FICATHON: The Need for Skin (Percy/George)
Title: The Need for Skin
Pairing: Percy/George
Rating: R
Word Count: 1014
Summary: It's Percy's first birthday after the war. Nobody remembers but George.
Author's Notes: The title is from "The Need for Skin" by Lucinda Roy, and the headings are taken from that same poem. Read in order, actually, they are the poem in its entirety. The whole thing is sort of an experiment for me... the structure and use of the poem, etc. Anyway. Nothing like the Number Game Ficathon to encourage a little experimentation, right?
i. The moon sweats
and the night is dense, black grass.
It is August, and Percy’s birthday has passed unnoticed. The days all run together now, syrupy and thick like blood.
Percy - marker-of-time, taker-of-notes, seer-of-all-things-missed - remembers to flip his calendar at 11:30pm and sees that he is now twenty-two years old. A knock at his door startles him, and the corner of the page slits his ring finger cleanly down the side. He licks his tongue along the wound, coppery as his hair, and starts towards the door.
His unmarred hand grips his wand reflexively, but the pulse is dull, dull, dull.
He cannot move himself to curiosity.
George stands on the stoop.
ii. The moon sweats into climax,
and the night is triggered with gunpowder blue.
“All right, Percy?”
All wrong. Everything. George has gone asymmetrical. There are parts missing: an ear, two freckles on his nose obliterated by a scar, the entire right side of his heart. One blue eye smolders; one blue eye weeps.
Percy likes order. Percy counts on the sameness of things, now more than ever.
Percy says nothing, just reaches out to smooth George back into place; to rearrange his features into something he can recognize. His hand is wet with blood and spit. George does not flinch.
“Happy Birthday,” George says as Percy traces the lines of his face, silent and intent as a blind man.
“Mum didn’t call,” Percy replies, his thumb nudging the corner of George’s tilting smile.
iii. The moon is vibrant with mouths;
I pull them open and listen carefully against the silence.
“I’m sorry.”
George apologizes now for things he has not done. George apologizes now for the things he is afraid he will do. George apologizes for the parts of him that have been erased; he apologizes for the absence of things.
Percy is used to absence. There have been years of absence; there are gaps everywhere. Together, he thinks that he and George might be a whole.
He and George are an equation. George plus Percy equals one.
There are not six children left; there are five. (There are none. War leaves no children.)
Percy has always liked mathematics.
“Come in.”
iv. If it is to be endured, everything
must either laugh or weep.
The silence rings and rings and rings.
“No one?” George asks, finally, his voice as hollow as a bell.
“No one,” Percy answers. He bites his lip. Today, he has been uncharacteristically clumsy. He tastes blood. His finger, his lip, his brother: blood, all his. Blood. (He wonders if it is really over.)
George shakes his head. He leans one long arm over the back of the sofa, his face sideways, and Percy’s shoulder is as sharp as the bend in George’s elbow. They fit neatly. Everything in this room is meticulous, neat.
Everything but George.
One arm turns into two (multiplication) and there is a circle (geometry) and Percy is at the center of it, his face in George’s shallow-pulsed throat. Their bodies, together, shake.
v. So love me with all your mouths open. And let the lonely
O’s echo off the caves of our skin.
Percy’s voice is as thick as the air. “You’re the only one who remembered. I even forgot. Me.”
Against Percy’s cheek, George’s mouth opens to speak, but the words stop. Their lips catch.
George takes Percy’s slender hands and turns them over and over. “Your hands are like mine.”
“No, your hands are like Fred’s.”
“Fred’s hands were my hands. Your hands are like my hands.”
Percy can appreciate subtlety, nuance. He understands.
George takes each finger into his mouth. The world is dark and heavy as a blanket, and George has soft lips and a tongue that feels like a heart: wet and full and alive.
The emptiness shrinks down to a manageable size. Neither can remember the last time they were touched. It is all just pats now: hands and shoulders, careful and strange. (Pet the sadness gently. Do not feed it. It bites.)
This is human. This is skin. These are the people who love you. This is what is left.
vi. If we make mirrors of the world,
there is nothing to be afraid of.
Percy comes against George’s belly, concave and pale in the darkness. He makes no sound. George says shhhhh anyway, his fingertips hard enough to bruise at Percy’s neck.
Into Percy’s cupped palms, George empties himself with a shudder. It is warm and bitter and sticky. It stings Percy’s papercut.
These are the things that are real: blood, spit, come, tears. They all mix now. They all hold DNA, the map of things that are alive.
“All right, George?”
vii. We two are the moons - both of us substance and shadow;
reflecting the depths of the sky.
“All right.”
All right.
George sleeps on the sofa. Percy watches, his sticky hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Nothing has changed, really: he is twenty-two now; he thinks his heartbeat sounds a bit louder. In the dimness, George’s features are soft. He does not look as grotesque.
Percy flips the calendar again and rubs his thumb along the seam of his cut. It is stitching back together already.
Percy thinks, There is magic in George’s spit. There is magic in his come. There is something in him that still throws enough light to make shadows. Percy kneels beside the sofa and holds his hands out for the warmth of his brother’s breath. In, out, in, out, in.
It lulls like tides under the spell of the moon, and Percy’s tea grows cold. His pale lashes fall like curtains, and he sleeps sitting up, naked, wrapped in a blanket on the floor, his head lolling against George’s thigh.
(Sometime in the night, his head slips, and his forehead glances off a hipbone, and one strong hand catches him before he hits the floor. George murmurs Freddie, his eyes half-shut, and pulls Percy’s body onto his. Percy hears nothing, just tucks the blanket around their bodies and dreams things that he will never remember.)
Pairing: Percy/George
Rating: R
Word Count: 1014
Summary: It's Percy's first birthday after the war. Nobody remembers but George.
Author's Notes: The title is from "The Need for Skin" by Lucinda Roy, and the headings are taken from that same poem. Read in order, actually, they are the poem in its entirety. The whole thing is sort of an experiment for me... the structure and use of the poem, etc. Anyway. Nothing like the Number Game Ficathon to encourage a little experimentation, right?
i. The moon sweats
and the night is dense, black grass.
It is August, and Percy’s birthday has passed unnoticed. The days all run together now, syrupy and thick like blood.
Percy - marker-of-time, taker-of-notes, seer-of-all-things-missed - remembers to flip his calendar at 11:30pm and sees that he is now twenty-two years old. A knock at his door startles him, and the corner of the page slits his ring finger cleanly down the side. He licks his tongue along the wound, coppery as his hair, and starts towards the door.
His unmarred hand grips his wand reflexively, but the pulse is dull, dull, dull.
He cannot move himself to curiosity.
George stands on the stoop.
ii. The moon sweats into climax,
and the night is triggered with gunpowder blue.
“All right, Percy?”
All wrong. Everything. George has gone asymmetrical. There are parts missing: an ear, two freckles on his nose obliterated by a scar, the entire right side of his heart. One blue eye smolders; one blue eye weeps.
Percy likes order. Percy counts on the sameness of things, now more than ever.
Percy says nothing, just reaches out to smooth George back into place; to rearrange his features into something he can recognize. His hand is wet with blood and spit. George does not flinch.
“Happy Birthday,” George says as Percy traces the lines of his face, silent and intent as a blind man.
“Mum didn’t call,” Percy replies, his thumb nudging the corner of George’s tilting smile.
iii. The moon is vibrant with mouths;
I pull them open and listen carefully against the silence.
“I’m sorry.”
George apologizes now for things he has not done. George apologizes now for the things he is afraid he will do. George apologizes for the parts of him that have been erased; he apologizes for the absence of things.
Percy is used to absence. There have been years of absence; there are gaps everywhere. Together, he thinks that he and George might be a whole.
He and George are an equation. George plus Percy equals one.
There are not six children left; there are five. (There are none. War leaves no children.)
Percy has always liked mathematics.
“Come in.”
iv. If it is to be endured, everything
must either laugh or weep.
The silence rings and rings and rings.
“No one?” George asks, finally, his voice as hollow as a bell.
“No one,” Percy answers. He bites his lip. Today, he has been uncharacteristically clumsy. He tastes blood. His finger, his lip, his brother: blood, all his. Blood. (He wonders if it is really over.)
George shakes his head. He leans one long arm over the back of the sofa, his face sideways, and Percy’s shoulder is as sharp as the bend in George’s elbow. They fit neatly. Everything in this room is meticulous, neat.
Everything but George.
One arm turns into two (multiplication) and there is a circle (geometry) and Percy is at the center of it, his face in George’s shallow-pulsed throat. Their bodies, together, shake.
v. So love me with all your mouths open. And let the lonely
O’s echo off the caves of our skin.
Percy’s voice is as thick as the air. “You’re the only one who remembered. I even forgot. Me.”
Against Percy’s cheek, George’s mouth opens to speak, but the words stop. Their lips catch.
George takes Percy’s slender hands and turns them over and over. “Your hands are like mine.”
“No, your hands are like Fred’s.”
“Fred’s hands were my hands. Your hands are like my hands.”
Percy can appreciate subtlety, nuance. He understands.
George takes each finger into his mouth. The world is dark and heavy as a blanket, and George has soft lips and a tongue that feels like a heart: wet and full and alive.
The emptiness shrinks down to a manageable size. Neither can remember the last time they were touched. It is all just pats now: hands and shoulders, careful and strange. (Pet the sadness gently. Do not feed it. It bites.)
This is human. This is skin. These are the people who love you. This is what is left.
vi. If we make mirrors of the world,
there is nothing to be afraid of.
Percy comes against George’s belly, concave and pale in the darkness. He makes no sound. George says shhhhh anyway, his fingertips hard enough to bruise at Percy’s neck.
Into Percy’s cupped palms, George empties himself with a shudder. It is warm and bitter and sticky. It stings Percy’s papercut.
These are the things that are real: blood, spit, come, tears. They all mix now. They all hold DNA, the map of things that are alive.
“All right, George?”
vii. We two are the moons - both of us substance and shadow;
reflecting the depths of the sky.
“All right.”
All right.
George sleeps on the sofa. Percy watches, his sticky hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Nothing has changed, really: he is twenty-two now; he thinks his heartbeat sounds a bit louder. In the dimness, George’s features are soft. He does not look as grotesque.
Percy flips the calendar again and rubs his thumb along the seam of his cut. It is stitching back together already.
Percy thinks, There is magic in George’s spit. There is magic in his come. There is something in him that still throws enough light to make shadows. Percy kneels beside the sofa and holds his hands out for the warmth of his brother’s breath. In, out, in, out, in.
It lulls like tides under the spell of the moon, and Percy’s tea grows cold. His pale lashes fall like curtains, and he sleeps sitting up, naked, wrapped in a blanket on the floor, his head lolling against George’s thigh.
(Sometime in the night, his head slips, and his forehead glances off a hipbone, and one strong hand catches him before he hits the floor. George murmurs Freddie, his eyes half-shut, and pulls Percy’s body onto his. Percy hears nothing, just tucks the blanket around their bodies and dreams things that he will never remember.)