Author's Notes: Inspired by the writing style of Futago no Seishi.
Another experiment. I never write in present-tense. It's painful, so here goes nothing.
Warnings: Yaoi, slash, shounen-ai, etc. Adult themes such as substance abuse and sex (albeit not explicit). Weird writing style. Un-beta'd.
Pairing(s): 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 is in bed by 10:13 PM and the curtains cast an annoying glow into his room from the streetlamps outside.
By 11:36 PM, he is rolling over with a frustrated sigh. His mind races with the elation of evading sleep. He fails to share the sentiment.
12:09 AM finds him staring blandly at a blank Word document, complete with blinking cursor.
At 12:55 AM, he sits in the most defeated manner at the bar counter wondering just how much brandy he needs to lose the unformed thoughts in his head.
1:45 AM and he is back in his own kitchen, reaching for some nondescript wine. He doesn't remember when he opened the bottle but it certainly seems apt to resolve the situation. Kind of weird that he didn't finish it off the first time.
He doesn't know when he drifts off but becomes slowly re-aware of his surroundings. He sees that the clock above his sink reads 4:3-something-or-other and because it is still dark out, he mutters a curse.
He orders whiskey the night his house runs out of any drinkable form of alcohol. He switches it up because why not? and he vaguely remembers something about the nearest grocery store's policy of not allowing alcohol purchases after 10:00 PM.
He doesn't think he's desperate enough to try a liquor store. He also doesn't think he could walk under that kind of fluorescent lighting without looking pale and bedraggled and presumably ready to rob the establishment.
So he sits at this bar and occasionally chats with the bartender in the form of short phrases like another, please or, even more impressive, what brands do you carry?
He doesn't think he's an alcoholic. He just can't sleep.
And he's so tired that he just doesn't quite feel like functioning.
Or perhaps he can't function and therefore he is so. very. tired.
He needs something to help him more effectively sleep.
Sometimes it helps to imagine an undisturbed partner beside him. There is something to be said about having another person's calm silhouette, rhythmic breathing, and solid weight beside him.
Sometimes that just further frustrates him.
When he does fall asleep, he dreams in fitful muted grays.
Very rarely, he wakes to the crescendo of his phone's jingle and then tries in vain to fall asleep again. Recapturing sleep is almost as imaginary as the residual bliss of a familiar companion.
He hits the snooze button and catches the tail end of the dream as it rapidly swirls down a drain in a mocking spiral.
He knows he should get up but never really wants to.
He can see the pity and (maybe?) concern twisting his editor's expression but she isn't scolding him so he must have finished his manuscript on time.
When that deadline was, he does not know.
In the softened darkness of the bar, a man breaches his peripheral and he manages his best polite expression.
He knows a smile is more appropriate but he is not about to attempt something he hasn't done in a while.
"Hello," the man says while standing by his side.
"Hi," he answers while wondering how haggard he looks on a scale of 1 to 10 and why this man would want to talk to him of all people.
The man takes a deep breath before asking, "Buy you a drink?"
Perhaps it isn't so much the content of the sentence that shocks him but more that someone has simply initiated conversation.
Tilting his head to one side to appraise the man from another angle, he thinks maybe this is what he has needed all along.
"Is that a pickup line?"
The taller man's eyes widen and embarrassment reflects along with the bar's scattered lighting.
"Because that's okay," he finishes with the unfamiliar sense of urgency.
They share a moment of silence, after which the man swallows and says, "Yeah. It was."
It really is just sex and he is pleasantly surprised to find that he enjoys himself.
Maybe he spends the entire night absorbing the heat off of the other's skin because suddenly he realizes his own typically chilly body temperature has become adequately warm.
And while he muses about how comfortable this all is, the man has him pressed firmly against the mattress and there doesn't seem to be any point of separation between their bodies.
It's nice and he may have murmured that beneath his breath when it isn't being swallowed by the man's lips that constantly seek his.
When his breathing turns ragged and abruptly catches, he arches into that man as much as that body above him allows and his mind goes delightfully empty.
He doesn't care so much post-orgasm because sleep finally has him wrapped in a drowsy haze and the sheets soothe his frayed nerves.
He wakes with an atypical alertness and the bedside clock reads 6:05 AM.
He can't remember the last time his head felt so clear. He glances around to take in his surroundings and feels burgeoning shame as his eyes travel past the discarded clothing and soiled towels (though the latter he doesn't recall). It is 6:11 AM when he ventures a look at the sleeping body next to him.
It is 6:13 AM when he realizes with a start that they slept turned away from one another.
At 6:19 AM, he stands dressed before the slumbering man and wonders if the other does this often because he feels slightly disgusted with himself.
6:21 AM and he is crouched beside that slumbering face and thinking the other looks much too young in the natural light streaming around the curtain edges.
He doesn't know when he leaves or arrives home but finds himself rotating a steaming cup of tea between his palms. He sees that the clock above his sink reads 7:28 AM and because it is still bright out, he feels a bit normal.
-tbc-