What I've been doing lately...
...apart from sleeping.
Finally found
Another 100 words, prompted by the song Renegade. You know, oh mama, I'm in fear of my life from the long arm of the law. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO SING IT.
And:
The heart that truly loves
Pairing: Peter/Caspian
Rating: PG for inexplicit boykissing.
W/C: 200 words exactly. \o/
Prompt: For 100foraslan, paint the sky with stars.
In London, the sky is never pitch-black. It’s covered with the kind smog that pumps from the chimneys of factories, the polluted byproduct of warfare. Peter can see the clouds move as the wind blows through the buildings that climb taller every year.
In Narnia, the sky glitters with a thousand colors, like the Narnians found a way to illuminate their lands by faerie lights, like Peter could look up and see small creatures dancing merrily to the music of the skies.
Sometimes he wishes the lines would blur, wishes he could paint this dreary sky with the color and vibrancy of a world much older.
Sometimes he sits in the rain, wrapping his fingers around the greenest blades of grass, and tries to tighten his grip on his memories. When Peter looks at his hands, it’s easy to pretend everything was a dream - including the scrape of Caspian’s thumbs along his cheekbones. There are no calluses from the ten-year wars waged in foreign lands, no scars from the assassination attempt in Archenland.
He sits in the rain and tries to remember the hand that intertwined with his, the lips that pressed softly against his own.
He thinks he’s slipping.
***
The light...it hurts ussss, precious.
Finally found
Another 100 words, prompted by the song Renegade. You know, oh mama, I'm in fear of my life from the long arm of the law. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO SING IT.
And:
The heart that truly loves
Pairing: Peter/Caspian
Rating: PG for inexplicit boykissing.
W/C: 200 words exactly. \o/
Prompt: For 100foraslan, paint the sky with stars.
In London, the sky is never pitch-black. It’s covered with the kind smog that pumps from the chimneys of factories, the polluted byproduct of warfare. Peter can see the clouds move as the wind blows through the buildings that climb taller every year.
In Narnia, the sky glitters with a thousand colors, like the Narnians found a way to illuminate their lands by faerie lights, like Peter could look up and see small creatures dancing merrily to the music of the skies.
Sometimes he wishes the lines would blur, wishes he could paint this dreary sky with the color and vibrancy of a world much older.
Sometimes he sits in the rain, wrapping his fingers around the greenest blades of grass, and tries to tighten his grip on his memories. When Peter looks at his hands, it’s easy to pretend everything was a dream - including the scrape of Caspian’s thumbs along his cheekbones. There are no calluses from the ten-year wars waged in foreign lands, no scars from the assassination attempt in Archenland.
He sits in the rain and tries to remember the hand that intertwined with his, the lips that pressed softly against his own.
He thinks he’s slipping.
***
The light...it hurts ussss, precious.