I've been writing several fills for Cabin Pressure and decided it was time I cross-post to my (pretty much dead until now) ff account from the meme and my AO3. This particular story is the first in a series that I've created since I liked the universe so much.
It's magical realism so be prepared for a little "weirdness". Comments and concrit are always welcome!
He jumps off of the rock landing lightly on the sand below. The fall should have killed him, he is no longer surprised. In fact, he doesn't care; he's been here before - he knows how it works.
A wave of pure azure water crashes silently against the crag he's just descended from.
He's been walking for hours, days, months, years. The world around him doesn't change. It is still a mystery.
Skies of royal blue stretch endlessly on, finding themselves intertwined with the amethyst mountains beyond. He can see the mountains, but can not leave the beach. Boundless fields of sand trap him - there is no way past the ceaseless beige.
He looks up and stares at the stars; they are bright as diamonds. They seem so much closer than usual - so much more tangible: more real.
Real. Is that word even applicable? Is it truly as substantial as it's made out to be? "Actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact". Well this world is occurring, he is existing here. (Isn't he?) How is he to know what's true or false in a world full of mystery and contradiction?
It feels strange thinking about these things, so he stops. He doesn't like this world: does not like being out of control.
So he walks on.
The scene doesn't change, as if he was expecting any different. He's not tired, but he's not energetic. He's sick of this world, sick of the noiselessness, sick of the monotony. (But mostly he's sick of loneliness).
Until suddenly, it changes.
He's on the edge of the beach now, standing in a sea of emerald grass tall enough to obscure his waist. He's surprised: it makes a sound. It's quiet but it's there - a gentle whispering as the blades move to and fro in the light breeze. There's another sound too, one more familiar.
It's whistling. Someone is here.
He plows his way through the grass, making his way for the outcropping of trees. But, like everything else in this world, they seem much closer than they really are.
He tries to call out; his cries echoing throughout the field. Yet the whistling continues without a hitch - the woeful tune only growing louder as he gets ever-closer to the trees.
The wind picks up (is it pushing against him?). He moves forward, straining to see past the aspens and the pines and the sycamores.
The fire is the first thing he sees - it's saffron light nearly blinding him. He can feel its heat, only adding to the illusion of its proximity.
His pace turns from that of a quick stride to full-on running. He hadn't realized it before (hadn't wanted to acknowledge it before) but he wants so badly to be near that fire. He can hear it crackling, feel its warmth, and, best of all, he can see someone else next to it.
He focuses on that figure; he will run for as long as it takes: days in this beautiful wasteland have taken their toll on him. Subconscious desires press themselves against the forefront of his mind - he hates this feeling of helplessness (but hates the feeling of being utterly alone even more).
The dancing light produced by the fire settles, for a moment, on the figure and he has to stop. The hair - it's definitely the hair. He knows that hair. He recognizes the curls and the ginger locks, though they seem much brighter here.
"Martin."
He had intended it as a whisper, a hushed noise of exclamation. But this world tends to be contradictory. The sound is as loud as thunder, shaking the ground beneath his feet, drowning out the sound of the grass in the wind.
The figure raises his head as he continues on.
"Martin," he calls again, hoping for recognition, hoping for a bit of normalcy.
The wind kicks up, harder, even, than before. He pushes against it with all his might, not taking his eyes from the man - from Martin.
Martin slowly turns his head, seemingly unaffected by the elemental plight that he's going through.
It takes a moment for him to see through the tear-inducing gusts: Martin is crying. Confusion dominates his features as he watches his struggle. After a few moments (minutes? hours?) he smiles.
The small smile stays on his face as he slowly shakes his head, his lips moving to make way for speech in the form of another thunderous whisper.
His name.
"Douglas."
Gradually, Martin's eyelids fall shut.
The world shatters around him.
Douglas, too, closes his eyes.