D (pt 3)
The fluff will burn your eyes... Anyways, I'm finding it funny that what I've typed of Dso far is less than half the length of the first chapter of Con Fuoco. Hahaha. I'm long-winded...
Ugh, I hate my stupid mouse. I can't highlight things! It's depriving me of copypasta! I sincerely apologize for the lack of LJ cut... I just can't highlight the text. I fail. I'm sorry...
I'll shut up now.
Title: D
Info: WIP (will be posted in parts as I finish them)
Genre: Strangeness
Rating: T
Pairing: Smoker/Ace eventually
Summary: I'm screwing with your mind. 8D
--
“Define.”
--
Smoker began liking his meetings with Ace.
Having had enough of nervous numbers, around one hundred sixty seven hours later, Smoker brought Ace a few of the numerous books he owned, then a torch (and batteries) the next week upon Ace’s request.
“There’s a nifty loose floorboard in this corner,” Ace explained one Sunday. “I can keep things in there. I’ve just never had anything to keep.”
Week after week, Smoker would exchange the hidden books with newer ones for Ace to read in order to occupy his one hundred sixty seven hours of boredom. To the freckled man’s delight (Smoker discovered the existence of those freckles on the Sunday he drew open the curtains of two windows, not one), the books were a useful and less tedious way of passing time.
Ace faithfully returned every book Smoker brought for him a week later, until the Sunday Smoker brought a dictionary. Ace was fascinated by the many words and spent his brainpower increasing his vocabulary as opposed to calculating his percent change in boredom.
“I wish the windows would actually open,” Ace complained. “It’d be nice for some new air, or to hear the wind sough.”
“Sough?” Smoker asked.
“Sough, verb,” Ace quoted. “Of the wind - to make a sighing sound.”
“What else did you remember this week?” Smoker inquired.
Ace giggled. “You know, I really enjoy our weekly badinages, for they’re quite enjoyable. Badinage, noun. Playful and witty conversation.”
Smoker allowed a wry smile to touch his lips. “I fear that ‘badinage’ isn’t quite the word you should use,” he said. “Our conversations are not playful, witty, or even conversations. You never properly answer anything I ask.”
“The man is capable of smiling!” Ace gasped in mock horror. “Smoker, I feel that you are a tad too saturnine. It would probably do you good to be a bit more jocose from time to time. Saturnine, adjective. Gloomy in temperament or appearance. Jocose, adjective. Playful or humourous.”
“Are you teaching yourself words just to insult me?” Smoker snorted.
“I will ignore your cavils, for they are just Lilliputian complaints from a querulous man,” Ace stated pompously. “Cavil, noun. Petty objection. Lilliputian, adjective. Tiny. Querulous, adjective. Complaining or whining.”
“Treat your elders with more respect,” Smoker admonished.
Ace shook his head and grinned. “The next time I see Garp, I will say, ‘You harridan! Feed me something other than tea and crackers!’ You’re nowhere near his age, so I shan’t respect you either.”
Smoker contemplated for a few moments before asking curiously, “What is a ‘harridan’?”
“Harridan, noun,” Ace said, a wide smile on his face. “Nagging or vicious woman.” Then the two of them collapsed into laughter, no longer able to keep straight faces. “Ah… another volte-face of you,” said Ace once he regained his wits. “Volte-face, noun. Reversal of opinion.”
“Please stop throwing random words at me,” Smoker groaned.
“I apologize for my ebullient verbiage,” Ace said unapologetically. “My maundering must seem bizarre for a laconic person such as you. Ebullient, adjective. Full of enthusiasm or excitement. Verbiage, noun. Excessive use of words. Maunder, verb. To talk or act aimlessly or idly. Laconic, adjective. Using only a few words, terse.”
“Find a new word and put it in a sentence that makes sense,” Smoker challenged, folding his arms. “It must be the first word you see!”
Amused by their trivial game, Ace saluted and opened the dictionary to a random page. His smile faltered. “You probably believe, like many others, that I am non compos mentis,” Ace said monotonously. “Non compos mentis, adjective. Latin - not of sound mind.”
There was an awkward silence. Smoker plucked the dictionary out of Ace’s lax hands. He flipped with uncharacteristic, solemn exaggeration and cleared his throat. “Methinks that you are fubsy,” Smoker declared with mock seriousness, “and it is almost brindled how graminaceous you are!”
“… What did you say?” Ace asked blankly, not yet knowing those words.
“Fubsy, adjective,” Smoker imitated Ace. “Short and stout. Brindled, adjective. Brown or grey streaked with a darker colour. And… graminaceous, adjective. Of or like grass.”
Ace fell over, laughing and clutching his shaking sides. “That made absolutely no sense whatsoever!” he cried breathlessly. “And you looked so serious while saying it!”
With Ace back in a happy mood, Smoker drew the curtains shut. He bade Ace farewell and promised to return with more books. “Until our next tryst,” Smoker said, using a word Ace had two weeks prior.
“Tryst, noun,” Ace recited, smiling. “Arrangement to meet.”
--
“Dualism.”
--
Ace was not always happy.
Smoker learned - through experience - that Ace’s mood swung abruptly. Although generally good-natured, the unstable young man could change instantaneously if something touchy was said, if something else was done to upset him… Ace was very sensitive to the most Lilliputian things. Smoker came to realize this. Mainly by accident.
“Why did you call me Portgas?” Ace exclaimed angrily when Smoker made the mistake of asking where the name came from. “I told you not to call me that!” And full of rage, Ace had ended their meeting prematurely.
Yet the next week, Smoker entered the attic to find Ace curled underneath his blanket. When asked why, Ace indignantly replied, “Even I feel cold sometimes, you fool! Just because I’m ‘nervous’ doesn’t mean I’m also ‘nerveless’!” And he childishly kicked the older man’s legs whenever Smoker tried to go near him.
Then on one windy autumn day, Ace was nearly reduced to tears. “The trees!” he tried to explain. “They’re being forced to change colours, and then after all the effort, the wind strips their leaves off and throws them into careless piles!” Ace trembled. “And… and then Luffy jumps into their bloodied and crumbling corpses!”
Unable to predict or deal with such changes in temperament, Smoker gave up in a manly fashion. He asked fewer questions. He always listened and answered. It proved to be effective.
“Sometimes…” Ace began tiredly one rainy Sunday. “Sometimes I feel… like I’m cut in two. Divided. I’m laughing,” he explained, “but I feel like I want to cry. Then I cry when I laugh too hard. Or my inside and my outside aren’t the same. It’s exhausting.” To emphasize his point, Ace let his head drop heavily onto Smoker’s nearby shoulder.
“Then sometimes,” Ace continued, “I feel both happy and sad, which confuses me and makes me ‘nervous’. Feeling happy and sad at the same time is a bit too much…” He looked up at Smoker with widened brown eyes. “But it’s just sometimes… do you ever feel like that? Bisected?”
Smoker stared at the curious face looking at him. He thought carefully. “Sometimes,” he confessed (far too honestly, in hindsight…), “when I’m with you.”
Ace laughed, relieved. “Good! I’m not the only one.”
--
“Dream.”
--
“Ace is sick,” Luffy informed Smoker.
Regardless, Smoker went into the attic to see the man he had began growing fond of, mental instability and all. Nothing much was different. He was just quieter on his way in and did not open the curtains. Smoker sat next to Ace’s bed on the floor.
“Hi, Smoker…” Ace greeted, his voice raspy.
Smoker grunted in acknowledgement. “How are you?” he asked.
Ace, in his usual fashion, ignored the question. “Open the windows…”
“You sure?” Smoker frowned. “It’ll be harder for you to sleep.”
“I want sun,” Ace said petulantly. He continued repeating this until Smoker gave in. The older man drew back the dusty drapery. A stream of sunlight sliced into the room, landing on Ace’s face. He winced and squinted.
“You still want sun?” Smoker asked wryly, going back to his spot on the floor.
Ace nodded tiredly and closed his eyes. After a short silence, he said, “I’m sick.”
Smoker snorted. “I can see that,” he said. He placed a hand on Ace’s forehead. Smoker immediately retracted it. “You’re burning up,” he stated, frowning deeply. “Do you want something cool?”
“I had a weird dream…” Ace whispered.
A sigh. “Can you answer the question for once?” Smoker asked, exasperated.
Ace curled up further into his blankets. “I had a weird dream,” he repeated faintly. “I didn’t understand what it meant. It’s bothering me. I can’t sleep…”
“What was it about?” Smoker shifted into a more comfortable position.
“I can hardly remember a thing,” Ace confessed, exhausted. “There was fire everywhere…”
“Maybe it’s because of your fever,” Smoker suggested.
Ace shook his head slowly. “No… I was the fire, and I was everywhere all at once. The fire just kept growing and going higher…” He paused, furrowing his eyebrows together while remembering his strange dream. “I think it was trying to get to the smoke because it was much more… up…?” Bleary brown eyes looked into Smoker’s. “What do you think it means…?”
“Dreams are nonsense,” declared Smoker authoritatively. “They don’t have to mean anything.” A glance at the sunlight knifing into Ace’s eyes. “Should I close the curtains now?”
“I want sun,” Ace ‘answered’. Then he added quietly, “You can just close them later, when you have to leave…”
“I can stay longer,” Smoker said, “if I sit on a bit of your bed. The floor isn’t very comfortable. I don’t know how you sit there so long.”
A dry chuckle escaped from Ace. “It takes a lot of practice,” he explained. Ace shifted a miniscule amount away from Smoker.
“I can imagine,” Smoker said dryly, taking the seat Ace had offered him.
Ace smiled. “I should get sick more,” he mused aloud. “I get to sleep a lot more. I don’t have to sit on the floor because I get the bed all to myself.”
“You better get well soon,” Smoker grumbled. “Then I can have the bed…”
--
Previous
Next
Ugh, I hate my stupid mouse. I can't highlight things! It's depriving me of copypasta! I sincerely apologize for the lack of LJ cut... I just can't highlight the text. I fail. I'm sorry...
I'll shut up now.
Title: D
Info: WIP (will be posted in parts as I finish them)
Genre: Strangeness
Rating: T
Pairing: Smoker/Ace eventually
Summary: I'm screwing with your mind. 8D
--
“Define.”
--
Smoker began liking his meetings with Ace.
Having had enough of nervous numbers, around one hundred sixty seven hours later, Smoker brought Ace a few of the numerous books he owned, then a torch (and batteries) the next week upon Ace’s request.
“There’s a nifty loose floorboard in this corner,” Ace explained one Sunday. “I can keep things in there. I’ve just never had anything to keep.”
Week after week, Smoker would exchange the hidden books with newer ones for Ace to read in order to occupy his one hundred sixty seven hours of boredom. To the freckled man’s delight (Smoker discovered the existence of those freckles on the Sunday he drew open the curtains of two windows, not one), the books were a useful and less tedious way of passing time.
Ace faithfully returned every book Smoker brought for him a week later, until the Sunday Smoker brought a dictionary. Ace was fascinated by the many words and spent his brainpower increasing his vocabulary as opposed to calculating his percent change in boredom.
“I wish the windows would actually open,” Ace complained. “It’d be nice for some new air, or to hear the wind sough.”
“Sough?” Smoker asked.
“Sough, verb,” Ace quoted. “Of the wind - to make a sighing sound.”
“What else did you remember this week?” Smoker inquired.
Ace giggled. “You know, I really enjoy our weekly badinages, for they’re quite enjoyable. Badinage, noun. Playful and witty conversation.”
Smoker allowed a wry smile to touch his lips. “I fear that ‘badinage’ isn’t quite the word you should use,” he said. “Our conversations are not playful, witty, or even conversations. You never properly answer anything I ask.”
“The man is capable of smiling!” Ace gasped in mock horror. “Smoker, I feel that you are a tad too saturnine. It would probably do you good to be a bit more jocose from time to time. Saturnine, adjective. Gloomy in temperament or appearance. Jocose, adjective. Playful or humourous.”
“Are you teaching yourself words just to insult me?” Smoker snorted.
“I will ignore your cavils, for they are just Lilliputian complaints from a querulous man,” Ace stated pompously. “Cavil, noun. Petty objection. Lilliputian, adjective. Tiny. Querulous, adjective. Complaining or whining.”
“Treat your elders with more respect,” Smoker admonished.
Ace shook his head and grinned. “The next time I see Garp, I will say, ‘You harridan! Feed me something other than tea and crackers!’ You’re nowhere near his age, so I shan’t respect you either.”
Smoker contemplated for a few moments before asking curiously, “What is a ‘harridan’?”
“Harridan, noun,” Ace said, a wide smile on his face. “Nagging or vicious woman.” Then the two of them collapsed into laughter, no longer able to keep straight faces. “Ah… another volte-face of you,” said Ace once he regained his wits. “Volte-face, noun. Reversal of opinion.”
“Please stop throwing random words at me,” Smoker groaned.
“I apologize for my ebullient verbiage,” Ace said unapologetically. “My maundering must seem bizarre for a laconic person such as you. Ebullient, adjective. Full of enthusiasm or excitement. Verbiage, noun. Excessive use of words. Maunder, verb. To talk or act aimlessly or idly. Laconic, adjective. Using only a few words, terse.”
“Find a new word and put it in a sentence that makes sense,” Smoker challenged, folding his arms. “It must be the first word you see!”
Amused by their trivial game, Ace saluted and opened the dictionary to a random page. His smile faltered. “You probably believe, like many others, that I am non compos mentis,” Ace said monotonously. “Non compos mentis, adjective. Latin - not of sound mind.”
There was an awkward silence. Smoker plucked the dictionary out of Ace’s lax hands. He flipped with uncharacteristic, solemn exaggeration and cleared his throat. “Methinks that you are fubsy,” Smoker declared with mock seriousness, “and it is almost brindled how graminaceous you are!”
“… What did you say?” Ace asked blankly, not yet knowing those words.
“Fubsy, adjective,” Smoker imitated Ace. “Short and stout. Brindled, adjective. Brown or grey streaked with a darker colour. And… graminaceous, adjective. Of or like grass.”
Ace fell over, laughing and clutching his shaking sides. “That made absolutely no sense whatsoever!” he cried breathlessly. “And you looked so serious while saying it!”
With Ace back in a happy mood, Smoker drew the curtains shut. He bade Ace farewell and promised to return with more books. “Until our next tryst,” Smoker said, using a word Ace had two weeks prior.
“Tryst, noun,” Ace recited, smiling. “Arrangement to meet.”
--
“Dualism.”
--
Ace was not always happy.
Smoker learned - through experience - that Ace’s mood swung abruptly. Although generally good-natured, the unstable young man could change instantaneously if something touchy was said, if something else was done to upset him… Ace was very sensitive to the most Lilliputian things. Smoker came to realize this. Mainly by accident.
“Why did you call me Portgas?” Ace exclaimed angrily when Smoker made the mistake of asking where the name came from. “I told you not to call me that!” And full of rage, Ace had ended their meeting prematurely.
Yet the next week, Smoker entered the attic to find Ace curled underneath his blanket. When asked why, Ace indignantly replied, “Even I feel cold sometimes, you fool! Just because I’m ‘nervous’ doesn’t mean I’m also ‘nerveless’!” And he childishly kicked the older man’s legs whenever Smoker tried to go near him.
Then on one windy autumn day, Ace was nearly reduced to tears. “The trees!” he tried to explain. “They’re being forced to change colours, and then after all the effort, the wind strips their leaves off and throws them into careless piles!” Ace trembled. “And… and then Luffy jumps into their bloodied and crumbling corpses!”
Unable to predict or deal with such changes in temperament, Smoker gave up in a manly fashion. He asked fewer questions. He always listened and answered. It proved to be effective.
“Sometimes…” Ace began tiredly one rainy Sunday. “Sometimes I feel… like I’m cut in two. Divided. I’m laughing,” he explained, “but I feel like I want to cry. Then I cry when I laugh too hard. Or my inside and my outside aren’t the same. It’s exhausting.” To emphasize his point, Ace let his head drop heavily onto Smoker’s nearby shoulder.
“Then sometimes,” Ace continued, “I feel both happy and sad, which confuses me and makes me ‘nervous’. Feeling happy and sad at the same time is a bit too much…” He looked up at Smoker with widened brown eyes. “But it’s just sometimes… do you ever feel like that? Bisected?”
Smoker stared at the curious face looking at him. He thought carefully. “Sometimes,” he confessed (far too honestly, in hindsight…), “when I’m with you.”
Ace laughed, relieved. “Good! I’m not the only one.”
--
“Dream.”
--
“Ace is sick,” Luffy informed Smoker.
Regardless, Smoker went into the attic to see the man he had began growing fond of, mental instability and all. Nothing much was different. He was just quieter on his way in and did not open the curtains. Smoker sat next to Ace’s bed on the floor.
“Hi, Smoker…” Ace greeted, his voice raspy.
Smoker grunted in acknowledgement. “How are you?” he asked.
Ace, in his usual fashion, ignored the question. “Open the windows…”
“You sure?” Smoker frowned. “It’ll be harder for you to sleep.”
“I want sun,” Ace said petulantly. He continued repeating this until Smoker gave in. The older man drew back the dusty drapery. A stream of sunlight sliced into the room, landing on Ace’s face. He winced and squinted.
“You still want sun?” Smoker asked wryly, going back to his spot on the floor.
Ace nodded tiredly and closed his eyes. After a short silence, he said, “I’m sick.”
Smoker snorted. “I can see that,” he said. He placed a hand on Ace’s forehead. Smoker immediately retracted it. “You’re burning up,” he stated, frowning deeply. “Do you want something cool?”
“I had a weird dream…” Ace whispered.
A sigh. “Can you answer the question for once?” Smoker asked, exasperated.
Ace curled up further into his blankets. “I had a weird dream,” he repeated faintly. “I didn’t understand what it meant. It’s bothering me. I can’t sleep…”
“What was it about?” Smoker shifted into a more comfortable position.
“I can hardly remember a thing,” Ace confessed, exhausted. “There was fire everywhere…”
“Maybe it’s because of your fever,” Smoker suggested.
Ace shook his head slowly. “No… I was the fire, and I was everywhere all at once. The fire just kept growing and going higher…” He paused, furrowing his eyebrows together while remembering his strange dream. “I think it was trying to get to the smoke because it was much more… up…?” Bleary brown eyes looked into Smoker’s. “What do you think it means…?”
“Dreams are nonsense,” declared Smoker authoritatively. “They don’t have to mean anything.” A glance at the sunlight knifing into Ace’s eyes. “Should I close the curtains now?”
“I want sun,” Ace ‘answered’. Then he added quietly, “You can just close them later, when you have to leave…”
“I can stay longer,” Smoker said, “if I sit on a bit of your bed. The floor isn’t very comfortable. I don’t know how you sit there so long.”
A dry chuckle escaped from Ace. “It takes a lot of practice,” he explained. Ace shifted a miniscule amount away from Smoker.
“I can imagine,” Smoker said dryly, taking the seat Ace had offered him.
Ace smiled. “I should get sick more,” he mused aloud. “I get to sleep a lot more. I don’t have to sit on the floor because I get the bed all to myself.”
“You better get well soon,” Smoker grumbled. “Then I can have the bed…”
--
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