But a patch'd fool: BARE shortfic
Title: But a patch'd fool
Fandom: bare
Characters/Pairings: Matt, Peter (Peter/Matt if you like subtext and Shakespeare)
Rating: G
Setting: During 'Are You There'.
Beta read by: the wonderful phrasemuffin
Notes: I've never seen bare, so I'm not working with any particular production's interpreation. I've added my own stage directions, esp. movements, and messed around with the intonation of the spoken lines. I've never directed anything in my life, but this play makes me wish I could.
You're living your life like a muffed rehearsal. Not a single note in harmony, and you know very well it's not your fault. You know every line, you have every expression down and every gesture perfect, but no one takes your cues. Hermia runs off with Demetrius, and you're the one left looking like an ass. The culprit Puck is nowhere to be found, and there's no potion known which can undo this mess.
You settle for alcohol instead. The church is dark and empty, but you know it better than you know yourself. You could walk this aisle in your sleep, find the wine in the dark without even the dim red light to guide you. You take a chalice and toast that light, a friendly gesture in lieu of genuflection.
It doesn't surprise you when Peter joins you. Always your opposite number, the two of you going through the ritual of ages, an act so perfect it might as well be real. The bread and the wine; the procession; the washing of hands. A dance so familiar, you need never give cues, not to Peter; you need never worry about the scene turning out right: the two of you, the processors and the priest, the body and the blood.
He makes a poor Helena, Peter, even if you did always say he looked better in the frock than you. You offer him a chalice, share the wine of misery, and he drinks and fills your vessel in turn. Always your opposite number: opposite but not opposed, your desires so far apart and yet in perfect symmetry.
When Peter's smile twists awry and he extends a hand, you take it. He is taller than you, Peter, and the better dancer, drunk though he is. You take his hand and let him pull you to him, and you think that for once, it would be nice to follow someone else's cues, have the dance mapped out for you and the scene turn out all right.
You fall over each other's feet and knock into each other's knees.
'Who's leading?' Peter's laugh is nervous, gentle Helena afraid of mockery. You wish you knew the answer and you know it's not a question your fair Hermia is asking of Demetrius tonight.
'Who usually leads?' Your laugh is just as brittle, and you know the answer before he speaks. All your questions, all the whys and wherefores, all the times you run second best: always the one answer. One name on everyone's tongue, one name rests on Peter's lips as if it belongs only there: Jason, always.
Fandom: bare
Characters/Pairings: Matt, Peter (Peter/Matt if you like subtext and Shakespeare)
Rating: G
Setting: During 'Are You There'.
Beta read by: the wonderful phrasemuffin
Notes: I've never seen bare, so I'm not working with any particular production's interpreation. I've added my own stage directions, esp. movements, and messed around with the intonation of the spoken lines. I've never directed anything in my life, but this play makes me wish I could.
You're living your life like a muffed rehearsal. Not a single note in harmony, and you know very well it's not your fault. You know every line, you have every expression down and every gesture perfect, but no one takes your cues. Hermia runs off with Demetrius, and you're the one left looking like an ass. The culprit Puck is nowhere to be found, and there's no potion known which can undo this mess.
You settle for alcohol instead. The church is dark and empty, but you know it better than you know yourself. You could walk this aisle in your sleep, find the wine in the dark without even the dim red light to guide you. You take a chalice and toast that light, a friendly gesture in lieu of genuflection.
It doesn't surprise you when Peter joins you. Always your opposite number, the two of you going through the ritual of ages, an act so perfect it might as well be real. The bread and the wine; the procession; the washing of hands. A dance so familiar, you need never give cues, not to Peter; you need never worry about the scene turning out right: the two of you, the processors and the priest, the body and the blood.
He makes a poor Helena, Peter, even if you did always say he looked better in the frock than you. You offer him a chalice, share the wine of misery, and he drinks and fills your vessel in turn. Always your opposite number: opposite but not opposed, your desires so far apart and yet in perfect symmetry.
When Peter's smile twists awry and he extends a hand, you take it. He is taller than you, Peter, and the better dancer, drunk though he is. You take his hand and let him pull you to him, and you think that for once, it would be nice to follow someone else's cues, have the dance mapped out for you and the scene turn out all right.
You fall over each other's feet and knock into each other's knees.
'Who's leading?' Peter's laugh is nervous, gentle Helena afraid of mockery. You wish you knew the answer and you know it's not a question your fair Hermia is asking of Demetrius tonight.
'Who usually leads?' Your laugh is just as brittle, and you know the answer before he speaks. All your questions, all the whys and wherefores, all the times you run second best: always the one answer. One name on everyone's tongue, one name rests on Peter's lips as if it belongs only there: Jason, always.