Um, I guess if you could see me, I'd be giggling nervously...

Jul 01, 2007 23:21

So, after months of lurking several fandoms, reading slash at odd hours of the night, and corrupting my simple, innocent mind, I have finally cracked. I have written my first fanfictiony thingy. And I blame it all on indyhat (and I vow to one day learn how to do the fancy linking thing) for recklessly encouraging me. This is what comes of throwing out Brokeback Mountain quotes when commenting on Plaude fics. You start picturing Peter in a cowboy hat and it all goes downhill from there. So, with some further ado, upon reflection, I give you all: Brokeback Plaude. Or my weird, twisted version of it. I'm going to try and keep it short, because otherwise I'll never finish it. Perhaps that would be a good thing.

Title: Going to A Town- Prologue
Rating: PG, I suppose...
Summary: Well, this is complicated. How about this, basically the end results of the story that will follow?
Disclaimer: I own nothing. In fact, I'm an ascetic. In terms of intellectual property, at least.

Okay, now there's no further ado...


It is not the dust that settles in his freshly poured glass of milk, tainting its rich purity, that makes this hell. It is not the fine powder clogging the air conditioner, recalling harsh grit washed away in clear pools. It is not the harsh snap of the awning of the storefront below, sounding nothing like the lazy flap of the tent canvas in a soothing wind. It is the absences.

The absence of a crooked smile, offering sin and salvation, gently mocking the organized chaos. Of eyes like turbulent seas, fascinated by the intricacies of the streets below, the people going about their business, unnoticed and unnoticing. Of laughter, ringing bitter, harsh, hopeful, filling every corner of the tiny rooms.

It is the absence of a person who never was, never would be (never could be) here.

And he wakes to hell, the buzzing of the flies gathered around the garbage he hasn't had the energy to remove, permeating the air, resounding damnation, but shadows of the reverberations of horseflies, fat and vicious and leaving welts to be tended by gentle hands.

He wakes inside a body that is not far from a shadow itself, stiff and creaking and bent, but not, he notes, entirely devoid of a hint of youth. Another shadow, of old passions and weaknesses and he smirks. The dreams, when they come, always bring with them those hints. He has stopped knowing, (stopped caring), if he wishes they would come more often or stop all together.

He has grown old, he knows. He will likely not grow older. What “family” he has comes more and more often, checking in, making sure. They spend less and less time, distancing themselves. And so he knows. They paid his rent when it was needed, bought him clothes when the ones he had came apart, filled his refrigerator when they realized he was no longer leaving the apartment. And they have come to anticipate when he will do so for the last time.

He sleeps constantly. Knows that a large part of it is merely age, accumulated years more stress than his body can (was meant to) handle. But he thinks, sometimes, that it is a lower form of suicide. An escape, temporary but necessary, and painful, desperate.

He sleeps, and dreams of grins teased, (gently, gently) from sullenness. Of eyes, filled with new stars, secrets shared under the desert sky. Of laughter lighting the shadows in the wake of a summer bonfire. Of stolen moments in the sun, and eternities under the moon. Of a lifetime spanning two months, built from the ashes of old cities mixed with the waters of new youth, and then destroyed, returned to the dust that now coats every surface that surrounds him.

He awakes from dreams of cool nights to an already scorched Odessa morning.

A/N: As if the author didn't leave enough notes above...so, what did y'all think? For the sake of anyone who wonders, yes, this is Plaude. Well, we'll get there. I promise. Who's point of view is it? Well, it's going to shift around, but for here...we'll get there. I promise. Can the sentence structure get really, really, really annoying? Yes, we'll get there. I promise. What else? The title is from the Rufus Wainwright song...it just seemed to fit. And I couldn't get away with calling it Brokeback Plaude, now could I?

fic

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