Open Eyes - Lost - Sawyer/Sayid
Title: Open Eyes
Pairing: Sawyer/Sayid (mentions of Jack/Boone, Jin/Sun, Charlie/everyone)
Word Count: 502
Rating: PG-13
A/N: For the lostsquee luau, Queen haldoor asked for anything inspired by poetry. While I was on holiday, I went to see Dylan Thomas's Under Milk Wood, and this is inspired by its opening scene (which isn't exactly poetry, but it sounds like it!). I'm also using it for one of writing_rainbow's prompts.
Summary: While the rest of the camp is asleep, Sawyer stays awake and watches.
In the dead of night, nobody stirs. The beach is silent but for the wild whisper of the waves, and it is a silence that Sawyer is glad for: one he wishes to escape into. During the day the camp is loud. It bustles. Adventures, trials and love stories line the sand - but not at night. Once the sun whispers its goodbyes, their soap opera takes a rest, and he does too.
He sits near the entrance of his tent, able to hear the quiet in-and-out, like-the-dead breathing of the man sleeping behind him. No movement from the other tents. Jack and Boone fell silent shortly after the sun set and the chatter of the girls has slipped away to sleep. He doesn't know whose tent Charlie is in tonight, but it isn't theirs. He spends his time travelling and everyone knows it: nobody minds. Their travelling musician is to be shared. Jin and Sun have retired early and even Claire's baby is silent in slumber.
In the dead of night - of this night - nobody stirs.
Not even the jungle, not even the monster, not even the others that live in its depths. Sawyer breathes deep of the salt air and closes his eyes to the light, star-filled sky.
"Sawyer," Sayid whispers, his voice thick and lost in the drowsiness of goodbye-sleep. He reaches for him; his hand rests on Sawyer's thigh. It is a hot, heavy, welcome weight - Sawyer turns to him, eyes opening. "You should be asleep. It is the middle of the night."
"Can't sleep," he answers, but he crawl-curls back to Sayid's side. Sayid burns against him, the black of his hair darker than the night that swamps them. His eyes, puppy-dog brown, watch him with open curiosity. "Stop worrying; it's nothing big. Bad dreams is all."
When he sleeps, joining the tired ranks of the islanders as they slumber, the dead come for him. They visit; they whisper; they call his name. They drag him down.
Sayid's hand pushes the hair from his face, slow like an explorer when he leans in to brush his lips against the paler skin near his hair line. His hot breath rushes through the strands of hair when he lingers there; thoughtfully. Like this, Sawyer stares at the dark column of his neck, at the fragile cords and tendons before him. So easy to break: death is so easy for humankind. It takes them every night.
"If you are having bad dreams, then we will have to make sure you don't sleep," Sayid murmurs - it is logical, after all. His hands - big, warm, careful hands - are already creeping their way over Sawyer's skin, mapping out all of the sordid things he plans on doing to him. Sawyer leans back against their bed and allows his grin to spread, wide and smug, before it is wiped clean from his face by the push of Sayid's mouth against his. Fighting sleep this way is his most favourite of all.
Pairing: Sawyer/Sayid (mentions of Jack/Boone, Jin/Sun, Charlie/everyone)
Word Count: 502
Rating: PG-13
A/N: For the lostsquee luau, Queen haldoor asked for anything inspired by poetry. While I was on holiday, I went to see Dylan Thomas's Under Milk Wood, and this is inspired by its opening scene (which isn't exactly poetry, but it sounds like it!). I'm also using it for one of writing_rainbow's prompts.
Summary: While the rest of the camp is asleep, Sawyer stays awake and watches.
In the dead of night, nobody stirs. The beach is silent but for the wild whisper of the waves, and it is a silence that Sawyer is glad for: one he wishes to escape into. During the day the camp is loud. It bustles. Adventures, trials and love stories line the sand - but not at night. Once the sun whispers its goodbyes, their soap opera takes a rest, and he does too.
He sits near the entrance of his tent, able to hear the quiet in-and-out, like-the-dead breathing of the man sleeping behind him. No movement from the other tents. Jack and Boone fell silent shortly after the sun set and the chatter of the girls has slipped away to sleep. He doesn't know whose tent Charlie is in tonight, but it isn't theirs. He spends his time travelling and everyone knows it: nobody minds. Their travelling musician is to be shared. Jin and Sun have retired early and even Claire's baby is silent in slumber.
In the dead of night - of this night - nobody stirs.
Not even the jungle, not even the monster, not even the others that live in its depths. Sawyer breathes deep of the salt air and closes his eyes to the light, star-filled sky.
"Sawyer," Sayid whispers, his voice thick and lost in the drowsiness of goodbye-sleep. He reaches for him; his hand rests on Sawyer's thigh. It is a hot, heavy, welcome weight - Sawyer turns to him, eyes opening. "You should be asleep. It is the middle of the night."
"Can't sleep," he answers, but he crawl-curls back to Sayid's side. Sayid burns against him, the black of his hair darker than the night that swamps them. His eyes, puppy-dog brown, watch him with open curiosity. "Stop worrying; it's nothing big. Bad dreams is all."
When he sleeps, joining the tired ranks of the islanders as they slumber, the dead come for him. They visit; they whisper; they call his name. They drag him down.
Sayid's hand pushes the hair from his face, slow like an explorer when he leans in to brush his lips against the paler skin near his hair line. His hot breath rushes through the strands of hair when he lingers there; thoughtfully. Like this, Sawyer stares at the dark column of his neck, at the fragile cords and tendons before him. So easy to break: death is so easy for humankind. It takes them every night.
"If you are having bad dreams, then we will have to make sure you don't sleep," Sayid murmurs - it is logical, after all. His hands - big, warm, careful hands - are already creeping their way over Sawyer's skin, mapping out all of the sordid things he plans on doing to him. Sawyer leans back against their bed and allows his grin to spread, wide and smug, before it is wiped clean from his face by the push of Sayid's mouth against his. Fighting sleep this way is his most favourite of all.