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fellowshippers2004-03-26 09:23 pm
v-greyson.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-03-26 09:23 pm
sunflower sutra
Of Death and Human Locomotives
He comes for the glamour of inevitability.
Elijah/Orlando, Elijah/Dominic
PG-13
I claim naught and not.
In the dream Elijah is never alone. And he would be grateful to have escaped chaos (because alone he feels blinded by the adoration and the flashbulbs, the popping of the screams and cameras flickering frantically behind his eyes) except he is crying like something that wants out, dripping salt on the neat suits of his companions - anonymous beings ignoring the hysterics of the crowd, instead watching fireworks messily and drowning in magnetic instinct behind each others’ eyelashes.
and he is never alone but cold in a crowd full of lovers
The phone rings too late for it to still be Wednesday, and when Elijah rolls over to snatch the receiver and sees the clock he realizes first that it is already the morning after and second that the electronic Bach is not what his phone uses to chime into a conversation. Orlando stumbles from between the sheets and gropes on the floor for a discarded pocket, working sleep numbed hands into crumpled denim and coaxing the little blinking blue light out. “Three, four, five, six, seven,” he mumbles, “no, four hours, wait, must be six there,” he presses a button and drags the sleep from his voice, “Good morning, love, are you in London?” Elijah groans and disentangles himself from a pillow to jam it over his head.
“Yeah? No, I just guessed, I mean, it’s midnight in LA,” he hears, distantly. Pause. Sigh. “No, I’m not home. Stateside.” Rustle. “New York.” Elijah exhales against the cotton and feels the reflection of too many cigarettes on the inside of his throat. “Did you just get in, then?” He needs to cough but he feels balanced and invisible and moving seems like it might crack him in two. “You can stay at my place, if you want. I’ll be . . .” The mattress protests being harassed by Orlando’s movement. “I’ll be back on Sunday. Yeah.” Yawn. “Right. Love you too.” Elijah lets the rush of stale air shake his throat dry, lets his lungs pull tight and open and hacks until his eyes burn. “Bye, Kate.”
Grasping fingers get the pillow away and the cold air on his face divides his throat between gasping and swallowing. He is drowning in too many empty nights and too many phone calls like that. He is frozen by Orlando scolding him back into silence with sharpened exhales (shh, shh) and the space between his lips and Orlando’s.
The first kiss is like death and the second is like a guilty verdict.
In Los Angeles the sweat gets under his nails and crawls off his fingers to bite the canvas of his duffel. He comes to Dominic with the sand in his pockets that Orlando always deposits in the apartment and the truth in the stifling recess of his collarbone, scarred by the memory of Orli’s mouth. He comes for the glamour of inevitability, for the knowledge they will fuck and fight and fuck and part. He comes because even if there isn’t enough nicotine in the world for Dom to get Billy out of his lungs Elijah has a nice lighter and an extra pack of fags.
When the door opens in an air-conditioned swoosh he drops his cigarette and his bag and throws himself against Dom and apologizes for being uninvited. Dom slides his hands around Elijah’s back and works his fingers between the knobs of Elijah’s spine and promises that it’s all right. Elijah doesn’t believe him and only goes inside because forge is one letter away from forget.
Dominic is mourning for bad tea and kilts but Elijah is quick enough to get behind the shadows in his eyes and unravel the zipper on his jeans before nostalgia can rush either of them onto the beach of guilt like an overwhelming tide. All waters must recede, Elijah thinks and presses the base of his palm against the Sharpie doodles on the back of Dom’s hand, his ribcage against the fluently swept angles of Dom’s shoulder blades and his lips into the void at the base of Dom’s skull. They are standing in Dom’s kitchen, Dominic’s sweaty palms braced against the edge of the Formica. The window is open and the heat is dictating oppression and pressure. We will all go under in the end.
Neglected things are haunted ones and Elijah blames his addiction to nightmares and black coffee on Orlando’s nonchalance about his existence. On the map to his insomnia the bridge Billy has reconstructed between Glasgow and Los Angeles is highlighted because Dom doesn’t need to intertwine lies and legs with Elijah anymore. At night Elijah sits in the bath and smokes, drinks cheap wine and drops the cig in the glass if he starts to fall asleep. When Elijah dreams it is from cigarette to ashes and from second hand sand to dust.
and always he wants to scream until he drowns the footsteps of defeat
Orlando appears with no suitcase and a key card for a hotel in his pocket as the summer curls up with the stars and evaporates. “I came to say hello,” he says. Elijah lounges against the doorframe in his bathrobe with a glass of Merlot in one hand and a fading cigarette in the other.
“Hello,” Elijah says, and kicks the door closed.
He sits at the kitchen table and puts his fag out on a food stain and rests his one palm flat on the table and the other along his forearm and waits.
“What’s wrong?” Orlando asks, and slides his key along the table until it collides with the base of the glass. The floorboards protest as he pulls a chair back. “Hmm?”
“You are here because you are already gone,” Elijah mutters, and rests his forehead on his stacked wrists. “I can’t make you leave because you are never here.”
“Can’t hear you, love.”
Elijah rolls his temple onto his knuckles and thinks about the stains on Dom’s hands and wonders if the words don’t wash off but sink in. He looks up at Orlando and imagines all those microcosmic truths banished to the cradle beneath Dom’s palm. “Nothing,” he says, and lets Orli push the hair off his forehead and coax his chin off the table.
On his aging mattress he breathes slowly and tries not to think. He stares through the shock of glass in the wall and watches the lights of the ambitious buildings stretching to drown the sky and listens to the blood taking heavy steps through Orlando’s veins. “You smoke too much,” Orlando murmurs, with his lips against Elijah’s neck. His fingers spread like water on Elijah’s chest. “I wish you wouldn’t.” Elijah inhales against the cool weight whispering between his ribs and frees the air in one loose sigh.
You are like smoke when you leave, he thinks, and lets the water beneath his eyelids coax them shut. I wish you wouldn’t go.
=33=
Title taken from "Sunflower Sutra" by Allen Ginsberg
For the "Sharpie" challenge, between myself and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aliasverve
He comes for the glamour of inevitability.
Elijah/Orlando, Elijah/Dominic
PG-13
I claim naught and not.
In the dream Elijah is never alone. And he would be grateful to have escaped chaos (because alone he feels blinded by the adoration and the flashbulbs, the popping of the screams and cameras flickering frantically behind his eyes) except he is crying like something that wants out, dripping salt on the neat suits of his companions - anonymous beings ignoring the hysterics of the crowd, instead watching fireworks messily and drowning in magnetic instinct behind each others’ eyelashes.
and he is never alone but cold in a crowd full of lovers
The phone rings too late for it to still be Wednesday, and when Elijah rolls over to snatch the receiver and sees the clock he realizes first that it is already the morning after and second that the electronic Bach is not what his phone uses to chime into a conversation. Orlando stumbles from between the sheets and gropes on the floor for a discarded pocket, working sleep numbed hands into crumpled denim and coaxing the little blinking blue light out. “Three, four, five, six, seven,” he mumbles, “no, four hours, wait, must be six there,” he presses a button and drags the sleep from his voice, “Good morning, love, are you in London?” Elijah groans and disentangles himself from a pillow to jam it over his head.
“Yeah? No, I just guessed, I mean, it’s midnight in LA,” he hears, distantly. Pause. Sigh. “No, I’m not home. Stateside.” Rustle. “New York.” Elijah exhales against the cotton and feels the reflection of too many cigarettes on the inside of his throat. “Did you just get in, then?” He needs to cough but he feels balanced and invisible and moving seems like it might crack him in two. “You can stay at my place, if you want. I’ll be . . .” The mattress protests being harassed by Orlando’s movement. “I’ll be back on Sunday. Yeah.” Yawn. “Right. Love you too.” Elijah lets the rush of stale air shake his throat dry, lets his lungs pull tight and open and hacks until his eyes burn. “Bye, Kate.”
Grasping fingers get the pillow away and the cold air on his face divides his throat between gasping and swallowing. He is drowning in too many empty nights and too many phone calls like that. He is frozen by Orlando scolding him back into silence with sharpened exhales (shh, shh) and the space between his lips and Orlando’s.
The first kiss is like death and the second is like a guilty verdict.
In Los Angeles the sweat gets under his nails and crawls off his fingers to bite the canvas of his duffel. He comes to Dominic with the sand in his pockets that Orlando always deposits in the apartment and the truth in the stifling recess of his collarbone, scarred by the memory of Orli’s mouth. He comes for the glamour of inevitability, for the knowledge they will fuck and fight and fuck and part. He comes because even if there isn’t enough nicotine in the world for Dom to get Billy out of his lungs Elijah has a nice lighter and an extra pack of fags.
When the door opens in an air-conditioned swoosh he drops his cigarette and his bag and throws himself against Dom and apologizes for being uninvited. Dom slides his hands around Elijah’s back and works his fingers between the knobs of Elijah’s spine and promises that it’s all right. Elijah doesn’t believe him and only goes inside because forge is one letter away from forget.
Dominic is mourning for bad tea and kilts but Elijah is quick enough to get behind the shadows in his eyes and unravel the zipper on his jeans before nostalgia can rush either of them onto the beach of guilt like an overwhelming tide. All waters must recede, Elijah thinks and presses the base of his palm against the Sharpie doodles on the back of Dom’s hand, his ribcage against the fluently swept angles of Dom’s shoulder blades and his lips into the void at the base of Dom’s skull. They are standing in Dom’s kitchen, Dominic’s sweaty palms braced against the edge of the Formica. The window is open and the heat is dictating oppression and pressure. We will all go under in the end.
Neglected things are haunted ones and Elijah blames his addiction to nightmares and black coffee on Orlando’s nonchalance about his existence. On the map to his insomnia the bridge Billy has reconstructed between Glasgow and Los Angeles is highlighted because Dom doesn’t need to intertwine lies and legs with Elijah anymore. At night Elijah sits in the bath and smokes, drinks cheap wine and drops the cig in the glass if he starts to fall asleep. When Elijah dreams it is from cigarette to ashes and from second hand sand to dust.
and always he wants to scream until he drowns the footsteps of defeat
Orlando appears with no suitcase and a key card for a hotel in his pocket as the summer curls up with the stars and evaporates. “I came to say hello,” he says. Elijah lounges against the doorframe in his bathrobe with a glass of Merlot in one hand and a fading cigarette in the other.
“Hello,” Elijah says, and kicks the door closed.
He sits at the kitchen table and puts his fag out on a food stain and rests his one palm flat on the table and the other along his forearm and waits.
“What’s wrong?” Orlando asks, and slides his key along the table until it collides with the base of the glass. The floorboards protest as he pulls a chair back. “Hmm?”
“You are here because you are already gone,” Elijah mutters, and rests his forehead on his stacked wrists. “I can’t make you leave because you are never here.”
“Can’t hear you, love.”
Elijah rolls his temple onto his knuckles and thinks about the stains on Dom’s hands and wonders if the words don’t wash off but sink in. He looks up at Orlando and imagines all those microcosmic truths banished to the cradle beneath Dom’s palm. “Nothing,” he says, and lets Orli push the hair off his forehead and coax his chin off the table.
On his aging mattress he breathes slowly and tries not to think. He stares through the shock of glass in the wall and watches the lights of the ambitious buildings stretching to drown the sky and listens to the blood taking heavy steps through Orlando’s veins. “You smoke too much,” Orlando murmurs, with his lips against Elijah’s neck. His fingers spread like water on Elijah’s chest. “I wish you wouldn’t.” Elijah inhales against the cool weight whispering between his ribs and frees the air in one loose sigh.
You are like smoke when you leave, he thinks, and lets the water beneath his eyelids coax them shut. I wish you wouldn’t go.
=33=
Title taken from "Sunflower Sutra" by Allen Ginsberg
For the "Sharpie" challenge, between myself and
aliasverve