home

Title: Correspond
Author: Lily Elena
Pairing: Eli Cash/Chas Tenenbaum
Rating: PG
Note: Written in about 50 minutes for the Contrelamontre 'Claustrophobia' challenge. Theme used very loosely.
Summary: Breathing your air, Eli thinks, and he hopes Chas is okay with that.


"You know," Eli says, tapping his fingers on the loose brick and listening to it click and clatter, "I spent six weeks in there when I was younger." He waves one hand at Mordecai's coop, empty and so much smaller than it was when he was younger. He pulls the brick out of its place and runs his fingers over where the cigarettes aren't anymore, and his fingernails scratch almost silently against the dust.

Chas blinks. "Huh. You did?" The wind pulls at errant strands of his hair, tugging them further into disarray.


Eli nods: once, twice. "Mm." He rubs his face absently, yellow and red staining his fingertips. "I didn't mean to. It just sort of." He stops and rubs his face again, because he can feel the paint on his skin and it's starting to itch, starting to prickle like pins or bug's feet. Beetles, he thinks, and then, fuck, not again, not this time. It isn't about him, isn't about anything but -

he doesn't know how to finish the thought, and so he doesn't, just leaves it hanging there in his mind while he rubs his face and looks at Chas through the gaps in his fingers.


"Margot's birthday party," he mumbles, after a moment. His voice catches in his throat and then releases again. "Richie was asleep and I climbed out the window and up on the roof and then I just didn't come down again."

Chas tilts his head. "For six weeks?" He blinks again, disbelievingly, and shakes his head a little. Eli can see a tiny line of dried blood just over his right eye.

"Something like that, anyway." Eli sits down, abruptly, the jagged uneven bricks scratching against the grey of his suit as he slides to the ground. He winces a little.


"Huh," Chas says again. "Huh." Eli watches as he runs his hands through his hair, fingers twisting and gripping at the curls. "I didn't know," he says, more to his knees than to Eli, and his voice sounds clenched and tight in a way that Eli's pretty sure he isn't imagining.

"I think Richie was the only one who did," Eli replies, and then, almost in the same breath, "come here."


He crawls toward the coop, years of dust and grime and dirt and everything else rubbing onto his knees as he moves, and edges his way inside. "Come here," he repeats, when Chas doesn't make any effort towards getting up, just sits there with his hands tangled in his hair, "there's enough room."


There isn't, and he knows it, and he knows Chas knows it, and when Chas finally makes his way inside it's cramped and the air's heavy, dense, much too close, even with the fresh supply blowing in through the broken windowpane.

Breathing your air, Eli thinks, and he hopes Chas is okay with that.


It's quiet inside, too quiet, and Eli can't take the silence because it already feels like everything's closing in and the lack of noise just makes it worse. "I'm sorry I killed your dog," Eli mutters, tracing a pattern on the glass beside him. He wants to say more, but then Chas sighs, quiet and defeated, and Eli's mouth snaps shut.

The sudden exhalation is like walls crumbling, and Eli can almost feel the scattering debris.


Chas lets his head fall back against Eli's chest and his eyes flutter shut. Seconds, minutes tick by, punctured by the sounds of the street below and the occasional heavy hitch of Chas' breathing. Eli keeps as close a watch as he can, as close as the gradual come-down he's experiencing will let him, and slowly the tension lines etched so deep in Chas' face seem to smooth out and fade.

Then, inexplicably, the coop seems larger, and Eli's breath comes more easily.


home