fic outtakes (2)
Aug. 6th, 2017 09:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaixoThis one was just that dreaded outtake, where you start something and write yourself into a cul de sac. Normally, I’m quite efficient with writing scenes. They always get used. But not this one.
“You made an impression,” Eric said, sweeping up the mail from the side table in the parlour. Dele hot on his heels, his backpack slung across his back. They both came from outside, spilling out of a London black cab because it was easier to hail a cab than drive. Although with the way of the traffic…
“Enough for Kate to name her sprog after me?”
Junk, junk, junk ju- Eric raised his eyes from the stack of mail, shot Dele an amused look. “No,” he shook his head, going back to the post, his heart slamming against his ribs as he looked at the envelope addressed to him.Dropping the rest of the letters on the nearby sofa, he tore at the envelope, unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly, hope smashed yet again.
Fuck
“Mate, what’s wrong?”
Oath, because not that he expected his father to come around, but -
“Nothing,” he mumbled, feeling his shoulders slump, his jaw clenched.
“Okay,” Dele said already making himself at home on the couch, reaching for the television remote. Not that Eric minded, because he admired that about Dele, his default mode of seeking out comfort wherever it presented itself. Now, comfort found in an old couch that he couldn’t bear to throw out, even though the rest of the interiors had been upgraded to reflect the trend at the time. Embossed wall paper with abstract print, blonde wooden floors with accented rugs of muted colours. The old Bessie Velvet Chesterfield Sofa reupholstered for the nth time, the velvet a brushed sage green - a colour detail from two Pantone seasons ago.
Eric flopped into the sofa beside Dele, watching Samurai Jack on Cartoon Network.
After a few minutes as Samurai Jack battled some big bad Eric didn’t know, Eric felt his shoulders relax, his mind unwind. He wriggled his toes in his socked feet, because they had to take off their shoes at the door, due to old house rules, although his family didn’t live in this house anymore.
“Have you ever-” Eric began, and shaking his head because this was not the question he wanted to ask, he turned to Dele, briefly admiring his profile. The dark arch of brow, the slope of his nose, his lips. His chin.
“I wish-”
At his second attempt, Dele held up the remote, pointed it to the TV, and turned the volume down until it became background noise. He turned his head towards Eric, his cheek leaning into the plush velvet of the sofa.
“You wish?”
“I wish you’d ask me about things,” Eric shook his head again. “It sounds stupid, I-”
“About what? The letter you’ve read, and how it’s made you mad?”
“Yes.”
“Would you answer?”
Eric looked at it, crushed the paper in his hand. Shook his head, not necessarily at Dele’s question, but at the futility of things.
“I don’t know, but it might be nice to be asked.”
Dele looked at the crushed paper in Eric’s hand. Pale blue, with scribblings of black fountain pen ink.
“Eric,” Dele rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. Then, he rested his fingers on the back of Eric’s hand, his eyes luminous with banked emotion. “You know if you want to tell me anything, it’s okay, right? But me asking -”
“You don’t ask,” Eric snapped, “because you’re afraid I’ll ask you questions too, and you don’t want to answer.”
“That’s -” Dele worried his bottom lip with his teeth, and Eric knew he was looking to evade, blank the question or all of the above.
“Christ,” Eric breathed, scrubbing at his face with his free hand. “Forget I said anything.”
Dele leaned into his space, their foreheads pressing against each other, and it was no hardship to angle his head, his fingers tangling in Dele’s light pullover.
A brief press of lips against each other, and Eric read the apology there. When they separated, Dele’s eyes dropped to the crumbled paper Eric’s hand, and lifted his head. Eyebrows beetling together and Eric could almost see the mechanics working in Dele’s mind, felt the tension between Dele trying to fight against his own instincts.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Dele asked at last.
Eric opened his mouth, surprised that nothing came out. Frustrated but not knowing why, he shook his head, his hand slipping behind Dele’s back as he reached for the remote. He kissed Dele this time, before he broke away, pointed the remote at the TV and turned the volume up again.
“You made an impression,” Eric said, sweeping up the mail from the side table in the parlour. Dele hot on his heels, his backpack slung across his back. They both came from outside, spilling out of a London black cab because it was easier to hail a cab than drive. Although with the way of the traffic…
“Enough for Kate to name her sprog after me?”
Junk, junk, junk ju- Eric raised his eyes from the stack of mail, shot Dele an amused look. “No,” he shook his head, going back to the post, his heart slamming against his ribs as he looked at the envelope addressed to him.Dropping the rest of the letters on the nearby sofa, he tore at the envelope, unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly, hope smashed yet again.
Fuck
“Mate, what’s wrong?”
Oath, because not that he expected his father to come around, but -
“Nothing,” he mumbled, feeling his shoulders slump, his jaw clenched.
“Okay,” Dele said already making himself at home on the couch, reaching for the television remote. Not that Eric minded, because he admired that about Dele, his default mode of seeking out comfort wherever it presented itself. Now, comfort found in an old couch that he couldn’t bear to throw out, even though the rest of the interiors had been upgraded to reflect the trend at the time. Embossed wall paper with abstract print, blonde wooden floors with accented rugs of muted colours. The old Bessie Velvet Chesterfield Sofa reupholstered for the nth time, the velvet a brushed sage green - a colour detail from two Pantone seasons ago.
Eric flopped into the sofa beside Dele, watching Samurai Jack on Cartoon Network.
After a few minutes as Samurai Jack battled some big bad Eric didn’t know, Eric felt his shoulders relax, his mind unwind. He wriggled his toes in his socked feet, because they had to take off their shoes at the door, due to old house rules, although his family didn’t live in this house anymore.
“Have you ever-” Eric began, and shaking his head because this was not the question he wanted to ask, he turned to Dele, briefly admiring his profile. The dark arch of brow, the slope of his nose, his lips. His chin.
“I wish-”
At his second attempt, Dele held up the remote, pointed it to the TV, and turned the volume down until it became background noise. He turned his head towards Eric, his cheek leaning into the plush velvet of the sofa.
“You wish?”
“I wish you’d ask me about things,” Eric shook his head again. “It sounds stupid, I-”
“About what? The letter you’ve read, and how it’s made you mad?”
“Yes.”
“Would you answer?”
Eric looked at it, crushed the paper in his hand. Shook his head, not necessarily at Dele’s question, but at the futility of things.
“I don’t know, but it might be nice to be asked.”
Dele looked at the crushed paper in Eric’s hand. Pale blue, with scribblings of black fountain pen ink.
“Eric,” Dele rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. Then, he rested his fingers on the back of Eric’s hand, his eyes luminous with banked emotion. “You know if you want to tell me anything, it’s okay, right? But me asking -”
“You don’t ask,” Eric snapped, “because you’re afraid I’ll ask you questions too, and you don’t want to answer.”
“That’s -” Dele worried his bottom lip with his teeth, and Eric knew he was looking to evade, blank the question or all of the above.
“Christ,” Eric breathed, scrubbing at his face with his free hand. “Forget I said anything.”
Dele leaned into his space, their foreheads pressing against each other, and it was no hardship to angle his head, his fingers tangling in Dele’s light pullover.
A brief press of lips against each other, and Eric read the apology there. When they separated, Dele’s eyes dropped to the crumbled paper Eric’s hand, and lifted his head. Eyebrows beetling together and Eric could almost see the mechanics working in Dele’s mind, felt the tension between Dele trying to fight against his own instincts.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Dele asked at last.
Eric opened his mouth, surprised that nothing came out. Frustrated but not knowing why, he shook his head, his hand slipping behind Dele’s back as he reached for the remote. He kissed Dele this time, before he broke away, pointed the remote at the TV and turned the volume up again.
