Dust Bunnies
By Kay
Disclaimer: If I owned Everworld, the world would be a twisted place. Happy, but twisted.
Author's Notes: This has slight homosexual undertones of a David/Jalil (Jalil/David?) nature. It's short, odd, and slightly dreamy. I scribbled it during work, so it's not really that good-- very OOC and a little out of whack-- but I figure I owe people something for not updating forever. Just so you know, yes, I'll be updating big time soon with more of my HP fics and "Complimentary Scheme" part two.
Thank you for reading. =^^=
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David never liked books.
When he was younger, the only things the teachers could make him read were comics and the occasional war story. He never had the patience to sit through an entire book more than a few pages long-- there was too much to do, he was always moving. Jitters. That's what he had. His mom said he had the jitters.
When he was older, any taste for reading had more or less been vanquished. That was okay. David wasn't really the bookworm type, anyway. He had calmed down enough to appreciate the values of silence and solitude, the importance of tranquility, all tucked away from the world so that he could daydream. But he wasn't like a lake, placid and deep; he always moved on quickly from these moments. That was how he decided to live. Take the peace when you can, move on afterwards. Just keep moving.
There was never time for stupid stories. Textbooks. Problems.
It wasn't like they really mattered.
We learn from the past to triumph in the future, Jalil once told him. He eyed David suspiciously, almost as though he couldn't believe the general was questioning the value of knowledge. For someone as intelligent as Jalil, it was easy to see why it was a stupid idea. He lived for books, sometimes, or at least the general occasionally believed so, thinking on all the times he'd locked himself in the library.
And everything else that's written? What's the use for that? he'd replied mildly, curious, but in a distant fashion.
Because people need to remember who they are.
It was a sentimental answer. Uncharacteristic. Jalil avoided his questioning gaze, shelving another book on the library shelf. Sitting at the nearby table, David frowned at him. There was sunlight drifting through the windows, yellow and warm and soft on his face, spreading across the granite floor like a spilled puddle of gold.
Finally, he said, Who are you, then?
Jalil almost smiled. He could see the gentle way the corners of his mouth turned up, quick and amused, though he turned around before the full grin was achieved. Who do you think I am?
That's not an answer.
Did you ever ask the right questions? he murmured, tossing a shadowed glance over his shoulder.
David thought for a moment, his mind hazy with clouds and sunlight and the heady scent of leather-bound books.
Who am I, then? he finally asked.
Jalil came to him and sat down, leaning in close and smiling secretively. He laid a skinny, mocha-hued hand on the general's arm, slender mahogany fingers squeezing the appendage lightly. David blinked at him.
Does it matter?
David looked down at the hand on his arm. The room was warm. I thought you said it was important.
When he laughed, the room seemed more open and free than any space David had ever been enclosed within, and he had never realized how white Jalil's teeth were, or how he closed his eyes when he chuckled, or the way his collarbone peeked through his white shirt, or that the dusty bookshelves and misaligned sunlight falling through the window could be so entrancing, and that Jalil, still laughing at him, low, husky, appreciative, could ever be so incredibly unlike a scientist or a book or a law--
People discover themselves through the words of others.
--and David had stopped breathing, stopped thinking; he stared down at those deep ebony eyes and that mocking, amused smile, and the hand that squeezed his arm one more time before slipping away--
David?
When he remembered how to breath, how to think, how to clench his hand into a fist and avoid looking at him, he asked, What if you've never read any words?
Jalil tilted his head thoughtfully.
David nodded at him, solemnly, hesitantly. He played with the fraying stitches of his shirt sleeve. Jitters. He always had them.
Oh, the young bookworm said, arching his eyebrows sardonically. Would you like me to tell you a story?
David settled back in the chair, glancing awkwardly at the other library inhabitants. They could be seen. Heard. As a general, he rarely allowed such frivolities, even such little things like being overheard and seen as he was being told a… story, if that's what it was, if that's what it should be. But the sun made him sleepy, and the jittering fingers slowed down, and he slumped back slowly.
Jalil sent him a questioning look.
Okay, David said.
He had never liked books, and certainly never known himself. It was, he realized with something very much like surprise, much easier to listen to Jalil than he ever dreamed-- it had never been so easy to sit in this chair, surrounded by shelves, sunlight, and the murmuring voice of a comrade who would pause at some points, considering, and there was breathing in this room that had nothing to do with pages or stories or the calm beating of his heart--
That's it. The end, Jalil said.
But David knew it was the beginning.
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Thanks for reading! Sorry for the OOC. YAY! Will probably upload more meaningless dumb drabbles tonight. There are a lot on Dad's computer. o.o;; It's been ages since I've been able to sort through them... and there's not much else to do...
