ext_18096 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
geniusartist.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2006-01-18 07:23 pm
geniusartist.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-01-18 07:23 pm
Melancholy Wine
Title: Melancholy Wine
Pairing: EW/DM (but you decided who's who)
Rating: PG
Notes: This is just random nonsense.
Melancholy. He said, with a tilt in his head. Like the wine.
I wasn’t aware of such a thing. I answered back with a laugh, brief, but genuine.
He sat upon a stool. The backlight behind the bar illuminated one side of his face. Illuminated his fragility. He delivered his monologue like a professional, pausing for emphasis, drawing a look up, then down, then aside. And then into my eyes. As if reaching to touch a part of me. Almost desperate, pleading for connection. Hear me. Do you hear me? They said, though the words were not uttered. And just as my chest constricted and I struggled for air, and I was reaching back for…I hear…he glanced away. With a small smile playing about his small mouth. I felt…disappointed.
There is.
He continued. Briefed a glance up, then away again.
Melancholy wine. Like marshmallow dreams. Corn husks in Antarctica.
He chuckled. Took a swig of beer from a half-filled, pint-sized glass. I was momentarily distracted. Eh, condensation?
He looked at me then. And there it was again. Reaching. He didn’t break the stare this time and I tried not to flinch or squirm or challenge.
Don’t you see how that would make a headline, of a story? An article, I mean. Same difference, yeah? Melancholy, Like the Wine. In TeenQueen or Cosmo, hold the lime. It’s utter shit. Not even a hint of funny.
He broke the gaze only for a moment to finish his beer. And order another.
I spend hours sometimes, fabricating witty comebacks to expected questions. And rehearsing nonresponsive answers to unexpected ones. When I feel lazy – which is often – I take a hand mirror to my bed or to the couch. I lie down and emote to my reflection. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille.”
He paused and posed. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, brows drawn together. Guess, he said. And before I could answer, he exclaimed. That’s my thinking face! He chuckled. Broke the stare. Took a swig of beer. I was learning the routine.
I have money. I have fame. I’ve had success. I’ve traveled the world. Loved beautiful women…and men. Been loved in return. I’ve been praised by critics and fans alike. Sought after for my presence or...whatever. I’m like a pig and shit, and really, I could die now and save the moons of glory for another life. I…
He stopped. Eyes still wide, brows drawn together again. Small mouth now closed and bowed down slightly at the corners. A deepened flush in the cheeks. Reluctant, I interpreted.
How can it get better? Is there anything more than this? You know, people speak of dreams, of living for the dream, pining for the dream, sacrificing for the dream. What of dreams? What of longing? I long for things like melancholy wine and corn husks in Antarctica. People would look at me crazy, and they’d be right. Because who cares about corn husks in Antarctica when you have fame and fortune. And when you have fame and fortune, what’s left to dream about?
There’s this, I answered softly and squeezed his hand.
He smiled back. Sadly. Squeezed my hand in return and then drew his away.
And when I’ve had my fill of that…of you, too, what more will there be? Will there be? Could there be more than this?
I shook my head and looked away, unable to stand another moment of exposure.
Don’t hate me. He whispered, a slight catch in his voice. Don’t hate me because I’m not… beautiful. Or for wanting snow flavored cornflakes with chicken soup.
He angled his head back, pitched the rest of his beer down his throat and I watched the curve of skin slither in a rolling motion. And he ordered another.
What about? I paused. Pink horses, and giant cockatoos, and cockroaches that channel electromagnetic wavelengths, like transistor radios. You know, and they’d hum, like, old jazz instrumentals? I wiggled in my seat to demonstrate.
He squinted at me. Considering, I interpreted.
Pink horses? He asked. I nodded. Oh. That’s kind of fey. Still somber. Then he chuckled. Broke the stare. Took a swig of beer.
Yeah, so? I quirked my lips in challenge.
He shook his head. No, I like it. I think. He paused. Radio cockroaches, you say? He said with a tilt in his head.
Pairing: EW/DM (but you decided who's who)
Rating: PG
Notes: This is just random nonsense.
Melancholy. He said, with a tilt in his head. Like the wine.
I wasn’t aware of such a thing. I answered back with a laugh, brief, but genuine.
He sat upon a stool. The backlight behind the bar illuminated one side of his face. Illuminated his fragility. He delivered his monologue like a professional, pausing for emphasis, drawing a look up, then down, then aside. And then into my eyes. As if reaching to touch a part of me. Almost desperate, pleading for connection. Hear me. Do you hear me? They said, though the words were not uttered. And just as my chest constricted and I struggled for air, and I was reaching back for…I hear…he glanced away. With a small smile playing about his small mouth. I felt…disappointed.
There is.
He continued. Briefed a glance up, then away again.
Melancholy wine. Like marshmallow dreams. Corn husks in Antarctica.
He chuckled. Took a swig of beer from a half-filled, pint-sized glass. I was momentarily distracted. Eh, condensation?
He looked at me then. And there it was again. Reaching. He didn’t break the stare this time and I tried not to flinch or squirm or challenge.
Don’t you see how that would make a headline, of a story? An article, I mean. Same difference, yeah? Melancholy, Like the Wine. In TeenQueen or Cosmo, hold the lime. It’s utter shit. Not even a hint of funny.
He broke the gaze only for a moment to finish his beer. And order another.
I spend hours sometimes, fabricating witty comebacks to expected questions. And rehearsing nonresponsive answers to unexpected ones. When I feel lazy – which is often – I take a hand mirror to my bed or to the couch. I lie down and emote to my reflection. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille.”
He paused and posed. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, brows drawn together. Guess, he said. And before I could answer, he exclaimed. That’s my thinking face! He chuckled. Broke the stare. Took a swig of beer. I was learning the routine.
I have money. I have fame. I’ve had success. I’ve traveled the world. Loved beautiful women…and men. Been loved in return. I’ve been praised by critics and fans alike. Sought after for my presence or...whatever. I’m like a pig and shit, and really, I could die now and save the moons of glory for another life. I…
He stopped. Eyes still wide, brows drawn together again. Small mouth now closed and bowed down slightly at the corners. A deepened flush in the cheeks. Reluctant, I interpreted.
How can it get better? Is there anything more than this? You know, people speak of dreams, of living for the dream, pining for the dream, sacrificing for the dream. What of dreams? What of longing? I long for things like melancholy wine and corn husks in Antarctica. People would look at me crazy, and they’d be right. Because who cares about corn husks in Antarctica when you have fame and fortune. And when you have fame and fortune, what’s left to dream about?
There’s this, I answered softly and squeezed his hand.
He smiled back. Sadly. Squeezed my hand in return and then drew his away.
And when I’ve had my fill of that…of you, too, what more will there be? Will there be? Could there be more than this?
I shook my head and looked away, unable to stand another moment of exposure.
Don’t hate me. He whispered, a slight catch in his voice. Don’t hate me because I’m not… beautiful. Or for wanting snow flavored cornflakes with chicken soup.
He angled his head back, pitched the rest of his beer down his throat and I watched the curve of skin slither in a rolling motion. And he ordered another.
What about? I paused. Pink horses, and giant cockatoos, and cockroaches that channel electromagnetic wavelengths, like transistor radios. You know, and they’d hum, like, old jazz instrumentals? I wiggled in my seat to demonstrate.
He squinted at me. Considering, I interpreted.
Pink horses? He asked. I nodded. Oh. That’s kind of fey. Still somber. Then he chuckled. Broke the stare. Took a swig of beer.
Yeah, so? I quirked my lips in challenge.
He shook his head. No, I like it. I think. He paused. Radio cockroaches, you say? He said with a tilt in his head.