Author/translator: Bunny Sul
Fandom: (RPS) Limp Bizkit
Pairing: Wes Borland/Sam Rivers
Disclaimer: this story is pure fiction and has no relation to real life; I don’t know any of Limp Bizkit members personally, this story has been written out of deepest admiration for them, and I don’t wish to harm them or their reputation. I don’t make any profit from this either.
Originally written in Russian: http://elquadra.ru/fics/lb-drabbles-bunn
A/N: 1) English is not my native language, so sorry for any possible mistakes; 2) I kindly ask you to review if you’ve read it. Because this fandom seems to be so damn rare and I’m looking for the like-minded people.))
“Nah, I won’t”.
“Why?”, Sam waits for the answer slightly swinging the dark green bottle in the air. It’s really tempting. But still – no.
“Because I’ve already got a glow on”, Wes answers him, then yawn and accurately leans down to lie on his back. He would like just to fall down, hands spread, but it is impossible here since every time you try the deceptively smooth pebbles shove a large angular stone right between your the shoulder-blades.
“Alright. Then I’m just finishing this one and I’m done too”.
And Sam is still sitting, sipping his beer daydreaming and looking at the sea. So Wes intentionally points his gaze to the sky. It’s as blue as the watery waste and the sunset puts light golden gleam on it too, but there are neither borders, no shores and it’s really infinite. Yet there are unknown reasons why the human prefer to imagine that sun goes down into the sea depth to have a sleep at night, that the sun is not wandering endlessly without a rest in the unfamiliar infinite skies…
The breath supposed to be a pleased one burst out as disappointed,and Wes gives up and looks back at Sam’s bronzing statue still sitting at his foot. Wes is just a human too, after all.
And patches of sunlight on waves are blinding; but he still can see (or still can remember when he can’t see) each of small waves that once have bashfully moved from the ocean to Sam’s right arm and happily stood still there forever as ink free designs. They have certainly been asking for it for a long time, willing to smell of not only iodine and salt but of tan, powder sugar and the teasing notes of perfume too. But Sam has spared a lot of years without them, without multitude of tattoos in general - and then suddenly has got this one. Why? (Wes squints at the relaxed broad back.) Something has happen - something that you can’t resist to no more, something that you can only give up to, let it stay and braid your wrist with clear tracery, let it get under your skin… What kind of thing could it be?
Wes knows. He’s the only person who knows, actually. And that’s not just one Sam’s little secret he is let into, there’re thousands of them; even Sam himself doesn’t know about some of them, but those’re still precious. This stripe of white skin above the waist of slightly lowered swimming trunks is pretty much a secret too. Because it’s like it says, “You was not supposed to see this, no one was supposed to, even merciless sun over the coast you two were all day long at wasn’t honored with this… but you, Wes Borland, you still can see”. And this thought doesn’t leave the accidental nudity a chance to pretend to be decorous, innocently unimportant, indifferently natural…
“So you didn’t lie still for a long, huh?”, Sam grins, hand behind his back, gently catching tender fingers. Wes is pleased: he has finally completely get Sam’s attention. And at this small part of the wild beach the spindrift will taste bitter in a different way, as if remembering about heady froth; and among the pebbles that are washed tirelessly by breakers there’ll stay to become grind and smooth small green bits of glass.