(no subject)
Click.
No, shit, that wasn't right.
Click.
Shit! No! Not that one either.
Click.
Jesus, this is fucking impossible...
Click.
"The fuck!" he roared in indignant fury, a bellowing sound from a tiny being, the yell hardly heard over the rustling hustle-bustle of the glowing city. Dark brows furrowed and knitted, the camera thrown down, dropping to the floor at a lightening speed only to be caught with a whiplash-inducing snap, bouncing on the grey cord that bound it to the American's wrist before swinging as he turned violently.
The LCD display continued to glow, beaming out the picture so detested as he glanced around himself, so alone, so stationary in a crowd of the moving. It was like being dropped into a lake with concrete boots. Standing on the river floor was the fish swum and writhed, the water rushed with the technological current, whereas he just stood. Staring. Wet. Frustrated and drowning.
What was the point in trying to capture anything of this destination? Why struggle to catch something he could see any time? Consumerism. Differences. Warped and wacky and twisted and tacky. Why would he want to capture any second of this?
And yet, without reason as it was, he wanted it. He wanted a memory. He wanted just a shot, a shot to signify... something. Something beautiful this city had to offer.
Click.
No! Fuck!
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
At home, this would all be different. At home, at least an old granny or two would glare over to him, wrinkled features a Van Gogh impression of disgust as his cuss wrung out, thick and heavy and so accented in comparison to everything else. Every little R and L that had him chuckling immaturely in those first few days, before that novelty wore off, along with the rest. But no, here, no one understood him. Here, he was lost. The very rebellion that made him stand out, the piercing of his nose, the tattoos lining the flesh of forearms... it all meant nothing.
He was quite literally dwarfed by this town. This city. This underwater Atlantis that tore at his sanity AND JUST WOULDN'T REGISTER ON HIS FUCKING DIGITAL CAMERA.
Technology. He was good with technology. He fiddled with peddles and tinkered with the wires stuffed and bent in the casing of his amps. He fixed Matt's DVD player, and found the batteries to Brian's remote...
But fishing around the back of a dusty old sofa was a great deal different to what was currently swinging precariously from his wrist. The odds were against him, pushing alongside those dreadful elements, already present alienation and barriers stacking up and finally tipping with this one tiny stick.
All the blocks tumbled.
All the monkeys sank.
So he did what he did best. Well, not what he did best, but what his band did best. The quiet little bassist, all sweet smiles and quiet platitude; he swore like all his musician buddies combined. Though even though that barrier was there, thick and tall and plastered in glittering neon advertisements, those dreadful words were still uttered under his breath. A mumble of words growing louder and more distinct until he fell from a disgruntled whisper and into his own familiar speaking voice.
"Fuck it. Fuck me to hell and back."
"Such a wonderful offer, though conveyed in such awful terms... How can that be true?"
He spun. He didn't think about it, not like they did in the stories. He didn't wonder at length about what sort of enigmatic mystery spoke from his shoulders. No, Johnny just turned, half relieved, half dismayed, and then relieved all over. As well as a bit tingly.
"You speak English?" the American demanded, not the most romantic of greetings as deep brown met kind at a level he wasn't used to in a glare that had become nothing but his natural expression.
This aquatic Adonis simply chuckled, a silken sound as smooth as his skin, the most perfectly formed lips drawing up into a smile, one both mocking and amused.
Though more of the former.
Not that he cared.
That mouth could mock all it wanted, as long as it continued with those words. The sanguine sweet of husky murmurs that slid through his spine and released endorphins through the stressed-out matter of his brain.
"Your language skills are poor, but you more than make-up with it with your witty observations."
Oh words. Such sarcastic, stabbing words were like cruel music to his desperate ears. So much so that all snappy retort melted on his tongue, the said muscle suddenly feeling very thick and very heavy in his mouth. Instead of using that swollen organ, he allowed his eyes to wander, vision burning with slender limbs and willowy frame, though those lips continued to poke fun.
"Maybe the question should be... do you speak English?"
And still, no response. Just silence and eyes. Silence, for the first time, even though taxis were screaming, and gibberish words were vibrating, and advertisements were storming like Godzilla across the sidewalk.
Salvation.
Just perfect quiet. Just sense and logic and familiar teasing in a foreign tone as the water drained away, singing through the coral bed and breaking the concrete away with it. He could move against the shrinking water pressure, smile to this world of technology, reach down the back of the sofa, fix it all...
Click.
Dark, doll eyes blinked at the sudden flash, a brow raised, though the other could only smirk.
That was the one.