spiders. [1/1]
TITLE: Spiders.
AUTHOR: Me, Kayla. therecordskipsx
RATING: PG.
POV: Third.
PAIRING: Could be anyone you want.
SUMMARY: There's a bus, and apple blossoms.
DISCLAIMER: This could have happened, but I doubt it did.
A/N: Just trying to break a block, so this is pretty pointless. Lyrics, title, and cut text from 'Spiders' by Lovedrug, who you should run off and listen to, right now. The pairing (if you choose to see one) and fandom in this is totally up to your brain.
Searching on the wire for a wire, for a piece/peace of mind, like the spiders in the corners that are never there. To the one, to the magic sun; you're not that bright now, but you will be someday soon, and you will fall in love with the moonlight.
Everything has kind of settled into the same routine, now. Every day is exactly the same, and it crosses his mind, less-than-briefly, that maybe this is what it’s like to be in prison. Not that he’d really want anything other than this life, this chaotic, orderly life. Maybe, though, it’s starting to wear on his nerves.
You wake up, sometime around noon, late, but way too early. You go through the motions of doing your hair, putting on the same clothes as yesterday, painting faces. You become someone other than yourself. And then you do what you do, the thing that makes this life worth it, like prisoners blinking in the sunlight and climbing razor-edged fences to the sound of escape sirens, that kind of rush. You do it, and then there’s a blur of faces and voices, and then there’s quiet; the sound of the road under tires, the lulling softness of concrete and highway noise. You sleep, if you’re lucky, and then you wake up, and you do it all again.
There’s nothing wrong with it, exactly. Just that maybe, he’s not very good at monotony, not very good at this at all.
;;
So come on, come on and say so; come on, come on and say so.
Days off are double-edged swords. A break in the cycle; a full twenty-four hours of waiting to return to it. Either parked, or driving; either spent in a dreary hotel room, or playing video games in the lounge. So it’s not really surprising, then, when he wakes up and they’re stationed in some empty parking lot, a gray field, the surface of the moon, and everyone else is up, fighting, claustrophobia splitting nerves.
There’s no room for privacy, here, nowhere you can go where everyone else can’t hear your voice, your footsteps, your breathing. There’s nowhere to fight, nowhere to love, and nowhere to think. So the voices coming through the walls, down the hallway, through the fabric of the curtain, they don’t really surprise him, but they give him a headache, a forceful axe through his skull. He drags himself up, pitches and stumbles into the front area, bangs the cupboard door shut, too hard, when he grabs a mug. They stop, arguments fading, mouths snapping shut, and they’re frozen in time, just like always.
What the hell are you fighting about now, he sighs, too tired to form a question, coffee burning at the back of his throat. Nothing, they say; Nothing. Never mind.
;;
If god was on the radio, I know he'd say to thee: ‘love is spiders on the edge and we're hanging by a thread, connected to the other end of this twisted frequency I've spun’; but I don't care, I'd be happy if you'd share your web with me.
They haven’t moved, and the clock hand is bending, curving dangerously, close to snapping, before ticking onto the next second. It’s starting to taunt him, the way everything outside the window is still, except the branches waving in the wind, golden green, and the clouds rolling in from the west. It’s saying, you can’t escape me. It’s saying, you wouldn’t want to. He wants to tell it all to go to hell.
He walks to the door, opening it hard, so hard something rattles in the walls, on the table, and turns his head. I’m going outside, he says, and three sets of eyes meet his, three heads nod, and two sets return to the television. He snaps his head back around, ignores the last pair, unnerving somehow, and clanks onto the steps, slams the door a little too hard. The concrete feels too-still under his feet after the nearly constant motion of the bus, the way the floor moved if you stepped too hard, and everything was silent, so silent, so still. Even the sway of the trees had stopped, the wind holding its breath, you can’t escape me. The clouds murmur, and he smells rain.
He climbs an apple tree, surrounded and embraced by its green branches, snowy flowers, and sits in the curve of the branch, legs tucked under him. It smells like summer, or maybe funerals.
;;
So come on, come on and say so; come on, come on and say so.
The footsteps on the pavement, asphalt, concrete - whatever it is; who cares? - are flat and slow, scraping like rusty springs or door hinges, and he pulls his legs up a little further, wills the leaves to hide him, hold him, conceal him. He runs his fingers over the knotted, twisted wood, counting. Five, six, seven. Stop. Eight, nine, ten, eleven. He wants the swishing, the rustling of grass under feet, to be his imagination, to be the voice in his head, you can’t escape me. And maybe it is.
When he looks down, through the canopy of leaves and blossoms, fingers digging into the wood, there’s an upturned face, and a hand grabbing onto a knot in the trunk, stepping up, a body moving into the ‘V’ of branches next to his with a shuffle and a rustle. Hey, I found you; almost an apology, almost a question. He sighs, starts picking flowers off the branch beside his head and laying them out on his legs, bright against the dark denim. I guess so. I guess you did. Everything is silent, so silent, so still, and the clouds murmur again, heavy drops of rain splattering against the leaves above him, dripping through the maze of foliage. He can’t remember the last time he felt the rain. He tips his face up, and he waits, shivering a little when the frigid rain starts trailing down his face, when a hand tentatively twines around his like ivy.
When it comes from beside him, sometimes it’s okay to be still, he thinks that maybe, maybe he could be a little better at this than he thought. Maybe all it takes is just the tiniest, smallest thing to shatter the green river ice freezing and tinkling through his head, to break the pattern, break the mould.
And shivering, wet, he goes back to the bus with his pockets full of flowers, stuck in his hair, warmer than he’s ever been on the inside, a hand pressed firmly into his. Maybe, he thinks, maybe I don’t ever want to go back, I don’t ever want this to end.
Maybe, just maybe, it won’t.
AN2: Does anyone know if blessthefall slash is somewhere in existence?
'Cause I mean, really.
AUTHOR: Me, Kayla. therecordskipsx
RATING: PG.
POV: Third.
PAIRING: Could be anyone you want.
SUMMARY: There's a bus, and apple blossoms.
DISCLAIMER: This could have happened, but I doubt it did.
A/N: Just trying to break a block, so this is pretty pointless. Lyrics, title, and cut text from 'Spiders' by Lovedrug, who you should run off and listen to, right now. The pairing (if you choose to see one) and fandom in this is totally up to your brain.
Searching on the wire for a wire, for a piece/peace of mind, like the spiders in the corners that are never there. To the one, to the magic sun; you're not that bright now, but you will be someday soon, and you will fall in love with the moonlight.
Everything has kind of settled into the same routine, now. Every day is exactly the same, and it crosses his mind, less-than-briefly, that maybe this is what it’s like to be in prison. Not that he’d really want anything other than this life, this chaotic, orderly life. Maybe, though, it’s starting to wear on his nerves.
You wake up, sometime around noon, late, but way too early. You go through the motions of doing your hair, putting on the same clothes as yesterday, painting faces. You become someone other than yourself. And then you do what you do, the thing that makes this life worth it, like prisoners blinking in the sunlight and climbing razor-edged fences to the sound of escape sirens, that kind of rush. You do it, and then there’s a blur of faces and voices, and then there’s quiet; the sound of the road under tires, the lulling softness of concrete and highway noise. You sleep, if you’re lucky, and then you wake up, and you do it all again.
There’s nothing wrong with it, exactly. Just that maybe, he’s not very good at monotony, not very good at this at all.
;;
So come on, come on and say so; come on, come on and say so.
Days off are double-edged swords. A break in the cycle; a full twenty-four hours of waiting to return to it. Either parked, or driving; either spent in a dreary hotel room, or playing video games in the lounge. So it’s not really surprising, then, when he wakes up and they’re stationed in some empty parking lot, a gray field, the surface of the moon, and everyone else is up, fighting, claustrophobia splitting nerves.
There’s no room for privacy, here, nowhere you can go where everyone else can’t hear your voice, your footsteps, your breathing. There’s nowhere to fight, nowhere to love, and nowhere to think. So the voices coming through the walls, down the hallway, through the fabric of the curtain, they don’t really surprise him, but they give him a headache, a forceful axe through his skull. He drags himself up, pitches and stumbles into the front area, bangs the cupboard door shut, too hard, when he grabs a mug. They stop, arguments fading, mouths snapping shut, and they’re frozen in time, just like always.
What the hell are you fighting about now, he sighs, too tired to form a question, coffee burning at the back of his throat. Nothing, they say; Nothing. Never mind.
;;
If god was on the radio, I know he'd say to thee: ‘love is spiders on the edge and we're hanging by a thread, connected to the other end of this twisted frequency I've spun’; but I don't care, I'd be happy if you'd share your web with me.
They haven’t moved, and the clock hand is bending, curving dangerously, close to snapping, before ticking onto the next second. It’s starting to taunt him, the way everything outside the window is still, except the branches waving in the wind, golden green, and the clouds rolling in from the west. It’s saying, you can’t escape me. It’s saying, you wouldn’t want to. He wants to tell it all to go to hell.
He walks to the door, opening it hard, so hard something rattles in the walls, on the table, and turns his head. I’m going outside, he says, and three sets of eyes meet his, three heads nod, and two sets return to the television. He snaps his head back around, ignores the last pair, unnerving somehow, and clanks onto the steps, slams the door a little too hard. The concrete feels too-still under his feet after the nearly constant motion of the bus, the way the floor moved if you stepped too hard, and everything was silent, so silent, so still. Even the sway of the trees had stopped, the wind holding its breath, you can’t escape me. The clouds murmur, and he smells rain.
He climbs an apple tree, surrounded and embraced by its green branches, snowy flowers, and sits in the curve of the branch, legs tucked under him. It smells like summer, or maybe funerals.
;;
So come on, come on and say so; come on, come on and say so.
The footsteps on the pavement, asphalt, concrete - whatever it is; who cares? - are flat and slow, scraping like rusty springs or door hinges, and he pulls his legs up a little further, wills the leaves to hide him, hold him, conceal him. He runs his fingers over the knotted, twisted wood, counting. Five, six, seven. Stop. Eight, nine, ten, eleven. He wants the swishing, the rustling of grass under feet, to be his imagination, to be the voice in his head, you can’t escape me. And maybe it is.
When he looks down, through the canopy of leaves and blossoms, fingers digging into the wood, there’s an upturned face, and a hand grabbing onto a knot in the trunk, stepping up, a body moving into the ‘V’ of branches next to his with a shuffle and a rustle. Hey, I found you; almost an apology, almost a question. He sighs, starts picking flowers off the branch beside his head and laying them out on his legs, bright against the dark denim. I guess so. I guess you did. Everything is silent, so silent, so still, and the clouds murmur again, heavy drops of rain splattering against the leaves above him, dripping through the maze of foliage. He can’t remember the last time he felt the rain. He tips his face up, and he waits, shivering a little when the frigid rain starts trailing down his face, when a hand tentatively twines around his like ivy.
When it comes from beside him, sometimes it’s okay to be still, he thinks that maybe, maybe he could be a little better at this than he thought. Maybe all it takes is just the tiniest, smallest thing to shatter the green river ice freezing and tinkling through his head, to break the pattern, break the mould.
And shivering, wet, he goes back to the bus with his pockets full of flowers, stuck in his hair, warmer than he’s ever been on the inside, a hand pressed firmly into his. Maybe, he thinks, maybe I don’t ever want to go back, I don’t ever want this to end.
Maybe, just maybe, it won’t.
AN2: Does anyone know if blessthefall slash is somewhere in existence?
'Cause I mean, really.