you lied, but I know, 'cause I've got cigarette eyes

[confidenceman]

There was no doubt that Sawyer found Tabula Rasa less comforting by far when compared to the previous island. Somehow, despite all of the inexplicable phenomena of the previous island, ashen smoke snaking through the sky and polar bears thundering through the bamboo, what Sawyer found more terrifying than anything else was reaching out and finding no friction. People on this new island didn't hate him. Couldn't bring it in themselves to care when he was a jackass. No, they all separated into little social pockets, keeping a few close because they couldn't stand to be in this place alone, but rarely weaving into the whole because the more people one knew, the more likely it was that they'd lose someone along the way. It was almost normal.

Sawyer wasn't sure how to cope with that.

He'd made calculated efforts, though. Actually settled down in a hut. Got himself a girlfriend, a role in an island play. But one thing he didn't have was a steady job, something that didn't involve leading people on or making others think he was someone he wasn't. So when Sawyer saw that there were a few openings available for the island radio, his enjoyment of Howard Stern was enough to at least poke his head inside.

"Is this where I'm supposed t'be if I wanna annoy people with my voice every Wednesday mornin'?" he asked, leaning against the doorway.

Comments

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Roger was no stranger to friction in any sense of the word. At home, he'd been a rock star, working the seedy club joints and quite literally charming the pants off of any male or female, despite their attachments to other people. After that, he'd been a lover, constantly in spats with the woman he loved and the men that loved her too. After that, he'd been an addict, using his roommate for drug money and illegal doses of AZT. After that... well, if it weren't for the island, there wouldn't have been an after that. Since there was, though, he'd been the same person he'd been through and through. He banged a girl and a week later, had Richard Fucking Riddick threatening his life, then he'd been in another rocky relationship, and another and on and on... until he was alone, save for his roommates and the three jobs that anyone at home would never believe he even attempted to hold down.

And after that was this. Whatever the hell it was. Sometimes it was shifts at the Cat Scratch tending bar, sometimes it was harsh riffs at the Jazz club. Sometimes (and this was probably the least amount of time, Neil would probably attest to that), there was the radio station he'd picked up from Chris all those years ago. He should have been sleeping. Fuck, he should have been dead about 8 fucking years ago, but he wasn't. Instead, he was fucking around outside the "booth" (which was not even soundproof, but it was the best they could do), trying to get the rest of his song set in place before there was just dead air.

"I'm guessing Neil put up a call-out," Roger said, shouldering one long, wavy-curly lock off of his face. For some reason (and Roger wasn't saying it was the Compound, as AZT had the damnedest side-effects, like menopausal-level fucking hot flashes), he was sweating balls and getting really fucking irritated. "Yeah. This is it. I'm guessin' you're interested." He didn't get up from the chair, yet, because he didn't know if this pretty boy was worth radio time just yet. Not that he'd be picky, but half of being a New Yorker was the Fuck-Off attitude.