(no subject)
Still a part of the: First Class Ticket To Nowhere saga
Thanks to yukitsu for doing the beta-reading my first draft so sorry, I kinda' trashed the first draft.
I would like to thank i_l0ve_my_az for beta-reading my work--I loff you studddieeeee!!! <3333333
Thanks to both ravyn_ashling and clarz_yen for bopping my head and chastising me just cause it wasn't of usual quality (Like Quality? What effing Quality?).
Oh, the title FIRST CLASS TICKET TO NOWHERE was conjured up by the anal lovely theladychia
Damien looked elegant as he stood gracefully on the stepladder’s twelfth tread. He had his right palm poised against the canvas, pressed against a protruding lump of blue paint. The blonde’s long and willowy fingers were a pale contrast against the sea of green; dried acrylic stuck in between the crevices of his fingernails.
He looked quite at home despite the fact that he was standing on tiptoes, his white, satin dress shirt splattered with a spectrum of colors. Damien’s shoulder-length blond hair was fastened into a tiny secure stump, several loose locks framing his face.
He looked completely at ease as he bobbed his head and hummed along with the rhythm of Jack Johnson’s single, “Sitting, Waiting, Wishing.”
Grabbing a brush from the bucket situated on top of the ladder, Damien proceeded to dab the dry tips onto the damp blue paint. He bit onto his lower lip in concentration as he tried to smoothen the painting’s texture.
A crisp hard knock snapped him from his reverie.
The sharp electronic buzz that followed elicited a groan from the blond as he dropped his brush in surprise. “Hold on!” He yelled as he turned around slightly to check if the door was unlocked, “Come on in, the door’s open!”
He immediately resumed doing his previous activities, pulling the metal lid off a can of paint. Damien then proceeded to dip his fingers on the bright red paint, watching as the thick and luminous liquid dripped down his fingertips.
A tall man entered, his footfalls faint against the cement-lined floors; he wore a vintage AC/DC rock shirt underneath a russet colored leather jacket. He ran a hand through his coffee-brown hair, standing aloofly behind the counter. He proceeded to take in the scene, watching as the blond continued to spread a smidgeon of red paint on the upper right corner of the canvas.
“That shirt looks awfully familiar,” the brunet smirked as he leaned towards on the mahogany counter. “Could that be mine?”
Damien’s hands froze instantly against the portrait, an indiscernible expression crossing his features.
“Az?” he asked in utter disbelief.
“The one and only.”
The blond closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to block out the string of thoughts currently bursting through his head. In an attempt to distract himself, he gradually started to move his hands back and forth across the canvas.
They were silent for quite a while.
“So, what are you doing here?” Damien sighed, his voice laced with defeat.
“Is that how you greet your guests?”
“Answer the question.”
Az raised both his eyebrows, “Why good morning to you too, princess.”
Damien sighed in exasperation. “Let’s give this another try-what are you doing here in New York?”
“So I’m no longer allowed in New York.” Az smirked as he took a pear from the fruit basket.
Damien rolled his eyes and grabbed the nearest dishtowel from the ladder’s fifteenth step; Az watched intently as the blond wiped the red paint off of his hands.
“So what are you doing here?” Damien reiterated as he reached for the gleaming chisel beside the towel. “If you don’t answer the goddamn question, we’ll never get through with the this conversation.”
The brunet tossed the pear halfway across the room, “Supporting Zeke and the band with their humanitarian prospects.”
“So you just thought that-Hey! Sending a million to Ethiopia seems really boring, why don’t I see how miserable Damien’s life is? That’s bound to be more interesting.”
Az looked slightly taken aback, “I can always leave.”
“Yeah? So why don’t you?”
They were once again greeted with a pregnant pause; Damien looked at the bruised pear underneath the ladder.
“Look,” Az sighed deeply, “I actually came here to give you something. I have no intention of prolonging my stay whatsoever, so will you spare me your theatrics?”
The blond flushed slightly as he reverted his gaze back at the canvas. “Whatever, just leave it by the counter.”
Az fumbled for something buried deep under his right jean pocket. “This will only take a minute of your precious time.”
Damien stabbed the chisel on the canvas, “I don’t have a fucking minute!”
The brunet’s expression hardened; his posture immediately turned rigid. Without any hesitation, he turned around and left the studio.
Damien flinched as he was met with the resounding thud of the door closing; he looked down at the clutter guiltily, staring at the fruit on the floor and the newspapers strewn about.
With a sigh, he carefully climbed down the ladder one step at a time and trudged towards the counter, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he spotted the beige envelope on top of it. With trembling fingers, he pried it open.
Damien read the letter once.
Then he reread it again.
Damien felt his inner reserve tumble.
Clenching his jaw, he fisted the parchment brutally before hurling it across the room. He slid down on the floor, left hand pressed firmly against his mouth. He looked hard at the fissures on the concrete, willing to distract himself from the multitude of emotions swelling inside him.
He desperately wanted to express himself.
Boundless options crossed his mind-from screaming himself hoarse to grabbing a packet of Xanax…
But giving into the thoughts meant that he was willing to give up, and after undergoing and surviving a lot of shit, he just couldn’t imagine himself giving up that easily over something so trivial and insignificant.
Damien looked up at his painting with bleary eyes.
Pushing himself off the ground, Damien looked up at it-it dawned upon him that the painting didn’t look quite right. In fact, it looked somewhat bland and wrong-liked it lacked a vital fragment.
Spotting a can of white paint, he proceeded to tip the lid and stare at the glossy liquid.
He wasn’t quite sure on what he was planning to do with it but he had a vague idea.
Closing his eyes and acting on impulse, Damien threw the entirety of the paint onto the canvas. He stared at the upshot of his actions dazedly, trailing his eyes on the white paint dribbling down the edges-watching as it fell in splashes, pooling on the floorboards.
He pressed his hands against the white paint, spreading it all over the previous painting-effectively covering the dark colors.
Maybe he should start on a new painting.
Thanks to yukitsu for doing the beta-reading my first draft so sorry, I kinda' trashed the first draft.
I would like to thank i_l0ve_my_az for beta-reading my work--I loff you studddieeeee!!! <3333333
Thanks to both ravyn_ashling and clarz_yen for bopping my head and chastising me just cause it wasn't of usual quality (Like Quality? What effing Quality?).
Oh, the title FIRST CLASS TICKET TO NOWHERE was conjured up by the anal lovely theladychia
Damien looked elegant as he stood gracefully on the stepladder’s twelfth tread. He had his right palm poised against the canvas, pressed against a protruding lump of blue paint. The blonde’s long and willowy fingers were a pale contrast against the sea of green; dried acrylic stuck in between the crevices of his fingernails.
He looked quite at home despite the fact that he was standing on tiptoes, his white, satin dress shirt splattered with a spectrum of colors. Damien’s shoulder-length blond hair was fastened into a tiny secure stump, several loose locks framing his face.
He looked completely at ease as he bobbed his head and hummed along with the rhythm of Jack Johnson’s single, “Sitting, Waiting, Wishing.”
Grabbing a brush from the bucket situated on top of the ladder, Damien proceeded to dab the dry tips onto the damp blue paint. He bit onto his lower lip in concentration as he tried to smoothen the painting’s texture.
A crisp hard knock snapped him from his reverie.
The sharp electronic buzz that followed elicited a groan from the blond as he dropped his brush in surprise. “Hold on!” He yelled as he turned around slightly to check if the door was unlocked, “Come on in, the door’s open!”
He immediately resumed doing his previous activities, pulling the metal lid off a can of paint. Damien then proceeded to dip his fingers on the bright red paint, watching as the thick and luminous liquid dripped down his fingertips.
A tall man entered, his footfalls faint against the cement-lined floors; he wore a vintage AC/DC rock shirt underneath a russet colored leather jacket. He ran a hand through his coffee-brown hair, standing aloofly behind the counter. He proceeded to take in the scene, watching as the blond continued to spread a smidgeon of red paint on the upper right corner of the canvas.
“That shirt looks awfully familiar,” the brunet smirked as he leaned towards on the mahogany counter. “Could that be mine?”
Damien’s hands froze instantly against the portrait, an indiscernible expression crossing his features.
“Az?” he asked in utter disbelief.
“The one and only.”
The blond closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to block out the string of thoughts currently bursting through his head. In an attempt to distract himself, he gradually started to move his hands back and forth across the canvas.
They were silent for quite a while.
“So, what are you doing here?” Damien sighed, his voice laced with defeat.
“Is that how you greet your guests?”
“Answer the question.”
Az raised both his eyebrows, “Why good morning to you too, princess.”
Damien sighed in exasperation. “Let’s give this another try-what are you doing here in New York?”
“So I’m no longer allowed in New York.” Az smirked as he took a pear from the fruit basket.
Damien rolled his eyes and grabbed the nearest dishtowel from the ladder’s fifteenth step; Az watched intently as the blond wiped the red paint off of his hands.
“So what are you doing here?” Damien reiterated as he reached for the gleaming chisel beside the towel. “If you don’t answer the goddamn question, we’ll never get through with the this conversation.”
The brunet tossed the pear halfway across the room, “Supporting Zeke and the band with their humanitarian prospects.”
“So you just thought that-Hey! Sending a million to Ethiopia seems really boring, why don’t I see how miserable Damien’s life is? That’s bound to be more interesting.”
Az looked slightly taken aback, “I can always leave.”
“Yeah? So why don’t you?”
They were once again greeted with a pregnant pause; Damien looked at the bruised pear underneath the ladder.
“Look,” Az sighed deeply, “I actually came here to give you something. I have no intention of prolonging my stay whatsoever, so will you spare me your theatrics?”
The blond flushed slightly as he reverted his gaze back at the canvas. “Whatever, just leave it by the counter.”
Az fumbled for something buried deep under his right jean pocket. “This will only take a minute of your precious time.”
Damien stabbed the chisel on the canvas, “I don’t have a fucking minute!”
The brunet’s expression hardened; his posture immediately turned rigid. Without any hesitation, he turned around and left the studio.
Damien flinched as he was met with the resounding thud of the door closing; he looked down at the clutter guiltily, staring at the fruit on the floor and the newspapers strewn about.
With a sigh, he carefully climbed down the ladder one step at a time and trudged towards the counter, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he spotted the beige envelope on top of it. With trembling fingers, he pried it open.
Damien read the letter once.
Then he reread it again.
Damien felt his inner reserve tumble.
Clenching his jaw, he fisted the parchment brutally before hurling it across the room. He slid down on the floor, left hand pressed firmly against his mouth. He looked hard at the fissures on the concrete, willing to distract himself from the multitude of emotions swelling inside him.
He desperately wanted to express himself.
Boundless options crossed his mind-from screaming himself hoarse to grabbing a packet of Xanax…
But giving into the thoughts meant that he was willing to give up, and after undergoing and surviving a lot of shit, he just couldn’t imagine himself giving up that easily over something so trivial and insignificant.
Damien looked up at his painting with bleary eyes.
Pushing himself off the ground, Damien looked up at it-it dawned upon him that the painting didn’t look quite right. In fact, it looked somewhat bland and wrong-liked it lacked a vital fragment.
Spotting a can of white paint, he proceeded to tip the lid and stare at the glossy liquid.
He wasn’t quite sure on what he was planning to do with it but he had a vague idea.
Closing his eyes and acting on impulse, Damien threw the entirety of the paint onto the canvas. He stared at the upshot of his actions dazedly, trailing his eyes on the white paint dribbling down the edges-watching as it fell in splashes, pooling on the floorboards.
He pressed his hands against the white paint, spreading it all over the previous painting-effectively covering the dark colors.
Maybe he should start on a new painting.