Dec. 15th, 2002 09:53 pm
Fic: Atlantic Within the Sahara
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fox_confessorDisclaimer: A work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
Title: Atlantic Within the Sahara
Pairing: ob/vm
Summary: what if there were two, side by side an orbit, around the fairest sun
He tilts his head as if listening to a melody. The same song he sings as he sinks away from the world. I love this about him.
Lying in bed by an open window. A slow breeze arousing bare skin. The tink tink tinking of a wind chime. Of fresh grass. Of rain in the wind. Of the living earth. This is how I think of him.
He is a cold November. He is the Atlantic. He is the song I can only remember the chorus to. He is.
And I know he is this to everyone he meets.
Yet, I do not know the truth of my thoughts, so I do not trust myself to believe in him.
* * * *
I remember not the first time we met but the third or fourth, when he lay in the green grass, before summer had sapped the land of water, leaving it brown and dead.
Khaki pants clung to his hips. A white shirt to his chest, falling into his stomach. Barefoot. His arms cradling his head.
I snapped his picture.
“Hullo.” He said that without opening his eyes. His grace is subtle and supple. He affords no extra movements unless aroused by his passions and then he is all motion, flowing and fluid.
I still didn’t know this, though, and marveled at his stillness. A placid pool.
He is nothing of the sort.
“Hello,” I answered, and wondered if my voice truly sounds as it does. “We’ve met before.”
“I remember. Do you regret anything you’ve ever done?”
“No,” I lie.
I looked at his body on the green grass. Grass so thick and verdant that I wanted to touch it, and him. Maybe this is when I fell in love. Maybe, if the grass had been dead, or dying, I would have been able to see him as dying, then dead, and I wouldn’t have lost my heart.
But, of course, I know I have always loved him. I was brought into this world screaming of my love for him. For Orlando.
* * * *
On that day, however, the sky reflected only still waters.
I kicked my shoe off and felt the soft green grass. A bumblebee left its lush bush and flew the valley of his stomach and I watched it lift into the sky, heavy with pollen.
A laugh escaped his lips as he rolled towards me. He grabbed my ankle and pulled. Off balance, I fell, laughing with him, still falling.
He was upon me. He surrounded me. He kissed me.
And I kissed him.
And so it began. The spell was broken and he was no longer a mystery. With his lips and tongue, he explained the world. In his salinity, I understood.
He who needed no one, who had everyone, only needed, only wanted me.
Title: Atlantic Within the Sahara
Pairing: ob/vm
Summary: what if there were two, side by side an orbit, around the fairest sun
He tilts his head as if listening to a melody. The same song he sings as he sinks away from the world. I love this about him.
Lying in bed by an open window. A slow breeze arousing bare skin. The tink tink tinking of a wind chime. Of fresh grass. Of rain in the wind. Of the living earth. This is how I think of him.
He is a cold November. He is the Atlantic. He is the song I can only remember the chorus to. He is.
And I know he is this to everyone he meets.
Yet, I do not know the truth of my thoughts, so I do not trust myself to believe in him.
* * * *
I remember not the first time we met but the third or fourth, when he lay in the green grass, before summer had sapped the land of water, leaving it brown and dead.
Khaki pants clung to his hips. A white shirt to his chest, falling into his stomach. Barefoot. His arms cradling his head.
I snapped his picture.
“Hullo.” He said that without opening his eyes. His grace is subtle and supple. He affords no extra movements unless aroused by his passions and then he is all motion, flowing and fluid.
I still didn’t know this, though, and marveled at his stillness. A placid pool.
He is nothing of the sort.
“Hello,” I answered, and wondered if my voice truly sounds as it does. “We’ve met before.”
“I remember. Do you regret anything you’ve ever done?”
“No,” I lie.
I looked at his body on the green grass. Grass so thick and verdant that I wanted to touch it, and him. Maybe this is when I fell in love. Maybe, if the grass had been dead, or dying, I would have been able to see him as dying, then dead, and I wouldn’t have lost my heart.
But, of course, I know I have always loved him. I was brought into this world screaming of my love for him. For Orlando.
* * * *
On that day, however, the sky reflected only still waters.
I kicked my shoe off and felt the soft green grass. A bumblebee left its lush bush and flew the valley of his stomach and I watched it lift into the sky, heavy with pollen.
A laugh escaped his lips as he rolled towards me. He grabbed my ankle and pulled. Off balance, I fell, laughing with him, still falling.
He was upon me. He surrounded me. He kissed me.
And I kissed him.
And so it began. The spell was broken and he was no longer a mystery. With his lips and tongue, he explained the world. In his salinity, I understood.
He who needed no one, who had everyone, only needed, only wanted me.
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