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Fic: Tomorrow is Another Day (Lost RPF)
Title: Tomorrow is Another Day
Fandom: Lost (RPF)
Rating: light PG-13
Spoilers: uhh, pretty much through the S3 finale.
Summary: The worst has already come and gone.
Notes: For birthday girl![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
arabella_hope, as well as philomel and themoononastick.
ETA: This also, kind of, takes place in The Puck's 'verse (tmshleemeri)
Remember way back when Brokeback Mountain lost the Oscar and I kind of couldn't deal, so I wrote fic? Um, this is kind of like that. Only there's no George Clooney involved. Sorry. >.>
He gets the call sheet in March, and although he's sworn to secrecy by punishment of death, the threat isn't necessary. Everyone knows, in some form or another.
The irony kind of makes Dom smile.
~
He's always liked the pink-orange tint of the sea at dusk. The pink becomes more intense and heated as the seasons change, and spring brings short bursts of storms that never fail to break apart just as the sun sinks into the ocean horizon. Everything is damp and saturated with warmth, reflecting the dying sunlight and smelling sweet, like Hawaiian air does.
They sit on the terrace of his condo, all four of them, drinking beers and playing poker until they can't see their cards anymore, until Dom is forced to light the tiki torches Josh bought him as a joke a week or two after he moved in--"Hawaiian tacky at its finest," Josh had declared, and he spent the next ten minutes trying to light them with his Bic. He never did get much of a flame.
"You should keep the place," Matt is saying as he bums a cigarette off Josh. He keeps saying he's quitting, but they all know the smoking keeps his image tainted just enough to make it interesting. "I mean, it's not like you'll never be back..."
"Yeah, but the taxes. The up-keep." Dom sighs. "There could be a million poor bastards out there waiting to blow their millions on a place like this. Who am I to ruin dreams?"
It's the same old song and dance, really. They've all told him at some point during the last month that he shouldn't sell, that it's good property, he'd be stupid to sell in a market like this, etc. Dom appreciates the sentiment, because he knows what's really being said underneath the real estate bullshit.
And he probably will keep it, because it's like a goddamn bloody relic of an era. The words form in his head and he laughs out loud; Charlie would be proud.
But he doesn't want the alcohol to make them maudlin, and if he hears Naveen say one more time that regret is for the weak of heart, he'll fucking gouge his eyes out. Yes, it's the end, at least for him, but he's dealt with his fair share of endings, and the worst has already come and gone. Faking death by drowning is nothing compared to Peter Jackson in tears.
So in the spirit of things--or as close as he can get to it--Dom creates a drinking game around their very lowest and very highest moments since coming to Hawaii. Each story is judged on its merit with a number of drinks; the more valuable the story, the more drinks are taken.
"Bought my first house, and it wasn't on wheels," says Josh, and Matt snorts and pretends not to drink; later he smiles crookedly at him and drains his bottle.
Naveen says, "The time I was asked to sign that woman's breast in a Starbucks."
Dom points his beer at him. "High or low?"
"Is there a middle ground?"
Josh shrugs. "High it is!"
Matt stubs his cigarette out, and Dom loves that Josh hands him another without either of them saying a word. "Finally being able to make people forget who the fuck Charlie Salinger was."
"Naww, Foxy." Josh reaches over and scrubs his hand through Matt's hair. "That's a low in my book."
"Fuck you, Sci-Fi bimbo."
"But I was a fairly non-angsty Sci-Fi bimbo, thankyouverymuch."
Naveen nods. "He was."
And this, Dom knows, could possibly go on for hours if he let it, and he wants nothing more. His heart tugs a little at Evi's absence (she'd no doubt pull him into the kitchen and plot the many and various ways to shove Josh and Matt's chairs together and make their knees brush), but it's alright. He doesn't need to be reminded of what they have, of what's always been there since those first half-crazed months three years ago.
As the drinking game dissolves into loud, slightly slurred tales of backstage antics at the Golden Globes--"Fuck, man, if it weren't for the marvels of photographic technology, I'd've said I dreamed it all"--Dom folds his arms on the stone patio tabletop and rests his chin there, smiling as he watches Josh throw his head back and laugh and Matt's shoulders twitch as he tries not to giggle. Naveen shakes his head and tells them they're all fucking idiots as he steals Josh's freshly opened beer bottle.
The pink-orange light of dusk slowly fades into night, and Dom thinks that regret is for people who are left in the end with nothing.
Fandom: Lost (RPF)
Rating: light PG-13
Spoilers: uhh, pretty much through the S3 finale.
Summary: The worst has already come and gone.
Notes: For birthday girl
arabella_hope, as well as philomel and themoononastick. ETA: This also, kind of, takes place in The Puck's 'verse (tm
shleemeri)Remember way back when Brokeback Mountain lost the Oscar and I kind of couldn't deal, so I wrote fic? Um, this is kind of like that. Only there's no George Clooney involved. Sorry. >.>
He gets the call sheet in March, and although he's sworn to secrecy by punishment of death, the threat isn't necessary. Everyone knows, in some form or another.
The irony kind of makes Dom smile.
~
He's always liked the pink-orange tint of the sea at dusk. The pink becomes more intense and heated as the seasons change, and spring brings short bursts of storms that never fail to break apart just as the sun sinks into the ocean horizon. Everything is damp and saturated with warmth, reflecting the dying sunlight and smelling sweet, like Hawaiian air does.
They sit on the terrace of his condo, all four of them, drinking beers and playing poker until they can't see their cards anymore, until Dom is forced to light the tiki torches Josh bought him as a joke a week or two after he moved in--"Hawaiian tacky at its finest," Josh had declared, and he spent the next ten minutes trying to light them with his Bic. He never did get much of a flame.
"You should keep the place," Matt is saying as he bums a cigarette off Josh. He keeps saying he's quitting, but they all know the smoking keeps his image tainted just enough to make it interesting. "I mean, it's not like you'll never be back..."
"Yeah, but the taxes. The up-keep." Dom sighs. "There could be a million poor bastards out there waiting to blow their millions on a place like this. Who am I to ruin dreams?"
It's the same old song and dance, really. They've all told him at some point during the last month that he shouldn't sell, that it's good property, he'd be stupid to sell in a market like this, etc. Dom appreciates the sentiment, because he knows what's really being said underneath the real estate bullshit.
And he probably will keep it, because it's like a goddamn bloody relic of an era. The words form in his head and he laughs out loud; Charlie would be proud.
But he doesn't want the alcohol to make them maudlin, and if he hears Naveen say one more time that regret is for the weak of heart, he'll fucking gouge his eyes out. Yes, it's the end, at least for him, but he's dealt with his fair share of endings, and the worst has already come and gone. Faking death by drowning is nothing compared to Peter Jackson in tears.
So in the spirit of things--or as close as he can get to it--Dom creates a drinking game around their very lowest and very highest moments since coming to Hawaii. Each story is judged on its merit with a number of drinks; the more valuable the story, the more drinks are taken.
"Bought my first house, and it wasn't on wheels," says Josh, and Matt snorts and pretends not to drink; later he smiles crookedly at him and drains his bottle.
Naveen says, "The time I was asked to sign that woman's breast in a Starbucks."
Dom points his beer at him. "High or low?"
"Is there a middle ground?"
Josh shrugs. "High it is!"
Matt stubs his cigarette out, and Dom loves that Josh hands him another without either of them saying a word. "Finally being able to make people forget who the fuck Charlie Salinger was."
"Naww, Foxy." Josh reaches over and scrubs his hand through Matt's hair. "That's a low in my book."
"Fuck you, Sci-Fi bimbo."
"But I was a fairly non-angsty Sci-Fi bimbo, thankyouverymuch."
Naveen nods. "He was."
And this, Dom knows, could possibly go on for hours if he let it, and he wants nothing more. His heart tugs a little at Evi's absence (she'd no doubt pull him into the kitchen and plot the many and various ways to shove Josh and Matt's chairs together and make their knees brush), but it's alright. He doesn't need to be reminded of what they have, of what's always been there since those first half-crazed months three years ago.
As the drinking game dissolves into loud, slightly slurred tales of backstage antics at the Golden Globes--"Fuck, man, if it weren't for the marvels of photographic technology, I'd've said I dreamed it all"--Dom folds his arms on the stone patio tabletop and rests his chin there, smiling as he watches Josh throw his head back and laugh and Matt's shoulders twitch as he tries not to giggle. Naveen shakes his head and tells them they're all fucking idiots as he steals Josh's freshly opened beer bottle.
The pink-orange light of dusk slowly fades into night, and Dom thinks that regret is for people who are left in the end with nothing.
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Great minds, yo, great minds.
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