confidenceman: (intoxicate me)
When James Ford woke up that morning in an unfamiliar building, in a bed larger than the one in his house and a room so bare that it almost reminded him of the hospital, he didn't panic. Most things seemed unfamiliar to him, those days. Places that had once been familiar, like his grandparents' house, like the classrooms in his school, or even the pews of his church, never seemed the same anymore. The world had wrapped itself in velvet, almost, something dark, heavy, and against which James couldn't push very far, keeping him from feeling much of anything of the outside word. Keeping him trapped in his own thoughts. Wherever he was, it didn't matter— he was sure that someone had put him there for a reason, and that someone would find and whisk him away again before long— and so James simply slid his legs off the side of the bed and dropped to the floor.

Whoever had dressed him for bed hadn't done a very good job. The t-shirt that he wore was several sizes too large, and his underpants were just about falling off. Tugging them up as well as he could, James quickly stumbled over to the large dresser in the room, pulling every drawer open until he spotted a few plain t-shirts that looked like they'd only be slightly too big, and a pair of jeans that could be held up well enough with the aid of a belt. Wordlessly dressing himself, James peeked around the rest of the room, a faint voice in the back of his mind reminding him that today was the funeral date.

(And the thought alone brought tears to his eyes, but he shook his head vigorously; mama wouldn't have wanted him to cry.)

He pushed past the curtains of the room, unseeing. Pushed into another room, where a projector was playing cartoons in the background, where a bookshelf was piled high with books. Spotting a pen and pad on a nearby table, James looked carefully around before sliding them off with quiet hands and tucking the pad under his arm. He passed through a kitchen filled with sights, sounds, smells, but it didn't matter— he wasn't hungry. Standing in an empty hall, James looked down both ends, before turning left, to the doors marked as an exit, quietly pushing one just a fraction before he stood under the brilliance of the sun, a porch and steps in front of him.

Peeking around again, James pressed his lips together, walked forward to sit himself on the top step, and laid the pad across his knees. Now that he was alone, he could do this.

Dear Mr. Sawyer, his pen scrawled in uneven writing.


[ Eight-year-old Sawyer, after a night spent in the dorms for easier access to the showers, is now sitting on the front steps of the Compound and writing his famous letter. ST/LT more than welcome, no limit on threads. Replies will come from [livejournal.com profile] giveyouthis. ]
confidenceman: (animal in the sack)
Sand was overrated. Like many things which received too much credit from the eyes of loving couples venturing on their first honeymoons, it was picturesque, bleached white by the sun as it stretched on along the shore. It looked inviting, and there were still some days when Sawyer could almost find himself fooled by the handfuls of tiny pebbles, fooled into toeing off his sandals to walk barefoot in the stuff. He always regretted it, of course. The sand was somehow capable of sticking to every square inch of his body, from blowing into his hair with a strong breeze to getting caught between his toes, and it was damned annoying. Sand was overrated, only yearned for by those either born and bred on Californian beaches or those who had never stepped in the stuff, and yet Sawyer found himself venturing on over to the sandy beaches anyway, his newest reading venture in hand as he plopped his ass down a few feet away from where the surf met land, right on top of the large t-shirt that the clothes box had offered him in lieu of an actual towel. Large was actually an understatement; the thing could probably fit two of Hugo in its billowing one-hundred percent cotton fabric.

He looked left, then right, before pulling out the only passable pair of glasses he'd managed to find yet on the island, acid green and dotted with rhinestones though they were and sliding them on. They were the reason why Sawyer didn't do the reasonable thing and find a large, cushy recliner in the rec room. Sure, he was confident in his masculinity, but there were only so many times one could listen to passing snickers before it just got to be distracting, and one didn't want to get distracted when reading fine literature.

(There was also the fact that he was reading Breakfast at Tiffany's, because it was all the damn bookcase would give him. To its credit, though, Sawyer had never realized that the original was actually about a hooker. That earned it a few points, in his mind.)

Leaning against the relatively smooth and wide surface of the palm tree, Sawyer cracked open the cover of the book, licking his thumb to pull himself to the first page, and began to read.

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James "Sawyer" Ford

January 2020

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