mander3_swish (mander3_swish) wrote in qaf_giftxchnge, @ 2012-12-31 15:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2012 gift exchange |
Gift # 29 of 36
TO: yvonnereid
FROM: Lee, sungaizing85
TITLE: Weighed Down
GIFT REQUEST: PWP, B/J
NOTE: Happy Holidays! Much love, Lee
Weighed Down
By sungaizing85
Rated: NC17
Summary: B/J, PWP, post s5, one-shot
Warnings: Mature topics, language, NC17, bit of angst, ‘stream of consciousness’
Persistence might as well be your only quality. Because you have it in spades. Not sure who you got it from or when exactly. Was it the day you first drew something that had a shape, a form, an underlying meaning to you with the last pathetic stub of your orange crayon? Or was it just you?
Gray, gray, gray… Endless fucking grey. But that’s alright. It’s the people that make the City so colorful. And the sky seems even more endless and powerful above the hues of grayness beneath it that tries to, attempts to and successfully always fails to scrape the deep, the pale, the immaculate blue with its endlessly graying hubris.
You don’t look much out the windows anyways, not regularly. You spend most of your time outside. Paving the miles and miles of cement with your steady persistence. Knocking on doors. On exits. On windows. On doorframes. On office glass-doors that are left with a smudge of your knuckles and fingertips cause there’s something in you that wants to mark it for a while. You were here. You tried here. Went here. You might forget otherwise. Or you might never want to remember later on.
The scene is pretentious. To put it mildly. The southerners might say half of them are sitting on their asses and ‘buying cotton.’ It’s an experience none the less. To see the plain, vapid faces of men, women, master connoisseurs, and self-proclaimed patrons; most older than you; who like Pavlov dogs already have an answer for you, the likes of you, the young, the fresh, the hopeful, the optimistic, the idealistic until that last fucking door, and the persistent as soon as they hear the bell, the knock, the tap of your knuckles against artificial elements that protect them from the unknowns.
Not there yet. Not quite there yet.
Persistence might as well be your biggest fault.
There’s a crack in the bathroom mirror staring back at you. Looks like an upturned, thin branch in winter, all dried up and weak. A part of the glass chipped-off and a black void left in its place. It still holds together though.
The water droplets slide down your face and collect just below your jaw and you close your eyes listening to the echo of water ripping in the half-filled bathroom sink ricocheting off of the walls and back against…
The doors squeak meekly at the rusty hinges and the floorboards groan in their weariness under new intruding weight. You grab a towel, the heavy cotton clinging to your numb fingers and swipe quickly, roughly against the damp, cold skin before stepping out the narrow doorway.
“What are you doing?” You still, not sure what to do with your hands, one arm arching up and you feel your fingers, still cold and still numb, combing through hair; fingertips grazing against scarred tissue.
“Having a tour of your place.” His eyes swipe around and take in the small area and you feel relived you still remember the shade of them. He stops at the small, round kitchen table and grabs an apple, round and yellow-green; a dull yellow against the dark grey of his expensive suit jacket. “Nice kitchen. Got any Special K?”
“Practically grew up on it.”