(no subject)
John/Rodney, ~425 words, title from Billy Collins's poem, "On Turning Ten."
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince
"When I was ten," Rodney said, and took a deep breath, John's head heavy against his shoulder, "when I was ten, I invented this whole language, and it was like . . . it was like a secret only for me. It was words and musical notes and mathematical equations, and I filled notebooks with it, with messages to myself-all my plans for the future, and why James McKinney and my piano teacher were idiots, and everything else I was thinking about. And I actually thought I'd teach it to Jeannie, too, but I never did. It was just me, just mine."
"Like your new math, John murmured, and Rodney huffed and said, "Sort of." And John said, "Must've been lonely," and Rodney answered right away, didn't even have to think about it, said, "It was, and it wasn't."
John hmmmmmed and nodded and generally acted like he was about to fall asleep, so Rodney poked him in the side of the head, right where he could see two or three grey hairs, and said, "Well?" And John said sulkily, sleepily, "I was just a normal kid, Rodney. I did whatever ten-year-olds do."
Rodney could feel John's breathing getting deeper, and he said quietly, "Fine. I'll tell you what you were like. You-you made friends easily, but you moved a lot, and you lost touch with all of them, and by the time you were ten, you were almost used to it. You did anything that made you feel fast-you ran and rode a bike and probably a skateboard and broke your bones regularly, and you begged your parents to take you driving, because nothing made you happier than sticking your head out the window like a dog and feeling the world rush by." John shoved him a little and croaked "Hey!" indignantly, but Rodney just kept going. "When you were ten, you started learning how to let people see what you wanted them to-that you could say something or smile and it would mean something to them, but only you knew what it really meant. And you liked that, because it was like you were your own secret from the whole world."
And John couldn't tell Rodney whether he was right or wrong about that, because he was asleep now, a comforting, boneless weight, and Rodney smoothed a hand down his arm like he was spelling out a message on his skin, part of a theorem and part of an arpeggio and words like know and whole and home.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince
"When I was ten," Rodney said, and took a deep breath, John's head heavy against his shoulder, "when I was ten, I invented this whole language, and it was like . . . it was like a secret only for me. It was words and musical notes and mathematical equations, and I filled notebooks with it, with messages to myself-all my plans for the future, and why James McKinney and my piano teacher were idiots, and everything else I was thinking about. And I actually thought I'd teach it to Jeannie, too, but I never did. It was just me, just mine."
"Like your new math, John murmured, and Rodney huffed and said, "Sort of." And John said, "Must've been lonely," and Rodney answered right away, didn't even have to think about it, said, "It was, and it wasn't."
John hmmmmmed and nodded and generally acted like he was about to fall asleep, so Rodney poked him in the side of the head, right where he could see two or three grey hairs, and said, "Well?" And John said sulkily, sleepily, "I was just a normal kid, Rodney. I did whatever ten-year-olds do."
Rodney could feel John's breathing getting deeper, and he said quietly, "Fine. I'll tell you what you were like. You-you made friends easily, but you moved a lot, and you lost touch with all of them, and by the time you were ten, you were almost used to it. You did anything that made you feel fast-you ran and rode a bike and probably a skateboard and broke your bones regularly, and you begged your parents to take you driving, because nothing made you happier than sticking your head out the window like a dog and feeling the world rush by." John shoved him a little and croaked "Hey!" indignantly, but Rodney just kept going. "When you were ten, you started learning how to let people see what you wanted them to-that you could say something or smile and it would mean something to them, but only you knew what it really meant. And you liked that, because it was like you were your own secret from the whole world."
And John couldn't tell Rodney whether he was right or wrong about that, because he was asleep now, a comforting, boneless weight, and Rodney smoothed a hand down his arm like he was spelling out a message on his skin, part of a theorem and part of an arpeggio and words like know and whole and home.