(no subject)
Mark woke up in the quiet and kept his eyes shut, reminding himself where he was before he could feel that wild stirring of hope in his chest again. After a week, he'd almost gotten to the point where he didn't feel it anymore. Almost. Something in him was still disappointed to see the dim outlines of his roommates and the sharp angles of the room around him; in the moment before he opened his eyes, something still leapt inside him to think he might wake up back at home again.
Getting quietly out of bed (it was still early enough that the rest of them were asleep) he pulled on his cutoff jean shorts and padded up to the kitchen to pour himself a tall glass of iced tea, to take to the rec room and sip while he sat rather morosely in a chair.
He'd been home. He'd been home the way he'd wanted to be since coming to the island; his friends all alive, all happy, all around him; and Clementine too, that had been a really great surprise, but something he'd loved all the same. He'd hardly be able to think about home now without imagining her there with them.
The jukebox clicked on and Mark glared warily at it as it started to play.
I find the map and draw a straight line
Over rivers, farms, and state lines
The distance from here to where you'd be
It's only finger-lengths that I see
I touch the place where I'd find your face
My finger in creases of distant dark places
I hang my coat up in the first bar
There is no peace that I've found so far
The laughter penetrates my silence
As drunken men find flaws in science...
The song was unfamiliar but nice, and Mark sighed, shifting his legs over the arm of the chair and leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. He missed them so much it was like a physical pain; Collins, Angel who he'd just come to accept he would never see again, even Benny; even Mimi. He'd give anything to have them here now; anything to be back home in his city. He'd spent part of the second day just wandering, looking with his own eyes and soaking in the essence of home. The bustle and the color and the sense of being a point on a massive web, connected to everything else around him just by being there.
Their words mostly noises
Ghosts with just voices
Your words in my memory
Are like music to me
I'm miles from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground
I, I pray that something picks me up
And sets me down in your warm arms.
The song wasn't doing anything for his mood, and Mark didn't really feel like getting fucking weepy over being homesick. So he got up and went outside, sitting on a rock with his tea in his hand and his face turned to the sun. He could get over this; really, he could. It was simply time to convince himself he wanted to; time to accept that home was something he was never going to see again.
He hoped nobody would blame him if that wasn't an easy decision to make.
[summary : mark is moping a little bit, missing home. forrest comes along and reminds mark that acting like a kid sometimes is okay; holden joins them on the trampoline. mark and chris halliwell catch up on things since the last time they talked, including the weirdness of people in comas for a weekend. anamaria and mark discuss boredom, hobbies and booze. otto is once again mistaken for john lennon, but vat a bugger, he is not zat man; he and mark do the camera-geek thing for a bit. and lastly mark and veronica talk about missing things, namely home and ice cream.]
Getting quietly out of bed (it was still early enough that the rest of them were asleep) he pulled on his cutoff jean shorts and padded up to the kitchen to pour himself a tall glass of iced tea, to take to the rec room and sip while he sat rather morosely in a chair.
He'd been home. He'd been home the way he'd wanted to be since coming to the island; his friends all alive, all happy, all around him; and Clementine too, that had been a really great surprise, but something he'd loved all the same. He'd hardly be able to think about home now without imagining her there with them.
The jukebox clicked on and Mark glared warily at it as it started to play.
I find the map and draw a straight line
Over rivers, farms, and state lines
The distance from here to where you'd be
It's only finger-lengths that I see
I touch the place where I'd find your face
My finger in creases of distant dark places
I hang my coat up in the first bar
There is no peace that I've found so far
The laughter penetrates my silence
As drunken men find flaws in science...
The song was unfamiliar but nice, and Mark sighed, shifting his legs over the arm of the chair and leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. He missed them so much it was like a physical pain; Collins, Angel who he'd just come to accept he would never see again, even Benny; even Mimi. He'd give anything to have them here now; anything to be back home in his city. He'd spent part of the second day just wandering, looking with his own eyes and soaking in the essence of home. The bustle and the color and the sense of being a point on a massive web, connected to everything else around him just by being there.
Their words mostly noises
Ghosts with just voices
Your words in my memory
Are like music to me
I'm miles from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground
I, I pray that something picks me up
And sets me down in your warm arms.
The song wasn't doing anything for his mood, and Mark didn't really feel like getting fucking weepy over being homesick. So he got up and went outside, sitting on a rock with his tea in his hand and his face turned to the sun. He could get over this; really, he could. It was simply time to convince himself he wanted to; time to accept that home was something he was never going to see again.
He hoped nobody would blame him if that wasn't an easy decision to make.
[summary : mark is moping a little bit, missing home. forrest comes along and reminds mark that acting like a kid sometimes is okay; holden joins them on the trampoline. mark and chris halliwell catch up on things since the last time they talked, including the weirdness of people in comas for a weekend. anamaria and mark discuss boredom, hobbies and booze. otto is once again mistaken for john lennon, but vat a bugger, he is not zat man; he and mark do the camera-geek thing for a bit. and lastly mark and veronica talk about missing things, namely home and ice cream.]