(no subject)
I feel all clingy. And miss my parents, even though they're only gone for the evening. And feel tired, emotional and depressed. And then there comes the revelation that, like all of my flist, seemingly, I am at the mercy of my hormones. Well, in the immortal words of confucius, fuck that shit. But onto happier things!
lordessrenegade and I threw about on AIM. It's Callum meeting some of the characters he plays in dreams, because it would be amazing to write, this whole montage of characters, some of them psychokillers, some of them detectives, some cylons...*happysigh* And because I was feeling totally inadequate and blocked and stuff, I sat down and wrote this snippet. It's 526 words of Callum meeting Billy Tallent, of HCL. It's post film, so unless you've seen it, don't click *g*
And when he sleeps, he dreams.
When Callum sleeps, he dreams. And when he dreams, he sees himself, other selves, selves that were stolen by the camera, captured on reels of film. Trapped, yes, trapped within but free without, there and waiting for him to allow his eyes to slide shut, for his breaths to become shallower and slower. They wait and with the relaxation of his limbs and mind, there comes a clamour of voices, each one with a story to tell.
Tonight, when Callum sleeps, he dreams of Billy. Billy with his shy boy’s smile and old man’s eyes, the studied coolness that fears stillness. Billy whom he still doesn’t quite understand, not even now. They sit on a wall. Billy passes him a cigarette, and then puts a knife, a guitar string and a gun in the space between them.
“That’s…uh, symbolic, right?” Callum asks after a while, taking a long drag of his cigarette, the burn and the calm afterwards as real here as in reality- or whatever’s out there.
“Nah, they were digging into my side sitting on the wall.”
Callum almost says that’s symbolic too, but decides not to. “What’re you doing here? I mean, apart from being in my dreams.”
Billy blows a plume of smoke in his face. “How d’you know they’re your dreams?”
Callum doesn’t, except for the evidence that- is he?
He shakes his head, imagines Hugh laughing at him, telling him to fuck that trees in the wood making no sound bullshit.
“Could be both of ours,” he says at last, kicking his heels against the stone. “You here to teach me something?”
Billy makes a ‘bzzzzzt!’ sound, and flicks the butt of the cigarette onto the grass. “I got nothing to teach that you haven’t learnt already. Can teach you to ignore stuff, to get obsessed, to be obsessed over, to walk away, get drawn in, drink, fight, fuck, swear, spit, love, hate, laugh, cry, whatever. Only thing you really need to learn from me is how to mime playing thrash guitar without looking a complete fucking dink.”
The sky’s blue, cloudless. The leaves are red, but back home it’s spring. “When is this?”
“After Joe died,” Billy answers. That could mean any time. Doesn’t Billy measure time normally any more? Callum picks up the knife, remembers the taste of the steel, the smell of it, the way his hand sweated on the handle. Billy’s hand is clammy on the back of his neck, his kiss is warm though, warm and solid. Billy’s mouth tastes of stale cigarette smoke and coffee, with this strange wild tang to it that Callum realises is blood, coppery and rich. Billy’s hand goes from the back of his neck down, pulling him in and twisting him so he’s straddling the wall, facing him. He drops the knife, hears it fall with a dull clatter then Billy’s kissing him again, he can feel Billy’s ribs under his t shirt, the calluses on Billy’s right hand. The gun digs into his thigh and he wonders fleetingly, madly, what would happen if he…
He sleeps. He dreams. They come to him.
lordessrenegade and I threw about on AIM. It's Callum meeting some of the characters he plays in dreams, because it would be amazing to write, this whole montage of characters, some of them psychokillers, some of them detectives, some cylons...*happysigh* And because I was feeling totally inadequate and blocked and stuff, I sat down and wrote this snippet. It's 526 words of Callum meeting Billy Tallent, of HCL. It's post film, so unless you've seen it, don't click *g*
And when he sleeps, he dreams.
When Callum sleeps, he dreams. And when he dreams, he sees himself, other selves, selves that were stolen by the camera, captured on reels of film. Trapped, yes, trapped within but free without, there and waiting for him to allow his eyes to slide shut, for his breaths to become shallower and slower. They wait and with the relaxation of his limbs and mind, there comes a clamour of voices, each one with a story to tell.
Tonight, when Callum sleeps, he dreams of Billy. Billy with his shy boy’s smile and old man’s eyes, the studied coolness that fears stillness. Billy whom he still doesn’t quite understand, not even now. They sit on a wall. Billy passes him a cigarette, and then puts a knife, a guitar string and a gun in the space between them.
“That’s…uh, symbolic, right?” Callum asks after a while, taking a long drag of his cigarette, the burn and the calm afterwards as real here as in reality- or whatever’s out there.
“Nah, they were digging into my side sitting on the wall.”
Callum almost says that’s symbolic too, but decides not to. “What’re you doing here? I mean, apart from being in my dreams.”
Billy blows a plume of smoke in his face. “How d’you know they’re your dreams?”
Callum doesn’t, except for the evidence that- is he?
He shakes his head, imagines Hugh laughing at him, telling him to fuck that trees in the wood making no sound bullshit.
“Could be both of ours,” he says at last, kicking his heels against the stone. “You here to teach me something?”
Billy makes a ‘bzzzzzt!’ sound, and flicks the butt of the cigarette onto the grass. “I got nothing to teach that you haven’t learnt already. Can teach you to ignore stuff, to get obsessed, to be obsessed over, to walk away, get drawn in, drink, fight, fuck, swear, spit, love, hate, laugh, cry, whatever. Only thing you really need to learn from me is how to mime playing thrash guitar without looking a complete fucking dink.”
The sky’s blue, cloudless. The leaves are red, but back home it’s spring. “When is this?”
“After Joe died,” Billy answers. That could mean any time. Doesn’t Billy measure time normally any more? Callum picks up the knife, remembers the taste of the steel, the smell of it, the way his hand sweated on the handle. Billy’s hand is clammy on the back of his neck, his kiss is warm though, warm and solid. Billy’s mouth tastes of stale cigarette smoke and coffee, with this strange wild tang to it that Callum realises is blood, coppery and rich. Billy’s hand goes from the back of his neck down, pulling him in and twisting him so he’s straddling the wall, facing him. He drops the knife, hears it fall with a dull clatter then Billy’s kissing him again, he can feel Billy’s ribs under his t shirt, the calluses on Billy’s right hand. The gun digs into his thigh and he wonders fleetingly, madly, what would happen if he…
He sleeps. He dreams. They come to him.