Fic: Coconut Skins (1/1)
Title: Coconut Skins
Rating: PG
Character(s): Jin-Soo Kwon, Hugo "Hurley" Reyes, James "Sawyer" Ford
Word Count: 898
Summary: He thinks that might be why he resents this Island so strongly, above everything else - just as he’d been escaping his past, it’s come back to haunt him. For the lostsquee Ficlet Challenge Prompt: Smash, generous; and the 18coda Prompt #1 - A cappella. Spoilers through 1.17 - ...In Translation
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title inspired by Damien Rice.
Author’s Notes: Who’d have guessed two little words would have been so hard to figure something out for? Please excuse my meddling with Jin’s likely knowledge of English (and names), as well as with the chronology of Island events.
Coconut Skins
There’s a certain silence, a certain still in the surf just before dusk, and it’s the sparkle of the sun on the horizon, the way it glitters on the sea that reminds him of home. A home he’d claimed before any of this, almost before he could remember - a home that only birthright could bestow upon him, that had the same vague scent of salt, of musky, day-old fish that he associated with his childhood. He thinks that might be why he resents this Island so strongly, above everything else - just as he’d been escaping his past, it’s come back to haunt him.
“Wanna listen?” He hears the voice before he registers the large, black earphone interrupting his line of sight. It frustrates him that the words only make vague sense, makes the dead skin on his hands feel heavier than it has any right to. He simply stares as the hefty man with the unruly curls drops down next to him, the sand billowing as he settles into it, still holding out the ungainly black headphones generously; a peace offering, perhaps, or maybe just insurance against the eerie still of nightfall.
“Like, I know I’m not supposed to be talking to you, or whatever, because everyone thinks you burned the raft,” the larger man tells him as he crosses his legs, ankles beneath his thighs. His refusal to make eye contact, staring instead out at the setting sun, communicates an aversion that Jin cannot reconcile with the obvious choice to come and join Jin near the shoreline - they have an entire island for personal space, after all; no one should feel forced to share close quarters against their will.
“But I figure,” the man continues, his features creasing in concentration as his eyes scrunch, narrowing in internal debate; “you can’t really defend yourself, you know? So it’s not really fair. ‘Cause, like, that’s the law, right? Innocent until proven guilty and all that.”
He grabs for the bag slung across his shoulder, and Jin notices a luggage tag looped around the strap: ‘Property of Hugo Reyes.’ The English letters, while not entirely foreign, still fail to make any coherent sense, so he just summons the image of them to mind in association with the voice, the face. “I used to watch ‘Cops’ a lot, so I’d know.”
He flips haphazardly through a CD case, chewing his lip before extracting a disc and popping open his music player. “Oh, wait, here,” his tone is filled with excitement, and Jin tries to share it, but plateaus somewhere around polite confusion at best as Hugo switches the albums and fiddles with the buttons on his device. “You gotta hear this, it’s epic.”
The slide of guitar echoes faintly from where Hugo leans into the music, leaving enough room for Jin to enjoy at his leisure; where Hugo’s eyes are closed as he sways with the beat, Jin is less entranced, and so notices when a cadence apart from the headphones begins to gain prominence, and a figure - Sawyer, because Jin knows Sawyer well enough to have picked up his unusual moniker - stalks in front of them, heavy footfalls etching into the sand as he tromps straight past them, trampling Hugo’s music selection in the process without so much as a blink.
“Dude!” Hugo yelps, clumsily gaining his footing against the inconvenient give of the sand, his eyes wide with hurt as they dart between the scraggly-haired Sawyer and the prismatic slices of his smashed CDs where they peak from the sand. “What are you doing?”
Sawyer pauses casually, like it’s an afterthought as he glances down at the ruined shards where they shine against the dull granules. “Well, Lardo,” he speaks slowly, deliberately, and Jin resents the rhythm on principle - it’s the way people speak to him when they try to make him understand their language, as if the foreign tongue would make any more sense slowed down. “I’d guess that I was walking, and your fancy compact disc collection was in my way.”
Hugo’s fists clench at his side as he confronts Sawyer with a sort of innocent resolve. “Man, there’s like, a whole beach, you know? You could have walked anywhere.”
To this, Sawyer merely rolls his eyes. “Your point?”
“You didn’t have to snap my CDs, dude!” Hugo yells, trembling a bit. “Where am I supposed to get new ones?”
Sawyer smirks, and Hugo deflates before the insults even start. “I’d suggest the resident Island Record Exchange,” Sawyer mocks him, pointing towards the trees. “Jus’ on the corner of Jungle and Mango Tree.” He leans in to slap Hugo across the shoulder in derisive encouragement. “Prices are kinda steep, but I’m bettin’ with your charm, you can talk ‘em right down, eh Cheesecake?”
With a wink, the coarse American shuffles away, and Hugo lets out a sigh that could rival the breeze, as the unbearable hours where the sun burns hotter in its absence begin to settle in, the scents of the ocean stronger now, more reminiscent of the coasts of Namhae than ever before, and Jin has never felt more isolated, more alone.
“Least we’ve still got Damien, yeah?” Hugo asks rhetorically, turning up the volume a few notches; Jin just picks at the peeling skin on his blisters and tries his best not to look too spiteful, too bitter.
Rating: PG
Character(s): Jin-Soo Kwon, Hugo "Hurley" Reyes, James "Sawyer" Ford
Word Count: 898
Summary: He thinks that might be why he resents this Island so strongly, above everything else - just as he’d been escaping his past, it’s come back to haunt him. For the lostsquee Ficlet Challenge Prompt: Smash, generous; and the 18coda Prompt #1 - A cappella. Spoilers through 1.17 - ...In Translation
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title inspired by Damien Rice.
Author’s Notes: Who’d have guessed two little words would have been so hard to figure something out for? Please excuse my meddling with Jin’s likely knowledge of English (and names), as well as with the chronology of Island events.
Coconut Skins
There’s a certain silence, a certain still in the surf just before dusk, and it’s the sparkle of the sun on the horizon, the way it glitters on the sea that reminds him of home. A home he’d claimed before any of this, almost before he could remember - a home that only birthright could bestow upon him, that had the same vague scent of salt, of musky, day-old fish that he associated with his childhood. He thinks that might be why he resents this Island so strongly, above everything else - just as he’d been escaping his past, it’s come back to haunt him.
“Wanna listen?” He hears the voice before he registers the large, black earphone interrupting his line of sight. It frustrates him that the words only make vague sense, makes the dead skin on his hands feel heavier than it has any right to. He simply stares as the hefty man with the unruly curls drops down next to him, the sand billowing as he settles into it, still holding out the ungainly black headphones generously; a peace offering, perhaps, or maybe just insurance against the eerie still of nightfall.
“Like, I know I’m not supposed to be talking to you, or whatever, because everyone thinks you burned the raft,” the larger man tells him as he crosses his legs, ankles beneath his thighs. His refusal to make eye contact, staring instead out at the setting sun, communicates an aversion that Jin cannot reconcile with the obvious choice to come and join Jin near the shoreline - they have an entire island for personal space, after all; no one should feel forced to share close quarters against their will.
“But I figure,” the man continues, his features creasing in concentration as his eyes scrunch, narrowing in internal debate; “you can’t really defend yourself, you know? So it’s not really fair. ‘Cause, like, that’s the law, right? Innocent until proven guilty and all that.”
He grabs for the bag slung across his shoulder, and Jin notices a luggage tag looped around the strap: ‘Property of Hugo Reyes.’ The English letters, while not entirely foreign, still fail to make any coherent sense, so he just summons the image of them to mind in association with the voice, the face. “I used to watch ‘Cops’ a lot, so I’d know.”
He flips haphazardly through a CD case, chewing his lip before extracting a disc and popping open his music player. “Oh, wait, here,” his tone is filled with excitement, and Jin tries to share it, but plateaus somewhere around polite confusion at best as Hugo switches the albums and fiddles with the buttons on his device. “You gotta hear this, it’s epic.”
The slide of guitar echoes faintly from where Hugo leans into the music, leaving enough room for Jin to enjoy at his leisure; where Hugo’s eyes are closed as he sways with the beat, Jin is less entranced, and so notices when a cadence apart from the headphones begins to gain prominence, and a figure - Sawyer, because Jin knows Sawyer well enough to have picked up his unusual moniker - stalks in front of them, heavy footfalls etching into the sand as he tromps straight past them, trampling Hugo’s music selection in the process without so much as a blink.
“Dude!” Hugo yelps, clumsily gaining his footing against the inconvenient give of the sand, his eyes wide with hurt as they dart between the scraggly-haired Sawyer and the prismatic slices of his smashed CDs where they peak from the sand. “What are you doing?”
Sawyer pauses casually, like it’s an afterthought as he glances down at the ruined shards where they shine against the dull granules. “Well, Lardo,” he speaks slowly, deliberately, and Jin resents the rhythm on principle - it’s the way people speak to him when they try to make him understand their language, as if the foreign tongue would make any more sense slowed down. “I’d guess that I was walking, and your fancy compact disc collection was in my way.”
Hugo’s fists clench at his side as he confronts Sawyer with a sort of innocent resolve. “Man, there’s like, a whole beach, you know? You could have walked anywhere.”
To this, Sawyer merely rolls his eyes. “Your point?”
“You didn’t have to snap my CDs, dude!” Hugo yells, trembling a bit. “Where am I supposed to get new ones?”
Sawyer smirks, and Hugo deflates before the insults even start. “I’d suggest the resident Island Record Exchange,” Sawyer mocks him, pointing towards the trees. “Jus’ on the corner of Jungle and Mango Tree.” He leans in to slap Hugo across the shoulder in derisive encouragement. “Prices are kinda steep, but I’m bettin’ with your charm, you can talk ‘em right down, eh Cheesecake?”
With a wink, the coarse American shuffles away, and Hugo lets out a sigh that could rival the breeze, as the unbearable hours where the sun burns hotter in its absence begin to settle in, the scents of the ocean stronger now, more reminiscent of the coasts of Namhae than ever before, and Jin has never felt more isolated, more alone.
“Least we’ve still got Damien, yeah?” Hugo asks rhetorically, turning up the volume a few notches; Jin just picks at the peeling skin on his blisters and tries his best not to look too spiteful, too bitter.