Disclaimer: I do not own Eric Forrester or this song, although I think John McCook could pull off the song and the role of Guido. If only he could fake an Italian accent.
AN: I was listening to Guido's Song a few months back and thought to myself, "Holy crap, this is the perfect Eric Forrester song!" and this little story was born out of it.
Eric Forrester sat amongst the gorgeous models that worked for him, studying their bodies as he waited for his next bout of inspiration to come along. He growled as he felt the familiar tug at the back of his head, the tug of old age and uselessness.
Eric hadn't designed anything new in over six months. While that certainly didn't hurt his chances to impress his boss, that much he already had. Still, Eric liked to stay in the loop of the business. And this sudden dry spell wasn't helping him check off that column in his list of likes.
Crumpling up another piece of paper, he looked up at the models.
"Barbara," he called out to the oldest of the girls, their unofficial leader, his voice hoarse.
"Yes, Mr. Forrester?" Barbara asked, placing her hand on the older man's shoulder.
"Um," Eric sighed. "You and the girls can go home tonight. I don't think I've got anything in me this time around."
Barbara studied her employer, unsure of how to react.
"Come on, girls," she commanded, the models lining up behind her following her out of the room.
Eric sat alone in the studio, unsure of what to do next. His gaze moved across the room, stopping when he reached the mirror. Eric stood up and walked over to the full-length mirror, examining every frown line and wrinkle that was on his face.
His thoughts moved away from his old age as he looked out the window to see his granddaughter, Hope, and her boyfriend, Oliver Jones, leaving Forrester Creations, so obviously in love.
'Young love,' he mused.
Eric wished he could feel that way again. Sure, Donna brought another side out of him, but it was different when you're in your seventies and trying to be young than when you're in your fifties trying to be young.
"I would like to be here," he sang to himself, "I would like to be there," he turned back to mirror, "I would like to everywhere at once, I know that's a contradiction in terms."
He moved across toward the door. "And it's a problem, especially when my body's nearing eighty as my mind is nearing," Eric paused for a moment, "ten." He laughed.
Eric walked through the halls of Forrester, singing as he walked down the empty hall.
"I can hardly stay up," he stated, "and I can't get to sleep, and I don't want to wake tomorrow morning at the bottom of some heap."
He walked near his office, pushing open the door. "But why take it so seriously? After all, there's nothing at stake here-only me."
Eric entered his office, looking at the picture of himself when Forrester first opened.
"I want to be young," he sang to that picture, whipping around to his latest picture, "and I want to be old." Eric cut across the room, grabbing the picture of Donna, singing to it. "I would like to be wise before my time and yet be foolish and brash and bold."
He climbed onto his desk.
"I would like the universe to get down on its knees, and say," he proclaimed, "'Eric, whatever you please, it's okay. Even if it's impossible, we'll arrange it.' That's all that I want."
Eric took a breath, thinking about his life as it was and how it could've been.
"I am lusting for more," he said, his tongue slithering like a snake, "should I settle for less? I ask you, what's a good thing for, if not for taking it to excess?"
He sat on desk, smiling about his wants.
"One limitation I dearly regret, there's only one of me I've ever met."
The music in the air seem to pause, leaving him a little more introspective.
"I would like to have another me to travel along with myself," he sang. "I would even like to be able to sing a duet with myself."
He jumped off of the desk, stopping at another mirror.
"I would like to be here," Eric sang to his reflection.
And, much to his surprise, his reflection sang back, "Sing along with myself in a song."
"To be there," Eric countered.
"Walking down a lane now. Everywhere-" his reflection sang.
"Everywhere-" Eric asked.
"Everywhere!" his reflection asserted. "That's a contradiction in terms. I want to-"
"Here?" Eric asked, moving back as his reflection seemed to join him.
Reflection-Eric countered. "With a counter-"
"Here!" Eric exclaimed.
"Melody in the-"
"Top of the morning to you, Eric-" Reflection-Eric greeted.
"Eric-" Eric sang.
"Eric-" his reflection repeated.
"Eric!" they sang together.
"Me-" Eric shouted.
Reflection-Eric fired back. "Me-"
Eric pushed his reflection back into the mirror, shouting. "I want to be Proust or the Marquis De Sade!" he proclaimed. "I would like to be Christ, Mohammed, Buddha but not have to believe in God."
He turned away from the mirror.
"And you know I mean it with all of my heart," Eric sang, "it's the end if something important doesn't start."
Eric threw himself back at his desk.
"I want to be young," he growled, "but I have to be old," he thought about it. "What I want is a tale of sound and fury that some idiot went and told."
Eric looked out to the city below him.
"I would like the universe to get down on its knees, and say," he sang. "'Eric, whatever you please, it's okay. Even if it's ridiculous, we'll arrange it.' So arrange it!"
"Arrange it!" his reflection sang back, the voices of the past sing with him.
Eric shrugged. "That's all that I want!"
The voices sang in his ears, as he closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.