half rest
“I’m afraid the finer points of opera are beyond me,” Jon admits when he sets Elias’s coffee on the side table and settles on the edge of the bed. A weekend. It’s been raining since early, and the morning is stretching luxuriously long. Elias had insisted Jon actually rest, for once, and enforced it last night by wearing him out so thoroughly that Jon didn’t even dream. He’d woken up to pleasant ache and then, after hours of the static soundtrack of rain, braved the kitchen for coffee and pressed play on the stereo on a whim. The light strains of an aria had filtered through the speakers, a high, sweet soprano.
“It sounds pretty, but it doesn’t go anywhere.”
Elias hums. “‘Going anywhere’ isn’t really the point with opera,” he says indulgently.
“What is, then? Educate me.”
A rainy, lazy, morning and an impromptu voice lesson.