Fic: Trespasser
They will try to tell you that your toast is burnt, that your top is too bright, that you smile too much or dream too much and this is the part where you say STFU, I’ll do whatever I please. But only sometimes, because they have a dozen nasty words to call someone like you and your skin is not as thick as you’d like.
I’m craving sesame biscuits. I also think I may have flunked accounting.
Anyway, I've had a while to mope. This is something I scribbled today. It’s been ages since I've posted fic. It's been ages since I've posted anything. My brain is mushified.
Title: Trespasser
Characters/Pairing: Shamal, Gokudera
Word Count: 320. Yes. So short that I’m too embarrassed to cross-post. |D
Excerpt: "Shamal smells of perfume as habitually as he smells of blood; there is always tobacco, and Gokudera never asks."
From a poltergeist, he grew into this, a creature swimming in the dark, grooved together like a sloppy prototype. He gets caught on door handles, the curse of a badly knitted scarf, can't slide into the slots of Normal and Real World no matter how much engine oil he uses. Programmed with obsolete commands, it's not a question of mafia or liaisons (they call them 'relationships' here); he is just not sure how to live.
The plane trip allots fifteen hours to the slide between one reality and the next, a knife on a string. He is still parentless, clumsy tongued, but Shamal's address is crumpled in his fist. A gain. Pockets filled with stolen cash, illicit funds - no great loss if the doctor is not in, he tells himself, knock, knock, knocking – can't explain away the hot knot in his chest at the sight of that ugly mug, or tears inexcusable from a thirteen-year-old boy. It's jet lag, he says, and Shamal snorts, drags him in by the hair, gruff and unbearably gentle.
It is often quiet. He grows accustomed to the various textures of bachelor food, explores the dials on the washing machine and does as much cleaning as he is able, because there's owing and then there's owing and it's nothing to do with the unfurling of unease in his belly when Shamal is gone for weeks on end. In his spare time, he watches oddly-coloured pigeons butt against the window of the apartment, wonders if Shamal feeds them and, inevitably, smokes.
What is killing like? What is sex like? Shamal smells of perfume as habitually as he smells of blood; there is always tobacco, and Gokudera never asks. He is not certain how far the apple falls from the tree, unsettled by the swirling, squalid state of his thoughts.
Shamal, Shamal, I don't want to be like my father.
As always, there is no answer.
I’m craving sesame biscuits. I also think I may have flunked accounting.
Anyway, I've had a while to mope. This is something I scribbled today. It’s been ages since I've posted fic. It's been ages since I've posted anything. My brain is mushified.
Title: Trespasser
Characters/Pairing: Shamal, Gokudera
Word Count: 320. Yes. So short that I’m too embarrassed to cross-post. |D
Excerpt: "Shamal smells of perfume as habitually as he smells of blood; there is always tobacco, and Gokudera never asks."
From a poltergeist, he grew into this, a creature swimming in the dark, grooved together like a sloppy prototype. He gets caught on door handles, the curse of a badly knitted scarf, can't slide into the slots of Normal and Real World no matter how much engine oil he uses. Programmed with obsolete commands, it's not a question of mafia or liaisons (they call them 'relationships' here); he is just not sure how to live.
The plane trip allots fifteen hours to the slide between one reality and the next, a knife on a string. He is still parentless, clumsy tongued, but Shamal's address is crumpled in his fist. A gain. Pockets filled with stolen cash, illicit funds - no great loss if the doctor is not in, he tells himself, knock, knock, knocking – can't explain away the hot knot in his chest at the sight of that ugly mug, or tears inexcusable from a thirteen-year-old boy. It's jet lag, he says, and Shamal snorts, drags him in by the hair, gruff and unbearably gentle.
It is often quiet. He grows accustomed to the various textures of bachelor food, explores the dials on the washing machine and does as much cleaning as he is able, because there's owing and then there's owing and it's nothing to do with the unfurling of unease in his belly when Shamal is gone for weeks on end. In his spare time, he watches oddly-coloured pigeons butt against the window of the apartment, wonders if Shamal feeds them and, inevitably, smokes.
What is killing like? What is sex like? Shamal smells of perfume as habitually as he smells of blood; there is always tobacco, and Gokudera never asks. He is not certain how far the apple falls from the tree, unsettled by the swirling, squalid state of his thoughts.
Shamal, Shamal, I don't want to be like my father.
As always, there is no answer.