(no subject)
Title: Oh
Author: Caiden // varietyshow
Rating: PG-13 // language
Pairing: DM/EW
Summary: Elijah's favourite colour has yet to exist.
A/N: For lotrpschallenge #9 [time differences]. Just a short little ditty. Angst with a happy(ish) ending. Highly inspired by Wilco.
Oh
A suitcase. A foot and a half of smooth black leather is all that stands in between Dom, Elijah, and the harsh slap of a metaphorical sugar rush winding down. A foot and a half of smooth black leather is all that stands in between Dom, Elijah, and an extreme sense of clarity following in the wake of a misguided attempt at love. Or something else equally late-night-poetic.
And then the suitcase is gone. The door closes and Elijah is left standing there, alone and quaking, his eyes and nose red and burning from the sudden rush of understanding and contacts that haven’t been changed in months.
*
“What’s your favourite colour?”
“Wuh… Dom?” Elijah checks the clock by the bed, squinting and licking his own bad breath off of his lips sleepily. “It’s three am.”
“Oh really? It’s 6 here and-“
“And you’re up? Are you on something?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh fucking Christ…”
“I’m high on life-“
“Oh fucking Christ. It’s too early and I’m too old for this.”
“You’re twenty-one, old bones. C’mon. What’s a young hipster like you doing home at three on a Saturday morning, anyway?”
“Well, I was sleeping. You know, that thing that happens when you don’t call?”
“I’m cracking up, really.”
“I can tell.”
“Mmm,” Dom pauses. Elijah can hear his breath, light and carefree, transcend the three hour time difference. “So what’s your favourite colour?”
“Uh…”
“Oh, and did I tell you I’m in love?”
Elijah swallows. “… I suppose they haven’t invented my favourite colour yet.” Which is a lie, because it’s actually red-easily identifiable with Manchester; sometimes, most of the time, when your life says to hell with it and falls backwards, the little constants don’t want to be left behind, so they collapse as well, leaving you dumb and blinking as a cop drives cautiously down the road.
*
Elijah turns the stereo up so loud that the pictures on the walls begin dancing in their frames. He lays down outside and feels every single blade of grass against the backs of his arms and legs and neck. He feels the pollen and the bugs. He feels the earth shifting beneath him. He feels Dom, hundreds of miles away, his feet, arms, whatever, connected to his body by this divine creation.
And, even through the time difference, he feels immortal.
Author: Caiden // varietyshow
Rating: PG-13 // language
Pairing: DM/EW
Summary: Elijah's favourite colour has yet to exist.
A/N: For lotrpschallenge #9 [time differences]. Just a short little ditty. Angst with a happy(ish) ending. Highly inspired by Wilco.
Oh
A suitcase. A foot and a half of smooth black leather is all that stands in between Dom, Elijah, and the harsh slap of a metaphorical sugar rush winding down. A foot and a half of smooth black leather is all that stands in between Dom, Elijah, and an extreme sense of clarity following in the wake of a misguided attempt at love. Or something else equally late-night-poetic.
And then the suitcase is gone. The door closes and Elijah is left standing there, alone and quaking, his eyes and nose red and burning from the sudden rush of understanding and contacts that haven’t been changed in months.
*
“What’s your favourite colour?”
“Wuh… Dom?” Elijah checks the clock by the bed, squinting and licking his own bad breath off of his lips sleepily. “It’s three am.”
“Oh really? It’s 6 here and-“
“And you’re up? Are you on something?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh fucking Christ…”
“I’m high on life-“
“Oh fucking Christ. It’s too early and I’m too old for this.”
“You’re twenty-one, old bones. C’mon. What’s a young hipster like you doing home at three on a Saturday morning, anyway?”
“Well, I was sleeping. You know, that thing that happens when you don’t call?”
“I’m cracking up, really.”
“I can tell.”
“Mmm,” Dom pauses. Elijah can hear his breath, light and carefree, transcend the three hour time difference. “So what’s your favourite colour?”
“Uh…”
“Oh, and did I tell you I’m in love?”
Elijah swallows. “… I suppose they haven’t invented my favourite colour yet.” Which is a lie, because it’s actually red-easily identifiable with Manchester; sometimes, most of the time, when your life says to hell with it and falls backwards, the little constants don’t want to be left behind, so they collapse as well, leaving you dumb and blinking as a cop drives cautiously down the road.
*
Elijah turns the stereo up so loud that the pictures on the walls begin dancing in their frames. He lays down outside and feels every single blade of grass against the backs of his arms and legs and neck. He feels the pollen and the bugs. He feels the earth shifting beneath him. He feels Dom, hundreds of miles away, his feet, arms, whatever, connected to his body by this divine creation.
And, even through the time difference, he feels immortal.