in the wake of mo(u)rning (any pairing)
any pairing can apply (SYTYCD4)
PG-13 for desolation!AU.
inspiration: Feist - Honey Honey
When everything they've ever loved - everything they've ever known - is lost, and there's no one else to turn to, they have to find solace in each other.
1. honey honey up in the trees
fields of flowers deep in his dreams
They come together quietly in the early morning, the bed sheets tangled and twisted around their ankles at the bottom of the mattress, draping onto the floor of their studio. It's raining outside, the sound of raindrops drumming on the windowpane a backdrop to the slow, soft movement of their bodies. The pale bed sheet masquerading as a curtain doesn't quite block out the weak morning light, rectangles boxed in lines falling across the mattress, the grey shadow of raindrops trickling in long lines along the floor.
A hand reaches out to skim the path of a raindrop, its trail on the window a shadow cast along an arm. Fingers glide upwards, breaking away from the path edged in grey to trace the rounded curve of a shoulder, dipping into the hollow of a collarbone. The touch is replaced by the whispering of lips against smooth skin, warmed by sleep and dusky with lust.
Their days pass like this, each one melting imperceptibly into the next, where the only indication of time passing is the light that waxes and wanes beyond the threadbare sheet.
2. lead them out to sea by the east
honey honey food for the bees
The studio is bare and almost empty. Their necessities - some clothing, a tube of toothpaste, a pen and journal, and the precious, hidden iPod, stuffed in a pair of socks - are in a plywood shelving unit close to the door. They don't have much. They don't need much, not these days.
They have a mattress, and the bed sheets. Their coats and heavy winter clothing are hung on pegs beside the shelving unit. Their only other furniture is a broken bureau standing in the corner, the mirror cracked. They'd stripped the wall-to-wall mirror from their studio and sold it when their money started to get short - back when slips of green paper printed with the President's face had value. That money ran out long ago, spent on food and water, and had most likely burned to ashes in the Judges' bonfire. That night, they'd pulled aside the sheet that covered their window and watched the distant, flaming hill of the American Greenbacks burn to the ground, silhouetted by the inky black expanse of the sky. The next morning, the ashes of the American dream covered the streets and the roofs of all the houses in a fine layer of grey dust.
That afternoon it began to rain, rain and rain and rain, as though it would never end. The dust had swirled through the streets and into the drains, disappearing into the depths of the earth.
Without money, they steal food from the abandoned grocery store down the block, one of them staying at the studio, just in case. The Judges know, but no one cares. Everyone else - on the rare occasion that they see another person outside - does the same thing. They never strike up conversation, even though they want to fall into another's arms, even though they need to hear the voice of someone else, even though they know the others ache for the same things. They just nod quickly, if they even acknowledge the others' presence. No one ever asks each other what they'll do when there's no more food to steal from the gradually emptying shelves.
3. honey honey out on the sea
in the doldrums thinking of me
me on dry land thinking of he
honey honey not next to me
Sometimes they dance. There's no music to dance to; there hasn't been for years, since the Decree. They could listen to their iPod - the only thing they have salvaged from the years before the detainment of media - the volume turned down low, but it's not the same as feeling the music through your limbs, down your spine, sharing it with each touch. They don't have an iPod dock, but they wouldn't use it even if they did, in case the Judges are still watching, still listening. They only unwrap it from the woolen socks protecting it when they're sequestered under covers, the sheet pulled above their heads. They lie facing each other on the mattress and share the earphones, whispering the lyrics of well-known songs to each other and trying to make out the movement of each other’s lips in the darkness.
They used to meet up, all twenty of them, in secret places silenced from the outside world. They'd smile truly happy smiles at each other, trace each other's faces with their fingertips to make sure they were real, that they hadn't faded away or lost their will to dream, to dance. Lamps would line the walls and fill the room with light, and a forbidden CD would be spinning in someone's old boombox. Sometimes they would choreograph their own dances, other times they’d try to recall the dances they’d done together. Joshua, Gev, Will, Twitch and Mark would perform Nigel’s choreography, not letting any tears fall for the person he’d become, gripping each other’s hands at the end of the routine to remember that they were all still here. They would all practice Mia’s contemporary, with Jamie and Rayven and Susie and Marquis flailing about as though they were doing Wade’s. Mostly, though, they would just dance, fingers intertwined, leaping and spinning. They would stifle their laughter in exhilaration, the thrill of hiding such a beautiful secret a live wire running through all their bodies, connecting them all like wooden beads strung together on a silver string. Times like those, when they could dance together and ignore the world around them, almost made it seem like the old days again.
Then they started disappearing, one by one. Those remaining couldn't tell if the others left out of fear or force, and slowly but surely their meetings became less and less frequent. When they did come together, fewer and fewer of them would show up, worry written across their faces and lacing their movements. The coded telegraphs eventually stopped arriving altogether, and the boombox and CD were hidden away in fear.
Sometimes they dance, but now it's just the two of them. They haven't seen anyone else from their group or been greeted with a secret, familiar smile for what seems like years. They can't tell how long it's been, where anyone else is, or if the desire to dance has been extinguished from everyone else's hearts, like a candle in a darkened cathedral snuffed out with the softest whoosh of air.
Now they have to make do with the melodies that they have memorized in their minds and in their bodies, whispering the count of the beat to each other -
two and three and four, six and seven and eight
- as they spin around in their room, their bare feet whispering against the roughened floorboards. They don't choreograph anymore. There's no mirror lining the wall of their studio, and the room seems half its size. There's no one to tell them how the movement of their bodies look together, no one to laugh and point out whenever they're off the beat, no one to demonstrate how to finish that leap, no one to remind them they're not alone.
Now they dance just to keep each other sane.
4. even if he wanted to
even if he wanted to
Even though the world seems so silent that they could shout their conversations, most of the time they speak in hushed whispers. They used to talk and laugh loudly, words falling mindlessly from their lips, spilling into the atmosphere of the world that went on forever. These days, the air feels stale, stuffy; like they are goldfish enclosed in a plastic bag prison. If one of them laughs, the sound is too bright and too loud and so out of place they can almost see the noise breach the quiet that presses down on them like a heavy blanket.
They don’t often laugh.
They worry a lot, about food and water and heat, and talk late into the night while wrapped around each other, their voices low and murmuring. One of them will smooth the hair away from the other’s forehead and press a soft kiss against a temple, along the line that forms between worried eyebrows, above the slope of the nose. They tell each other they’ll figure something out.
They do figure something out, eventually. It’s not a fantastic idea, and it doesn’t solve all their problems, but it’s the best they had and it’s the best for now. They need something to hold on to.
They can’t remember who thought of it first. They can’t remember who stood at the back of their building, abandoned by all its inhabitants excepting themselves, squinted up at the stormy sky, and decided to dig up the overgrown lawn. They can’t remember who first squatted above the dark soil as it continued to rain, soaked to the bone and balancing on the balls of their bare feet, and began planting seeds from stolen fruit in neat little rows. They can’t remember who first took the detour and walked from the grocer’s on their block down to the organic seed center a few streets over to pick up packets labelled ‘carrots’, ‘cabbage’, ‘zucchini’. It had probably been both of them.
When their bodies are so closely curled together, desperate to hold onto the feeling of another’s breath, their two souls seem to merge together, indistinguishable from one another - a feeling that is both amazing and terrifying. They can’t remember who is who, sometimes. At a time when they’ve lost everything close to them, losing each other would mean losing their own individual sense of self, and the fact that they still have each other, that they are so very close to one another, is a comfort that they cling to. Yet being so close and sharing space, breath, thoughts - they’re beginning to lose who I and me and you are, and becoming a we and us and them.
They send a telegraph out to the world. Even though they know it’ll be intercepted, even though they know the chance that it will reach its intended recipients is slim to none, they try to tell themselves to never lose hope.
5. even if he wanted to
do you think he'd come back?
(would he come back?)
iv real stop where r u all stop need u stop studio xi stop we need u stop
6. honey honey out on the sea
in the doldrums waiting for me
me in my boat searching for he
honey honey food for the bees
The rain outside is relentless, drumming against their windowpane. It paints the studio with shadowy grey watercolours that bleed into the floor like tears across their naked bodies.
They come together quietly in the early morning, the bed sheets twisted and tangled around their ankles, waiting for the rain to stop.
PG-13 for desolation!AU.
inspiration: Feist - Honey Honey
When everything they've ever loved - everything they've ever known - is lost, and there's no one else to turn to, they have to find solace in each other.
1. honey honey up in the trees
fields of flowers deep in his dreams
They come together quietly in the early morning, the bed sheets tangled and twisted around their ankles at the bottom of the mattress, draping onto the floor of their studio. It's raining outside, the sound of raindrops drumming on the windowpane a backdrop to the slow, soft movement of their bodies. The pale bed sheet masquerading as a curtain doesn't quite block out the weak morning light, rectangles boxed in lines falling across the mattress, the grey shadow of raindrops trickling in long lines along the floor.
A hand reaches out to skim the path of a raindrop, its trail on the window a shadow cast along an arm. Fingers glide upwards, breaking away from the path edged in grey to trace the rounded curve of a shoulder, dipping into the hollow of a collarbone. The touch is replaced by the whispering of lips against smooth skin, warmed by sleep and dusky with lust.
Their days pass like this, each one melting imperceptibly into the next, where the only indication of time passing is the light that waxes and wanes beyond the threadbare sheet.
2. lead them out to sea by the east
honey honey food for the bees
The studio is bare and almost empty. Their necessities - some clothing, a tube of toothpaste, a pen and journal, and the precious, hidden iPod, stuffed in a pair of socks - are in a plywood shelving unit close to the door. They don't have much. They don't need much, not these days.
They have a mattress, and the bed sheets. Their coats and heavy winter clothing are hung on pegs beside the shelving unit. Their only other furniture is a broken bureau standing in the corner, the mirror cracked. They'd stripped the wall-to-wall mirror from their studio and sold it when their money started to get short - back when slips of green paper printed with the President's face had value. That money ran out long ago, spent on food and water, and had most likely burned to ashes in the Judges' bonfire. That night, they'd pulled aside the sheet that covered their window and watched the distant, flaming hill of the American Greenbacks burn to the ground, silhouetted by the inky black expanse of the sky. The next morning, the ashes of the American dream covered the streets and the roofs of all the houses in a fine layer of grey dust.
That afternoon it began to rain, rain and rain and rain, as though it would never end. The dust had swirled through the streets and into the drains, disappearing into the depths of the earth.
Without money, they steal food from the abandoned grocery store down the block, one of them staying at the studio, just in case. The Judges know, but no one cares. Everyone else - on the rare occasion that they see another person outside - does the same thing. They never strike up conversation, even though they want to fall into another's arms, even though they need to hear the voice of someone else, even though they know the others ache for the same things. They just nod quickly, if they even acknowledge the others' presence. No one ever asks each other what they'll do when there's no more food to steal from the gradually emptying shelves.
3. honey honey out on the sea
in the doldrums thinking of me
me on dry land thinking of he
honey honey not next to me
Sometimes they dance. There's no music to dance to; there hasn't been for years, since the Decree. They could listen to their iPod - the only thing they have salvaged from the years before the detainment of media - the volume turned down low, but it's not the same as feeling the music through your limbs, down your spine, sharing it with each touch. They don't have an iPod dock, but they wouldn't use it even if they did, in case the Judges are still watching, still listening. They only unwrap it from the woolen socks protecting it when they're sequestered under covers, the sheet pulled above their heads. They lie facing each other on the mattress and share the earphones, whispering the lyrics of well-known songs to each other and trying to make out the movement of each other’s lips in the darkness.
They used to meet up, all twenty of them, in secret places silenced from the outside world. They'd smile truly happy smiles at each other, trace each other's faces with their fingertips to make sure they were real, that they hadn't faded away or lost their will to dream, to dance. Lamps would line the walls and fill the room with light, and a forbidden CD would be spinning in someone's old boombox. Sometimes they would choreograph their own dances, other times they’d try to recall the dances they’d done together. Joshua, Gev, Will, Twitch and Mark would perform Nigel’s choreography, not letting any tears fall for the person he’d become, gripping each other’s hands at the end of the routine to remember that they were all still here. They would all practice Mia’s contemporary, with Jamie and Rayven and Susie and Marquis flailing about as though they were doing Wade’s. Mostly, though, they would just dance, fingers intertwined, leaping and spinning. They would stifle their laughter in exhilaration, the thrill of hiding such a beautiful secret a live wire running through all their bodies, connecting them all like wooden beads strung together on a silver string. Times like those, when they could dance together and ignore the world around them, almost made it seem like the old days again.
Then they started disappearing, one by one. Those remaining couldn't tell if the others left out of fear or force, and slowly but surely their meetings became less and less frequent. When they did come together, fewer and fewer of them would show up, worry written across their faces and lacing their movements. The coded telegraphs eventually stopped arriving altogether, and the boombox and CD were hidden away in fear.
Sometimes they dance, but now it's just the two of them. They haven't seen anyone else from their group or been greeted with a secret, familiar smile for what seems like years. They can't tell how long it's been, where anyone else is, or if the desire to dance has been extinguished from everyone else's hearts, like a candle in a darkened cathedral snuffed out with the softest whoosh of air.
Now they have to make do with the melodies that they have memorized in their minds and in their bodies, whispering the count of the beat to each other -
two and three and four, six and seven and eight
- as they spin around in their room, their bare feet whispering against the roughened floorboards. They don't choreograph anymore. There's no mirror lining the wall of their studio, and the room seems half its size. There's no one to tell them how the movement of their bodies look together, no one to laugh and point out whenever they're off the beat, no one to demonstrate how to finish that leap, no one to remind them they're not alone.
Now they dance just to keep each other sane.
4. even if he wanted to
even if he wanted to
Even though the world seems so silent that they could shout their conversations, most of the time they speak in hushed whispers. They used to talk and laugh loudly, words falling mindlessly from their lips, spilling into the atmosphere of the world that went on forever. These days, the air feels stale, stuffy; like they are goldfish enclosed in a plastic bag prison. If one of them laughs, the sound is too bright and too loud and so out of place they can almost see the noise breach the quiet that presses down on them like a heavy blanket.
They don’t often laugh.
They worry a lot, about food and water and heat, and talk late into the night while wrapped around each other, their voices low and murmuring. One of them will smooth the hair away from the other’s forehead and press a soft kiss against a temple, along the line that forms between worried eyebrows, above the slope of the nose. They tell each other they’ll figure something out.
They do figure something out, eventually. It’s not a fantastic idea, and it doesn’t solve all their problems, but it’s the best they had and it’s the best for now. They need something to hold on to.
They can’t remember who thought of it first. They can’t remember who stood at the back of their building, abandoned by all its inhabitants excepting themselves, squinted up at the stormy sky, and decided to dig up the overgrown lawn. They can’t remember who first squatted above the dark soil as it continued to rain, soaked to the bone and balancing on the balls of their bare feet, and began planting seeds from stolen fruit in neat little rows. They can’t remember who first took the detour and walked from the grocer’s on their block down to the organic seed center a few streets over to pick up packets labelled ‘carrots’, ‘cabbage’, ‘zucchini’. It had probably been both of them.
When their bodies are so closely curled together, desperate to hold onto the feeling of another’s breath, their two souls seem to merge together, indistinguishable from one another - a feeling that is both amazing and terrifying. They can’t remember who is who, sometimes. At a time when they’ve lost everything close to them, losing each other would mean losing their own individual sense of self, and the fact that they still have each other, that they are so very close to one another, is a comfort that they cling to. Yet being so close and sharing space, breath, thoughts - they’re beginning to lose who I and me and you are, and becoming a we and us and them.
They send a telegraph out to the world. Even though they know it’ll be intercepted, even though they know the chance that it will reach its intended recipients is slim to none, they try to tell themselves to never lose hope.
5. even if he wanted to
do you think he'd come back?
(would he come back?)
iv real stop where r u all stop need u stop studio xi stop we need u stop
6. honey honey out on the sea
in the doldrums waiting for me
me in my boat searching for he
honey honey food for the bees
The rain outside is relentless, drumming against their windowpane. It paints the studio with shadowy grey watercolours that bleed into the floor like tears across their naked bodies.
They come together quietly in the early morning, the bed sheets twisted and tangled around their ankles, waiting for the rain to stop.