their world is flat backgrounds and little need to sleep
I told myself that I had to post fic of some kind today because it's been and entire month since I've finished anything. And what do you know, it seems that self imposed deadlines do work.
This is part two of Prague. I'm still not really sure where it's going, but I've got slightly more of an idea now than I did before, and there's even dialog. Amazing.
In which there are creeping shadows and espresso.
Prague - part two
At night the city is too uniform, too smooth, buildings, cars, people, everything fading to black at the edges. Strings of lights and outdoors heaters in the square only accentuate the shadows, drawing them out. Almost everything in this city is shadow once the sun goes down. Light carries strangely around sharp corners and canyon alleys, and Draco can feel the hairs on the back of his neck raise as he passes a doorway, a deep window, the entrance to a darkened alley. No change in pace or movement, no amount of quick changes of direction or spinning around, cloak flying, to peer into the dim darkness behind him can shake the feeling of being followed.
But there is nothing there.
There is never anything there, because there is nothing there, and Blaise's new habit of falling slightly behind when walking and jumping out of doorways, eyes blazing too bright in the dark; catching light that should not be there, as Draco turns, is more than a little disconcerting. He tells himself that it is just paranoia, nothing real, but there's a nagging voice in the back of his mind that keeps whispering just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not after you.
Even his own brain is in league with Blaise and the mysterious sinister forces of the city. He can feel them slipping in around him, those things that are not there, black yet translucent, flirting with his own shadow as he passes, trying to tempt it away from him and into their domain. He is obviously cracking up. He vows to keep his walking of city streets at night to the bare minimum in the future.
While the city is too smooth at night, in daylight it (and everything else, Blaise too, face and teeth and tongue included) is too sharp, the colours too bright. The red and gold and green shields of families long forgotten, - gryphon and crown and sword - adorning buildings and walls are bruises against stone darkened with centuries of city air. The brush of his hand against a brightly coloured gallery poster could cut, and he would bleed blood that is far too red into the noonday sun.
The sun teases and points at things in the back of his mind that he is trying not to think about as it picks out this section of cobbled street, and that tree, and this clock tower and that stretch of river, and throws them in his face think fast, but he can never quite catch them, never quite take it all in. The contrast is too much, and it is nearly overwhelming when trying to see into the shadows that cling to corners even when the sky is unreal-blue and cloudless.
The only time of day when he feels right is just before sunset. Just before sunrise would probably work too but that would mean getting up far far earlier than anyone on holiday (if you can call this a holiday) ever should. The light in the evening is almost comforting the shadows long but not dark. The light casting everything in an orange-yellow glow; centuries old buildings suddenly new again, the edges softened a bit against pinkish-orange clouds over fading blue sky. It is as if the entire city takes a deep breath before pushing on into darkness.
Draco sits in the square and watches the light change. It is something he had never given all that much thought to previously, the way light moves, that it even can, that the angle of the sun can create such colours. In moments when he's being completely honest with himself he wonders what it says about him that he had to be here and jumping at shadows and possibly going mad before he even noticed it.
Then Blaise appears and proclaims that they are going for coffee and everything is back to the same not-quite-normal that Draco's resigned himself to since arriving in Prague.
:::
Not seconds after they seat themselves the waiter appears from the depths of the cafe. Suddenly where there had been nothing but dull stone and empty space, there is a smallish man of indeterminate age fixing Blaise with an indeterminate look. The man seems to be fading around the edges. Blaise wonders if he would have noticed him at all had he not asked, in a half-simpering sing song voice, "What will sirs be having this afternoon?"
Blaise barks "Double espresso," at him before the waiter's mouth can solidify into a patronizing half-smile.
"And would sir like cream with that?" the smile solidifies.
Blaise snorts disdain, the look on his face proclaiming that the question is akin to being asked if he'd like doxy droppings in his coffee, and fixes the waiter with an unblinking snake glare. "Absolutely not."
The little man gazes back flatly with beady eyes, then turns away, toward Draco. "And you sir?"
"Cappuccino." With that the waiter, turns, no fades, back into the building and Blaise's glare comes to rest firmly on Draco. "You have a problem, Zabini." it is more of a statement than a question.
Blaise sneers. "Cappuccino?"
"I didn’t order it for you."
"It is after noon."
"And?"
"You'd better not try that in Italy."
"Could you be more cryptic, please. I don't think I've quite reached my cryptic quota for the week."
"They'll run you out of town."
"Who? Are we having the same conversation?"
"The Italians. You do not order coffee with milk after noon in Italy."
"We're not in Italy."
"It's just not done."
The waiter is back, all but fading in at Draco's right elbow - clink thunk, two cups with two saucers, coffee sloshing over the edge, unceremoniously deposited on the table - and walking away (fading back out) again, with a lingering look that knows far more than it should.
"There's something rather off about that little man," Blaise observes. "I don't believe waiting tables is his primary line of work."
Blaise leans back into the uncomfortable and slightly rusty metal chair with the air of one reclining on a chaise by the pool and glares at the cup, as if to discern that it really is a cup of espresso, before bringing it to his lips and licking the liquid off the rim. Apparently the argument has gone out of him, for the moment.
Draco nods absently and watches, over the edge of his mug, as the light turns orange to blue and the shadows creep out of the corner where the waiter had been standing and toward his own feet.
part 3
I actually dreamed most of the dialog part of the coffee scene, which amuses me greatly.
This is part two of Prague. I'm still not really sure where it's going, but I've got slightly more of an idea now than I did before, and there's even dialog. Amazing.
In which there are creeping shadows and espresso.
Prague - part two
At night the city is too uniform, too smooth, buildings, cars, people, everything fading to black at the edges. Strings of lights and outdoors heaters in the square only accentuate the shadows, drawing them out. Almost everything in this city is shadow once the sun goes down. Light carries strangely around sharp corners and canyon alleys, and Draco can feel the hairs on the back of his neck raise as he passes a doorway, a deep window, the entrance to a darkened alley. No change in pace or movement, no amount of quick changes of direction or spinning around, cloak flying, to peer into the dim darkness behind him can shake the feeling of being followed.
But there is nothing there.
There is never anything there, because there is nothing there, and Blaise's new habit of falling slightly behind when walking and jumping out of doorways, eyes blazing too bright in the dark; catching light that should not be there, as Draco turns, is more than a little disconcerting. He tells himself that it is just paranoia, nothing real, but there's a nagging voice in the back of his mind that keeps whispering just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not after you.
Even his own brain is in league with Blaise and the mysterious sinister forces of the city. He can feel them slipping in around him, those things that are not there, black yet translucent, flirting with his own shadow as he passes, trying to tempt it away from him and into their domain. He is obviously cracking up. He vows to keep his walking of city streets at night to the bare minimum in the future.
While the city is too smooth at night, in daylight it (and everything else, Blaise too, face and teeth and tongue included) is too sharp, the colours too bright. The red and gold and green shields of families long forgotten, - gryphon and crown and sword - adorning buildings and walls are bruises against stone darkened with centuries of city air. The brush of his hand against a brightly coloured gallery poster could cut, and he would bleed blood that is far too red into the noonday sun.
The sun teases and points at things in the back of his mind that he is trying not to think about as it picks out this section of cobbled street, and that tree, and this clock tower and that stretch of river, and throws them in his face think fast, but he can never quite catch them, never quite take it all in. The contrast is too much, and it is nearly overwhelming when trying to see into the shadows that cling to corners even when the sky is unreal-blue and cloudless.
The only time of day when he feels right is just before sunset. Just before sunrise would probably work too but that would mean getting up far far earlier than anyone on holiday (if you can call this a holiday) ever should. The light in the evening is almost comforting the shadows long but not dark. The light casting everything in an orange-yellow glow; centuries old buildings suddenly new again, the edges softened a bit against pinkish-orange clouds over fading blue sky. It is as if the entire city takes a deep breath before pushing on into darkness.
Draco sits in the square and watches the light change. It is something he had never given all that much thought to previously, the way light moves, that it even can, that the angle of the sun can create such colours. In moments when he's being completely honest with himself he wonders what it says about him that he had to be here and jumping at shadows and possibly going mad before he even noticed it.
Then Blaise appears and proclaims that they are going for coffee and everything is back to the same not-quite-normal that Draco's resigned himself to since arriving in Prague.
:::
Not seconds after they seat themselves the waiter appears from the depths of the cafe. Suddenly where there had been nothing but dull stone and empty space, there is a smallish man of indeterminate age fixing Blaise with an indeterminate look. The man seems to be fading around the edges. Blaise wonders if he would have noticed him at all had he not asked, in a half-simpering sing song voice, "What will sirs be having this afternoon?"
Blaise barks "Double espresso," at him before the waiter's mouth can solidify into a patronizing half-smile.
"And would sir like cream with that?" the smile solidifies.
Blaise snorts disdain, the look on his face proclaiming that the question is akin to being asked if he'd like doxy droppings in his coffee, and fixes the waiter with an unblinking snake glare. "Absolutely not."
The little man gazes back flatly with beady eyes, then turns away, toward Draco. "And you sir?"
"Cappuccino." With that the waiter, turns, no fades, back into the building and Blaise's glare comes to rest firmly on Draco. "You have a problem, Zabini." it is more of a statement than a question.
Blaise sneers. "Cappuccino?"
"I didn’t order it for you."
"It is after noon."
"And?"
"You'd better not try that in Italy."
"Could you be more cryptic, please. I don't think I've quite reached my cryptic quota for the week."
"They'll run you out of town."
"Who? Are we having the same conversation?"
"The Italians. You do not order coffee with milk after noon in Italy."
"We're not in Italy."
"It's just not done."
The waiter is back, all but fading in at Draco's right elbow - clink thunk, two cups with two saucers, coffee sloshing over the edge, unceremoniously deposited on the table - and walking away (fading back out) again, with a lingering look that knows far more than it should.
"There's something rather off about that little man," Blaise observes. "I don't believe waiting tables is his primary line of work."
Blaise leans back into the uncomfortable and slightly rusty metal chair with the air of one reclining on a chaise by the pool and glares at the cup, as if to discern that it really is a cup of espresso, before bringing it to his lips and licking the liquid off the rim. Apparently the argument has gone out of him, for the moment.
Draco nods absently and watches, over the edge of his mug, as the light turns orange to blue and the shadows creep out of the corner where the waiter had been standing and toward his own feet.
part 3
I actually dreamed most of the dialog part of the coffee scene, which amuses me greatly.