Fitzcarraldo
noun
an image that somehow becomes lodged deep in one's brain—maybe washed there by a dream, or smuggled inside a book, or planted during a casual conversation—which then grows into a wild and impractical vision that keeps scrambling back and forth in one's head like a dog stuck in a car that's about to arrive home, just itching for a chance to leap headlong into reality.
The night is bright and full and clean, a refreshing contrast to the previous few months that have been nothing more than murky downpours and afternoons spent in the darkness and security of Michael's basement. The air is beginning to cool once again, it smells crisp and of much-welcomed oncoming-spring. It takes a while to get used to, though.
The atmosphere is still buzzing with last night's shower, the ionized currents lifting goosebumps in Michael's skin and leaving him with shivering on his arms and a low, inexplicable rumble in his stomach that seems to grow by the instant. They're fifteen-going-on-sixteen, sitting on a wooden table in the park, letting the serenity of the twilight wash over them peacefully as crickets perform for them in time with the faint twinkling of the stars overhead. In this moment, in the park here surrounded by low grassy hills and the distant rustling of tree leaves, time seems to come to a standstill, allowing for the beauty of the scenery to settle into memory peacefully. It looks too tranquil to even be real; like a snippet from a movie scene or a passage taken from the flowery, romanticized writings of a modern poet.
Suddenly, the scene is lit anew, the small flame of a lighter bringing a warm glow to an otherwise lightless place.
And just as fast, it dies.
"Ah shit." Michael mumbles through the blunt that's been lodged between his lips precariously. A taller figure, sitting to his right, stifles a laugh, outstretching his hand in an offering for help.
"You need some help over there bud?" Jeremy gloats, reaching over for the lighter and careful not to knock himself over in the process.
His efforts are swatted away by an impatient hand, as Michael continues to try at the lighter. Only after a beat of silence does he surrender reluctantly, yielding the lighter and the rolled-paper back as his friend brandishes a shiny grin.
The rumbling in his stomach expands ever so slowly, swallowing Michael in a deep chasm of feeling, one which he can't quite name (and doesn't particularly want to). Still, he doesn't mind being devoured by it, carelessly letting it seep into his fingers when defeat has been admitted in the form of a passed joint. It slips and sparks when their fingertips meet, and even though it's barely noticeable, Michael feels it hit him like a flash of lightning; loud and present and there. But instead of locking it away, like every other time he's done for the past few years, he lets it sit with him. He lets the earthquake consume him from the inside while he watches the lighter burst to life. He lets it imbibe him, foolishly, as the dancing flame illuminates the soft smile that still ghosts Jeremy's lips and vaguely remembers wishing that smile would stay forever, so relaxed and free and absolutely stunning on his face. He lets it swarm him as he studies the curves of Jeremy's relatively angular face; the rise and dip of his collarbone, the gentle fall of his nose and how it catches again on his cupid's bow. He admires, if only for a moment, how the light of the flame and the shadows cast by his own features complement one another perfectly, swirling and twisting together to create such a picturesque face— a masterpiece so unforgettable it lies buried deep into the folds of his subconscious.
Jeremy parts his lips while forming a small o shape, smoke pluming out gracefully and waltzing into the night sky, mingling into the heavens and disappearing after only an instant. And for what is possibly the second time that evening, Michael thinks such a gorgeous sight couldn't possibly be a reality; this is all a fairytale. But when he takes back the blunt, his fingers leave the remnants of the deep rumbling, rendering it to a sort of giddy, laidback buzz. It's an odd feeling, which only richens once the smoke has been inhaled and released. Pass after pass, the world seems to be more vivid while receding into nothing all the same. Almost like looking through a kaleidoscope of unnamed emotion. It's pulsating, contracting and pulling and distorting itself, but it's also giving and relaxing in a sense. It's nothing and everything, it's small and large, it's terrifying and liberating, it's concave and convex. The air is getting colder but Michael feels himself getting warmer with each passing minute. The world is a disorder of this and that, bright and dim, chaos and order, until he glances back to hand over the roll.
That's when the pieces slowly fall into place. When they begin to organize themselves and reality makes sense of itself again. It's so clear, and after ages of trying to push it into the back of his mind, hiding from the thought, he begins to understand. Michael knows. He can name the feeling without a second doubt.
But he still doesn't want to.
,
A/N: yes hi this is my first fic so pls don't hurt me. I'm fully aware of how short this chapter is but it's only the start of what I have planned. i've had this idea in my head for a while (read: like 20 minutes), but i still don't have every section planned to the t. i have a basic outline n whatnot of where i want this to go, so there's that. i'm not even entirely sure if i'm gonna finish it though. unless anyone actually reads this and wants it to be completed, then sure.
now that that's out of the way, yes, i'm trying to keep this (profile/book/chapter, whatever) as cryptid as i can. feel free to message me, though, i'm not on this account that often. on that note, i hope you enjoy what's to come of this book as much as i (hope to) enjoy writing it
YOU ARE READING
Rewinding the Cassette
Fanfiction(not a one-shot also not well planned but basically i'll only have this up until i get around to making an ao3 account ) story that follows through the "squipcident"
