(no subject)

[cereal.livejournal.com]

Title: Staring at the Ceiling (staring back at me)
Author: cereal
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Summary: and that makes you think of Billy and that, you think, is the consequence of actually feeling.
Disclaimer: I make things up for fun.
Author Notes: Written for the contrelamontre non-song songfic challenge after it lapsed (because I'm not the most on-task person ever). Bolded lines are lyrics from Counting Crows' Carriage and the title is from their Up All Night (Frankie Miller Goes to Hollywood). Several bah-zillion thanks to belovedsnail for giving me the tour and saying nice things about this.

+ staring at the ceiling (staring back at me) +

It’s supposed to be the sky, painted up there like it is, the whites and blues swirling like wind blew twenty feet overhead, wind blew strong enough to move dried paint, and no one down here noticed. It’s supposed to be the sky, but it’s not, and from underneath you staring at the ceiling, you feel shaking.

It could be an earthquake, you reason. You brace your legs. When Elijah slaps you on the back and you finally look down, you realize it was just him, bounding up to you, hard, and he made the ground shake, he made the Earth move for you, you think and all you can see is Billy. You hear him on the phone last night, I miss your hair. You hear him pause, shift on his chair, his bed, his floor, and then, almost defensive-like, like you’d said something back, teased him, like you’d done something other than breathe, You miss my eyes.

And you do. Because the sky here, the painted one, the fake one, the clear parts, they look like Elijah's eyes. And you miss real colors, that shift and change, colors you couldn't picture on a ceilling, unless you were picturing Billy over you, his eyes the ceiling because you wouldn't [couldn't] look past them.

Elijah cuffs your shoulder and you realize your head had tilted back again.

&&

Now there's wood on the ceiling, beams, crossing each other, holding everything from falling down near your feet. Elijah's talking again, but he's not the only one. The buzz of the crowd lays tangible against your skin, making it crawl and itch and tingle. And the buzz of the alcohol singing in your bloodstream lays solid and thick around your brain, making everything you might say back to him have to swim through cotton to get out.

He's talking about some interview he did where Jennifer Tilly was the other guest and how she'd said that knocking you up meant something and how he'd said it meant something else and what does it mean, Dom?

You tell him because you don't have to think about it, things like that are already in your mouth, resting on the back of your tongue because there's no room for things like that in your brain anymore. You tell him and he nods and just past him the crowd has cleared and you see the wall is made of wood, too. And that makes you think of trees and that makes you think of Ents and that makes you think of Billy and that, you think, is the consequence of actually feeling. Even wood paneling in a bar brings you back to him.

When you're jostled up against the wall an hour later, you lean back and look up.

&&

Elijah's flat isn't like it used to be months ago. He's moved the armchair, there are boxes in the corner, the fridge stocked with different beer. And his flat isn't like it used to be hours ago. It's not full of people crowded around the tv, shouting at a racing video game, it doesn't smell like smoke filtered in from the windows. You think about turning in for the night. You flip over on to your back and the ceiling is there again, white and rough, like tiny little mountain ranges upside down over Elijah's living room. And that's too obvious, your brain skips over it.

&&

You open your eyes and the mall sky is there again, Elijah is standing over you, eyes swirling with pale skin in your bleariness. Billy he's saying and you're shaking your head, you're thinking No, not like this, not here. But he's insisting Billy. And you realize his meaning and words other than Billy filter through, words he's been saying all along like airport and pick up and landing.

&&

You slip on someone's luggage strap in baggage claim where you're supposed to meet him. Your foot comes down on the leather pull strap with enough momentum to knock you backwards, just your arse hits the ground and you're left sitting up disoriented. It doesn't seem right to you that you did this so terribly, it wasn't comical like a cartoon slipping on a banana peel and it wasn't so small that no one noticed. Just slip.dom.thud. You don't think and you push yourself back, flat on the ground near carousel six, you misjudge slightly and your head cracks the carpeting layered thinly over cement. You wince, eyes shutting tightly in pain, and feel all the air rush from your lungs. You draw a breath and look up, surprise, surprise, another pair of lips and eyes.

You were right though, Billy's eyes are a ceiling and you push yourself up on your arms and try to kiss the sky.

Comments

[cutselvage.livejournal.com]

*__*


Such lyrical prose - absolutely gorgeous. I love wall/ceiling/eyes metaphor, that's a lovely tie-in for the story. Just - guh. Excellent work, it flows beautifully.

[philomel.livejournal.com]

Really, really lovely.
Very dreamlike and fluid, with the sense of losing track of space, time, thoughts, etc. to the buzz of emotions going on inside of him.

[el-erzulie.livejournal.com]

That was so poetic, gah. Absolutely beautiful. The title and summary were my two favourite lines,a ctually. :)