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.
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