hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy. arthur/ford. G. characters belong to the late, the great douglas adams. written for mia, aka 'a thousand paper cranes' on ffn.
honestly okay.
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The grass is cool and accommodating beneath their slightly-sodden jackets as they stargaze. Transfixed with the slow rotation of the heavens as the planet moves, Arthur neither notices nor protests when Ford shifts closer to him.
"See anything interesting up there, Ford?"
"Hm? No. Not unless you've seen any green ships lately."
Arthur shrugs, though it's nearly imperceptible while he's on his back. "Can't say that I have."
Ford wishes that they had some sort of blanket, and also some sort of beer. Any way to alleviate the cold a bit would be more than welcome; body heat can only go so far when sprawled on damp, English ground at night.
"...What are you searching for, Arthur?" Ford asks, seemingly flippant, though with a tinge of hesitance.
"Well, not anything so silly as love," he replies, gaze fittingly never leaving the stars, and laughs a bit before continuing. "No matter how many bars, pubs, and clubs I've been to, it doesn't work out. Girls just don't like me, I suppose."
Ford hears something rustle in the weeds next to his scalp. He frowns, both at the presence of a potential insect and Arthur's response. "You don't seem too worried by that."
Arthur shrugs again, failing to notice the gesture's futility. "Whatever happens, happens. I'm more worried that people are always so worried about me." He finally looks away from the dark, light-dotted sky, and frowns back at Ford. "So stop worrying for me, Ford. I'll be alright."
At this point in his life, of course, Arthur knew nothing of the imminent destruction of his house, much less that of the planet. He had, however, known Ford Prefect for five-or-six years, and had a fairly decent grasp of when something was bothering his allegedly outofworkactor friend. Perhaps even when it was something that alcohol and harassing college students couldn't properly rectify.
"Are you alright, Ford?" he asks, somewhat tentatively.
Ford inhales the smell of Arthur's slightly-sodden jacket from a few centimeters away. He can content himself with that, for a while; for now.
"Let's get some drinks, Arthur," he responds, dodging the question entirely. He sits up, stands up, and waits up for his ape-descendant friend to follow him.
Ford Prefect misses his opportunity, but is not without hope.
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( I just want to be happy again. )
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--- elendraug (at) yahoo . com
12/01/2006