Fics like oh, daydreamers

“You’re the last person I wanted to see tonight,” he forces out, each word wrenched off his throat, burning like a popped sore. Marc’s face is unsettingly blank, eyes big and round, dark enough that Valentino can’t make out the iris from the pupil. Even under the bright, cold neon lights he manages to look glowing and hieratical, floating one foot above everyone else. Valentino’s stomach churns. Nausea, or the ulcers he’s gotten himself since landing in Lombok. Sad, sad and pathetic. “Come on. At least I’m not a journalist.” There’s some misplaced lightheartedness in his voice, an open, blatant contrast with how tense and squared up he looks, with his legs slightly spread and his arms crossed over his chest, covering a sponsor logo on his shirt. Valentino decides that his health consciousness can go to shit too, and produces his pack of cigarettes, the battered Bic lighter slippery in his sweaty hand. “I’m not in the mood, Marc. Just go.” Please, he’d add, if he wasn’t so adamant about not coming off too miserable. Before disaster strikes in Indonesia, Marc and Valentino meet again, and they talk some more. Once is a coincidence, but twice...well.

Fics like oh, daydreamers

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