Poetry Challenge Fic: the mermaids too are drowned
Title: the mermaids too are drowned
Author: deathofletters
Rating: PG-13
A/N: If you think you've seen this before, you probably have. I'm reposting it from earlier. For the poetry challenge and also last_radio. This started out as Peter-gen, but does have hints of Peter/Rodolphus. Set after the summer of 1980.
And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; and soft sudden cups
Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.
--"Spring Offensive" by Wilfred Owen
i.
These are his love words, his bare-armed lost love boys: an amaranth blooms in a pot, red and heavy and ticklish with seed, and he picks it: a laundry line snaps in the wind, singing one note, and he wraps his fingers in it: yellow London fog rubs its back against the windowsill, and he breathes it in. He boils water in his dented kettle, and sets out tea for two. Cup-saucer-spoon. Cup-saucer-spoon. His pocket watch hums the hour, and he quiets it in his fist.
ii.
Cold water washes over his feet and pools in the gutter. Rain falls in London: rain falls, and he walks down the street: the street fills with water, and water washes over his feet. He understands, now, the science of progression; event, event, and end. Where is his end? Rain falls, shivers green with light: here it is. Here.
iii.
Rodolphus sets his tea cup on the table, his oyster-bellied tea cup set precisely down; he does not lick the residual sugar from his teaspoon. Peter crosses his knees under the table and jiggles one leg. The open window lets in the dank London air, the noise of traffic, the song of a lone woman as she pins her laundry to the line. She sings, every day, she sings, but Peter can not remember the words.
You understand, Rodolphus says, what is required of you.
Yes, Peter says, and then, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead, no.
Rodolphus sets his tea cup on the table, precisely. He grips Peter’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and jerks his head up to expose his white throat; Peter feels the smooth edge of a fingernail, dragged past his Adam’s apple, skittered across his jaw. You understand, Rodolphus says, what is required of you, and Peter says, yes.
iv.
He is the silent scuttle of paws; rat paws on the wooden floor, rat nose twitching scent from the air: lemon curd weak tea avada kedavra. The wallpaper has a floral pattern, a yellow floral pattern; it reminds him of a greenhouse, of air swirled hot with pollen. Was it not love? Long dresses trail across the floor: yes it was.
v.
Summer blisters heat: plants die in ceramic pots on his windowsill. He remembers then the white withers of his mother’s herb garden and the white wither of her hands and the white round breasts of divination in the parlor: a cracked hand mirror and linseed oil and his mother.
(He sat on a chaise and watched the tracery of her hands over a lit candle, the white bob of her head and tumble of thin hair down her shoulders: her trickery rested in his gut or divined his flickered greatness. Look! she said. See him; oh, he is drowned, and the mermaids sing him love songs. But he knew they did not sing for him.)
Summer blisters heat: thunder tumbles across the sky: rain falls and gathers in the streets: he quiets the hummed hour with his fist. He sets tea for two, cup-saucer-spoon, and watches the plants on his windowsill die in ceramic pots.
Author: deathofletters
Rating: PG-13
A/N: If you think you've seen this before, you probably have. I'm reposting it from earlier. For the poetry challenge and also last_radio. This started out as Peter-gen, but does have hints of Peter/Rodolphus. Set after the summer of 1980.
And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; and soft sudden cups
Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.
--"Spring Offensive" by Wilfred Owen
i.
These are his love words, his bare-armed lost love boys: an amaranth blooms in a pot, red and heavy and ticklish with seed, and he picks it: a laundry line snaps in the wind, singing one note, and he wraps his fingers in it: yellow London fog rubs its back against the windowsill, and he breathes it in. He boils water in his dented kettle, and sets out tea for two. Cup-saucer-spoon. Cup-saucer-spoon. His pocket watch hums the hour, and he quiets it in his fist.
ii.
Cold water washes over his feet and pools in the gutter. Rain falls in London: rain falls, and he walks down the street: the street fills with water, and water washes over his feet. He understands, now, the science of progression; event, event, and end. Where is his end? Rain falls, shivers green with light: here it is. Here.
iii.
Rodolphus sets his tea cup on the table, his oyster-bellied tea cup set precisely down; he does not lick the residual sugar from his teaspoon. Peter crosses his knees under the table and jiggles one leg. The open window lets in the dank London air, the noise of traffic, the song of a lone woman as she pins her laundry to the line. She sings, every day, she sings, but Peter can not remember the words.
You understand, Rodolphus says, what is required of you.
Yes, Peter says, and then, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead, no.
Rodolphus sets his tea cup on the table, precisely. He grips Peter’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and jerks his head up to expose his white throat; Peter feels the smooth edge of a fingernail, dragged past his Adam’s apple, skittered across his jaw. You understand, Rodolphus says, what is required of you, and Peter says, yes.
iv.
He is the silent scuttle of paws; rat paws on the wooden floor, rat nose twitching scent from the air: lemon curd weak tea avada kedavra. The wallpaper has a floral pattern, a yellow floral pattern; it reminds him of a greenhouse, of air swirled hot with pollen. Was it not love? Long dresses trail across the floor: yes it was.
v.
Summer blisters heat: plants die in ceramic pots on his windowsill. He remembers then the white withers of his mother’s herb garden and the white wither of her hands and the white round breasts of divination in the parlor: a cracked hand mirror and linseed oil and his mother.
(He sat on a chaise and watched the tracery of her hands over a lit candle, the white bob of her head and tumble of thin hair down her shoulders: her trickery rested in his gut or divined his flickered greatness. Look! she said. See him; oh, he is drowned, and the mermaids sing him love songs. But he knew they did not sing for him.)
Summer blisters heat: thunder tumbles across the sky: rain falls and gathers in the streets: he quiets the hummed hour with his fist. He sets tea for two, cup-saucer-spoon, and watches the plants on his windowsill die in ceramic pots.