New Fic: For Lack of Coffee
Genre: Angst
Rating: R (sex, language)
Pairing: Sayid/Sawyer
Summary: Sawyer finds a temporary substitute for his favorite drink.
Dated: January 16, 2005
Notes: Yay! A fic for my favorite man, Sayid, and my favorite slash pair. I'm not sure how effective this story is...please review.
For Lack of Coffee
By Ada Farrow
Sawyer snaps back into reality. He takes in his surroundings as his eyes pop open to reveal an indigo dusk peeking through a canopy of palms. Gradually things begin to register in his mind. He’s in a small grove near the grotto he found with Kate; he can hear the waterfall from not too far in the distance. His shirt is unbuttoned, and his pants are nowhere to be seen. His skin is hot, sticky, covered in sweat. He gets up and stretches his muscles, searches for his pants, which he finds have been carelessly discarded a few feet away. He puts them on as his eyes dart back and forth, thinking. He’s almost frightened to note that he can’t for the life of him remember how he got here or with whom. Has he been drugged? Presently he feels thirsty. His mind reaches backwards in time, but all he remembers is that he’d had an overwhelming desire for coffee.
Every day is a struggle to get up. Sawyer isn’t exactly the “seize the day” type; there’ve been times when he’s wished he would die in his sleep. He often needs that extra push to come into the waking world. Consequently he’s somewhat of a caffeine addict. Life on the island is harder without coffee. He recalled that afternoon. He’d been in a thoughtful mood and had gone looking for coffee beans. Trees, right? Coffee’s a bean, so it grows in a pod or something…on trees in tropical climates, right? Yeah. Because some coffee he liked when he was in the real world was from the Dominican Republic. Not that he’d know how to grind the beans or filter them or anything if he even found some. This rational thought was pushed out of his mind. Sawyer realized that he had been acting a little crazy.
That’s right, he’d been looking for coffee. He’d found himself heading for this grotto. He’d parted the underbrush and found something. Not coffee. But close.
Sayid. At first he’d thought he was hurt, and a very quiet “shit” escaped his mouth and his body tensed. Sayid was turned away from Sawyer’s view, and his legs were folded under him. He embraced the ground. But Sawyer hadn’t noticed any blood, and at a second glance Sayid’s breathing was regular, not pained, and his pose was meditative. A quiet string of words unintelligible drifted to Sawyer’s ears. Sayid had been praying.
Presently Sawyer notices his right fist--his knuckles are raw. He trails that hand up to his face and feels a pang where a bruise is forming on his cheekbone below his left eye. He deduces what must have happened next.
Some insult or another about Sayid’s religion. Probably he’d said something insensitive at the moment when Sayid was most sensitive, as he rose from his moment of repose. Sawyer remembered how Sayid’s expression had quickly moved from surprise to hurt to anger. If Sawyer had been in a lethargic mood before, he wasn’t then. The blood circulated through his body, he stood tall, and he was fully alert. He’d found a new stimulant. More insults were exchanged. Fists flew. Hence the bruise on his cheek.
Sayid had turned away to go, but Sawyer had stopped him. A look of unguarded anguish is on Sawyer’s face now as it had been for Sayid earlier. He’d drawn in close to the Arab, grasping his shoulders with painful insistence. Sayid had responded. Sawyer realizes that must be why his lips are bruised.
Now everything rushes back to him: a frenzy of hands and legs, clothes vanishing, Sayid’s hair brushing against his shoulder. Sawyer angrily forcing Sayid to the ground and Sayid rolling him over to reverse their positions. He can’t remember who won the fight, but when he tries to walk and feels a sharp sting in his ass he can guess. He sees himself eagerly throwing his legs over Sayid’s shoulders. Dark, hungry eyes staring at him as Sawyer was forced into and bucked against to bruise, always to bruise. And himself, heeling Sayid’s back, clamping them together, urging the other to hurt him. Sayid’s skin was a rich brown like Sawyer’s favorite drink and he’d wanted a comparative taste. Not coffee. But close. Although he can’t see it, the skin where Sawyer’s neck meets his shoulder feels abused and he guesses it has a string of bite marks. He has no clue what Sayid’s favorite food is, but maybe he reminds him of it, too.
And then there is nothing. He can’t get beyond those pictures in his mind, and he wonders where Sayid has gone. Sawyer hears the slight noise of water being disrupted and quickly heads to the grotto.
Sayid is standing in the water with his back to Sawyer. The play of dusky shadow and light reflected off the water sets off the planes of his pronounced shoulder blades and the curve of his ass before Sayid slips farther into the water to censor these things from his view. He is bathing himself almost ritualistically, scribing his body free of lust with the same palms that had rubbed spit between them, the same fingers that had spread Sawyer’s cheeks forcefully. Sayid turns towards Sawyer, but doesn’t notice him because his fingers are running through his damp hair and then over to massage his temples as an anguished expression settles over his features. His eyes are closed and he’s a statue except for his lips, which commit soft vowels to the air. Sawyer realizes that he’s invaded Sayid’s prayers again. Or maybe he’s Sayid’s prayer answered, he thinks with a moment of hubris. Sayid lets out a heavy whimper. No. No, Sawyer is his devil.
As Sayid’s getting out of the water and moving toward his clothes he sees Sawyer staring. There’s no surprise, no anger this time. But there is hurt--more like shame--written plainly on Sayid’s face before his eyes cast to the earth. Sawyer doesn’t care. He doesn’t know who he is, who Sayid is. Why should he care about the feelings of strangers? Fight or flight mentality kicks in, but indecision roots Sawyer to the ground. Sayid modestly turns away from Sawyer again, quickly throwing on his clothes.
As he passes by Sawyer on his way back toward the beach he whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Sawyer and Sayid aren’t enemies anymore; this is mostly Sayid’s doing. Not that Sayid shows him sympathetic acts of kindness or anything. He just avoids him. Sawyer tries to provoke him but Sayid always backs off. If Sawyer punches him, Sayid just looks down with his jaw set resolutely. Then it’s Sawyer who backs down and sulks off, afraid that if he wants to beat Sayid into a bloody pulp the other man would let him.
Sayid works endlessly, probably to drive some things from his mind. Sometimes he collapses in the middle of the day over some papers or some little electronic device he's found to tool with. Sayid hasn’t eaten much recently either, Sawyer notices. He wishes offhandedly Sayid would just starve to death already. No, he takes that back. Sawyer wishes to die in his sleep. For lack of coffee.
Rating: R (sex, language)
Pairing: Sayid/Sawyer
Summary: Sawyer finds a temporary substitute for his favorite drink.
Dated: January 16, 2005
Notes: Yay! A fic for my favorite man, Sayid, and my favorite slash pair. I'm not sure how effective this story is...please review.
For Lack of Coffee
By Ada Farrow
Sawyer snaps back into reality. He takes in his surroundings as his eyes pop open to reveal an indigo dusk peeking through a canopy of palms. Gradually things begin to register in his mind. He’s in a small grove near the grotto he found with Kate; he can hear the waterfall from not too far in the distance. His shirt is unbuttoned, and his pants are nowhere to be seen. His skin is hot, sticky, covered in sweat. He gets up and stretches his muscles, searches for his pants, which he finds have been carelessly discarded a few feet away. He puts them on as his eyes dart back and forth, thinking. He’s almost frightened to note that he can’t for the life of him remember how he got here or with whom. Has he been drugged? Presently he feels thirsty. His mind reaches backwards in time, but all he remembers is that he’d had an overwhelming desire for coffee.
Every day is a struggle to get up. Sawyer isn’t exactly the “seize the day” type; there’ve been times when he’s wished he would die in his sleep. He often needs that extra push to come into the waking world. Consequently he’s somewhat of a caffeine addict. Life on the island is harder without coffee. He recalled that afternoon. He’d been in a thoughtful mood and had gone looking for coffee beans. Trees, right? Coffee’s a bean, so it grows in a pod or something…on trees in tropical climates, right? Yeah. Because some coffee he liked when he was in the real world was from the Dominican Republic. Not that he’d know how to grind the beans or filter them or anything if he even found some. This rational thought was pushed out of his mind. Sawyer realized that he had been acting a little crazy.
That’s right, he’d been looking for coffee. He’d found himself heading for this grotto. He’d parted the underbrush and found something. Not coffee. But close.
Sayid. At first he’d thought he was hurt, and a very quiet “shit” escaped his mouth and his body tensed. Sayid was turned away from Sawyer’s view, and his legs were folded under him. He embraced the ground. But Sawyer hadn’t noticed any blood, and at a second glance Sayid’s breathing was regular, not pained, and his pose was meditative. A quiet string of words unintelligible drifted to Sawyer’s ears. Sayid had been praying.
Presently Sawyer notices his right fist--his knuckles are raw. He trails that hand up to his face and feels a pang where a bruise is forming on his cheekbone below his left eye. He deduces what must have happened next.
Some insult or another about Sayid’s religion. Probably he’d said something insensitive at the moment when Sayid was most sensitive, as he rose from his moment of repose. Sawyer remembered how Sayid’s expression had quickly moved from surprise to hurt to anger. If Sawyer had been in a lethargic mood before, he wasn’t then. The blood circulated through his body, he stood tall, and he was fully alert. He’d found a new stimulant. More insults were exchanged. Fists flew. Hence the bruise on his cheek.
Sayid had turned away to go, but Sawyer had stopped him. A look of unguarded anguish is on Sawyer’s face now as it had been for Sayid earlier. He’d drawn in close to the Arab, grasping his shoulders with painful insistence. Sayid had responded. Sawyer realizes that must be why his lips are bruised.
Now everything rushes back to him: a frenzy of hands and legs, clothes vanishing, Sayid’s hair brushing against his shoulder. Sawyer angrily forcing Sayid to the ground and Sayid rolling him over to reverse their positions. He can’t remember who won the fight, but when he tries to walk and feels a sharp sting in his ass he can guess. He sees himself eagerly throwing his legs over Sayid’s shoulders. Dark, hungry eyes staring at him as Sawyer was forced into and bucked against to bruise, always to bruise. And himself, heeling Sayid’s back, clamping them together, urging the other to hurt him. Sayid’s skin was a rich brown like Sawyer’s favorite drink and he’d wanted a comparative taste. Not coffee. But close. Although he can’t see it, the skin where Sawyer’s neck meets his shoulder feels abused and he guesses it has a string of bite marks. He has no clue what Sayid’s favorite food is, but maybe he reminds him of it, too.
And then there is nothing. He can’t get beyond those pictures in his mind, and he wonders where Sayid has gone. Sawyer hears the slight noise of water being disrupted and quickly heads to the grotto.
Sayid is standing in the water with his back to Sawyer. The play of dusky shadow and light reflected off the water sets off the planes of his pronounced shoulder blades and the curve of his ass before Sayid slips farther into the water to censor these things from his view. He is bathing himself almost ritualistically, scribing his body free of lust with the same palms that had rubbed spit between them, the same fingers that had spread Sawyer’s cheeks forcefully. Sayid turns towards Sawyer, but doesn’t notice him because his fingers are running through his damp hair and then over to massage his temples as an anguished expression settles over his features. His eyes are closed and he’s a statue except for his lips, which commit soft vowels to the air. Sawyer realizes that he’s invaded Sayid’s prayers again. Or maybe he’s Sayid’s prayer answered, he thinks with a moment of hubris. Sayid lets out a heavy whimper. No. No, Sawyer is his devil.
As Sayid’s getting out of the water and moving toward his clothes he sees Sawyer staring. There’s no surprise, no anger this time. But there is hurt--more like shame--written plainly on Sayid’s face before his eyes cast to the earth. Sawyer doesn’t care. He doesn’t know who he is, who Sayid is. Why should he care about the feelings of strangers? Fight or flight mentality kicks in, but indecision roots Sawyer to the ground. Sayid modestly turns away from Sawyer again, quickly throwing on his clothes.
As he passes by Sawyer on his way back toward the beach he whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Sawyer and Sayid aren’t enemies anymore; this is mostly Sayid’s doing. Not that Sayid shows him sympathetic acts of kindness or anything. He just avoids him. Sawyer tries to provoke him but Sayid always backs off. If Sawyer punches him, Sayid just looks down with his jaw set resolutely. Then it’s Sawyer who backs down and sulks off, afraid that if he wants to beat Sayid into a bloody pulp the other man would let him.
Sayid works endlessly, probably to drive some things from his mind. Sometimes he collapses in the middle of the day over some papers or some little electronic device he's found to tool with. Sayid hasn’t eaten much recently either, Sawyer notices. He wishes offhandedly Sayid would just starve to death already. No, he takes that back. Sawyer wishes to die in his sleep. For lack of coffee.