek, his mouth breathing love and words of an amorous variety. "Or we're one."

"Let's be one."

The mouth turned up again, gave the face its hat back so it could just rest there, smiling against the hat's shoulder. He crossed his leg over his other one and let it stay against the hat's legs. The hat brought its hand around the mouth's back and on its waist.

Such a warm place to be, with everlasting love blazing like the sun, drying up the well, but raining the sacred water down to nourish all. And the pick just layed there like a useless piece of plastic, but it grinned smugly knowing it brought them together.