fic: not at a minute's warning.
Title: Not At A Minute's Warning
Author: orangesparks
Rating: PG
Characters: Hector, Irwin
Words: 500
Notes: Five drabbles, all set to Hardy's The Dead Man Walking.
A Troubadour-youth I rambled:
It's been an awful day, dusty classrooms and stupid lessons that'll never be of any use (what good is History to a future astronaut?), growing worse when he ambles home; whistling on the porch, getting no response, Rusty laying far too still in a dry patch of yard. They bury him, quietly and efficiently, and Granddad lays a wrinkled hand on his shoulder - stoic, calming. "When passed my friend, my kinsfolk; through the Last Door." His gaze is stern, not entirely unkind. "It's a fact of life, Douglas. Hardy said it better than I could, but there you are."
And when my Love's heart kindled:
It's been helping, the poetry.
Not erasing his feelings, like he'd prefer, but ebbing slowly, surely; bitter medicine. Each time Jeffrey walks by, a fragment of verse, sometimes an entire stanza, is taken hold of in Hector's mind, laid out and examined like the bright sunlight filtering in through the window onto his hair, or the curve of his neck, and he's better able to concentrate on taking notes, content to let the poem do the pining for him. Granddad himself has now long been buried, but he lives on through the aged words that he passed onto his grandson.
But when I practised eyeing the goal of men:
Teaching certainly wasn't his first choice (and to be perfectly frank, neither was getting married), but it's something well-adjusted young men don't question, just do; fit in, find steady work, contribute to society, keep the wheels turning, keep their mouths shut.
But not always so.
It's... refreshing to be listened to with such captivation (not by all, of course, but most, and most's what counts), because the boys sense his dedication, to no schedule nor list nor (God forbid) curriculum, but to the work, and at the end of the day, the lines sink in deeper, more satisfying than ever.
They hail me as one living, but don't they know:
Posner sits watching him, young and discontent and reminding him so much of himself at that age that it makes his chest ache, unable to offer any words of comfort other than those that have been written by others. His encouragement is sparing, but it's the least he can do; keep him at a distance, keep from ruining the image of himself that's been destroyed - selfishly, stupidly - for the others. Only fifty-nine and already feeling half-gone; a corpse-thing, untombed, and the boy's voice, still unbroken, still unsure of so many things, (still unembraced), echoes long after he leaves.
A pale past picture, screening:
The pictures of Hector in assembly flash across the projection screen, colours muted and soft, a look back into the man's life almost too intimate for Irwin to feel he should be allowed to witness. It's a bizarre process of reverse ageing; silver hair turning to pale straw, full cheeks sinking in, becoming smooth and pink and unlined, almost handsome, and it's suddenly easy to see him on his first day of teaching, uncharacteristically meek, eyes downcast and words shy.
He wonders if they would have become friends - real friends - had things turned out a bit differently.
Author: orangesparks
Rating: PG
Characters: Hector, Irwin
Words: 500
Notes: Five drabbles, all set to Hardy's The Dead Man Walking.
A Troubadour-youth I rambled:
It's been an awful day, dusty classrooms and stupid lessons that'll never be of any use (what good is History to a future astronaut?), growing worse when he ambles home; whistling on the porch, getting no response, Rusty laying far too still in a dry patch of yard. They bury him, quietly and efficiently, and Granddad lays a wrinkled hand on his shoulder - stoic, calming. "When passed my friend, my kinsfolk; through the Last Door." His gaze is stern, not entirely unkind. "It's a fact of life, Douglas. Hardy said it better than I could, but there you are."
And when my Love's heart kindled:
It's been helping, the poetry.
Not erasing his feelings, like he'd prefer, but ebbing slowly, surely; bitter medicine. Each time Jeffrey walks by, a fragment of verse, sometimes an entire stanza, is taken hold of in Hector's mind, laid out and examined like the bright sunlight filtering in through the window onto his hair, or the curve of his neck, and he's better able to concentrate on taking notes, content to let the poem do the pining for him. Granddad himself has now long been buried, but he lives on through the aged words that he passed onto his grandson.
But when I practised eyeing the goal of men:
Teaching certainly wasn't his first choice (and to be perfectly frank, neither was getting married), but it's something well-adjusted young men don't question, just do; fit in, find steady work, contribute to society, keep the wheels turning, keep their mouths shut.
But not always so.
It's... refreshing to be listened to with such captivation (not by all, of course, but most, and most's what counts), because the boys sense his dedication, to no schedule nor list nor (God forbid) curriculum, but to the work, and at the end of the day, the lines sink in deeper, more satisfying than ever.
They hail me as one living, but don't they know:
Posner sits watching him, young and discontent and reminding him so much of himself at that age that it makes his chest ache, unable to offer any words of comfort other than those that have been written by others. His encouragement is sparing, but it's the least he can do; keep him at a distance, keep from ruining the image of himself that's been destroyed - selfishly, stupidly - for the others. Only fifty-nine and already feeling half-gone; a corpse-thing, untombed, and the boy's voice, still unbroken, still unsure of so many things, (still unembraced), echoes long after he leaves.
A pale past picture, screening:
The pictures of Hector in assembly flash across the projection screen, colours muted and soft, a look back into the man's life almost too intimate for Irwin to feel he should be allowed to witness. It's a bizarre process of reverse ageing; silver hair turning to pale straw, full cheeks sinking in, becoming smooth and pink and unlined, almost handsome, and it's suddenly easy to see him on his first day of teaching, uncharacteristically meek, eyes downcast and words shy.
He wonders if they would have become friends - real friends - had things turned out a bit differently.