Post by MambaduMal on May 12, 2004 16:39:32 GMT -5
Oooookay. A while ago, someone had the idea to pair up BSam and DarkPhoenix in a slash story. Although it's supposed to be MadamLuna's project (hehe... full of food euphemisms XD), I thought I'd try it out...
Enjoy
***
“A slash fic.”
“A what?”
“A slash fic,” Sergio repeated, collapsing into an armchair. “You and me. A love story.”
Sam looked up from his Robert Rankin novel. The situation was laughable, yes. But for some reason, he didn’t laugh.
Sergio gave him a lopsided grin. “Pretty stupid, huh?” he said with a laugh. “I mean, seriously. They can match up Harry Potter characters until doomsday, but real men like you and me… well, that’s a different story.”
Sam gave him a small smile. “Hey, whatever makes them happy.” He turned back to his book.
The room settled into a comfortable silence. The afternoon sunlight, like melted gold, dripped through the Venician blinds and made horizontal pools of light across the oak floor. Dim table lamps accented the shadows of the overstuffed furniture, casting large shapes on the bookcases that lined the room.
Sergio took out his switchblade, and idly twirled it between his fingers. He stared blankly at the walls of books, watching the occasional ball of dust twirl by.
The clicking noise of the switchblade caused Sam to look up again. “Why are you so agitated?” he asked.
Sergio dropped the blade. It landed on the floor with a metallic thud. “I… I’m not agitated,” he said, reaching down to pick it up.
“Mmm,” Sam smirked.
“Oh, shut it,” Sergio pouted.
Still smirking, Sam slowly licked his thumb and turned the page. “If you say so,” he said, and resumed his reading.
Sergio paused. His eyes were transfixed on Sam.
“Maybe I am agitated,” he said, standing up, clutching the switchblade. “Maybe I’m not comfortable being in a fanfic where I’m at the mercy of the author, who probably doesn’t even know the first thing about me.”
“Depends who the author is, maybe,” said Sam, looking up once more. “Maybe she…”
“…assuming it’s a she…”
“It most likely is.”
“True.”
Sergio fell back into the armchair again, and small dust particles were thrust into the air. Glittering in the strains of sunlight, they looked like fairy dust.
Sam sighed. “Don’t be so worried.”
“And why not?” Sergio glared at the window.
“Just let the fangirls have their fun. There isn’t any chance of us getting together anyway.”
“Isn’t there?” Sergio said, pouting.
“I wish.”
Sam nearly choked on his own words, words that had surfaced against his will. He felt the smallest beads of sweat forming on his brow. “I… I mean…”
Sergio wasn’t moving. His expression had not changed. His eyes had not moved from the window.
“I mean, I wish I could reassure you,” Sam finished. With a slight shudder, he exhaled.
Sam could not believe what he had almost done. The thoughts, the words, that had plagued his heart for so long, had almost been exposed. He was afraid to think what had nearly happened; his words would have hung, naked and shivering in the envelope of silence, and with their release, nothing would ever have been the same again.
He turned back to his book, trying vainly to drown himself in the text.
He heard Sergio stand and shuffle over to the window, turning his back.
“Light’s too bright,” Sergio muttered, wrapping his fingers around the cord.
However, he did not pull it. Not yet. He needed to buy some time. He had to make sure Sam could not see his face.
His face, dark and beautiful, was punctuated by his deep eyes, shining with the beginnings of tears. His eyebrows were furrowed in frustration.
He felt angry, and lost, and he did not know how or why. A rush of thoughts buzzed through his mind. What just happened? Had Sam meant to say that? Does Sam really wish that we could be together? And is it possible… could he… ever… could he love me?
He heard Sam turn the page.
Most importantly, he thought, trembling, do I feel the same way?
“I think you’re supposed to pull now,” said Sam’s voice, soft, with an Australian lilt that reminded Sergio of summer.
“What?” replied Sergio, as he felt the first tear escape his eye and cling to his lashes.
“The cord,” Sam replied. “You’re supposed to pull it, and then the blinds close.”
Sergio yanked the cord. The room was suddenly thrust into darkness. A cold, deep, desperate darkness, like a child finds when they suddenly awaken in the middle of the night.
Sergio heard Sam close his book.
“That’s it,” Sam said, with an attempt at humor. “I’ve read the same sentence thirty-seven times. That means it’s time for a beer.”
“Why?” whispered Sergio, as the tear on his face began to slide down his cheek.
“Because… beer is good?” said Sam, standing up.
“No. Why have you read the same sentence thirty-seven times?”
Sergio cursed himself. Now that he asked it aloud, the question seemed stupid.
Sam tossed the book onto a nearby table. “I don’t know. My mind is elsewhere, I guess. Probably in the same place your mind is… you’ve been standing at the window for nearly ten minutes.”
Sergio whirled around. “You don’t know where my mind has been,” he snapped. “You can’t even begin to understand.”
“Oh, can’t I?” asked Sam quietly.
“No. You can’t.” Sergio glared at him, well aware that the tears were falling more freely now. He clenched his teeth.
Sam stepped forward. The silence was ringing in his ears, louder than even the beating of his own heart. Something was tugging at his insides, luring him forward, like a marionette on strings.
He stepped forward again. What the hell was he doing?
The same question sparked in Sergio’s mind. He could see small beads of sweat crowning Sam’s hairline, like a silver halo that glittered in the dim light of the room. As Sam moved closer to him, Sergio realized that he was sweating too.
Enjoy
***
“A slash fic.”
“A what?”
“A slash fic,” Sergio repeated, collapsing into an armchair. “You and me. A love story.”
Sam looked up from his Robert Rankin novel. The situation was laughable, yes. But for some reason, he didn’t laugh.
Sergio gave him a lopsided grin. “Pretty stupid, huh?” he said with a laugh. “I mean, seriously. They can match up Harry Potter characters until doomsday, but real men like you and me… well, that’s a different story.”
Sam gave him a small smile. “Hey, whatever makes them happy.” He turned back to his book.
The room settled into a comfortable silence. The afternoon sunlight, like melted gold, dripped through the Venician blinds and made horizontal pools of light across the oak floor. Dim table lamps accented the shadows of the overstuffed furniture, casting large shapes on the bookcases that lined the room.
Sergio took out his switchblade, and idly twirled it between his fingers. He stared blankly at the walls of books, watching the occasional ball of dust twirl by.
The clicking noise of the switchblade caused Sam to look up again. “Why are you so agitated?” he asked.
Sergio dropped the blade. It landed on the floor with a metallic thud. “I… I’m not agitated,” he said, reaching down to pick it up.
“Mmm,” Sam smirked.
“Oh, shut it,” Sergio pouted.
Still smirking, Sam slowly licked his thumb and turned the page. “If you say so,” he said, and resumed his reading.
Sergio paused. His eyes were transfixed on Sam.
“Maybe I am agitated,” he said, standing up, clutching the switchblade. “Maybe I’m not comfortable being in a fanfic where I’m at the mercy of the author, who probably doesn’t even know the first thing about me.”
“Depends who the author is, maybe,” said Sam, looking up once more. “Maybe she…”
“…assuming it’s a she…”
“It most likely is.”
“True.”
Sergio fell back into the armchair again, and small dust particles were thrust into the air. Glittering in the strains of sunlight, they looked like fairy dust.
Sam sighed. “Don’t be so worried.”
“And why not?” Sergio glared at the window.
“Just let the fangirls have their fun. There isn’t any chance of us getting together anyway.”
“Isn’t there?” Sergio said, pouting.
“I wish.”
Sam nearly choked on his own words, words that had surfaced against his will. He felt the smallest beads of sweat forming on his brow. “I… I mean…”
Sergio wasn’t moving. His expression had not changed. His eyes had not moved from the window.
“I mean, I wish I could reassure you,” Sam finished. With a slight shudder, he exhaled.
Sam could not believe what he had almost done. The thoughts, the words, that had plagued his heart for so long, had almost been exposed. He was afraid to think what had nearly happened; his words would have hung, naked and shivering in the envelope of silence, and with their release, nothing would ever have been the same again.
He turned back to his book, trying vainly to drown himself in the text.
He heard Sergio stand and shuffle over to the window, turning his back.
“Light’s too bright,” Sergio muttered, wrapping his fingers around the cord.
However, he did not pull it. Not yet. He needed to buy some time. He had to make sure Sam could not see his face.
His face, dark and beautiful, was punctuated by his deep eyes, shining with the beginnings of tears. His eyebrows were furrowed in frustration.
He felt angry, and lost, and he did not know how or why. A rush of thoughts buzzed through his mind. What just happened? Had Sam meant to say that? Does Sam really wish that we could be together? And is it possible… could he… ever… could he love me?
He heard Sam turn the page.
Most importantly, he thought, trembling, do I feel the same way?
“I think you’re supposed to pull now,” said Sam’s voice, soft, with an Australian lilt that reminded Sergio of summer.
“What?” replied Sergio, as he felt the first tear escape his eye and cling to his lashes.
“The cord,” Sam replied. “You’re supposed to pull it, and then the blinds close.”
Sergio yanked the cord. The room was suddenly thrust into darkness. A cold, deep, desperate darkness, like a child finds when they suddenly awaken in the middle of the night.
Sergio heard Sam close his book.
“That’s it,” Sam said, with an attempt at humor. “I’ve read the same sentence thirty-seven times. That means it’s time for a beer.”
“Why?” whispered Sergio, as the tear on his face began to slide down his cheek.
“Because… beer is good?” said Sam, standing up.
“No. Why have you read the same sentence thirty-seven times?”
Sergio cursed himself. Now that he asked it aloud, the question seemed stupid.
Sam tossed the book onto a nearby table. “I don’t know. My mind is elsewhere, I guess. Probably in the same place your mind is… you’ve been standing at the window for nearly ten minutes.”
Sergio whirled around. “You don’t know where my mind has been,” he snapped. “You can’t even begin to understand.”
“Oh, can’t I?” asked Sam quietly.
“No. You can’t.” Sergio glared at him, well aware that the tears were falling more freely now. He clenched his teeth.
Sam stepped forward. The silence was ringing in his ears, louder than even the beating of his own heart. Something was tugging at his insides, luring him forward, like a marionette on strings.
He stepped forward again. What the hell was he doing?
The same question sparked in Sergio’s mind. He could see small beads of sweat crowning Sam’s hairline, like a silver halo that glittered in the dim light of the room. As Sam moved closer to him, Sergio realized that he was sweating too.