The line in the title of this entry is from the song Mysterious Ways, by U2. It's sort of a fairytale song -- an urban fairtytale, maybe? -- and it's helping me write this next fic I'm working on. Joe Hisaishi's Merry-Go-Round of Life (Instrumental) helps, too. Among other stuff.
It's a little after ten in the morning and I just had breakfast; I'm all full up now (not that I had a nutritional breakfast -- I swear, sometimes I'm like a single 20-yr-old guy), and I would be warm and cozy, except it's very cold here. ;_;
(I'm in southern California; my 'cold' isn't very cold at all, I'm just a wimp who's used to hot temperatures, you know, like 85 Farenheit+.)
So anyway, here's what I've got so far on what I'm writing now, and actually I hope to have it finished by tonight.
It's a little after ten in the morning and I just had breakfast; I'm all full up now (not that I had a nutritional breakfast -- I swear, sometimes I'm like a single 20-yr-old guy), and I would be warm and cozy, except it's very cold here. ;_;
(I'm in southern California; my 'cold' isn't very cold at all, I'm just a wimp who's used to hot temperatures, you know, like 85 Farenheit+.)
So anyway, here's what I've got so far on what I'm writing now, and actually I hope to have it finished by tonight.
Fathom
"It's cold."
And it is, with sterling silver skies, dulled and tired, and grey waves that somersault to shore and send spray across the wind.
"Mello, it's cold."
Near's voice almost catches in the air, heavy with seasalt and the sound of the ocean tossing itself about.
"You aren't listening, are you?"He holds his hand out, small and white and close to trembling, and his fingertips rest against a warm, tan wrist, touch faint as the seafoam that lingers on the sand. "Mello."
"What?" Mello turns halfway, now, lips parted, hair blowing this way, then that, thanks to the wind. "I wasn't listening."
"Yes," Near says, and he takes Mello's hand. "I know."
"It's cold."
And it is, with sterling silver skies, dulled and tired, and grey waves that somersault to shore and send spray across the wind.
"Mello, it's cold."
Near's voice almost catches in the air, heavy with seasalt and the sound of the ocean tossing itself about.
"You aren't listening, are you?"He holds his hand out, small and white and close to trembling, and his fingertips rest against a warm, tan wrist, touch faint as the seafoam that lingers on the sand. "Mello."
"What?" Mello turns halfway, now, lips parted, hair blowing this way, then that, thanks to the wind. "I wasn't listening."
"Yes," Near says, and he takes Mello's hand. "I know."
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