Symbols Upon Symbols
Fandom: Invisible Cities
Pairings: Kublai Khan/Marco Polo
Rating: R
Summary: Marco Polo tells the stories of cities, and Kublai listens.
Authors Note: Uh, this was originally supposed to be more smutty. Oh well. Blame the ridiculous prose style on Italo Calvino.
Marco Polo, the Great Khan thinks, is an enigma.
Kublai Khan will never be certain why the Venetian caught his eye from the first, out of all the ambassadors of all the nations-beyond the ridiculousness of his gestures, the unusual youth of his appearance, the lack of any personal limits to inhibit his attempts at communication. This is what leads him to send Marco away and to return, to bring more tales that establish the moment of connection between them each time.
Marco Polo tells of a city with women hanging out of windows. Marco Polo tells of a city where peacock feathers adorn every citizen’s head. Marco Polo tells of a city with men running through fire who receive no burns. Each of these is an action by the Venetian himself, other ambassadors waiting patiently and gaping at his display.
The Great Khan watches him run, wishing Marco Polo belonged to him alone.
When Kublai presents him with a wood chessboard and watches the array of pieces show the tales of cities in the far reaches of his empire, like poetry where nothing represents the same thing twice and even a participle has deep meaning, Marco Polo finally hands the Khan words instead of gestures. The Great Khan receives them without note and returns them with his own.
Marco alone knows the Great Khan’s moods, and he alone can temper them, like a young god tempering the storm of the sea or fanning the flames of the sun. When Kublai’s anger is aroused and he presses the Venetian to the wall in fury, he doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t budge. The Great Khan has never known someone who could answer all his imperious statements with quiet rebuttals, every time, but Marco does it even then, with Kublai breathing fire in his face.
Marco Polo tells of a city through words mixed with gestures, symbols upon symbols lying before them, his face alight as he tells of the maidens in the stable who ride free of garment. Kublai stops listening to his description of hair and cool flesh washed under fountains of clear water, paces the room once, and takes hold of Marco.
Tell me of a city in this way, the Great Khan murmurs against Marco’s throat, pulling the Venetian to him tightly. Marco obliges before even the words have left Kublai’s mouth, which is soon pressed eagerly to his. Kublai’s hands roam Marco’s body, encompassing somehow all of the places that he has ever been and will be, all in the Khan’s arms.
Marco Polo tells of a city of whispered breath and breathless whispers. Marco Polo tells of a city with tender kisses along every inch of the Khan’s skin. Marco Polo tells of a city where work ceases for days on end so that citizens may pleasure themselves with anyone they choose.
When Kublai has one of their dual hammocks taken down, he holds Marco’s back to his stomach and strokes him gently, reclining easily as the Venetian gasps into his neck and along his jaw. Marco moans, unable to press against him without tipping the hammock, leaving him completely in the power of Kublai’s will, and the Great Khan wields it mercilessly.
“Will you repeat to your people the same tales you tell me?” he asks one evening, arms draped around Marco. He asks if he is special to Marco Polo the way Marco Polo is special to him, in the unspoken language of their gestures.
Marco Polo has an answer for him that neither illuminates nor consoles him. At times the Khan feels irritation that Marco has this in common with the other wretched politicians of the empire, but he thinks he can forgive it when Marco gilds such lovely lilies with his tongue, and when he sees Marco’s golden face lit with a smile, he has already forgotten any such quarrels.
One day Marco runs out of cities. “Venice,” he says with a bitter grin. “The city I call home yet have not seen in ten years.” Kublai lips taste his hair as the Venetian pours out his fears of losing his city, and above all the fear that he already has. The Great Khan can do nothing-since conquering the empire, he himself has barely set foot outside his gardens-but allow him to cry.
When Marco Polo finishes his sorrows, Kublai Khan shows him his many atlases, even the maps of the cities that do not yet exist. He bids Marco to go find them, them and the cities that the Khan has dreamt of but not seen, and Marco obliges with neither joy nor misery. They say their good-byes in the gesture-language of yesterday.
The Great Khan steeples his hands and moves a piece on the chessboard and waits for Marco Polo to return, wallowing in selfish pity, knowing Marco cannot be his alone.
And Marco Polo travels the empire, looking for invisible cities.
Pairings: Kublai Khan/Marco Polo
Rating: R
Summary: Marco Polo tells the stories of cities, and Kublai listens.
Authors Note: Uh, this was originally supposed to be more smutty. Oh well. Blame the ridiculous prose style on Italo Calvino.
Marco Polo, the Great Khan thinks, is an enigma.
Kublai Khan will never be certain why the Venetian caught his eye from the first, out of all the ambassadors of all the nations-beyond the ridiculousness of his gestures, the unusual youth of his appearance, the lack of any personal limits to inhibit his attempts at communication. This is what leads him to send Marco away and to return, to bring more tales that establish the moment of connection between them each time.
Marco Polo tells of a city with women hanging out of windows. Marco Polo tells of a city where peacock feathers adorn every citizen’s head. Marco Polo tells of a city with men running through fire who receive no burns. Each of these is an action by the Venetian himself, other ambassadors waiting patiently and gaping at his display.
The Great Khan watches him run, wishing Marco Polo belonged to him alone.
When Kublai presents him with a wood chessboard and watches the array of pieces show the tales of cities in the far reaches of his empire, like poetry where nothing represents the same thing twice and even a participle has deep meaning, Marco Polo finally hands the Khan words instead of gestures. The Great Khan receives them without note and returns them with his own.
Marco alone knows the Great Khan’s moods, and he alone can temper them, like a young god tempering the storm of the sea or fanning the flames of the sun. When Kublai’s anger is aroused and he presses the Venetian to the wall in fury, he doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t budge. The Great Khan has never known someone who could answer all his imperious statements with quiet rebuttals, every time, but Marco does it even then, with Kublai breathing fire in his face.
Marco Polo tells of a city through words mixed with gestures, symbols upon symbols lying before them, his face alight as he tells of the maidens in the stable who ride free of garment. Kublai stops listening to his description of hair and cool flesh washed under fountains of clear water, paces the room once, and takes hold of Marco.
Tell me of a city in this way, the Great Khan murmurs against Marco’s throat, pulling the Venetian to him tightly. Marco obliges before even the words have left Kublai’s mouth, which is soon pressed eagerly to his. Kublai’s hands roam Marco’s body, encompassing somehow all of the places that he has ever been and will be, all in the Khan’s arms.
Marco Polo tells of a city of whispered breath and breathless whispers. Marco Polo tells of a city with tender kisses along every inch of the Khan’s skin. Marco Polo tells of a city where work ceases for days on end so that citizens may pleasure themselves with anyone they choose.
When Kublai has one of their dual hammocks taken down, he holds Marco’s back to his stomach and strokes him gently, reclining easily as the Venetian gasps into his neck and along his jaw. Marco moans, unable to press against him without tipping the hammock, leaving him completely in the power of Kublai’s will, and the Great Khan wields it mercilessly.
“Will you repeat to your people the same tales you tell me?” he asks one evening, arms draped around Marco. He asks if he is special to Marco Polo the way Marco Polo is special to him, in the unspoken language of their gestures.
Marco Polo has an answer for him that neither illuminates nor consoles him. At times the Khan feels irritation that Marco has this in common with the other wretched politicians of the empire, but he thinks he can forgive it when Marco gilds such lovely lilies with his tongue, and when he sees Marco’s golden face lit with a smile, he has already forgotten any such quarrels.
One day Marco runs out of cities. “Venice,” he says with a bitter grin. “The city I call home yet have not seen in ten years.” Kublai lips taste his hair as the Venetian pours out his fears of losing his city, and above all the fear that he already has. The Great Khan can do nothing-since conquering the empire, he himself has barely set foot outside his gardens-but allow him to cry.
When Marco Polo finishes his sorrows, Kublai Khan shows him his many atlases, even the maps of the cities that do not yet exist. He bids Marco to go find them, them and the cities that the Khan has dreamt of but not seen, and Marco obliges with neither joy nor misery. They say their good-byes in the gesture-language of yesterday.
The Great Khan steeples his hands and moves a piece on the chessboard and waits for Marco Polo to return, wallowing in selfish pity, knowing Marco cannot be his alone.
And Marco Polo travels the empire, looking for invisible cities.