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Missing [Original]
Title: Missing
Characters/Pairing: Yuliya (offscreen) and Yuriy
Rating: 10+
Length: 600
Summary: Yuriy thinks about what he left behind. (From original story, plotline needs to be reworked.)
Other: Posted in my sketchjournal. (Original post)
Missing
Text flickered across his screen, endless lines of white on black. The lines continued on, seemingly forever, until they landed in a final point.
>|
Yuriy glared at it. The cursor blinked back at him, unimpressed. After a long moment, in which he engaged in a battle of wits with it - or the person who originally coded those lines in the first place, that one - he looked away, found himself wanting.
Found himself wanting a stiff drink, rather. Unfortunately for Yuriy, a quick look inside the bottom drawer of his computer desk confirmed his suspicion: There was a distinct lack of booze. The bottle normally kept there for such occasions was most certainly, absolutely not there. He had neglected to replenish the supply and, to his annoyance, he was lacking.
Letting out a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His head was pounding and he was unsure if the stress to blame, or the hours of staring at a screen. When they finally cracked open, he stared at the upside-down wall behind him, all peeling wallpaper and dusty baseboards, partly hidden by the tall, sturdy bookcase. From its space on the centre shelf, surrounded by well-worn books, the old photograph of his sister smiled back at him.
"This just isn't my night, Yuliya," Yuriy said, speaking as he would if he could speak to her, as if he really was speaking to her. He wished he could talk to her. He ached to call her. Were it not for the cost, the very idea of a phone call to Narva enough to make him cringe, he would do it. What was the time there, anyway?
Righting himself, he made his way to the window, looking out at the night. The lamp's light glared on the glass, reflecting himself, and for a moment he studied his appearance. Pale-faced. Sickly-looking. Bags under the eyes. Wonderful. Mouth drawn in a line, the expression familiar to him when at ease, that expression that some found troubling. One must smile here, smile all the time when in public. He tried it, turned his lips up, drew them back, flashed teeth the way the persons in magazines did it. No good, Yuriy thought. It felt unsettling.
He resumed frowning and turned off the lamp to banish his reflection, then looked once more out the window. That done, he could see the city clearly, its endless star-blocking lights moving just as endlessly. Even at that time of night Toronto was alive, its people thriving, busy, rushing to get somewhere, or possibly going nowhere.
It was the kind of city a person could get swallowed up in. The kind of city one could get lost in - especially if one was trying hard to get lost.
It had not taken much effort on his part. He had stepped into the monster's mouth and it had swallowed him, sent him straight into its strange, foreign gut. In that alien place he had holed himself up, plugged himself in, put his mind to writing endless code, working endless strings, typing away amid the dust, the grime, the smog, the blinding lights.
He sighed, rested his forehead against the cool glass. His head hurt. Biting his lip, Yuriy closed his eyes. Thought of home, his sister, and the river Narva. How far away it all seemed.
Memories rushed over him, but through it all the computer called to him. It was time to go to it.
Next time he would remember the drink.
Next time he would not forget the bottle.
Next time.
Characters/Pairing: Yuliya (offscreen) and Yuriy
Rating: 10+
Length: 600
Summary: Yuriy thinks about what he left behind. (From original story, plotline needs to be reworked.)
Other: Posted in my sketchjournal. (Original post)
Missing
Text flickered across his screen, endless lines of white on black. The lines continued on, seemingly forever, until they landed in a final point.
>|
Yuriy glared at it. The cursor blinked back at him, unimpressed. After a long moment, in which he engaged in a battle of wits with it - or the person who originally coded those lines in the first place, that one - he looked away, found himself wanting.
Found himself wanting a stiff drink, rather. Unfortunately for Yuriy, a quick look inside the bottom drawer of his computer desk confirmed his suspicion: There was a distinct lack of booze. The bottle normally kept there for such occasions was most certainly, absolutely not there. He had neglected to replenish the supply and, to his annoyance, he was lacking.
Letting out a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His head was pounding and he was unsure if the stress to blame, or the hours of staring at a screen. When they finally cracked open, he stared at the upside-down wall behind him, all peeling wallpaper and dusty baseboards, partly hidden by the tall, sturdy bookcase. From its space on the centre shelf, surrounded by well-worn books, the old photograph of his sister smiled back at him.
"This just isn't my night, Yuliya," Yuriy said, speaking as he would if he could speak to her, as if he really was speaking to her. He wished he could talk to her. He ached to call her. Were it not for the cost, the very idea of a phone call to Narva enough to make him cringe, he would do it. What was the time there, anyway?
Righting himself, he made his way to the window, looking out at the night. The lamp's light glared on the glass, reflecting himself, and for a moment he studied his appearance. Pale-faced. Sickly-looking. Bags under the eyes. Wonderful. Mouth drawn in a line, the expression familiar to him when at ease, that expression that some found troubling. One must smile here, smile all the time when in public. He tried it, turned his lips up, drew them back, flashed teeth the way the persons in magazines did it. No good, Yuriy thought. It felt unsettling.
He resumed frowning and turned off the lamp to banish his reflection, then looked once more out the window. That done, he could see the city clearly, its endless star-blocking lights moving just as endlessly. Even at that time of night Toronto was alive, its people thriving, busy, rushing to get somewhere, or possibly going nowhere.
It was the kind of city a person could get swallowed up in. The kind of city one could get lost in - especially if one was trying hard to get lost.
It had not taken much effort on his part. He had stepped into the monster's mouth and it had swallowed him, sent him straight into its strange, foreign gut. In that alien place he had holed himself up, plugged himself in, put his mind to writing endless code, working endless strings, typing away amid the dust, the grime, the smog, the blinding lights.
He sighed, rested his forehead against the cool glass. His head hurt. Biting his lip, Yuriy closed his eyes. Thought of home, his sister, and the river Narva. How far away it all seemed.
Memories rushed over him, but through it all the computer called to him. It was time to go to it.
Next time he would remember the drink.
Next time he would not forget the bottle.
Next time.