Rules (3a/?)
anonymous
November 11 2010, 12:10:32 UTC
Whot? I promised a fill two weeks ago? /shot ... honestly, this fill is getting harder and harder to write. Every sentence has to be rewritten three-four times until I'm satisfied. Incredibly sorry.
Arthur: Against the Rules
The events leading up to this point have bled from his mind (as many things do, morning breakfasts and what she wore to the wedding, and how many miles to go from here) so Arthur only remembers the barest minimum of details. It is for the best, he supposes, that some things are faded-forgotten.
Like him, in a screaming match with Bonnefoy because he was not giving up the rights to the novel (that he didn’t even remember the name of in the middle of spitting and shouting, that he didn’t even really like) but it was to prove a point.
Like how Bonnefoy merely smirked and said soothing, patronizing things, while his eyes glittered like hard diamonds.
Like how Arthur found himself on a plane precisely two hours later, wondering how he got there. (this is where his memory turns a little sticky. it had been either bonnefoy’s brilliant negotiation tactics or the foul thing the man had spiked his drink with. since arthur had awoken to the feeling of his head being methodically sliced into cold cuts and his eyes being gouged out, he went with the second. goddamn bonnefoy)
Like how they met Mr. Braginski and his smile was frightening even though Arthur didn’t notice at the time (too busy grappling with his crippling nausea).
Like how Bonnefoy and Braginski began to talk business, interspersed with Braninski purring towards Arthur’s direction how much he simply loved the books they were quite stirring da? (arthur could barely bite back his acerbic answer of, ‘they are shit books, thanks, and you must have some bloody bad taste’)
Arthur forgets everything around which these events skeleton, because they is unimportant compared to what happens next. Here is where his memory turns Technicolor.
The room is thick. Sickeningly thick. The walls, painted a maroon so deep, Arthur can almost taste gooseberry jelly sloughing off of them. The kind of carpet that melts footprints. The sun, yolky and sizzling in the midday sky, drips its dirty yellow through the windowpanes.
Even time here is slow. Slow like glue. Slow like the death that Arthur wishes would come because his head must literally be splitting apart by now. (he continually touches it just to make sure. part of him wonders, whether bonnefoy hadn’t drugged him just so much to keep his protests to a mumbling minimum)
“You don’t seem well, Mr. Kirkland.” Braginski does not sound at all sympathetic. In fact, he seems to be enjoying the features of pain shift over the Englishman’s features. “Would you like some water?”
Bonnefoy answers for him in the affirmative.
Ivan picks up a phone and dials in bleeps. Meanwhile, Bonnefoy is gripping Arthur’s shoulder, hissing in the Englishman’s ear about staying out of his way.
Arthur narrows his eyes and plans the victim of his next novel to die of strangulation by his own long, dirty hair.
Rules (3b/?)
anonymous
November 11 2010, 12:13:57 UTC
The door opens behind Arthur. He turns around because it seems like the polite thing to do.
Ah. The sharp stab in Arthur’s chest confuses him before the sight and significance have clicked together in his brain.
The boy is thin.
(keep still)
Brown hair. Small wrists.
(breathe slower)
Pale skin. Chapped lips (bitten bleeding). Freckles bleached under.
(look away)
They lock eyes, just for the second. Arthur must look like a rabbit, plastered to the chair, comically scrambling away from the 70-lb time bomb placing water (long fingers, small hands, their pads cling briefly to the glass, leaving smeared fingerprints) carefully on the edge of the desk. The imperfect, tortuous beauty of this boy is indescribable. It has nothing to do with how he looks, but merely the fact that he is close, so close, his youth, his exquisite delicacy. Unbidden, Arthur feels a low coil of heat and anticipation joining the fluttering of utter fear in his stomach.
When he sees Arthur, the child flinches (god no, arthur thinks, how must i look now? gaze far darkened with lust, no wonder he-) without moving a muscle.
But he doesn’t drop his eyes.
(it was wide enough to fall into, those eyes. cold and deep and wide and scared, like palmfuls of dark water)
“…this is just a courtesy visit, of course, my lawyers are standing by to facilitate the smooth transfer of…well,” Braginski smiles and talks at the same time. “Wouldn’t it be impolite of us to speak of money on a social call?”
Bonnefoy clears his throat and there is silence. Two beats too late, Arthur realizes that they are both looking at him.
Deer in the headlights. Roadkill.
Face flaring, heart beating guilty, painful, slamming against his ribs, Arthur mutters something about needing to be sick and runs away from the thick carpets and oozing sun and especially from that boy with the brown eyes who is very much against the rules.
(if francis bonnefoy could answer arthur’s accusations, he would say that the englishman is crazy. merely his twisted imagination that anybody really functioned by spiking other people’s drinks. francis merely got arthur drunk, is all, towed him to the airport, told everyone that arthur was a bit scared of flying and thus heavily sedated, and kept plying him with alcohol the entire way through. Now, how far-fetched was arthur’s idea?)
Re: Rules (3b/?)
anonymous
November 12 2010, 18:37:47 UTC
alskjdfhaljkdsf an update, and I decided that fuck, now I'll comment on it.
So.
First of, I love the voices that you have for both of them. While I don't like what you're doing to Russia (I just don't like those onesided one-dimensional monster Russias) I understand that he is a necessary plot device. And to make up for it, I love what you are doing with the others. I could reread your writing to no end, over and over again.
Okay, let's get this in order. The way Raivis described his brothers, and his history was absolute win. Especially the description of Toris, the dreamlike mention of Poland... The passages that had Lithuania in them seem to radiate warmth while the rest of the story seems to radiate cold or lifelessness.
Arthur is really nicely written, too, I'm just not a fan of him so there's not much that I can say. Him and Francis are really interesting, though.
I just really love how everyonething in this story seems completely broken beyond repair. And how both protagonists still have a lifeline to sanity, no matter how thin they are, Arthur his gardening and Raivis his memories.
Arthur: Against the Rules
The events leading up to this point have bled from his mind (as many things do, morning breakfasts and what she wore to the wedding, and how many miles to go from here) so Arthur only remembers the barest minimum of details. It is for the best, he supposes, that some things are faded-forgotten.
Like him, in a screaming match with Bonnefoy because he was not giving up the rights to the novel (that he didn’t even remember the name of in the middle of spitting and shouting, that he didn’t even really like) but it was to prove a point.
Like how Bonnefoy merely smirked and said soothing, patronizing things, while his eyes glittered like hard diamonds.
Like how Arthur found himself on a plane precisely two hours later, wondering how he got there. (this is where his memory turns a little sticky. it had been either bonnefoy’s brilliant negotiation tactics or the foul thing the man had spiked his drink with. since arthur had awoken to the feeling of his head being methodically sliced into cold cuts and his eyes being gouged out, he went with the second. goddamn bonnefoy)
Like how they met Mr. Braginski and his smile was frightening even though Arthur didn’t notice at the time (too busy grappling with his crippling nausea).
Like how Bonnefoy and Braginski began to talk business, interspersed with Braninski purring towards Arthur’s direction how much he simply loved the books they were quite stirring da? (arthur could barely bite back his acerbic answer of, ‘they are shit books, thanks, and you must have some bloody bad taste’)
Arthur forgets everything around which these events skeleton, because they is unimportant compared to what happens next. Here is where his memory turns Technicolor.
The room is thick. Sickeningly thick. The walls, painted a maroon so deep, Arthur can almost taste gooseberry jelly sloughing off of them. The kind of carpet that melts footprints. The sun, yolky and sizzling in the midday sky, drips its dirty yellow through the windowpanes.
Even time here is slow. Slow like glue. Slow like the death that Arthur wishes would come because his head must literally be splitting apart by now. (he continually touches it just to make sure. part of him wonders, whether bonnefoy hadn’t drugged him just so much to keep his protests to a mumbling minimum)
“You don’t seem well, Mr. Kirkland.” Braginski does not sound at all sympathetic. In fact, he seems to be enjoying the features of pain shift over the Englishman’s features. “Would you like some water?”
Bonnefoy answers for him in the affirmative.
Ivan picks up a phone and dials in bleeps. Meanwhile, Bonnefoy is gripping Arthur’s shoulder, hissing in the Englishman’s ear about staying out of his way.
Arthur narrows his eyes and plans the victim of his next novel to die of strangulation by his own long, dirty hair.
Reply
The door opens behind Arthur. He turns around because it seems like the polite thing to do.
Ah. The sharp stab in Arthur’s chest confuses him before the sight and significance have clicked together in his brain.
The boy is thin.
(keep still)
Brown hair. Small wrists.
(breathe slower)
Pale skin. Chapped lips (bitten bleeding). Freckles bleached under.
(look away)
They lock eyes, just for the second. Arthur must look like a rabbit, plastered to the chair, comically scrambling away from the 70-lb time bomb placing water (long fingers, small hands, their pads cling briefly to the glass, leaving smeared fingerprints) carefully on the edge of the desk. The imperfect, tortuous beauty of this boy is indescribable. It has nothing to do with how he looks, but merely the fact that he is close, so close, his youth, his exquisite delicacy. Unbidden, Arthur feels a low coil of heat and anticipation joining the fluttering of utter fear in his stomach.
When he sees Arthur, the child flinches (god no, arthur thinks, how must i look now? gaze far darkened with lust, no wonder he-) without moving a muscle.
But he doesn’t drop his eyes.
(it was wide enough to fall into, those eyes. cold and deep and wide and scared, like palmfuls of dark water)
“…this is just a courtesy visit, of course, my lawyers are standing by to facilitate the smooth transfer of…well,” Braginski smiles and talks at the same time. “Wouldn’t it be impolite of us to speak of money on a social call?”
Bonnefoy clears his throat and there is silence. Two beats too late, Arthur realizes that they are both looking at him.
Deer in the headlights. Roadkill.
Face flaring, heart beating guilty, painful, slamming against his ribs, Arthur mutters something about needing to be sick and runs away from the thick carpets and oozing sun and especially from that boy with the brown eyes who is very much against the rules.
(if francis bonnefoy could answer arthur’s accusations, he would say that the englishman is crazy. merely his twisted imagination that anybody really functioned by spiking other people’s drinks. francis merely got arthur drunk, is all, towed him to the airport, told everyone that arthur was a bit scared of flying and thus heavily sedated, and kept plying him with alcohol the entire way through. Now, how far-fetched was arthur’s idea?)
Reply
Reply
So.
First of, I love the voices that you have for both of them. While I don't like what you're doing to Russia (I just don't like those onesided one-dimensional monster Russias) I understand that he is a necessary plot device. And to make up for it, I love what you are doing with the others. I could reread your writing to no end, over and over again.
Okay, let's get this in order. The way Raivis described his brothers, and his history was absolute win. Especially the description of Toris, the dreamlike mention of Poland... The passages that had Lithuania in them seem to radiate warmth while the rest of the story seems to radiate cold or lifelessness.
Arthur is really nicely written, too, I'm just not a fan of him so there's not much that I can say. Him and Francis are really interesting, though.
I just really love how everyonething in this story seems completely broken beyond repair. And how both protagonists still have a lifeline to sanity, no matter how thin they are, Arthur his gardening and Raivis his memories.
Reply
Please keep continue, writer!anon!
At least until the kink Raivis offering himself was completely filled, very please?
Reply
Leave a comment