Undertow
Undertow
by ink_stain
VM/DM; PG-13
713 words
Disclaimer
So first I found this quote from Dom: "Went to the beach for the day and wrote as much as I could about this incredible experience and where my life seemed to be taking me, etc. I fell asleep, and when I woke up the papers were blowing down the beach and into the water. I sat up and watched until I couldn't see one piece of paper left. I drove home and felt happy," and then the mprov toy gave me these words: airborne; mermaid; drift. And then this happened. Thanks to Fi for beta-type things and Cathy for read-thru.
And Viggo. Viggo Viggo Viggo. Like
Dom's eyes slip closed, head lolling on his neck, and his pen drags along the sheet of paper in his lap, streaking shiny-wet black across half the page and
Vig/go
catches his eye. He frowns, wishing now he'd brought a pencil instead, something less permanent, erasable, but then the mistakes, he knows, are often the most interesting part of something. Happy accidents and coincidences that maybe can't be explained away. The universe finds a way to get its message across.
Late afternoon now and the sun is warm on his skin, making him sleepy. He sets the papers and pen aside, tucked securely under one of his sandals, lays his cheek against the back of his arms and thinks i'll just rest a moment.
He counts the waves crashing once, twice, third time's the charm and he's already dreaming of mermaids.
*
He wakes up more tired than he was when he went to sleep, the sun sinking into the blood-red sea and the sky is lavender, pink, smudged pale orange along the horizon. The sound of fluttering paper and he blinks awake cautiously, hand shading his eyes, and his notes are blowing down the beach, airborne on the whipping wind, dancing through the air.
His dislodged sandal on its side in the sand -- he must have knocked it while he was asleep -- and just for a second he thinks about running after the pages, gathering up what little he could still salvage.
But then the water foams up on the sand and claims one of the sheets, and Dom sits up, wrapping his arms around his legs, and resting his chin on his knees. The setting sun warm on his back and the thieving wind cool and damp on his face, and he watches until the pages are all gone, and does not feel robbed.
He drives home with the windows down and the radio off, a fragment of dream-song stuck in his head, something familiar that he's sure he's never heard before, perfectly synchronized with the sound of the waves, the road under his tires, his heartbeat.
*
He thinks about trying to rewrite some of his notes, knows there were fragments and snatches of sentences that he thought were really clever, but when he picks up his pen and puts it to paper, all that comes out is Viggo. Dom chews the end of his pen, remembering
Vig/go
but when he tries to recreate it, make it look and feel the way it did on the beach, it's forced and fake, the slash through the letters too precise and calculated, too heavy-handed, and Dom feels relieved. He lights a little fire and burns the paper, sipping a beer while the edges curl and blacken and the fire swallows the words the way the water did, and it feels right.
*
"I had a dream that the ocean stole your words," Viggo says against the back of Dom's neck, where the sunburnt skin is hypersensitive and sore, and Dom shivers at the feather-light touch of Viggo's lips. "You let them go."
"Not on purpose," he says softly, not bothering to explain that it wasn't a dream, that he had told Viggo about the lost notes that morning. Pearl-grey light of dawn, that neverwhere of rumpled sheets and drifting hands between fucking and sleeping, and Dom hadn't wanted to tell Viggo about his broken name on the page, but his traitorous mouth spilled it all anyway.
And Viggo had just looked up through his hair and said shhh against Dom's stomach, scratch of his beard and the subtle shivery thrum of his lips on Dom's skin. Viggo closed his eyes, then, and Dom watched him sleep for almost an hour before he closed his own eyes, and didn't dream.
Viggo's hands on his shoulders, now, the warm solid press of him against Dom's back, and he breathes the close air of Viggo's small kitchen, bright clear sunlight and the lingering sweetness of yesterday's cinnamon rolls, the oilybitter smell of coffee left too long in the pot, salt and tobacco and the musky smell of Viggo's skin.
"I dreamed I was the ocean," Viggo whispers, that elusive song, rhythm, heartbeat, and Dom can only nod.
by ink_stain
VM/DM; PG-13
713 words
Disclaimer
So first I found this quote from Dom: "Went to the beach for the day and wrote as much as I could about this incredible experience and where my life seemed to be taking me, etc. I fell asleep, and when I woke up the papers were blowing down the beach and into the water. I sat up and watched until I couldn't see one piece of paper left. I drove home and felt happy," and then the mprov toy gave me these words: airborne; mermaid; drift. And then this happened. Thanks to Fi for beta-type things and Cathy for read-thru.
And Viggo. Viggo Viggo Viggo. Like
Dom's eyes slip closed, head lolling on his neck, and his pen drags along the sheet of paper in his lap, streaking shiny-wet black across half the page and
Vig/go
catches his eye. He frowns, wishing now he'd brought a pencil instead, something less permanent, erasable, but then the mistakes, he knows, are often the most interesting part of something. Happy accidents and coincidences that maybe can't be explained away. The universe finds a way to get its message across.
Late afternoon now and the sun is warm on his skin, making him sleepy. He sets the papers and pen aside, tucked securely under one of his sandals, lays his cheek against the back of his arms and thinks i'll just rest a moment.
He counts the waves crashing once, twice, third time's the charm and he's already dreaming of mermaids.
*
He wakes up more tired than he was when he went to sleep, the sun sinking into the blood-red sea and the sky is lavender, pink, smudged pale orange along the horizon. The sound of fluttering paper and he blinks awake cautiously, hand shading his eyes, and his notes are blowing down the beach, airborne on the whipping wind, dancing through the air.
His dislodged sandal on its side in the sand -- he must have knocked it while he was asleep -- and just for a second he thinks about running after the pages, gathering up what little he could still salvage.
But then the water foams up on the sand and claims one of the sheets, and Dom sits up, wrapping his arms around his legs, and resting his chin on his knees. The setting sun warm on his back and the thieving wind cool and damp on his face, and he watches until the pages are all gone, and does not feel robbed.
He drives home with the windows down and the radio off, a fragment of dream-song stuck in his head, something familiar that he's sure he's never heard before, perfectly synchronized with the sound of the waves, the road under his tires, his heartbeat.
*
He thinks about trying to rewrite some of his notes, knows there were fragments and snatches of sentences that he thought were really clever, but when he picks up his pen and puts it to paper, all that comes out is Viggo. Dom chews the end of his pen, remembering
Vig/go
but when he tries to recreate it, make it look and feel the way it did on the beach, it's forced and fake, the slash through the letters too precise and calculated, too heavy-handed, and Dom feels relieved. He lights a little fire and burns the paper, sipping a beer while the edges curl and blacken and the fire swallows the words the way the water did, and it feels right.
*
"I had a dream that the ocean stole your words," Viggo says against the back of Dom's neck, where the sunburnt skin is hypersensitive and sore, and Dom shivers at the feather-light touch of Viggo's lips. "You let them go."
"Not on purpose," he says softly, not bothering to explain that it wasn't a dream, that he had told Viggo about the lost notes that morning. Pearl-grey light of dawn, that neverwhere of rumpled sheets and drifting hands between fucking and sleeping, and Dom hadn't wanted to tell Viggo about his broken name on the page, but his traitorous mouth spilled it all anyway.
And Viggo had just looked up through his hair and said shhh against Dom's stomach, scratch of his beard and the subtle shivery thrum of his lips on Dom's skin. Viggo closed his eyes, then, and Dom watched him sleep for almost an hour before he closed his own eyes, and didn't dream.
Viggo's hands on his shoulders, now, the warm solid press of him against Dom's back, and he breathes the close air of Viggo's small kitchen, bright clear sunlight and the lingering sweetness of yesterday's cinnamon rolls, the oilybitter smell of coffee left too long in the pot, salt and tobacco and the musky smell of Viggo's skin.
"I dreamed I was the ocean," Viggo whispers, that elusive song, rhythm, heartbeat, and Dom can only nod.