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monaboyd May. 16th, 2004 06:27 pm)
ellen-drell.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd May. 16th, 2004 06:27 pm)A little Dilly written at 3am... The best time to write, really.
Title: One More Drink
Author: Trionna (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ellen_drell)
Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I really hope this never happened/happens.
Feedback: Let's just put it this way: I love feedback.
Summary: "I’m going to propose to her. That just wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Dom couldn’t put his fingers in and flip the repair switch. So he left."
Notes: "Excuse me please, one more drink" and "One more drink and I'll move on" are lyrics from "Grace is Gone" by The Dave Matthews Band.
It was like being in a sandwich. Blue sky spread on top, green trees spread underneath. And Dom is in the middle, floating between the two colors; Air New Zealand, window-side, en route to L.A. I’m going to propose to her. That just wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Dom couldn’t put his fingers in and flip the repair switch. So he left.
He’s deleting pictures from his cellular phone. They must go somewhere after you hit that last button. Like apologising for some stupid thing you said, it’s not really gone. Things don’t just disappear forever like that.
The girl in the seat beside Dom is snoring. When Dom first walked onto the plane, found her, she offered him the seat with the view, tossing him a flirtatious smile. She doesn’t even know he exists now. It’s funny; people will change in a matter of minutes. It’s like you have nothing in common anymore. You’re just two different people in the same place.
Dom tries to see out of his window. It shouldn’t be so sunny. One great cloud blocks his view of the ground, brilliant in sunlight, the way an eggshell is – opaque and spotless. He can’t concentrate on one thing anymore. Damn thing hurts his eyes. It hurts so much.
He slides back in his seat and holds his phone above his head. His thumb prods ‘delete,’ again and again and again.
He feels like he’s in quick sand up to his chin, and he can’t move his head. His mouth has been in the same place ever since he walked through the screen door, like there was an “unwelcome” mat under his feet as he left. No footsteps ran after him. He closes his eyes, keeps hitting delete, and hears the screen door slam. Now he’s finally gone.
Excuse me please, one more drink. He has a ten second memory. Like a fish. He swims around pieces of history, so thirsty he thinks he’ll have to scream. If his glass isn’t filled again soon, he just might. Or throw the empty glass into the sink and turn away before he can watch it shatter. You’re a fucking waste of time.
Dom drops his phone on the tray table and it spins. He looks out the window at the cloud and, as far as he knows, he could be staring at a white wall. Maybe he hasn’t gotten off of the ground. Like getting a kiss, the sounds of the engines are only there to make him feel like he’s made progress.
It’s like being in a sandwich. Behind Dom there’s an island. In front of him, there is a city that he doesn’t want to call home anymore; the city of angels. But there are no angels waiting for him there. Even if he fell into bed and shut out the world, things don’t just disappear forever like that. As he looks out of his window he knows he doesn’t want to call that city home. As he looks out his window, he is in the land of the long white cloud, and he doesn’t want to pull through.
The cell phone on his tray table jumps as it rings, and Dom picks it up to his ear.
“Hello?” His voice isn’t right. He looks out the window again, and the cloud is gone.
“Dom?”
Dom adjusts himself to the sight of the ocean below; it’s sudden presence upon him like a photograph he’d almost forgotten, or thought he had thrown away a long time ago.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Dom...”
“Yeah,” he says again, but won’t admit he’s pressing his ear to the door, waiting for any reply. Well, are you coming in or not? No, he’s not. He wants to pretend that the door has stopped opening. He wants to turn and run, and run, and run. He wants everything to slowly disappear behind him.
“Dom, come back home.”
He leans against the door again and listens, brilliant light passing over his window. Are you coming in or not? “Yes, I am,” he wants to say. But he’s not opening the door. He’s not running home. He’s just flying backwards into another long, white cloud.
One more drink and I’ll move on.
Title: One More Drink
Author: Trionna (
ellen_drell)Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I really hope this never happened/happens.
Feedback: Let's just put it this way: I love feedback.
Summary: "I’m going to propose to her. That just wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Dom couldn’t put his fingers in and flip the repair switch. So he left."
Notes: "Excuse me please, one more drink" and "One more drink and I'll move on" are lyrics from "Grace is Gone" by The Dave Matthews Band.
It was like being in a sandwich. Blue sky spread on top, green trees spread underneath. And Dom is in the middle, floating between the two colors; Air New Zealand, window-side, en route to L.A. I’m going to propose to her. That just wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Dom couldn’t put his fingers in and flip the repair switch. So he left.
He’s deleting pictures from his cellular phone. They must go somewhere after you hit that last button. Like apologising for some stupid thing you said, it’s not really gone. Things don’t just disappear forever like that.
The girl in the seat beside Dom is snoring. When Dom first walked onto the plane, found her, she offered him the seat with the view, tossing him a flirtatious smile. She doesn’t even know he exists now. It’s funny; people will change in a matter of minutes. It’s like you have nothing in common anymore. You’re just two different people in the same place.
Dom tries to see out of his window. It shouldn’t be so sunny. One great cloud blocks his view of the ground, brilliant in sunlight, the way an eggshell is – opaque and spotless. He can’t concentrate on one thing anymore. Damn thing hurts his eyes. It hurts so much.
He slides back in his seat and holds his phone above his head. His thumb prods ‘delete,’ again and again and again.
He feels like he’s in quick sand up to his chin, and he can’t move his head. His mouth has been in the same place ever since he walked through the screen door, like there was an “unwelcome” mat under his feet as he left. No footsteps ran after him. He closes his eyes, keeps hitting delete, and hears the screen door slam. Now he’s finally gone.
Excuse me please, one more drink. He has a ten second memory. Like a fish. He swims around pieces of history, so thirsty he thinks he’ll have to scream. If his glass isn’t filled again soon, he just might. Or throw the empty glass into the sink and turn away before he can watch it shatter. You’re a fucking waste of time.
Dom drops his phone on the tray table and it spins. He looks out the window at the cloud and, as far as he knows, he could be staring at a white wall. Maybe he hasn’t gotten off of the ground. Like getting a kiss, the sounds of the engines are only there to make him feel like he’s made progress.
It’s like being in a sandwich. Behind Dom there’s an island. In front of him, there is a city that he doesn’t want to call home anymore; the city of angels. But there are no angels waiting for him there. Even if he fell into bed and shut out the world, things don’t just disappear forever like that. As he looks out of his window he knows he doesn’t want to call that city home. As he looks out his window, he is in the land of the long white cloud, and he doesn’t want to pull through.
The cell phone on his tray table jumps as it rings, and Dom picks it up to his ear.
“Hello?” His voice isn’t right. He looks out the window again, and the cloud is gone.
“Dom?”
Dom adjusts himself to the sight of the ocean below; it’s sudden presence upon him like a photograph he’d almost forgotten, or thought he had thrown away a long time ago.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Dom...”
“Yeah,” he says again, but won’t admit he’s pressing his ear to the door, waiting for any reply. Well, are you coming in or not? No, he’s not. He wants to pretend that the door has stopped opening. He wants to turn and run, and run, and run. He wants everything to slowly disappear behind him.
“Dom, come back home.”
He leans against the door again and listens, brilliant light passing over his window. Are you coming in or not? “Yes, I am,” he wants to say. But he’s not opening the door. He’s not running home. He’s just flying backwards into another long, white cloud.
One more drink and I’ll move on.
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ack. gave me chills.
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Thanks for reading the fic! ^^
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Very good!
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