ext_46005 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
http://users.livejournal.com/_theo/) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2003-10-29 02:19 pm
http://users.livejournal.com/_theo/) wrote in fellowshippers2003-10-29 02:19 pm
Ficlet: Final
Title: Final
Pairing: EW, DM gen. [DM/BB mention]
Rating: PG
Feedback: This is in second person, which I personally feel could be weak around the edges. So, constructive criticism of any kind would be lovely.
Warning: Talks of self-mutilation.
Disclaimer: Not true of course.
You think about telling him. Dominic’s fingers twist uneven cut hair almost nervously, eyes quick toward the glass clinking against plate in the corner. You feel that you should be able to confide. To be able to shift the too hot, too long sleeved shirt upward, edging the length until it reveals the red turned murky black bruises aligning both forearm and upper. His fingers go from the shrewd cut hair to the napkin, shredding it unconsciously into little neat strips. Your mouth opens, words a ghost upon lips as he looks upward at you and you notice that it was the first time he did so since the hour you first sat down at the table. Eyes revolving around the room quickly before connecting with yours briefly, then back downwards toward the plate. You reach forward, clasping that shiveringjerky hand brushing thumb lightly across skin and his motions still, eyes this time leveled on your hand on his.
The words that feels like a punch from your mouth is “it’s okay” instead of “help me” and he half smiles, own response of “I know” even though you feel like it isn’t. Nothing is. Your arm circles his shoulder, pulling him inward until head rests against your own bent shoulder, face nestling in your neck and a slight dew slick against your skin. You smooth your roughly bitten fingernails through that hair, letting Dominic’s arm wrap around waist as body shakes gently. You think of the tomorrows and the yesteryears – where this wouldn’t be prevalent nor concerning. You think you’ll take him back to your half-unpacked, messy apartment and let him slide under old, shabby sheets and curl up next to him, hands against back and cheek against wetness. And when he’ll look at you in the low yellow light, eyes tingeing on red and breaths shallow to the air, you’ll kiss his forehead lightly urging him to sleep as you tell mindless, mumbling stories that divert even slightly from thoughts of Billy. You think, as his fingers lessen their grip upon your torn and frayed gray shirt and breaths even out, that he doesn’t need to know. That perhaps the days of next, you’ll forget the sharp components snuggled in the bottom bureau drawer and heal yourself. You think, before eyes drift close, you’re a lie.
-Fin
Pairing: EW, DM gen. [DM/BB mention]
Rating: PG
Feedback: This is in second person, which I personally feel could be weak around the edges. So, constructive criticism of any kind would be lovely.
Warning: Talks of self-mutilation.
Disclaimer: Not true of course.
You think about telling him. Dominic’s fingers twist uneven cut hair almost nervously, eyes quick toward the glass clinking against plate in the corner. You feel that you should be able to confide. To be able to shift the too hot, too long sleeved shirt upward, edging the length until it reveals the red turned murky black bruises aligning both forearm and upper. His fingers go from the shrewd cut hair to the napkin, shredding it unconsciously into little neat strips. Your mouth opens, words a ghost upon lips as he looks upward at you and you notice that it was the first time he did so since the hour you first sat down at the table. Eyes revolving around the room quickly before connecting with yours briefly, then back downwards toward the plate. You reach forward, clasping that shiveringjerky hand brushing thumb lightly across skin and his motions still, eyes this time leveled on your hand on his.
The words that feels like a punch from your mouth is “it’s okay” instead of “help me” and he half smiles, own response of “I know” even though you feel like it isn’t. Nothing is. Your arm circles his shoulder, pulling him inward until head rests against your own bent shoulder, face nestling in your neck and a slight dew slick against your skin. You smooth your roughly bitten fingernails through that hair, letting Dominic’s arm wrap around waist as body shakes gently. You think of the tomorrows and the yesteryears – where this wouldn’t be prevalent nor concerning. You think you’ll take him back to your half-unpacked, messy apartment and let him slide under old, shabby sheets and curl up next to him, hands against back and cheek against wetness. And when he’ll look at you in the low yellow light, eyes tingeing on red and breaths shallow to the air, you’ll kiss his forehead lightly urging him to sleep as you tell mindless, mumbling stories that divert even slightly from thoughts of Billy. You think, as his fingers lessen their grip upon your torn and frayed gray shirt and breaths even out, that he doesn’t need to know. That perhaps the days of next, you’ll forget the sharp components snuggled in the bottom bureau drawer and heal yourself. You think, before eyes drift close, you’re a lie.
-Fin
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