[Dissociatives Drabble]
[Ha, just when you thought I couldn’t get any more obscure: dissociatives, or more specifically, Daniel Johns/Paul Mac. R rated.]
“S’crazy how things work out.” Daniel says, in his soft voice, the one that makes him sound like he just took in a large amount of weed, the one that’s like silk through your ears and makes your knees go weak.
“What do ya mean?” You ask casually, running a finger along the arm of the couch. You’re opposite him, and somehow he got the mock-leather armchair and sort of disappeared into the burgundy, while you got to sit on the old and falling apart off-brown, more like orange, couch. Just pinching some of the woven fabric makes threads come away between your fingers.
“Just this. Us. Everything.” Daniel shrugs, gesturing around the room. It’s dark and dingy, there’s a keyboard and a synthesiser to the right of you, somewhere, and everything melts into the shadows.
“I guess.” You mumble in reply, nodding. You’re not quite sure what he means by crazy, but Daniel tends to call a lot of things crazy, like he’s stuck in a timeline or a world where it’s their only adjective. Stuck in his own world, that’s definitely Daniel.
“I mean…” He continues, shifting in his chair so that he’s perched on the end of it, elbows resting on his knees, arms gesturing. “One minute we were just messing around, with remixes and shit, and the next I’m having an idea, and strumming the guitar, and you’re throwing shit in there, and we’ve got a whole new band.”
You itch to tell him it wasn’t so much messing around with remixes as it was fooling around while attempting remixes, but the little smirk he has on his face when you meet his eyes tells you he’s remembering that just as vividly as you are.
He gets up and the creases in his jeans slip and slide from his crotch to his knees and round to his backside. He walks over to you in a fluid movement, so that before you can say anything, he’s straddling your lap and placing a (manicured?) finger to your lips. His presses his forehead to yours and smiles, his eyes glittering with mischief.
“It’s not really that crazy at all.” He tells you, and his warm breath smells like coffee and cinnamon. A complete coffee addict. “Because,” he continues, “if it were crazy then it wouldn’t make any sense.” He kisses you, and his palm finds its way to your lap.
“And this makes perfect sense.”
“S’crazy how things work out.” Daniel says, in his soft voice, the one that makes him sound like he just took in a large amount of weed, the one that’s like silk through your ears and makes your knees go weak.
“What do ya mean?” You ask casually, running a finger along the arm of the couch. You’re opposite him, and somehow he got the mock-leather armchair and sort of disappeared into the burgundy, while you got to sit on the old and falling apart off-brown, more like orange, couch. Just pinching some of the woven fabric makes threads come away between your fingers.
“Just this. Us. Everything.” Daniel shrugs, gesturing around the room. It’s dark and dingy, there’s a keyboard and a synthesiser to the right of you, somewhere, and everything melts into the shadows.
“I guess.” You mumble in reply, nodding. You’re not quite sure what he means by crazy, but Daniel tends to call a lot of things crazy, like he’s stuck in a timeline or a world where it’s their only adjective. Stuck in his own world, that’s definitely Daniel.
“I mean…” He continues, shifting in his chair so that he’s perched on the end of it, elbows resting on his knees, arms gesturing. “One minute we were just messing around, with remixes and shit, and the next I’m having an idea, and strumming the guitar, and you’re throwing shit in there, and we’ve got a whole new band.”
You itch to tell him it wasn’t so much messing around with remixes as it was fooling around while attempting remixes, but the little smirk he has on his face when you meet his eyes tells you he’s remembering that just as vividly as you are.
He gets up and the creases in his jeans slip and slide from his crotch to his knees and round to his backside. He walks over to you in a fluid movement, so that before you can say anything, he’s straddling your lap and placing a (manicured?) finger to your lips. His presses his forehead to yours and smiles, his eyes glittering with mischief.
“It’s not really that crazy at all.” He tells you, and his warm breath smells like coffee and cinnamon. A complete coffee addict. “Because,” he continues, “if it were crazy then it wouldn’t make any sense.” He kisses you, and his palm finds its way to your lap.
“And this makes perfect sense.”