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fellowshippers2004-03-23 08:33 am
glasgow-blue.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-03-23 08:33 am
Parcel Post
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taibhrigh. stones, life, music, billy
Title: Parcel Post
Pairing: Dom/Billeh
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Feedback: Is always welcome.
Word Count: 240
Cross-posted to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
monaboyd
Dom is used to living a transient life --to waking up with only the barest sense of time and place. He has more, now, than he ever really dreamed he would and this is the price of it. Most days, it's a fair trade.
But he misses England. He misses the rain and the mist and the sound of music tripping off of cobblestones. It rarely rains in LA, land of Eternal Sunshine of minds, be they spotless or not. And, when it does, it's nothing like the rain of Manchester...rain that soaks you to your bones and seeps in even deeper, setting up residence in your very being. There isn't a cobblestone for a thousand miles, though the place has rocks a-plenty. And, yes, there is a difference between rock and stone, though Dom isn't sure he can explain it to anyone who has to ask.
His mum sends him tea and jars of lemon curd, scone mix, Yorkshire mints, and a tea cozy hand-knit by someone's auntie. It's checkered in alternate shades of blue and he briefly considers wearing it as a hat, but for the tiny bow on top. Instead, he closes the blinds, turns up the AC, and watches Premiere League on ESPN2 at all hours of the night.
He calls Billy, forgetting the time difference, and asks him to describe the sky and mail him a box of stones. Billy does both without question.
taibhrigh. stones, life, music, billyTitle: Parcel Post
Pairing: Dom/Billeh
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Feedback: Is always welcome.
Word Count: 240
Cross-posted to:
monaboydDom is used to living a transient life --to waking up with only the barest sense of time and place. He has more, now, than he ever really dreamed he would and this is the price of it. Most days, it's a fair trade.
But he misses England. He misses the rain and the mist and the sound of music tripping off of cobblestones. It rarely rains in LA, land of Eternal Sunshine of minds, be they spotless or not. And, when it does, it's nothing like the rain of Manchester...rain that soaks you to your bones and seeps in even deeper, setting up residence in your very being. There isn't a cobblestone for a thousand miles, though the place has rocks a-plenty. And, yes, there is a difference between rock and stone, though Dom isn't sure he can explain it to anyone who has to ask.
His mum sends him tea and jars of lemon curd, scone mix, Yorkshire mints, and a tea cozy hand-knit by someone's auntie. It's checkered in alternate shades of blue and he briefly considers wearing it as a hat, but for the tiny bow on top. Instead, he closes the blinds, turns up the AC, and watches Premiere League on ESPN2 at all hours of the night.
He calls Billy, forgetting the time difference, and asks him to describe the sky and mail him a box of stones. Billy does both without question.