Life ficlet: the rain and the sun
the rain and the sun [Life, Charlie, Ted, R, 385 words. A little yuletide treat written for nestra. Thanks to Kristin for the super-quick beta. Can also be read here on the yuletide archive.]
Constance brings him an apple. It's very fresh and golden-green, a leaf that isn't withered still attached to the stalk. Nothing like the wrinkled fruit served inside. He rolls it over and over in his hands while she talks about appeals and evidence, punctuating her main points with clicks of her nails on the Formica tabletop. He hears her, but he isn't listening. He's thinking about life and how precious it is, about fresh plucked fruit. This apple was outside, clinging to a tree by a delicate stalk that he can remove with one simple twist. This apple has been bathed in California sunshine for its entire existence.
Charlie imagines being bathed in sunshine. He tries to remember the pleasure of it, the uncomplicated pleasure of warm skin and yellow sun and a sky that goes on to the horizon without interruption. He lies in bed that night, ignores the scratch of cheap cotton and Ted's soft snores, and imagines being an apple. Soaking up that sunshine. Clinging precariously to a tree and swelling with the rain and the sun.
He reaches under the sheets and strokes himself, feels himself swell with blood and need. Twists his hand and hums to himself, enjoys this simple pleasure.
The snoring stutters to a halt-Charlie notices that, even though he barely notices the snoring-and Ted leans over his bunk.
"Could you stop humming, please?" he asks. Ted is always very polite.
"I could, but then you'd hear other sounds. And I think you'd prefer the humming."
"Ah," Ted says. "In that case, I think you should carry on humming."
Charlie does. The interruption doesn't faze him. It's a part of this life inside, and one that he's come to terms with. He strokes his thumb over the head of his cock and can't help his hips lifting up, his heels digging into the thin mattress, the neediness of the moans that disrupt his humming. He hears an echo of his moans, the distinctive sounds of skin against skin, and he comes to that without guilt. Enjoys the moment of release and the bone-slack peace it brings.
Afterwards, Charlie eats the apple. The leaf is beginning to wither, but the flesh is crisp and juicy, an explosion of taste in his mouth. It tastes of sunshine and life.
//
Constance brings him an apple. It's very fresh and golden-green, a leaf that isn't withered still attached to the stalk. Nothing like the wrinkled fruit served inside. He rolls it over and over in his hands while she talks about appeals and evidence, punctuating her main points with clicks of her nails on the Formica tabletop. He hears her, but he isn't listening. He's thinking about life and how precious it is, about fresh plucked fruit. This apple was outside, clinging to a tree by a delicate stalk that he can remove with one simple twist. This apple has been bathed in California sunshine for its entire existence.
Charlie imagines being bathed in sunshine. He tries to remember the pleasure of it, the uncomplicated pleasure of warm skin and yellow sun and a sky that goes on to the horizon without interruption. He lies in bed that night, ignores the scratch of cheap cotton and Ted's soft snores, and imagines being an apple. Soaking up that sunshine. Clinging precariously to a tree and swelling with the rain and the sun.
He reaches under the sheets and strokes himself, feels himself swell with blood and need. Twists his hand and hums to himself, enjoys this simple pleasure.
The snoring stutters to a halt-Charlie notices that, even though he barely notices the snoring-and Ted leans over his bunk.
"Could you stop humming, please?" he asks. Ted is always very polite.
"I could, but then you'd hear other sounds. And I think you'd prefer the humming."
"Ah," Ted says. "In that case, I think you should carry on humming."
Charlie does. The interruption doesn't faze him. It's a part of this life inside, and one that he's come to terms with. He strokes his thumb over the head of his cock and can't help his hips lifting up, his heels digging into the thin mattress, the neediness of the moans that disrupt his humming. He hears an echo of his moans, the distinctive sounds of skin against skin, and he comes to that without guilt. Enjoys the moment of release and the bone-slack peace it brings.
Afterwards, Charlie eats the apple. The leaf is beginning to wither, but the flesh is crisp and juicy, an explosion of taste in his mouth. It tastes of sunshine and life.
//