Blue sheets and white pillows - Posner/Scripps
RBCW: THERE SHOULD BE LOVE LETTERS HAHAHAHA. That's all I'm saying. Not in the summer before they all go to Oxbridge but that will come later.
"You should be a writer," Posner says one morning, taking a bite of his jam toast.
Because he still thinks of him as Posner, most of the time anyway. Posner making dinner, Posner at the table marking essays, Posner in front of the mirror fussing with his tie before another dinner with Scripps's family, Posner dialling Dakin's house and trying not to laugh because he knows that voice, and how much trouble would he get in if he said "Thank you, Sir."?
It's only in their bed (blue sheets, white pillows, covers always kicked onto the floor by morning), under him or over him or lying next to him sleeping with an arm around him, he's David. David with messy hair, David with a wicked smile, David with fingernails digging into skin and gasping "Oh fuck!".
"You should be a writer," Posner says one morning, taking a bite of his jam toast. He's got his head down, reading a piece of paper that looks familiar for some reason. Half a slice of toast covered in strawberry jam and a warm cup of tea on top of the folded newspaper.
"I am a writer." Posner tuts, putting down his breakfast and rubbing the tips of his fingers together over the plate to get rid of any crumbs. He looks up at Scripps, with that look that should only belong to mothers.
"You're a journalist. Hector would-" He stops, coughing quietly into his hand. Hector would be spinning in his grave if he could hear you now. "I mean you should be a proper writer. You're good at it. Or you were anyway. Although youir mind did wander in this paragraph here..." he comments, pointing at it before turning the paper around to show him what it is. And he instantly recognises it. That letter. Brilliant.
"I didn't think you'd be marking it. Besides, I was competing against your everlasting affection for Dakin when I wrote that, wasn't I?"
"You were also a little bit drunk, judging by your handwriting." Posner picks up the remainder of his toast, chewing it slowly and setting the paper down on the table, leaning over it.
"It worked, didn't it?"
"Well, sort of." Scripps moves to stand behind the chair, reading the letter he wrote so many years ago over Posner's shoulder. It's sloppy, doesn't make much sense, mainly revolving about how Dakin might never look twice at Posner like that, but Scripps has, does, and will continue to do so for a while yet. There are a few lines of scribble at the bottom, until he'd finally decided on finishing it with just Don. "I think it was the next day when you completely won me over, if I'm being honest."
The next day had occurred in Posner's room, where they normally went on Thursdays after school. Scripps had dropped the letter into Posner's bag on Wednesday morning when his back was turned. Neither had mentioned it, and the writer of it had hoped it would stay that way to spare him any embarrassment.
"I found your letter," Posner had said, staring at his knees. Scripps had coloured slightly, banging his head down on Posner's desk and groaning.
"I'm sorry, I-" Posner had moved, knelt down by his side, raised a hand to touch the other boy and then thought better of it. Instead, he'd taken a deep breath, looking down as he let it out slowly.
"Did you mean it?"
"At the ti- What?"
"Did you mean it?" Scripps had turned his head to the side, face red, and looked Posner in the eye.
"Going to hit me if I say yes?"
"No."
"Yes," Scripps had answered before the other boy had finished.
Their first kiss followed shortly, and lasted about three seconds due to Posner's mother coming into the room with orange juice.
"You should be a writer," Posner says one morning, taking a bite of his jam toast.
Because he still thinks of him as Posner, most of the time anyway. Posner making dinner, Posner at the table marking essays, Posner in front of the mirror fussing with his tie before another dinner with Scripps's family, Posner dialling Dakin's house and trying not to laugh because he knows that voice, and how much trouble would he get in if he said "Thank you, Sir."?
It's only in their bed (blue sheets, white pillows, covers always kicked onto the floor by morning), under him or over him or lying next to him sleeping with an arm around him, he's David. David with messy hair, David with a wicked smile, David with fingernails digging into skin and gasping "Oh fuck!".
"You should be a writer," Posner says one morning, taking a bite of his jam toast. He's got his head down, reading a piece of paper that looks familiar for some reason. Half a slice of toast covered in strawberry jam and a warm cup of tea on top of the folded newspaper.
"I am a writer." Posner tuts, putting down his breakfast and rubbing the tips of his fingers together over the plate to get rid of any crumbs. He looks up at Scripps, with that look that should only belong to mothers.
"You're a journalist. Hector would-" He stops, coughing quietly into his hand. Hector would be spinning in his grave if he could hear you now. "I mean you should be a proper writer. You're good at it. Or you were anyway. Although youir mind did wander in this paragraph here..." he comments, pointing at it before turning the paper around to show him what it is. And he instantly recognises it. That letter. Brilliant.
"I didn't think you'd be marking it. Besides, I was competing against your everlasting affection for Dakin when I wrote that, wasn't I?"
"You were also a little bit drunk, judging by your handwriting." Posner picks up the remainder of his toast, chewing it slowly and setting the paper down on the table, leaning over it.
"It worked, didn't it?"
"Well, sort of." Scripps moves to stand behind the chair, reading the letter he wrote so many years ago over Posner's shoulder. It's sloppy, doesn't make much sense, mainly revolving about how Dakin might never look twice at Posner like that, but Scripps has, does, and will continue to do so for a while yet. There are a few lines of scribble at the bottom, until he'd finally decided on finishing it with just Don. "I think it was the next day when you completely won me over, if I'm being honest."
The next day had occurred in Posner's room, where they normally went on Thursdays after school. Scripps had dropped the letter into Posner's bag on Wednesday morning when his back was turned. Neither had mentioned it, and the writer of it had hoped it would stay that way to spare him any embarrassment.
"I found your letter," Posner had said, staring at his knees. Scripps had coloured slightly, banging his head down on Posner's desk and groaning.
"I'm sorry, I-" Posner had moved, knelt down by his side, raised a hand to touch the other boy and then thought better of it. Instead, he'd taken a deep breath, looking down as he let it out slowly.
"Did you mean it?"
"At the ti- What?"
"Did you mean it?" Scripps had turned his head to the side, face red, and looked Posner in the eye.
"Going to hit me if I say yes?"
"No."
"Yes," Scripps had answered before the other boy had finished.
Their first kiss followed shortly, and lasted about three seconds due to Posner's mother coming into the room with orange juice.