New Slings and Arrows fic
God, this idea sort of grabbed me by the throat half an hour ago. Weird when that happens, and fun to follow through to its conclusion. Right. Here it is.
Title: Styx
Fandom: Slings and Arrows, post season three
Rating: g (although kind of creepy)
Word Count: 400 words
Characters: Oliver, Darren. Geoffrey's too happy to be haunted. Darren takes his place.
Three days now. He looks over at the bottle of vodka- wine stopped being effective enough; the period of vulnerability too much before the inevitable stupor- looks at the packet of cigarettes. He doesn’t look at his couch. He knows he’s there, knows exactly how he looks, that smug sadness on his plump, powdered (dead) face.
“Why me?” he asks, despite himself. A huffy sigh.
“Well, Geoffrey’s happy now,” Oliver says, as if talking to a small child. “Wouldn’t be very considerate to go and spoil it, and I was bored.”
He pours himself a generous measure of vodka, tries to get a cigarette out of the packet.
“Yes, it’s not as if I had any euphoria to interrupt,” he murmurs with grim humor.
“Now that’s just self pity, Darren. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. You know your problem?”
“Well, I can’t eat certain types of pasta, I’m myopic, have hayfever, roses give me rashes, I’m currently being haunted, but apart from that, I think my biggest problem is that Geoffrey was right all along. You were haunting him. I can’t stand it when he’s right.”
Oliver crosses his arms, triumphant. Darren lights the cigarette, sits on the chair opposite him.
“You main problem, Darren, is that you hold a grudge for too long. And you’re too self pitying. Honestly, if you tried to let things go, accepted your situation--”
He nearly chokes on the smoke and irony, holds the bottle out to Oliver instead. Bit lonely, drinking on his own.
“So, are we going to do each other’s hair, and talk about boys?” he asks, talking around the cigarette. Oliver frowns, looking as close to disapproval as his perpetual expression of indulgence will allow him.
“You’re not taking this very seriously.”
“I’ll tell you about Geoffrey and Godspell, if you like,” he promises with a sly smile. Oliver’s eyes go wide, famine-hungry. He offers him a cigarette, almost asks him to cross his palm with silver. He isn’t quite sure who’s damning who in this particular arrangement. He isn’t sure if he cares. Insanity can only further his art, and something has always been lacking from his madness. It certainly gave Geoffrey’s a depth of suffering that was previously lacking.
He takes another swig, begins to speak. As Oliver leans forward, rapt, he thinks fleetingly of Scheherazade, wonders how many stories it will take to make him stay.
Title: Styx
Fandom: Slings and Arrows, post season three
Rating: g (although kind of creepy)
Word Count: 400 words
Characters: Oliver, Darren. Geoffrey's too happy to be haunted. Darren takes his place.
Three days now. He looks over at the bottle of vodka- wine stopped being effective enough; the period of vulnerability too much before the inevitable stupor- looks at the packet of cigarettes. He doesn’t look at his couch. He knows he’s there, knows exactly how he looks, that smug sadness on his plump, powdered (dead) face.
“Why me?” he asks, despite himself. A huffy sigh.
“Well, Geoffrey’s happy now,” Oliver says, as if talking to a small child. “Wouldn’t be very considerate to go and spoil it, and I was bored.”
He pours himself a generous measure of vodka, tries to get a cigarette out of the packet.
“Yes, it’s not as if I had any euphoria to interrupt,” he murmurs with grim humor.
“Now that’s just self pity, Darren. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. You know your problem?”
“Well, I can’t eat certain types of pasta, I’m myopic, have hayfever, roses give me rashes, I’m currently being haunted, but apart from that, I think my biggest problem is that Geoffrey was right all along. You were haunting him. I can’t stand it when he’s right.”
Oliver crosses his arms, triumphant. Darren lights the cigarette, sits on the chair opposite him.
“You main problem, Darren, is that you hold a grudge for too long. And you’re too self pitying. Honestly, if you tried to let things go, accepted your situation--”
He nearly chokes on the smoke and irony, holds the bottle out to Oliver instead. Bit lonely, drinking on his own.
“So, are we going to do each other’s hair, and talk about boys?” he asks, talking around the cigarette. Oliver frowns, looking as close to disapproval as his perpetual expression of indulgence will allow him.
“You’re not taking this very seriously.”
“I’ll tell you about Geoffrey and Godspell, if you like,” he promises with a sly smile. Oliver’s eyes go wide, famine-hungry. He offers him a cigarette, almost asks him to cross his palm with silver. He isn’t quite sure who’s damning who in this particular arrangement. He isn’t sure if he cares. Insanity can only further his art, and something has always been lacking from his madness. It certainly gave Geoffrey’s a depth of suffering that was previously lacking.
He takes another swig, begins to speak. As Oliver leans forward, rapt, he thinks fleetingly of Scheherazade, wonders how many stories it will take to make him stay.