(#001) prompts for sale [2/7]
the game (we no longer play) (brazil/argentina)
written for zulenha
It struck him, like a lightning in the middle of the night.
Martin was sprawled in the grass and still feeling the echoes of laughter inside his chest, when he suddenly glanced up and saw Luciano standing one foot ahead of him. The sight of his back turned to him, his dark skin drinking in the last rays of daylight and leaving him there, hidden in his shadow, made his heart plumb.
It shouldn’t matter, because Luciano is not a giant.
(But still, he makes Martin feel small sometimes.)
Luciano turns back to him then, a smile still warming his face. It’s not until he leans down and reaches for his hands to help him up, that Martin realizes that Luciano doesn’t play that game; not anymore, not with him at least.
(And Martin just doesn’t know how to feel about that.)
“Thanks”, he says without much thought.
“Sure”, Luciano responds. “Not gonna leave you on the floor.”
And you would think that Luciano doesn’t know; that he doesn’t even suspect the demons Martin has been carrying all along. But his fingers curl knowingly around his hand, gentle and firm at the same time, and Martin feels the kindness of all the things Luciano said with common words, sliding up his veins and melting the ice in the corners of his soul.
Luciano greets his blushing cheeks with a humble laugh and pushes him a little closer, so that their shoulders bump a little while they walk. Martin smiles in spite of himself and gives their locked hands a little squeeze.
Luciano is the best compliment Martin has ever received.
too human to be a hero. (haiti+argentina)
written for juanita_star
When you’re trapped in a body as broken as your own house, the real tragedy is that you have too much time to think.
René doesn’t waste his time in that kind of feelings because life is a bitch to us all, but it seems that there are always one or two privileged who happen to be her favorite toys (and oh, that just sounds like his luck). What happened wasn’t even unexpected really, but that’s how it goes: you know there’s something coming your way and that it could strike you down one of these days, but it never comes as fast as you expect and in the end, you get used to the waiting while fear dies into the routine.
He closes his eyes and shares his kindest thoughts with the parting souls, but he doesn’t mourn (and it seems like the world is doing quite a great job for him in that front.) That just reminds him of a more real presence moving constantly around the house and René has the right amount of strength left to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.
It’s not that he’s not grateful. Even if he’s not really fond of asking for help, René knows that there are some battles you cannot win without a friend and to be honest, he wasn’t even expecting half of the people who answered his cry. And Martin was the right and the wrong example at the same time. They don’t really have a close relationship; to say otherwise would be to lie. Martin is more like a blue stick note on the fridge, a reminder of just one more name in the list of armies walking around like ants in his land.
When René woke up the first time, he caught a glimpse of gold and the first word that came to mind was Jones. Soon after the pain spread like fire at his first coherent thought, someone was right next to him and then the realization came instantly.
(Wheat. Not gold, wheat.)
Martin wasn’t the only one who helped, but René learned later that he was the first one to arrive. It’s not important really, just… a little amusing, maybe. For that reason, René had expected him to leave early- especially when the rest of the world came in and started to do its part- but Martin seemed to have claimed him as his personal patient and René wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, even if Martin had proven that he has a pretty good hand for medicine.
René wanted to believe in the good in people, but that didn’t mean he trusted blindly. So he supposed that if Martin wasn’t doing this out of love for (not quite yet) a friend, then it was out of glory; to feel like a hero for a while. Why not? Hell, even he wanted to feed himself some fame for a change every now and then. But no, that was not it. You see, the thing about heroes is that they leave: they save you, smile and maybe even pat you in the head if you look miserable enough and soon they leave to save another misfortunate soul. Martin leaves, but only for an hour; to see how his people are doing with the rest of the victims, to drop some medical advice here and there… and then he comes back to René.
(Not a hero, scarcely a friend.
But still-)
“You have some creepy mother hen complex, you know?”
Martin looks up at him from under his eyelashes and René almost smiles, but he doesn’t because seriousness is part of the (half a) joke. His hands never stop moving over the long wound- long and clean and healing- on his chest.
“Really?” Martin looks back at his work, with a tiny smile that soon will be a smirk. “You want your soup to taste like piss that badly?”
(-René likes him better that way.)
written for zulenha
It struck him, like a lightning in the middle of the night.
Martin was sprawled in the grass and still feeling the echoes of laughter inside his chest, when he suddenly glanced up and saw Luciano standing one foot ahead of him. The sight of his back turned to him, his dark skin drinking in the last rays of daylight and leaving him there, hidden in his shadow, made his heart plumb.
It shouldn’t matter, because Luciano is not a giant.
(But still, he makes Martin feel small sometimes.)
Luciano turns back to him then, a smile still warming his face. It’s not until he leans down and reaches for his hands to help him up, that Martin realizes that Luciano doesn’t play that game; not anymore, not with him at least.
(And Martin just doesn’t know how to feel about that.)
“Thanks”, he says without much thought.
“Sure”, Luciano responds. “Not gonna leave you on the floor.”
And you would think that Luciano doesn’t know; that he doesn’t even suspect the demons Martin has been carrying all along. But his fingers curl knowingly around his hand, gentle and firm at the same time, and Martin feels the kindness of all the things Luciano said with common words, sliding up his veins and melting the ice in the corners of his soul.
Luciano greets his blushing cheeks with a humble laugh and pushes him a little closer, so that their shoulders bump a little while they walk. Martin smiles in spite of himself and gives their locked hands a little squeeze.
Luciano is the best compliment Martin has ever received.
too human to be a hero. (haiti+argentina)
written for juanita_star
When you’re trapped in a body as broken as your own house, the real tragedy is that you have too much time to think.
René doesn’t waste his time in that kind of feelings because life is a bitch to us all, but it seems that there are always one or two privileged who happen to be her favorite toys (and oh, that just sounds like his luck). What happened wasn’t even unexpected really, but that’s how it goes: you know there’s something coming your way and that it could strike you down one of these days, but it never comes as fast as you expect and in the end, you get used to the waiting while fear dies into the routine.
He closes his eyes and shares his kindest thoughts with the parting souls, but he doesn’t mourn (and it seems like the world is doing quite a great job for him in that front.) That just reminds him of a more real presence moving constantly around the house and René has the right amount of strength left to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.
It’s not that he’s not grateful. Even if he’s not really fond of asking for help, René knows that there are some battles you cannot win without a friend and to be honest, he wasn’t even expecting half of the people who answered his cry. And Martin was the right and the wrong example at the same time. They don’t really have a close relationship; to say otherwise would be to lie. Martin is more like a blue stick note on the fridge, a reminder of just one more name in the list of armies walking around like ants in his land.
When René woke up the first time, he caught a glimpse of gold and the first word that came to mind was Jones. Soon after the pain spread like fire at his first coherent thought, someone was right next to him and then the realization came instantly.
(Wheat. Not gold, wheat.)
Martin wasn’t the only one who helped, but René learned later that he was the first one to arrive. It’s not important really, just… a little amusing, maybe. For that reason, René had expected him to leave early- especially when the rest of the world came in and started to do its part- but Martin seemed to have claimed him as his personal patient and René wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, even if Martin had proven that he has a pretty good hand for medicine.
René wanted to believe in the good in people, but that didn’t mean he trusted blindly. So he supposed that if Martin wasn’t doing this out of love for (not quite yet) a friend, then it was out of glory; to feel like a hero for a while. Why not? Hell, even he wanted to feed himself some fame for a change every now and then. But no, that was not it. You see, the thing about heroes is that they leave: they save you, smile and maybe even pat you in the head if you look miserable enough and soon they leave to save another misfortunate soul. Martin leaves, but only for an hour; to see how his people are doing with the rest of the victims, to drop some medical advice here and there… and then he comes back to René.
(Not a hero, scarcely a friend.
But still-)
“You have some creepy mother hen complex, you know?”
Martin looks up at him from under his eyelashes and René almost smiles, but he doesn’t because seriousness is part of the (half a) joke. His hands never stop moving over the long wound- long and clean and healing- on his chest.
“Really?” Martin looks back at his work, with a tiny smile that soon will be a smirk. “You want your soup to taste like piss that badly?”
(-René likes him better that way.)