Title: Blue Raspberry
Pairing: Jalan
Notes: This is for darling brittsays. It may or may not have been written early this morning in Ottawa. Please forgive any errors and general suckiness.



Touch: His callused fingers brush clumsily against the cashier's as he gives her the much coveted change - a dollar and twenty seven cents; four quarters, two dimes, a nickel and two pennies, all warmed by the jean pocket nestled gently against the curve of his hip. She asks if he needs a bag, as if he's some child and not a fully grown man. He shakes his head and snatches the new treasure out of her hand. He walks to the apartment rather than take the subway, the dying sunshine desperately clinging to his neck and shoulders as the leaves around him begin to fall. He can't help but stare for a little too long each time he sees a head of blonde(ish, he corrects) hair - he's close, now. The cracks in the sidewalk are familiar against the soles of his shoes, every stranger brushing past him almost feels like him. He clutches the prize tightly, warming it in his palm.

Sound: The wrapper crinkles and its unique sound disappears amongst the hum of the wind and the rustle of the leaves. His feet make a resounding noise on the concrete: these new shoes must be hollow or something. Thud. Thud. Thud. A group of french tourists pass him, too many conversations in what he only understands as fragmented words. Soleil. Musique. Bibliotheque. Chou. Bells sound from a church nearby, whimsical on the air. They clang through six repetitions, signaling that the time is almost right. The alarm on his watch joins the symphony. He can hear the voice echoing within the confines of his mind. A bird whistles his welcome as his shoes stop thudding. He's arrived. He presses the code with satisfaction, the buttons making the same empty squish that numbers on a payphone do. Silence. Too long. No cars pass. And then, a pause filled with so many unspoken words that it's overflowing. A voice on the other end, deep and rich and beautiful. "...hello?"

Smell: His apartment building is Toronto. The lobby smells of maple sugar, the elevator curiously of something not unlike sex, the alcove of fallen tears and his hallway of east indian food. It smells like spice and Canada and diversity. It smells like Canadian Idol and Hedley and them. It smells of freedom, privacy, and fear. But mostly, it's the smell that he knows to be that of Kalan. He knocks on the door, the smell of spice and curry intermingling with that of brass and wood polish. He ponders that briefly until the door opens. The smell of pizza and takeout chinese wafts on the air. He's pulled inside and as small arms wrap around him he is overcome with nature and soap and the way that gel smells when it's been exposed to heat: the smell of home.

Sight: He's wearing his Medicine Hat shirt, drowning in it even more now than he was last year. His jeans are cinched tightly at the waist and Jacob's sure that if it weren't for the metal and leather belt they'd be on the floor. Not that he'd mind. His hair is even longer than last time and a good three inches of sunny blonde shows at the roots. His eyes are icy blue rather than cobalt, he's left the contacts out. They're rimmed with red and deeply lined, he wonders if the monsters he's been seeing that keep him from sleep are real or imagined this time. He smiles his publicity smile, white teeth (caps, not that anyone knows) emerging from in between pale lips. No gloss, this is a day off. His skin is speckled with blemishes, not unlike Jacob's own. His body shifts slightly with the effort of a question weighing upon it, his eyes speak to spare his mouth. Jacob doesn't have the words, either.

Taste: Girls taste of cherry, watermelon, strawberry and cosmic mint chocolate chip. He presses his lips to Kalan's, instantly recognizing the familiar taste but still unable to place it. The most accurate way would be to say that it was meat and potatoes, music and need, but he isn't known for accuracy. He only tastes Kalan. He pulls away, holding out his hand as an answer. Kalan looks curiously at the wrapper before taking it, the space between his eyebrows creased with concentration. He turns it over and over in his hands, confused. Jacob only smiles, not sure that he knows an answer to give. He takes it back and opens it, sliding it onto Kalan's nimble fingers. Blue raspberry. He laughs quietly as Kalan studies this new development before raising the ring pop to his mouth and licking it with a too pink tongue which quickly turns blue. Jacob takes his hand and kisses gently towards the ring, kissing it in turn. Blue raspberry. Sweet and tangy, curiously unnatural but unmistakably good, leaving not only a taste in one's mouth but a physical trace of evidence. Them.