sidereal [1/1]
sidereal
224 words // G
for february 20, 2007.
tiny. remedy for a bad day. it's patrick/pete, but there's no names. just character.
They're stars, now, and he smiles to think of double-meanings and the absurdity that is the English language. Stars. Of course. It doesn't make any sense (they're not burning brightly and nobody's using them to navigate the night--or maybe they are, but he doesn't know about that), but the idea clings to him like dust on his sleeve, only he doesn't want to brush it away. He's almost nocturnal, these days (it happens, rock stars only come out at night), the stars to him like sunbeams, the moon his sun (and yes, he knows he's got his astronomy all wrong, but it's the principle of the thing). Sometimes it's not for lack of sleeping, sometimes it's simply the quiet, the rustling of sheets that means sleep, the hum of engines and the silence that lets him know, for a moment, that everything is peaceful.
A shift in the silence, a whispering of fabric, the pat-shuffle-pat of tired, bare feet on floors. A yawn. A light flicks on, making him wince--after a while, he becomes adjusted to the dark and the first sign of light stings. He smiles, whispers ("What're you doing up? It's three in the morning, it's ungodly!"), extends a hand, and then it's fingers touching and foreheads pressed together, and everything is silent again.
"Can you believe it?" he whispers.
224 words // G
for february 20, 2007.
tiny. remedy for a bad day. it's patrick/pete, but there's no names. just character.
They're stars, now, and he smiles to think of double-meanings and the absurdity that is the English language. Stars. Of course. It doesn't make any sense (they're not burning brightly and nobody's using them to navigate the night--or maybe they are, but he doesn't know about that), but the idea clings to him like dust on his sleeve, only he doesn't want to brush it away. He's almost nocturnal, these days (it happens, rock stars only come out at night), the stars to him like sunbeams, the moon his sun (and yes, he knows he's got his astronomy all wrong, but it's the principle of the thing). Sometimes it's not for lack of sleeping, sometimes it's simply the quiet, the rustling of sheets that means sleep, the hum of engines and the silence that lets him know, for a moment, that everything is peaceful.
A shift in the silence, a whispering of fabric, the pat-shuffle-pat of tired, bare feet on floors. A yawn. A light flicks on, making him wince--after a while, he becomes adjusted to the dark and the first sign of light stings. He smiles, whispers ("What're you doing up? It's three in the morning, it's ungodly!"), extends a hand, and then it's fingers touching and foreheads pressed together, and everything is silent again.
"Can you believe it?" he whispers.