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fellowshippers2004-05-04 01:25 am
one900.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-05-04 01:25 am
(no subject)
Fair Trade
PG-13
DM/EW
A/N: Italicized lyrics from Harvey Danger.
*
Dom found himself walking a lot, with a copy of the LA Times rolled tightly in his hand. His feet wandered aimlessly albeit confidently through the congested sidewalks as he dodged black briefcases and blazer-clad elbows. Headlines smudged themselves into his palm as he gripped the distinct paper while glancing uncomfortably over the sea of heads that bobbed along the streets.
He would settle into a random cafe and skim through the articles, a cup of chai tea steaming by his arm, eyes glancing over words depicting natural disasters and wars in the same plain print. He would read this, and remind himself that there were things bigger than his little world, that there were people worse off than he was, and that in fact, he should actually be pretty fucking happy with where he was at.
He would try, anyway.
*
“This isn't about you, Dom,” Elijah said softly without looking up. His fingers expertly shuffled through the milk carton full of tattered records. There were rows and rows of them, with everything enclosed by wallpapers of posters and the obligatory dim lighting of a used record store.
Dom slumped against the wall. “Then what the hell is it about,” he mumbled to himself. He half-heartedly followed Elijah's lead, slowly flicking through an adjacent bin. Distinctly 80's vinyl sleeves stared up at him as he absently regarded each picture.
Elijah pulled out a record with a flash of his arm and stared at Dom. “This isn't about you,” he repeated, clutching at the worn cover that read Blood, Sweat, and Tears. “This is about you and me.”
He brushed past Dom and made his way to the sticker-covered cash register, hand already reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Dom watched the quick transaction and followed Elijah like a lost child tagging along with someone who vaguely resembled their mother.
“You have to figure things out for yourself,” Elijah said as he pushed open the glass door and immediately shoved a pair of sunglasses on his face. They effortlessly fell in with the movement of the crowd, merging in with the shifting mass of bodies.
Dom scowled. “At least give me a fucking quote or something to start me off. You always do that sort of thing, so why not do it now?”
Elijah shot him a weary smile, eyes hidden by the miracle of tinted lenses. Instead, the unknowing faces of strangers were reflected back at Dom. “’We do not see things as they are; we see them as we are,’” Elijah replied simply.
“Fucking existential bullshit.”
Elijah shook his head and tucked the bright yellow bag under his arm. Dom's footsteps kept quietly in time with his.
*
When Dom woke up the next morning, the apartment was eerily empty for 10 am. There was no music to complain about, no acrid smell of burnt eggs to tease Elijah about. He padded to the kitchen, bare feet sticking to the morning-damp tiles. Unhindered sunlight filtered in through the pristine windows of the high-rise residence, and instead of feeling peaceful, Dom felt ominous teeth snapping ever so slightly at the tips of his fingers.
A bright blue piece of paper was tacked to the fridge with a miniature Heinz magnet. The stationery was covered with Elijah's haphazard scrawl, writing lilting to the right as if his hand had been struggling to keep up with his mind. Black ink bled through the thin material, making the paper slightly transparent.
Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy.
*
Elijah walked in to find Dom leaning silently against the kitchen counter, a fold of blue peeking out from between the knuckles of his clenched fist.
“Hi,” Dom greeted, fingers fumbling with the hem of his t-shirt.
“Hey,” Elijah replied tiredly, but with a smile. He lifted his thick-rimmed glasses off his nose and rubbed at his eyes. The world exploded into tiny dots of black and red and as he blinked away the fading static, Dom shuffled closer, toes curling into their respective feet.
Elijah concentrated on the heat of the sun on his back and found himself breathing shallowly, as if his bloodstream had slowed down and was mercilessly crawling through his body. His hand fell to his side, taking his glasses with it. He blinked.
Dom reached out, gently palming the outline of Elijah's shoulder blade, and took one more step, putting them almost nose to lip. As he curled his wrists around the contours of Elijah's warm back, he ducked his head and whispered shakily against the curve of a pale ear.
“So where's our tragedy?”
*
PG-13
DM/EW
A/N: Italicized lyrics from Harvey Danger.
*
Dom found himself walking a lot, with a copy of the LA Times rolled tightly in his hand. His feet wandered aimlessly albeit confidently through the congested sidewalks as he dodged black briefcases and blazer-clad elbows. Headlines smudged themselves into his palm as he gripped the distinct paper while glancing uncomfortably over the sea of heads that bobbed along the streets.
He would settle into a random cafe and skim through the articles, a cup of chai tea steaming by his arm, eyes glancing over words depicting natural disasters and wars in the same plain print. He would read this, and remind himself that there were things bigger than his little world, that there were people worse off than he was, and that in fact, he should actually be pretty fucking happy with where he was at.
He would try, anyway.
*
“This isn't about you, Dom,” Elijah said softly without looking up. His fingers expertly shuffled through the milk carton full of tattered records. There were rows and rows of them, with everything enclosed by wallpapers of posters and the obligatory dim lighting of a used record store.
Dom slumped against the wall. “Then what the hell is it about,” he mumbled to himself. He half-heartedly followed Elijah's lead, slowly flicking through an adjacent bin. Distinctly 80's vinyl sleeves stared up at him as he absently regarded each picture.
Elijah pulled out a record with a flash of his arm and stared at Dom. “This isn't about you,” he repeated, clutching at the worn cover that read Blood, Sweat, and Tears. “This is about you and me.”
He brushed past Dom and made his way to the sticker-covered cash register, hand already reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Dom watched the quick transaction and followed Elijah like a lost child tagging along with someone who vaguely resembled their mother.
“You have to figure things out for yourself,” Elijah said as he pushed open the glass door and immediately shoved a pair of sunglasses on his face. They effortlessly fell in with the movement of the crowd, merging in with the shifting mass of bodies.
Dom scowled. “At least give me a fucking quote or something to start me off. You always do that sort of thing, so why not do it now?”
Elijah shot him a weary smile, eyes hidden by the miracle of tinted lenses. Instead, the unknowing faces of strangers were reflected back at Dom. “’We do not see things as they are; we see them as we are,’” Elijah replied simply.
“Fucking existential bullshit.”
Elijah shook his head and tucked the bright yellow bag under his arm. Dom's footsteps kept quietly in time with his.
*
When Dom woke up the next morning, the apartment was eerily empty for 10 am. There was no music to complain about, no acrid smell of burnt eggs to tease Elijah about. He padded to the kitchen, bare feet sticking to the morning-damp tiles. Unhindered sunlight filtered in through the pristine windows of the high-rise residence, and instead of feeling peaceful, Dom felt ominous teeth snapping ever so slightly at the tips of his fingers.
A bright blue piece of paper was tacked to the fridge with a miniature Heinz magnet. The stationery was covered with Elijah's haphazard scrawl, writing lilting to the right as if his hand had been struggling to keep up with his mind. Black ink bled through the thin material, making the paper slightly transparent.
Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy.
*
Elijah walked in to find Dom leaning silently against the kitchen counter, a fold of blue peeking out from between the knuckles of his clenched fist.
“Hi,” Dom greeted, fingers fumbling with the hem of his t-shirt.
“Hey,” Elijah replied tiredly, but with a smile. He lifted his thick-rimmed glasses off his nose and rubbed at his eyes. The world exploded into tiny dots of black and red and as he blinked away the fading static, Dom shuffled closer, toes curling into their respective feet.
Elijah concentrated on the heat of the sun on his back and found himself breathing shallowly, as if his bloodstream had slowed down and was mercilessly crawling through his body. His hand fell to his side, taking his glasses with it. He blinked.
Dom reached out, gently palming the outline of Elijah's shoulder blade, and took one more step, putting them almost nose to lip. As he curled his wrists around the contours of Elijah's warm back, he ducked his head and whispered shakily against the curve of a pale ear.
“So where's our tragedy?”
*