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fellowshippers2004-05-29 03:49 am
shinka-muse.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-05-29 03:49 am
fic
title: Cigarette burns (remix)
rating: R
Author: shink
pairing: dominic monaghan/rufus wainwright*
genre: ANGST.
warnings: mention of drug use and some other stuff that might squick you.
summary: Something like shame clenches slightly in my chest but dissipates before it can take hold; fluttering off to a place where my obligations and self-respect lie.
*author's notes: I had written this remix version several months ago, back when Dom first started getting those round burn-looking things all over his hands and wrists. After writing this story I never posted it because it was such an odd pairing I figured no one would want to read it. But then, I found Satyriasis by philomel. I'm so glad I wasnt the only one who thought they would make a beautiful pair. So I'm dusting this story off and pulling it from my un-read archives and posting here for your eyes to see.
I wake up cold. And itchy. And burnt. The morning light streaming through the half-drawn curtains casts a slight glow against my too-pale skin; mind pulsing and wanting still from last nights high. A spent syringe perched like a winged assassin on the coffee table looms ominously in the near distance. Something like shame clenches slightly in my chest but dissipates before it can take hold; fluttering off to a place where my obligations and self-respect lie.
Tiny burns mark my skin next to the cuts and newly formed scabs, like a dirty lovers kiss tinged with syphilis and leprosy. My arms protest in earnest as I lift myself up off of the worn carpet, burns stretching and pulling away from the smooth underside of my wrists, and the taut skin across my ribs. The smell of singed flesh hangs heavy in the air, and I can still taste his kiss on my lips.
He sits in the corner. On the edge of the bed. And he’s smoking still. Front-lit by a large, tacky hotel lamp, he casts a disproportionately large shadow against the pastel-patterned wall behind him. He looks over at my singed body with peculiar familiarity, avoiding my eyes. The shadow shifts and he crosses his legs almost as an afterthought.
I almost speak.
“You wouldn’t wake up,” he shrugs, the stale air dulling the sharp edges of his voice, “I thought you were dead.” Eyes dark and empty as he stares at the lit, unapologetic cigarette in his hand. He takes a drag and brushes away a greasy strand of unwashed hair that hangs across his forehead. He flicks away the ashes and looks right through me.
I thought you were dead.
Then again, maybe I am.
I wake up with the taste of ash in my mouth and my back covered in burns. Like all the times before, he sits nearby…waiting. There isn’t even the hint of apology in the smooth lines of his face as he watches me struggle to my feet. He doesn’t offer excuses anymore; and I’m long past needing them.
rating: R
Author: shink
pairing: dominic monaghan/rufus wainwright*
genre: ANGST.
warnings: mention of drug use and some other stuff that might squick you.
summary: Something like shame clenches slightly in my chest but dissipates before it can take hold; fluttering off to a place where my obligations and self-respect lie.
*author's notes: I had written this remix version several months ago, back when Dom first started getting those round burn-looking things all over his hands and wrists. After writing this story I never posted it because it was such an odd pairing I figured no one would want to read it. But then, I found Satyriasis by philomel. I'm so glad I wasnt the only one who thought they would make a beautiful pair. So I'm dusting this story off and pulling it from my un-read archives and posting here for your eyes to see.
I wake up cold. And itchy. And burnt. The morning light streaming through the half-drawn curtains casts a slight glow against my too-pale skin; mind pulsing and wanting still from last nights high. A spent syringe perched like a winged assassin on the coffee table looms ominously in the near distance. Something like shame clenches slightly in my chest but dissipates before it can take hold; fluttering off to a place where my obligations and self-respect lie.
Tiny burns mark my skin next to the cuts and newly formed scabs, like a dirty lovers kiss tinged with syphilis and leprosy. My arms protest in earnest as I lift myself up off of the worn carpet, burns stretching and pulling away from the smooth underside of my wrists, and the taut skin across my ribs. The smell of singed flesh hangs heavy in the air, and I can still taste his kiss on my lips.
He sits in the corner. On the edge of the bed. And he’s smoking still. Front-lit by a large, tacky hotel lamp, he casts a disproportionately large shadow against the pastel-patterned wall behind him. He looks over at my singed body with peculiar familiarity, avoiding my eyes. The shadow shifts and he crosses his legs almost as an afterthought.
I almost speak.
“You wouldn’t wake up,” he shrugs, the stale air dulling the sharp edges of his voice, “I thought you were dead.” Eyes dark and empty as he stares at the lit, unapologetic cigarette in his hand. He takes a drag and brushes away a greasy strand of unwashed hair that hangs across his forehead. He flicks away the ashes and looks right through me.
I thought you were dead.
Then again, maybe I am.
I wake up with the taste of ash in my mouth and my back covered in burns. Like all the times before, he sits nearby…waiting. There isn’t even the hint of apology in the smooth lines of his face as he watches me struggle to my feet. He doesn’t offer excuses anymore; and I’m long past needing them.