clo_again: (Andy/Roger - Pieces)
[personal profile] clo_again
I'm supposed to be writing but instead I'm coughing with the Hideous Cold of Doom and trawling tumblr, so have a stolen-from-tumblr meme to get me back in the mood.

Rules: go to page 7 of your WIP*, skip to the 7th line, share 7 sentences, and tag 7 more writers to continue the challenge.

There's going to have to be a few mods, because I have at least three (four? five?) what might be classed as wips at the moment, and I don't think there's 7 writers left around LJ to challenge. So instead, have the seven-sentences-from-the-seventh-line of what I'm currently writing:



shed our skin (let the sunlight in) chapter II

Over a decade of practicing his media façade meant his smile hadn’t so much as flickered and he’s not a child so he’s not going to call the bitterness souring his mood sulking. Justified disappointment, perhaps- or no, he’s not even giving Andy that, because it shouldn’t matter, he has no right to expect anything special. This is just it, where they stand with each other.

Andy probably didn’t want to spend the extra few days getting asked about their last Wimbledon final, being reminded of another glittering dream that Roger snatched from him. Because that’s tennis; you have the worst day of your entire life and everyone in the world spends the rest of it asking so how did that make you feel?

The house is suspiciously quiet as he drops his bags by the door but he finds Mirka alone in the kitchen, slumped over a cup of coffee at the table and limned in the golden haze pouring in through the wide windows. She lifts her head to accept his kiss but doesn’t move, exhaustion in the hunched line of her shoulders.


untitled (or, the one where Murray is a hooker in London)

His too-pale skin is mottled the weird blotchy shade he goes when he's cold, and the eyeliner he'd carefully applied not two hours earlier is smudged by the damp into giant panda eyes. He can see them staring back at him in the polished metal some idiot decided to use over half the station.

Not to mention the shirtlessness, which honestly is a pretty good illustration for how monumentally disastrous his evening's been so far.

At least it also started late, Mr Did-I-Say-You-Could-Touch-That showing about as much attention to detail in planning this thing as he obviously did to the stack of unpaid bills by his front door. It'd been chance Andy was free, nothing more exciting planned for his evening than a date with his sofa and West Wing re-reuns, until his phone went and he’d thought well, he could do with the money because even his poky little flat costs more in rent than Glasgow’s finest condo. If Glasgow even has fucking condos, but if it did Andy’s sure he could live in one for what a loaf of bread costs him in London.

No, he’ll count it bonus enough that tonight he's out nothing more than the Tube fare and a shirt.


ache to breathe your breath (or, dystopia with tennis players)

He has no illusions about the brand of people he's going to appeal to on the open market, too expensive - by far - for the average fan, too brash, too quick with his tongue for the businessmen, the ones looking for an advertisement they can wheel out at their glittering functions to impress others with look what we can afford, look at our pets that are better than yours. He's not stupid but he's never been the right shade of tactful to slide neatly into the corporate jungle and he'd seen the looks at countless parties, the ones where his agency sent them to make connections for when it counted, like now. The smirks when he'd let his opinion slip out razor-sharp, the empty beds he'd woken to the next morning after arranged liaisons that were supposed to build bridges, generate interest for if the unthinkable happened and he couldn't afford to pay out his own contract.

In the wild, heady days of youth and riches and the flush of being elite, of escaping the bleak cookie-cutter towns and curfews of the ordinary masses, he'd never questioned it. Of course he'd pay off his contract; of course he'd keep making enough to go back to his family with prospects and privileges, contacts made along the way less important than the surety of his own freedom.

Even after the first shoulder surgery, the mounting bills he'd glimpsed when Doug left the invoices too-carelessly out on his desk in the house Andy rented in one of Austin's exclusive gated communities for the off-season training, when he wasn't being shipped around the world as an agency ambassador and commodity – even then he'd thought he could do it. They were just a Slam prize cheque away and he'd done it once, so utterly sure of himself.


the year of death and forever (or, the apocalypse with tennis players)

When Andy woke up from his uncomfortable, broken sleep on the sofa in Roger’s bedroom on the fourth morning and through the window saw smoke drifting up from the direction of Wimbledon, he knew it was time to go.

He’d thought convincing Roger would be the hardest part but when he climbs the stairs of the rented house for the last time, he finds the Swiss in exactly the same curl beneath the sheets as when he’d left that morning, after crouching to whisper hey, we need to leave Roger. It’s not safe. I’ll go find a way out and come back, okay? Dark eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot but from tears, not infection, hopefully not ever infection, blinked at him which was about all the confirmation Andy had come to expect since he followed Roger home on the second day. The Swiss drank when Andy gave him a bottle of water, ate whatever was put in front of him with mechanical, desultory movements but for the last two days he’d not bothered to get out of bed. There’s something terrifyingly insubstantial to the line of him beneath white sheets, all six feet of height and muscle drawn in tight on himself until Andy catches himself brushing his hand across the curve of a shoulder, a knee, to reassure himself with solid touch and body heat through cotton that Roger is still there at all.

Roger lets him do it, without protest. Andy isn’t sure he even noticed.





Things I have learned from this exercise; I run my sentences on way too long. Also, I have too many WiPs. These are only the ones I have typed and actually started, although the last one needs major rewrites so that won't be the seven sentences after the seventh forever. Still.

Life continues on. I've caught the Dreaded Lurgy this week but motored through it by going to work, which led to me sitting at my desk wrapped in my scarf like a blanket yesterday and croaking when anyone asked me a question. I'm feeling somewhat better tonight but I thought I was feeling better Wednesday night, and Thursday night, and then I felt like death from 4am Friday onwards, so I'm not getting my hopes up just yet.

Otherwise, everything is fine. New Job is still fine, although I have to organise an inspection for something I'm responsible for in March, and the previous job's incumbent left only scrappy notes on what she'd done towards the action plan for it, so that'll be fun. I keep thinking I should know everything because that's how everyone acts and then I realise I've only been doing the job for barely four months and I've got shit done in that time. It'll be fine. *touch wood*

In conclusion: still aten't ded, despite the best efforts of the common cold. I should be writing but I'm avoiding it. Nothing particularly exciting is going on right now. Except The Voice is back tonight so I get Ricky Wilson's face on the tellybox again for a bit, yay.

So, you know. As you were.


*I somehow completely missed that I was supposed to do this from page seven and not just the seventh line, and now I'm too lazy to redo it. So. Whatevs.

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