oh what a lovely sound
A bit of a departure from your regularly scheduled rock and/or roll.
title: Illumination (part one?)
re: Stephen Fry/Hugh Laurie, only, perfectly chaste and, in fact, decent.
words: 500
note: May eventually be part of a longer piece. For therealjae, that monster.
never happened: don't sue!
summary: "Well, that rather throws a different light on things, doesn't it?"
Hugh is scribbling frantically when Stephen arrives, hunched over the infinitesimal table closest to the back of the cafe and farthest from the light, his nose almost touching the pages. He's using a green felt-tip marker, striking out whole sections of script. A coffee cup the size of a small pond occupies the rest of the tabletop. Stephen buys himself an espresso and brings it over.
"Brother Laurie labors long into the night," he intones, "with naught but the illumination of his--"
"Bollocks," says Hugh.
"The illumination of his bollocks." One corner of Stephen's mouth turns up. "Well, that rather throws a different light on things, doesn't it?"
"I was thrilled with this bit until I realized I was stealing from Beyond the Fringe." Hugh slaps the marker down on the top page. "Almost quoting. Absolute bollocks."
There are circles under Hugh's eyes, lines on his forehead. His hair sticks up in back. A spot of green ink marks the base of his right thumb. Stephen recognizes, classifies, and resists an impulse to smooth the cowlick, to smudge the ink away with a fingertip. Instead he has some espresso. "Originality is impossible where imitation is universal," he says.
"Hmph. Wilde?"
"Only Fry, I'm afraid."
"Not bad," says Hugh, and glares down at the pages. His frown alters the shape of his face, sharpens his jawline. He stops looking like a comic. "This, however, is bad. Wretched. Whatever made me think I could write for television? What, exactly, made me think I could write at all, for anything?"
"Oh, some sort of mental illness, surely." Stephen wonders how many times they've had this conversation in the half-decade they've known each other. More than ten, fewer than fifty. He supposes someday he'll lose patience with it, or else it'll lose urgency, stop seeming so desperately important to make Hugh see his own talent. Someday. Not today. Stephen moves as close to the table as the bulk of his knees will allow. "Here's why you think you can write: because you can--"
"That's simply not true--"
"--and because you have done--"
"--unless you mean I can write utter crap, which I suppose is technically writing, but--"
"--and because I said so," Stephen concludes, flattening both hands on the table.
Hugh meets his gaze, still scowling, but his eyes are wide and clear, clear as the day when you can see forever. He picks up his enormous coffee and drinks it slowly. "Well, there's no real way to argue with 'because I said so,' damn it."
"I know. It's rhetorical gold."
"I'll have to start over, get rid of all the Fringe business."
"The Lord's work is never done," says Stephen.
"Bless you, Brother Fry," says Hugh. He puts the coffee down, lifting his pen, contemplating the draft once more. The curve of his mouth changes, admitting the possibility that one day something might be funny again. He might smile.
Ink bleeds into the paper. Stephen leans back into the shadow and waits.
title: Illumination (part one?)
re: Stephen Fry/Hugh Laurie, only, perfectly chaste and, in fact, decent.
words: 500
note: May eventually be part of a longer piece. For therealjae, that monster.
never happened: don't sue!
summary: "Well, that rather throws a different light on things, doesn't it?"
Hugh is scribbling frantically when Stephen arrives, hunched over the infinitesimal table closest to the back of the cafe and farthest from the light, his nose almost touching the pages. He's using a green felt-tip marker, striking out whole sections of script. A coffee cup the size of a small pond occupies the rest of the tabletop. Stephen buys himself an espresso and brings it over.
"Brother Laurie labors long into the night," he intones, "with naught but the illumination of his--"
"Bollocks," says Hugh.
"The illumination of his bollocks." One corner of Stephen's mouth turns up. "Well, that rather throws a different light on things, doesn't it?"
"I was thrilled with this bit until I realized I was stealing from Beyond the Fringe." Hugh slaps the marker down on the top page. "Almost quoting. Absolute bollocks."
There are circles under Hugh's eyes, lines on his forehead. His hair sticks up in back. A spot of green ink marks the base of his right thumb. Stephen recognizes, classifies, and resists an impulse to smooth the cowlick, to smudge the ink away with a fingertip. Instead he has some espresso. "Originality is impossible where imitation is universal," he says.
"Hmph. Wilde?"
"Only Fry, I'm afraid."
"Not bad," says Hugh, and glares down at the pages. His frown alters the shape of his face, sharpens his jawline. He stops looking like a comic. "This, however, is bad. Wretched. Whatever made me think I could write for television? What, exactly, made me think I could write at all, for anything?"
"Oh, some sort of mental illness, surely." Stephen wonders how many times they've had this conversation in the half-decade they've known each other. More than ten, fewer than fifty. He supposes someday he'll lose patience with it, or else it'll lose urgency, stop seeming so desperately important to make Hugh see his own talent. Someday. Not today. Stephen moves as close to the table as the bulk of his knees will allow. "Here's why you think you can write: because you can--"
"That's simply not true--"
"--and because you have done--"
"--unless you mean I can write utter crap, which I suppose is technically writing, but--"
"--and because I said so," Stephen concludes, flattening both hands on the table.
Hugh meets his gaze, still scowling, but his eyes are wide and clear, clear as the day when you can see forever. He picks up his enormous coffee and drinks it slowly. "Well, there's no real way to argue with 'because I said so,' damn it."
"I know. It's rhetorical gold."
"I'll have to start over, get rid of all the Fringe business."
"The Lord's work is never done," says Stephen.
"Bless you, Brother Fry," says Hugh. He puts the coffee down, lifting his pen, contemplating the draft once more. The curve of his mouth changes, admitting the possibility that one day something might be funny again. He might smile.
Ink bleeds into the paper. Stephen leans back into the shadow and waits.