| day 8: this is why I don't do fandom anymore. |
[08 Feb 2017|12:38pm] |
Things had been relatively quiet in and around the city. Almost peaceful, even. Difficult, almost inconceivable to think he could ever have a semblance of a life like this back - just Will and his legion of stray dogs, and restful nights listening to the haunting siren singing between the sound of the waves - and yet here he was.
There was solace to be found in his isolation, but there was only so much self-imposed isolating he could do. The hustle-bustle amidst the urban jungle called out to him when errands had to be run. Undeterred by the winter chill the army of metropolitan soldiers trudged on all around him. Bleak steel and glass, constant white noise, acrid smog, greyscale concrete - every vehicle that rolled past and the crowd of strangers surging around him overloaded the senses and drowned out the smell of rain on the road.
In the afternoon he retreated into the library, and there was colour in his world again. Paintings on the wall in their faded gold-tinted frames, rows upon rows of book spines in green and brown and red, smiles and tears on paperbacks mounted on steel shelves. Basking in the soft light, Will pulled his lukewarm hand out of his pocket and his palm ghosted over the banister, leaving a trail of ephemeral warmth up the handrail as he ventured into the second floor.
He wove in and out of the aisles, aimlessly ascending and descending his way through the dewey decimal numbers until his fingertips snagged on something that caught his eyes' attention. As soon as he plucked four books from the shelves, Will was an unintrusive presence occupying one of the corner tables, hiding behind his hedge of prose, looking rather than reading through pages that threatened to be too interesting. There was very little that he could invest into without his imagination taking over, and he would rather quietly pine his losses and disentangle his mind from slipping between the lines than spin absurdist fantasies out of fiction.
Resting his heavy head on his folded arms, the relentless assault of rainwater on the windows cast long shadows of droplets over the centrefold of the open book laying in front of him, and trickled slowly into the nascent roots of his dream.
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| day 5: John & Caitlin. |
[05 Feb 2017|08:55pm] |
"Tell me a bit about her."
She idly traces circles around his nipple before reaching up to brush the back of her hand against the stubble growing along his jaw, blissfully unaware of how many times they've had this conversation before. The way she looks up at him with eyes that adore him catches him offguard sometimes. Does she fall in love with him over and over again every weekend? Did it matter what he did, what he said, or what happened to her earlier in the week? Was this all predestined, or just a looping program trying to con him into feeling like everything would be fine?
"I don't want to talk about her."
This week she doesn't pout or ask 'why not' or do anything to help him get what he needed to get off his chest. This week she meets his cynicism and raises the bet by not playing grief counsellor. There is concern in her glossy eyes before she looks away and shuffles in closer, resting her head on his chest. Her delicate hand dips down below the blanket and she rakes her fingernails across an invisible line where his briefs had sat before she eased them off last night and giggled against his lips.
"Let's not talk, then."
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| Day 3 |
[03 Feb 2017|12:15am] |
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"The dead can't appreciate them anyway," was the wrong thing to say to a woman when she asked about the flowers. She seemed angry even though she might have laughed on the inside. It was the only reason she showed up empty-handed at his funeral after he had the audacity to get himself killed and leave her behind, with only the pain of Grief and Loneliness to keep her company.
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| Christmas Drabble |
[25 Dec 2016|10:24pm] |
He cleaned up nicely enough when she beckoned him to follow, be it to a black tie social event he had no interest in or a night at the opera during which he would invariably spend most of the second act picking lint and fluff off his socks until she slapped him on the thigh. For though wherever she went he was never too far behind, the nearly-inseparable twins didn't end up sharing many things in common. She was headstrong, ambitious, intelligent - vicious, vindictive, cruel. She wanted the world to dance to the tune she composed and all her pawns twirling inside her lacquered music box.
He, on the other hand, was a simple man. Nothing like his father - much to the old man's chagrin. Sometimes he took the family fortune for granted, island hopping through the vacation homes, but sometimes he'd be unreachable for weeks, off on some climbing expedition or getting lost pitching tents in the forest with a rifle for company. You'd be just as likely to catch sight of him sampling a local beer at the pub down the road as you might at a palace's garden party. But the only thing the adventurous, unruly, stubborn boy wanted was her - even if she was only interested in using him.
And even though he didn't seem to be doing much by way of helping her, she did love him. And if she could only get the world because he'd burned everything that stood in her path in order to get her back into his arms - or his heart, his life, his bed - well, she didn't mind that either.
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| Day 29 of 29. Kakashi. |
[29 Feb 2016|11:57pm] |
Even after all these years he doesn't feel lonely having these one-sided conversations with the muted gravestones. Sometimes there were many things he felt he needed to update the ghosts that he had created. So many things had happened since they were gone (since he killed them). Sometimes he just wanted to sit in silence with their company. For while he might be making peace with Rin's suicide, impaling herself against the cacophony of his birdsong blade which was the bravest thing she could have done (the bravest thing he didn't have the strength or resolve to do) even though they were young and scared and trying to make sense of their chaotic world of senseless violence, he couldn't help but wonder if she blamed him. He knew Obito would have. Breaking a promise was despicable, but killing a dead man's lover - surely that was unforgiveable.
If ghosts could talk he would have liked to hear what either of them would have to say about this future that he was seeing with Obito's eye. This version of events. The world and the path they had to carve within it from the moment they were born was an indiscriminately cruel (did that still make it cruel though?) and dangerous place. He didn't think he would have made it this far. Perhaps that was why he did - perhaps it was his burden to bear.
The sun sets to a chorus of cicadas and crickets, and the long shadows cast by the tombstones bid him goodbye. One day he won't need to spend as much time here as he does. But for now, the shadows make for comforting company.
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| Day 28 of 29. Edward. |
[28 Feb 2016|11:22pm] |
He sees the silhouette of his brother standing under a tree, smoking the last cigarette of a carelessly discarded packet, rays of sunlight cutting through the leaves. Standing mostly in the shade and yet that was the one place he could not reach.
He tries to call him and entertains fleetingly a moment of false hope when the free hand digs deep into a pocket and pulls out a phone. But that hope is dashed when dispassionate eyes looked at the name on the screen and chose to end the call.
Edward finishes his cigarette and puts what's left of it out against the tree trunk. He blows smoke out, licks his lips and looks into the distance as if he's deep in thought about something.
Why did he come all the way here to the street outside his brother's house if he wasn't even going to knock?
The man who's always running can't stay for long. He looks over his shoulder for a moment before he walks casually over to the nearest car. He lowers his head and for all intents and purposes it looked as if he was sticking a key into the door to get in. But Henry knows better.
The car starts up once Edward breaks inside, and then it's gone, and Henry finds himself staring at the vacant lot where the car used to be. Was this the closest they could ever be?
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| Day 27 of 29. Eddard. |
[27 Feb 2016|07:34pm] |
When news of the accident first broke, the media descended upon his estate like a swarm of locusts, driving out of London for miles and miles in droves until they were practically setting up a camping site on his front lawn waiting for a statement.
And though the young heir had cooped himself up in his family home, the cameramen and reporters were persistent. They didn't have enough respect for him to give him the space and time he needed - and had it been anyone else, he or she might have gotten law enforcement involved or pressed charges for trespassing. But the journalists continued on without impunity and it wasn't until someone smashed a timeless stained glass window to try and break in that Bobby decided to step in and chase them away like swatting hungry flies off a rotting carapace.
He slipped into the fortress unannounced and sat down next to his heartbroken friend. There was really nothing he could say to comfort someone who's just lost nearly all his family. A young man so uncomfortable with titles and his legacy - and yet always willingly submitting himself to the whims of traditions and formalities. In Ned it was far more apparent that their childhood memories had more Heidegger and Elizabethan trousers than sandcastles and crayons.
Eventually he starts talking, and Bobby listens. And while Ned puts on a brave face, ventures out the front door and says something to all the wankers shoving cameras and microphones into his face, Bobby packs Ned's bags. And Bobby also buys the plane ticket to America. And Bobby finally drives him to the airport.
He wanted to say thank you, but Bobby pulls him in for a hug, wishes him all the best, and drives away.
And the emptiness settles in.
|
| Day 26 of 29. Matthew. |
[26 Feb 2016|05:50pm] |
The first time it happened, it was bloody terrifying. He had absolutely no control over his actions and it was perhaps sheer luck that Eric hadn't been ripped to shreds. There had just been a single-minded drive of self-preservation and once he had locked on to a target, he didn't let go until the warmth seeped away from Eric's body.
They didn't talk for days after that. On some level Eric was wary of his friend - Matthew had worn his man-suit so well that he'd become complacent about the fellow doctor's self-annihilating tendencies - and while Matthew didn't remember any of it, it didn't stop him from feeling ashamed and guilty about assaulting a colleague.
There had been a bit of a clean up involved afterwards but even their Overseer closed one eye to the incident and just said something about taking better care of himself before he inadvertently found himself shredding a patient to pieces.
And then they were out for drinks one night, and Matthew was on the verge of apologising (but didn't), and Eric was on the verge of talking about what had happened (but didn't), and when the night was done it was as if nothing had happened between them.
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| Day 25 of 29. Doctor. |
[25 Feb 2016|10:55pm] |
"Come with me."
Sometimes it's a command, and there's no room for argument. When it's a matter of life and death, the temporary madness that periodically takes hold of him falls away, and he knows exactly what to do and how to get as many people out of the hairy situation he always finds himself getting stuck in.
Sometimes it's a suggestion. And it either leads to something fun or something dangerous - or fun and dangerous. No reason why those two ideas have to be mutually exclusive.
But sometimes it's a question. And he asks it with no small amount of uncertainty in his voice and in his eyes. Because he needs someone, but he knows it's a big ask, and he knows it must be difficult going back to living life the slow way around, and he will always outlive and outstay them.
The inevitable end doesn't stop him from asking though. And the excitement never wanes with every new friend he makes even though he knows their time together never lasts long enough to bring him too much happiness.
|
| Day 24 of 29. Andrew. |
[24 Feb 2016|09:27pm] |
The first time he meets the husband in the flesh, he fortunately or unfortunately can't shake the actor's hand because he's holding his crutches close against his sides. Andrew's mobility issue becomes an armour that he can settle comfortably into and shield himself from all the formalities of the evening.
It was a very strange sort of evening anyway, where there were more covert security personnel keeping an eye on the dreamwalker than the celebrity, and the suits with the communications devices tucked neatly behind their ears probably wouldn't have been very happy if the non-Cartel guest got much closer than he did.
As Adrian and Aislin twirl on the ballroom floor, Andrew is sitting alone on the edge of the fountain with his back to the crowd. He isn't jealous, or angry, or bitter. The only frustration he experienced throughout the evening was directly correlated with how heavy his reliance was on the walking aids. Still, that doesn't stop him from being a bit cold and lonely. Funnily enough, it hadn't been a problem when he was just a disembodied voice to them. Now he was a different kind of liability, packed into this clumsy physical body, getting in everyone's way.
"Came here to escape the crowd?" asked Max's familiar voice from behind him. Andrew looked over his shoulder and gave the other Falcon a small smile.
"Actually I was hoping to escape myself," he said softly as he turned back to stare at black blades of grass, the sound of running water drowning out the party noise.
"Come on then. You're in the wrong place for that. Let me show you the way."
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| Day 23 of 29. Romeo. |
[23 Feb 2016|05:08pm] |
The topic of other clients, which... came up a lot, was always one that he found awkward to navigate. So many nightly companions wanted to be The One - whatever that meant - and while he'd always been adept at maintaining that illusion just for that night, he always found it a little bit strange to devote even a small portion of their allotted time together talking about other people that they didn't know and were possibly jealous of.
In the end, most of them were all the same. Lonely and uncertain and slightly desperate. Of course, there was the odd client who just wanted to have the space and freedom to systematically dismantle, disassemble and disembowel him, but the others all craved the warmth of a live body and the touch of a familiar hand.
"No one else matters," he promised in a whisper. He was such a good dog, conditioned to serve and please, that it never seemed like anything more than second nature to him.
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| Day 22 of 29. Tristan. |
[22 Feb 2016|06:01pm] |
All their arguments always come back to the same point. It doesn't stop them from arguing, of course, but they don't argue to prove that they're right anymore. It's almost as if they argue because that's the only way they can relate with each other. It's not a proper conversation until voices are raised and feelings are broken (but men - and in particular men who are typically addressed by their titles rather than their names - aren't supposed to take it personally and their venomous attacks are meant to bounce off their armours).
It doesn't matter what she says, or does, because she will always be the woman who replaced his dead mother. It doesn't matter what he says, or does, because he will always be the husband who failed his murdered wife, the father who failed his abandoned children, the king who failed his wretched country. And it doesn't matter what they say, or do, because sharing a last name and sharing few responsibilities and even sharing one gene pool can't bring the half-siblings closer.
He used to be angry and bitter and resentful. It wasn't the drugs or the alcohol that changed that. Just time. You had to give a damn to still be angry, bitter or resentful, but enough time had passed that the feeling was no longer there.
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| Day 21 of 29. Dmitri. |
[21 Feb 2016|01:17pm] |
Crazy... I'm crazy for feeling so lonely...
He couldn't see the small smile on her lips as she stepped and swayed in time with him to the slow rhythm of the old song. It had taken a while for them to get comfortable with being close when what felt like half the workplace was in the vicinity, and they needed to be a bit bulletproof at the office to put up with the teasing, but they'd both wished that it hadn't taken as much time as it had to get to this stage. All those awkward pre-dinner date conversations they could have avoided had he just said something - though to be fair she... could have said something too.
"You alright?" he asked softly. She shifted and pulled back from resting against the comfort of his suit to find him smiling but looking slightly uncertain. The man at the top of the world didn't always allow himself to showcase his uncertainty. But even Petrovskys were still human.
"Yes," she assured, pressing her lips to his to try and kiss his worries away. There was little to not feel alright about - the food was amazing, the singer and band were divine, he'd been honest to the point of being humorous throughout the evening, and it was a rare occasion where she felt like herself instead of just a doll in a pretty dress.
...and I'm crazy for loving you.
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| Day 20 of 29. Salvatore. |
[20 Feb 2016|11:40pm] |
The two priests claiming to be wandering missionaries looked more like they stumbled out of a gay cruise and into the wrong kind of Irish pub, but after the initial suspicions and wary looks cast by the peanut gallery they left the travellers alone. Settling down at one of many vacant tables at the corner of the pub, though they didn't exchange many words, Salvatore eyed Tres over the glass of his sugary-sweet drink when the other man wasn't looking.
He'd always thought of Tres as a man. Yes, he knew that underneath that faux flesh was a machine that made calculations before any moves, ran algorithms for every decision to be made. But Tres was a tall, handsome sort of man with brown hair and brown eyes who just happened to make funny faces and ask funny questions about the world, about life, about religion and all the rest of it.
But you don't have to breathe to make a life for yourself, and you don't have to have a beating heart in order to- well, have a heart.
"What are you looking at?"
Salvatore looked surprised when Tres caught him staring. And then he blinked and smiled and made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a dreamy sigh.
"...you are making me uncomfortable. Let's go."
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| Day 19 of 29. Vasiliy. |
[19 Feb 2016|10:02pm] |
He'd always insisted on leaving afterwards - insisted without insisting; not verbally anyway. Even from when they had first met in Vladivostok, he'd showed up when he was needed and left after he wasn't. She'd always assumed that he had a compulsion to always be on the move. To never stick around. Driven by the work he did, he was in a place at a given time because there was a purpose to him being there. And when that purpose expired he was gone. That was how he'd always been.
But when she finds him with his face half-buried in his pillow muttering pleas and bargains with ghosts, she realises how foolish she's always been. She doesn't think to wake him, knowing that he couldn't discern nightmare from reality and he'd never forgive himself if he attacked her in his state of panic, but she doesn't know how to calm him down either.
So she sits on the edge of his bed, feeling defeated, watching over him as he visibly calms down at the end of a few short hours of restless and painful sleep. His fingers curl into fists in the damp sheets as he stirs, as if he knows he has to restrain himself until his grip on reality fully takes hold. She's waiting for him in the lounge when he emerges from the bedroom, looking slightly disoriented and surprised, but not unhappy to see her.
She apologises for letting herself in a mere few minutes ago and she... was hoping he had some time to spend with her today. Her politician's smile is so genuine that he takes her at face value.
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