Fic: Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr (1/1)
Title: Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet
Word Count: 735
Summary: There’s a house in the jungle that no one ever sees. For wandersfound , who requested “Books” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau, and the 50scenes Prompt #18 - Closer. Spoilers through 6.17 - The End.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title is credit to the brilliant and inspiring Rainer Maria Rilke. Format is inspired by Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves.
Author’s Notes: For wandersfound : this is... different, but I hope you’ll like it nonetheless. The formatting, if not the style, comes from the novel House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski; the title comes from a Rilke quote found in the Appendices of the same.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr
There’s a house in the jungle that no one ever sees. He walks past it more than once, she’s crossed the yard countless times; they never notice the eyes that watch them -- hollow or haunted or shining and sure. They never see the windows, caked with grime and the passing years, the fog exhaled against the panes invisible on the glass. They never know what’s inside of it; never understand that what’s inside never mattered, anyway.
There’s a house in the jungle that no one ever sees.
❦
There is a house, that’s not a house, but it’s where they both lie; where they both manage to be honest with themselves if not each other for the first time, so strange it almost seems untrue.
He’s hidden things -- medicines and weapons and novels and knives and himself, somewhere, in the pages and the sand; she doesn’t hide, because she’s already lost most all of what was worth keeping.
He doesn’t trust her; she doesn’t care -- she moans in time with the waves on the shore and there’s nothing between them when he spills, cuts crescents of red against her arms when she comes.
She pants heavy against the center of his chest, doesn’t think, almost hopefully, about what happens to pregnant women on this Island, in this place move -- just waits until her lungs stop burning, her heart stops shaking.
He doesn’t wait for anything, but the rising of the sun.
There is a house, that’s not a house, but it’ll do.
❦
There is a house that’s older than their bones, in a time that’s not their own, that belongs but doesn’t belong -- like them.
Living together is easier than either of them could have imagined, would have guessed; they fit, like pieces of a fucked up puzzle that don’t really fit at all, were never meant to in the first place, but have been banged around enough that they’re misshapen and broken and tired and different, reshaped into something new, and they fit and it’s familiar. It works.
Being together comes gradually. She’s never liked doing dishes and he doesn’t pick his clothes up off of the floor. He snores; she’s a light sleeper. They’re both cold in the night.
They figure it out.
Loving together happens without either of them knowing it, realizing -- meaning for it to be at all, but it’s not an unwelcome change. It happens fast, faster than they’re aware, than they’re ready for, but it’s a shift, between when the kissing makes them feel a little less dead inside, and when it finally makes them feel alive, and they don’t just let it happen: they make it happen, and the falling doesn’t hurt so bad.
There is a house that’s older than their bones, but it’s home.
❦
There is a house -- more than one house -- that reminds them both of things they’ve lost, forgotten.
Sometimes he remembers the way her skin felt, the scent of her hair like the sun and the shade wakes in the morning, and wonders why the other side of his bed feels cold, feels dead feels like he never slept at all; like he’s still sleeping, dreaming.
Sometimes she makes her coffee, sips; wonders why her lips feel foreign, lacking, why they long for something she’s never had before, always had before lets the warmth so unlike what she needs, what she wants, so incomplete course through her from her throat down, down -- far enough to touch the jagged parts that can still recall his fingers in her hair and his mouth on her neck penetrate, to shake her from her waking haze before the dawn breaks too fast, too hard.
There is a house -- more than one -- that helps put them to rights.
❦
There is a house, at the end, where God lives; where Gods live.
They hold on, but they don’t believe in God anymore.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sawyer/Juliet
Word Count: 735
Summary: There’s a house in the jungle that no one ever sees. For wandersfound , who requested “Books” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau, and the 50scenes Prompt #18 - Closer. Spoilers through 6.17 - The End.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title is credit to the brilliant and inspiring Rainer Maria Rilke. Format is inspired by Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves.
Author’s Notes: For wandersfound : this is... different, but I hope you’ll like it nonetheless. The formatting, if not the style, comes from the novel House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski; the title comes from a Rilke quote found in the Appendices of the same.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr
There’s a house in the jungle that no one ever sees. He walks past it more than once, she’s crossed the yard countless times; they never notice the eyes that watch them -- hollow or haunted or shining and sure. They never see the windows, caked with grime and the passing years, the fog exhaled against the panes invisible on the glass. They never know what’s inside of it; never understand that what’s inside never mattered, anyway.
There’s a house in the jungle that no one ever sees.
❦
There is a house, that’s not a house, but it’s where they both lie; where they both manage to be honest with themselves if not each other for the first time, so strange it almost seems untrue.
He’s hidden things -- medicines and weapons and novels and knives and himself, somewhere, in the pages and the sand; she doesn’t hide, because she’s already lost most all of what was worth keeping.
He doesn’t trust her; she doesn’t care -- she moans in time with the waves on the shore and there’s nothing between them when he spills, cuts crescents of red against her arms when she comes.
She pants heavy against the center of his chest, doesn’t think, almost hopefully, about what happens to pregnant women on this Island, in this place move -- just waits until her lungs stop burning, her heart stops shaking.
He doesn’t wait for anything, but the rising of the sun.
There is a house, that’s not a house, but it’ll do.
❦
There is a house that’s older than their bones, in a time that’s not their own, that belongs but doesn’t belong -- like them.
Living together is easier than either of them could have imagined, would have guessed; they fit, like pieces of a fucked up puzzle that don’t really fit at all, were never meant to in the first place, but have been banged around enough that they’re misshapen and broken and tired and different, reshaped into something new, and they fit and it’s familiar. It works.
Being together comes gradually. She’s never liked doing dishes and he doesn’t pick his clothes up off of the floor. He snores; she’s a light sleeper. They’re both cold in the night.
They figure it out.
Loving together happens without either of them knowing it, realizing -- meaning for it to be at all, but it’s not an unwelcome change. It happens fast, faster than they’re aware, than they’re ready for, but it’s a shift, between when the kissing makes them feel a little less dead inside, and when it finally makes them feel alive, and they don’t just let it happen: they make it happen, and the falling doesn’t hurt so bad.
There is a house that’s older than their bones, but it’s home.
❦
There is a house -- more than one house -- that reminds them both of things they’ve lost, forgotten.
Sometimes he remembers the way her skin felt, the scent of her hair like the sun and the shade wakes in the morning, and wonders why the other side of his bed feels cold, feels dead feels like he never slept at all; like he’s still sleeping, dreaming.
Sometimes she makes her coffee, sips; wonders why her lips feel foreign, lacking, why they long for something she’s never had before, always had before lets the warmth so unlike what she needs, what she wants, so incomplete course through her from her throat down, down -- far enough to touch the jagged parts that can still recall his fingers in her hair and his mouth on her neck penetrate, to shake her from her waking haze before the dawn breaks too fast, too hard.
There is a house -- more than one -- that helps put them to rights.
❦
There is a house, at the end, where God lives; where Gods live.
They hold on, but they don’t believe in God anymore.