((I think I'm going to turn this into a long fic later one, for now though a drabble. Also, I haven't read the book but I love the prompt so don't judge me too harshly if it isn't very good. ;.; This is just my own vision of the prompt. *eep*))
Prologue:
In another life…
The lyrics moved across the breeze in the tiny café where Benny sat tucked away in a corner. People milled and bustled around the area; a busboy swaying slightly to the music, the owner mouthing the words to herself as she counted down the drawer behind the counter, a uni student hunched over scribbling furiously away at his paper - no doubt due today - casting annoyed glances at the speakers placed carefully in each corner of the café.
…Collecting the black dust like sin.
He hated this song. The café owner seems to love it, this was the third time this week she had played that particular CD. Every track leading closer and closer to this song, this reminder. Benny’s lip curled into a sneer as he swished the lukewarm tea around in his cup before turning it up and sucking the rest of it down. The sickly sweet aftertaste lingered on his taste buds.
I gripped your hand and caught a glimpse of the next time round…
The busboy came over to the table next to Benny to gather the cups and saucers left by hurried people off to their hurried lives, completely aware of how short they were. He never looked at Benny or paid him any mind. No murmured ‘excuse me’s or hushed ‘pardon me’s, no half smiles as he moved around him. No attention for poor invisible Benny.
…We marched on Tiananmen.
Benny was used to the behavior. He wasn’t actually invisible, but he might as well be. He cleared his throat, no response. He coughed loudly, a small muscle jerk in the busboys face. With a roll of his eyes Benny stuck his foot out gently tripping the working man. A startled face finally turned his way.
“Yes?”
“Can I get another cup of tea.” The words poured out in his thick accent, slow and deliberate. He didn’t make it a question and slid his empty cup and saucer towards the busboy who grabbed it and with a bored expression made his way over to the counter for a fresh bag.
Benny watched the boy with dead eyes. He knew the drill; he would bring his tea back to him, set it down while never even looking towards Benny, then hurry off , and within a matter of minutes he would completely forget about the exchange. Little things like this used to bother Benny. He used to grow angry and throw things to be noticed, give fierce cries as he would break things for attention, push and shove and curse the people passing him by - now it was only another tedious part of his “life.” Just little things.
My last thought it seems…
Little things tend to not matter so much once you’re dead.
…a fever dream.
The small cluster of bells above the café door jingled. Sounding off as if heralding in the rush of air that delivered some important godlike figure. Then silence came as quickly as the illusion faded leaving only a huddled figure out for a cuppa. Only this time there was no illusion. The air delivered, as it always promised, a huddle figure. Benny’s eyes focused to see which huddled figure this was.
The light from the windows caught on chestnut highlights, saliva wet lips, and shining green eyes. The air carried with it a distinct scent of motor oil and sandalwood. The familiar scrape of callused hands on coveralls. Benny sucked in a breath quickly fighting past the punch in his chest that sought to drive it out, conflicting forces let themselves be known in a quiet wheeze. “Dean…” the name whispered like a hallowed prayer on Benny’s lips.
It had been so long since he had seen him last. He quickly noted the differences: the change in his step, the curve of his mouth, the predatory way he eyed up the woman behind the counter. Benny let out a shuddering sigh and leaned forward, head in his hands, and rubbed circles into the quickly forming centers of pain in his temples. This was his last chance, he could not screw this up.
Fill, Team Anna/Jo, Benny X Dean Thirteen Chances AU
Prologue:
In another life…
The lyrics moved across the breeze in the tiny café where Benny sat tucked away in a corner. People milled and bustled around the area; a busboy swaying slightly to the music, the owner mouthing the words to herself as she counted down the drawer behind the counter, a uni student hunched over scribbling furiously away at his paper - no doubt due today - casting annoyed glances at the speakers placed carefully in each corner of the café.
…Collecting the black dust like sin.
He hated this song. The café owner seems to love it, this was the third time this week she had played that particular CD. Every track leading closer and closer to this song, this reminder. Benny’s lip curled into a sneer as he swished the lukewarm tea around in his cup before turning it up and sucking the rest of it down. The sickly sweet aftertaste lingered on his taste buds.
I gripped your hand and caught a glimpse of the next time round…
The busboy came over to the table next to Benny to gather the cups and saucers left by hurried people off to their hurried lives, completely aware of how short they were. He never looked at Benny or paid him any mind. No murmured ‘excuse me’s or hushed ‘pardon me’s, no half smiles as he moved around him. No attention for poor invisible Benny.
…We marched on Tiananmen.
Benny was used to the behavior. He wasn’t actually invisible, but he might as well be. He cleared his throat, no response. He coughed loudly, a small muscle jerk in the busboys face. With a roll of his eyes Benny stuck his foot out gently tripping the working man. A startled face finally turned his way.
“Yes?”
“Can I get another cup of tea.” The words poured out in his thick accent, slow and deliberate. He didn’t make it a question and slid his empty cup and saucer towards the busboy who grabbed it and with a bored expression made his way over to the counter for a fresh bag.
Benny watched the boy with dead eyes. He knew the drill; he would bring his tea back to him, set it down while never even looking towards Benny, then hurry off , and within a matter of minutes he would completely forget about the exchange. Little things like this used to bother Benny. He used to grow angry and throw things to be noticed, give fierce cries as he would break things for attention, push and shove and curse the people passing him by - now it was only another tedious part of his “life.” Just little things.
My last thought it seems…
Little things tend to not matter so much once you’re dead.
…a fever dream.
The small cluster of bells above the café door jingled. Sounding off as if heralding in the rush of air that delivered some important godlike figure. Then silence came as quickly as the illusion faded leaving only a huddled figure out for a cuppa. Only this time there was no illusion. The air delivered, as it always promised, a huddle figure. Benny’s eyes focused to see which huddled figure this was.
The light from the windows caught on chestnut highlights, saliva wet lips, and shining green eyes. The air carried with it a distinct scent of motor oil and sandalwood. The familiar scrape of callused hands on coveralls. Benny sucked in a breath quickly fighting past the punch in his chest that sought to drive it out, conflicting forces let themselves be known in a quiet wheeze.
“Dean…” the name whispered like a hallowed prayer on Benny’s lips.
It had been so long since he had seen him last. He quickly noted the differences: the change in his step, the curve of his mouth, the predatory way he eyed up the woman behind the counter. Benny let out a shuddering sigh and leaned forward, head in his hands, and rubbed circles into the quickly forming centers of pain in his temples. This was his last chance, he could not screw this up.