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witticasterThings which are fun: Tharkay writing soppy poetry when he's happy. I don't know if what I'm trying to do is actually working or not, and I am not satisfied with the ending, but hey.
How could existence have proven fruitful before this? was the only line he'd kept so far; the rest of the page was a mess of grey fog on white paper, thanks to what a shite eraser his pencil had.
Tharkay simply could not find the words to put to this moment: writing by the streetlight near his sole window in the night's stillness, moving as little as possible so as not to wake the pinnacle of human existence sleeping next to him, with an arm resting on Tharkay's back. Will's face was shadowy, and the tendrils of his pale hair, long since freed of its tie, had spilled over his cheek and neck. The desire to smooth them back and leave kisses in their wake was overwhelming.
It was also incredibly maudlin, and Tharkay resisted. Not that he had space to complain about seeming sentimental just then, with his stubby pencil in hand.
The letters were uneven and all capitalized, as usual--his professors despaired of his English penmanship almost as much as his mother did his Tibetan--and Tharkay liked the appearance of it that night. A great cacophony visualized, of shouts over the marvel that was Will Laurence.
He gave more scrawling attempts, though it felt to him that the only proper expression of this closeness, this fondness, this alien feeling that had taken up residence in his breast, had already been achieved earlier in the evening. The expression on Will's face as he came had said everything Tharkay could not find words for, and he had punctuated it with, what pleasure, Tharkay's name, ragged around the edges. The sea is mine to command, and the sky, was now written on the page. I fear no rival in this life, only the aversion of a gaze.
He was not certain that writing longer lines had conveyed him any better than his tendency of the past few weeks toward terser imagery. Far from the other words, he began again.
like tumbled stones
below the current
we lay together
content with the world
flowing above us
Or, he thought wryly, perhaps he should abandon all pretense. WILLIAM LAURENCE IS THE WORLD'S BEST LAY.
Satisfied, Tharkay set down his pencil, but drifted to sleep before he could decide whether to secure it beneath a corner of the mattress or leave his gloating out where Will might come across it.
How could existence have proven fruitful before this? was the only line he'd kept so far; the rest of the page was a mess of grey fog on white paper, thanks to what a shite eraser his pencil had.
Tharkay simply could not find the words to put to this moment: writing by the streetlight near his sole window in the night's stillness, moving as little as possible so as not to wake the pinnacle of human existence sleeping next to him, with an arm resting on Tharkay's back. Will's face was shadowy, and the tendrils of his pale hair, long since freed of its tie, had spilled over his cheek and neck. The desire to smooth them back and leave kisses in their wake was overwhelming.
It was also incredibly maudlin, and Tharkay resisted. Not that he had space to complain about seeming sentimental just then, with his stubby pencil in hand.
The letters were uneven and all capitalized, as usual--his professors despaired of his English penmanship almost as much as his mother did his Tibetan--and Tharkay liked the appearance of it that night. A great cacophony visualized, of shouts over the marvel that was Will Laurence.
He gave more scrawling attempts, though it felt to him that the only proper expression of this closeness, this fondness, this alien feeling that had taken up residence in his breast, had already been achieved earlier in the evening. The expression on Will's face as he came had said everything Tharkay could not find words for, and he had punctuated it with, what pleasure, Tharkay's name, ragged around the edges. The sea is mine to command, and the sky, was now written on the page. I fear no rival in this life, only the aversion of a gaze.
He was not certain that writing longer lines had conveyed him any better than his tendency of the past few weeks toward terser imagery. Far from the other words, he began again.
like tumbled stones
below the current
we lay together
content with the world
flowing above us
Or, he thought wryly, perhaps he should abandon all pretense. WILLIAM LAURENCE IS THE WORLD'S BEST LAY.
Satisfied, Tharkay set down his pencil, but drifted to sleep before he could decide whether to secure it beneath a corner of the mattress or leave his gloating out where Will might come across it.
no subject
on 2010-03-26 01:39 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2010-03-26 01:45 pm (UTC)