The little AU: Summer dreams: Grief
The little AU: Summer dreams: Grief
slashfairy
G
~~
Henry's had a crappy week.
Someone he'd thought a friend isn't. Someone he'd thought he'd be traveling with can't go. Dad's on tour and stuff for that other Cronenberg movie, and Mom's busy with some band thing. He'd found his book of poems from last year's reading at Beyond Baroque and now they just seem... well.
That's the thing. He can see, now, the more amateurish aspects of them. Which ones he'd done as exercises first, to meet the requirements of one kind of poetry pattern or another, and which ones had spilled full-born, or nearly so, onto the page, and needed almost no dressing at all to make them reasonably safe to read aloud, to print.
But they still- the political, social, cultural things he's still unhappy, or angry, or impatient about. And the personal?
They still hurt.
Young fucking love, Henry thinks, scornful, packing that copy of his chapbook back into the box he'd taken it from while he was looking for something else, something he wants for his radio show if he does it again this fall.
He calls a friend, arranges to meet for some gaming in an hour, feels a bit better.
Young fucking love, the scorn gone, replaced by a 19-year-old's tender affection for the 16, 17, 18-year-old boy's feelings, trials, tribulations, attempts at expression, bravery.
Nothing like it.
He locks the door behind him as he leaves, sensing a break in the bleakness. Maybe the weekend won't be so bad, and then Monday, Monday it's a new week.
slashfairy
G
~~
Henry's had a crappy week.
Someone he'd thought a friend isn't. Someone he'd thought he'd be traveling with can't go. Dad's on tour and stuff for that other Cronenberg movie, and Mom's busy with some band thing. He'd found his book of poems from last year's reading at Beyond Baroque and now they just seem... well.
That's the thing. He can see, now, the more amateurish aspects of them. Which ones he'd done as exercises first, to meet the requirements of one kind of poetry pattern or another, and which ones had spilled full-born, or nearly so, onto the page, and needed almost no dressing at all to make them reasonably safe to read aloud, to print.
But they still- the political, social, cultural things he's still unhappy, or angry, or impatient about. And the personal?
They still hurt.
Young fucking love, Henry thinks, scornful, packing that copy of his chapbook back into the box he'd taken it from while he was looking for something else, something he wants for his radio show if he does it again this fall.
He calls a friend, arranges to meet for some gaming in an hour, feels a bit better.
Young fucking love, the scorn gone, replaced by a 19-year-old's tender affection for the 16, 17, 18-year-old boy's feelings, trials, tribulations, attempts at expression, bravery.
Nothing like it.
He locks the door behind him as he leaves, sensing a break in the bleakness. Maybe the weekend won't be so bad, and then Monday, Monday it's a new week.