was there a voice unkind in the back of your mind
Early that morning, Sawyer decided that he wanted to do a cannonball.
The run was just peeking over the horizon, colors rushing over the sky, untamed, unwilling to stop for just about anything. That was the way that Sawyer always liked it most. Far from where his fingers could brush, far from being anything that he could touch, but still able to place beauty right in front of his eyes, as though he had as much right to see it as anyone else. The water remained a deeper hue at dawn, clear though it was, and the birds cried out softly in the distance, greeted the morning and lamented it alike. Wind wove through his hair, ran through fabric, as though inviting him to join, and one by one Sawyer slipped the buttons of his shirt out and free, shivered in the sun's relative absence. Or its tardiness.
One way or the other.
His feet sunk into the sand, damp from where the waves had crashed and kissed overnight. Lips quirked in a light grin as his buckle clinked, jeans falling to the ground soon after. Sure as hell, he could picture everyone back on the island laughing at him were he to take such precautions there, but on Tabula Rasa, he had a job, one that kept him too busy to go 'round finding a dry pair of pants. And there was little worse in the world than a wet pair of jeans sticking it up where the sun don't shine.
Gradually, he picked up pace, the wind smarting against his eyes until Sawyer closed them altogether, taking a leap and into the deeper tide pool, feeling all sound grow warbled as he broke the ocean's surface. For a few seconds, he lingered under the water, before he stood with a light gasp, water trickling down his cheeks, the palm of his hand brushing as much of it out of his face as possible.
He waited for a revelation that never quite came. Instead, it was grief that tore through his chest, finally freed after weeks of spending his energies elsewhere, attention diverted, divided, split altogether. "Dammit," he swore under his breath, hand covering his mouth and a hand on his hip as he surveyed the horizon. Looking for something, though it was never clear what.
"Dammit," he repeated, suddenly moving to punch the surface of the water, dropping both arms down with thrashing motions as his brow furrowed, painful enough to drive a headache through him straight away. "Didn't do any good, did it- didn't work back then, why the hell would it work n- the hell did I do that for, you son of a bitch!"
Directed out towards the sun, there was no echo to be found. And somehow, that made him feel all the more damned alone.
[ Find Sawyer in the water, belatedly mourning the loss of his best friend, Hurley. Timed to shortly after sunrise, ST/LT welcome, open for threads as long as this reads so. ]
The run was just peeking over the horizon, colors rushing over the sky, untamed, unwilling to stop for just about anything. That was the way that Sawyer always liked it most. Far from where his fingers could brush, far from being anything that he could touch, but still able to place beauty right in front of his eyes, as though he had as much right to see it as anyone else. The water remained a deeper hue at dawn, clear though it was, and the birds cried out softly in the distance, greeted the morning and lamented it alike. Wind wove through his hair, ran through fabric, as though inviting him to join, and one by one Sawyer slipped the buttons of his shirt out and free, shivered in the sun's relative absence. Or its tardiness.
One way or the other.
His feet sunk into the sand, damp from where the waves had crashed and kissed overnight. Lips quirked in a light grin as his buckle clinked, jeans falling to the ground soon after. Sure as hell, he could picture everyone back on the island laughing at him were he to take such precautions there, but on Tabula Rasa, he had a job, one that kept him too busy to go 'round finding a dry pair of pants. And there was little worse in the world than a wet pair of jeans sticking it up where the sun don't shine.
Gradually, he picked up pace, the wind smarting against his eyes until Sawyer closed them altogether, taking a leap and into the deeper tide pool, feeling all sound grow warbled as he broke the ocean's surface. For a few seconds, he lingered under the water, before he stood with a light gasp, water trickling down his cheeks, the palm of his hand brushing as much of it out of his face as possible.
He waited for a revelation that never quite came. Instead, it was grief that tore through his chest, finally freed after weeks of spending his energies elsewhere, attention diverted, divided, split altogether. "Dammit," he swore under his breath, hand covering his mouth and a hand on his hip as he surveyed the horizon. Looking for something, though it was never clear what.
"Dammit," he repeated, suddenly moving to punch the surface of the water, dropping both arms down with thrashing motions as his brow furrowed, painful enough to drive a headache through him straight away. "Didn't do any good, did it- didn't work back then, why the hell would it work n- the hell did I do that for, you son of a bitch!"
Directed out towards the sun, there was no echo to be found. And somehow, that made him feel all the more damned alone.
[ Find Sawyer in the water, belatedly mourning the loss of his best friend, Hurley. Timed to shortly after sunrise, ST/LT welcome, open for threads as long as this reads so. ]