Author's Notes: Present-tense remains the bane of my existence.
Warnings: Yaoi, slash, shounen-ai, etc. Inexplicit substance abuse and sex. Weird writing style.
Pairing: Ike/Marth.
Disclaimer: I don't own Super Smash Brothers.
Summary: Reality is never quite like the stories told. [Modern AU] –Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-
Ambient
By SSBBSwords
He sifts through his inbox listlessly as if looking for a message. There are messages. Plenty, in fact. But he searches as if for a solution, a reason, or a destination.
The endless loading looks trivial and feels like sludge. He sits back and the chair digs into his shoulder blades. Enough for him to shift into the discomfort because it feels solid.
He stares into the list of contacts and subjects and dates and knows that there used to be a time that this activity felt productive.
The webpage automatically refreshes and there is a white line of bolded text.
Re: manuscript
He tries to care enough to read the message for comprehension but he doesn't and the only thing that sounds important is a day and time. He sets an alarm and idly wonders the contents of his previous attachment.
The document opens into a new window and is completely foreign despite his name heading every page corner.
He is later curled up in the smallest corner of his couch as if he cannot bear waste the energy extending into the remaining length of the furniture.
He reads with unintended interest and wonders where these words came from.
The story is strangely optimistic and the phrasing well-adjusted, and this just can't be him. Index finger marking his place, he flips through the stapled stack and blinks to clear his vision.
Lowell 56, Lowell 57, Lowell 58…
No change.
His eyes rove the text and he wants to rewrite something he doesn't remember writing in the first place. He reaches the end and knows this is just one installment out of many.
Panic seizes him and he can't breathe in its sudden, vice-like grip.
He is expected to continue this. Keep this up. Finish this.
And he doesn't want to.
He goes to bed dreading effort and failure.
He lies there drowning in skipping thoughts and transition sentences.
He rolls to one side and feels both hot and cold, which makes no sense because his thermostat is set to a refreshing seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit.
He sits up because he knows he won't be falling asleep any time soon and, at the moment, doesn't really want or need to. But he supposes he should. For the sake of consistency and, well, health.
His stomach aches faintly and he can't be sure it's because he didn't eat earlier or because he spent hours in a scrunched up position earlier that afternoon.
The printed manuscript sits innocently beside him on the table.
He turns on the bedside lamp and reaches for the bundle of paper because if he has to do this, he may as well do it to the best of his inadequate abilities.
He wishes that he drinks this wine because he particularly enjoys the flavors of blackberry and cassis with hints of cedar and chocolate, but then he would be lying.
He isn't exactly the lying type.
He wishes he could explain the aging, entry points, and palate range but all he knows is that the 14.2% alcohol content is satisfactory. For now.
He wishes he knew how to finish this sentence but it dangles incompletely on the page like a neglected child, and he wants to put it out of its misery.
He starts to think he needs something stronger but it is 10:11 PM and this scene is not going to finish itself.
This bottle, however, seems to be doing just fine.
So he continues to mindlessly type the letters on the keyboard that grow into words, into fragments, and into pictures across his computer screen.
He can no longer decipher such blurred lines but he knows the bottle is empty.
It is 8:36 PM one evening and he stands nonchalantly across an impressive array of alcohol in the grocery store.
No one really gives his purchases a second glance upon checkout. Wine is respectable.
He alternates between six different stores so no business realizes he is buying three bottles twice a week.
But now he finds himself eyeing a handle of rum with nearly 75% alcohol just because he did need something stronger, but perhaps this would be overdoing it.
"You like Bacardi?"
The question arrives so casually and randomly, yet he pivots sharply toward the speaker as if caught red-handed. He swallows to dampen his dry throat. "Excuse me?"
"One fifty-one." The young man gestures to the amber liquid encased in glass.
"Haven't tried it," he answers truthfully, before adding upon afterthought, "Do you like it?"
"I use it in frosting." He receives a disarming smile and his own attempt is, at best, a stuttering echo.
"I don't understand."
"I can show you."
He learns that alcohol with such high alcohol content really does allow frosting to catch fire, which makes for eye-catching cake designs.
He also reacquaints himself with his distaste for such sweet things when he can taste all that remnant sugar as his tongue slides against the other man's.
As he gets unceremoniously shoved against a refrigerator (and retaliates because that genuinely hurt), he makes a mental note that 75% alcohol is not worth it when he simply hates the taste.
The man is pulling on his shirt and he knows he needs to take the initiative to rid it himself before it's ripped (and he really needs it intact for when he goes home).
He has a sick sense of accomplishment when he is the one still awake at 2:16 AM and cleaning himself up in the guy's bathroom.
As he sees himself out, he passes by the kitchen and the moonlit glint of the amber liquid that started this all catches his eye.
He takes the Bacardi 151 home with him.
-tbc-