Mrr...
Posting this, since the community seems to have taken a turn for the silent. :/ Probably because there's summer, and much less homework to be done, heh. More Catullus. As if you could expect anything non-Roman from me. Follows right after the last chapter I posted, obviously.
It's not a full chapter, but the reason I haven't written the full chapter yet is because something about this scene sounds off to me. So...feedback? Please? *kitty eyes* I think it might have a little too much classicist-speak in it or something.
“If you truthfully have a poem, I’ll be quite surprised.” Iuventius, who had taken the liberty of conquering the low couch in the atrium, looked up languidly and pointed at a wax tablet laying on the table.
“Actually, I do. It’s short. Twenty-one lines. I just finished it today.”
“It’s not elegaics, is it? Or another one of your public-affairs rants? Because,” Catullus gestured uncertainly, “I am not in the proper frame of mind for either.”
“Feh. Elegaics,” Iuventius snorted derisively. “Too grim. I have no interest in writing morose poetry right now. It’s a love poem in the proper meter for passion. Hendecasyllables.”
Catullus grinned, and leaned over the head of the couch to peer at Iuventius’s tablet. “You’re learning.”
“It’s a ridiculous meter,” Iuventius sighed, “but you’re right. It works well in Latin. Look: Quot sunt --”
“In a moment, in a moment.” Catullus cut off the boy’s reading with a vague wave of his hand. As Iuventius blinked in impatience, Catullus threw his legs over the couch behind him and laid his chin on Iuventius’s shoulder. “I guarantee you I’ll be insensible before you finish reading it. In the morning, I told you.”
“I have bookkeeping to do in the morning, erastes. For the former mistress,” Iuventius fairly purred, curling his fingers around Catullus’s hand. Catullus clucked his tongue.
“Doesn’t she have slaves to do that?”
“Part of the late master’s will. The freedmen are to manage the estate. I think he meant Davus to do it -- always trusted Davus, he did -- but a fever cut down the poor old fellow. And I’m the only one left who can write and do sums.”
“The late master left the most peculiar of wills.”
“He did. Mainly to vex the old she-bear, I think.”
There was a lengthy, thoughtful silence while Catullus ran his fingers absently through Iuventius’s hair. The faltering lamplight glinted off of his startlingly red hair, giving the odd impression that Iuventius was crowned in flames. Iulus, Catullus thought distantly. Iulus wreathed in fire. He was fairly certain he would not remember that simile when the morning came, and was vaguely disappointed.
“I’m going to the baths tomorrow afternoon,” Catullus finally said. “With Aurelius, Furius, and Calvus. Come with me. Bring your poetry.”
“Are you sure?” Iuventius looked suddenly shy, and glanced ruefully at his discarded tablet. “But...I’m not --”
“None of that. You have a great deal to learn, but you could show a few poets a thing or two. Especially Aurelius.” Catullus made a face. “Decent enough fellow, but his epigrams could choke horses. Besides...” He yawned, and wrapped his arms around Iuventius’s shoulders lazily. “They’ll be wanting to meet ‘Iuventius’”.
“Is that my name now?” Iuventius turned in Catullus’s arms like a stretching cat.
“What, you don’t like it?”
“On the contrary. It’s a bit on the prosaic side, though.”
“Flosculus gentis Iuventii,” Catullus murmured, against Iuventius’s throat, “Pulcherrimus flosculus...”
“The gods punish flatterers, erastes,” he whispered in return, shifting onto Catullus’s lap, the stylus and tablet completely abandoned.
“Come to bed,” Catullus muttered. Iuventius made a wordless noise deep in his throat and caught him with a kiss so quickly that Catullus nearly slipped off the side of the couch; as he steadied himself on the arm, Iuventius pulled back just long enough to chuckle some admonition about drinking too much wine. Catullus was beyond listening to words. He knotted Iuventius’s hair around his fingers (the boy was inordinately proud of that hair) and breathed in the smell of ink and papyrus that always hung around Iuventius. It was that hair, that smell, the sound of his voice and the feel of his mouth, fierce and fiery and boyish...it chased away memories of another couch and another false name.
Iuventius’s kisses washed the name Lesbia from Catullus’s lips.
It's not a full chapter, but the reason I haven't written the full chapter yet is because something about this scene sounds off to me. So...feedback? Please? *kitty eyes* I think it might have a little too much classicist-speak in it or something.
“If you truthfully have a poem, I’ll be quite surprised.” Iuventius, who had taken the liberty of conquering the low couch in the atrium, looked up languidly and pointed at a wax tablet laying on the table.
“Actually, I do. It’s short. Twenty-one lines. I just finished it today.”
“It’s not elegaics, is it? Or another one of your public-affairs rants? Because,” Catullus gestured uncertainly, “I am not in the proper frame of mind for either.”
“Feh. Elegaics,” Iuventius snorted derisively. “Too grim. I have no interest in writing morose poetry right now. It’s a love poem in the proper meter for passion. Hendecasyllables.”
Catullus grinned, and leaned over the head of the couch to peer at Iuventius’s tablet. “You’re learning.”
“It’s a ridiculous meter,” Iuventius sighed, “but you’re right. It works well in Latin. Look: Quot sunt --”
“In a moment, in a moment.” Catullus cut off the boy’s reading with a vague wave of his hand. As Iuventius blinked in impatience, Catullus threw his legs over the couch behind him and laid his chin on Iuventius’s shoulder. “I guarantee you I’ll be insensible before you finish reading it. In the morning, I told you.”
“I have bookkeeping to do in the morning, erastes. For the former mistress,” Iuventius fairly purred, curling his fingers around Catullus’s hand. Catullus clucked his tongue.
“Doesn’t she have slaves to do that?”
“Part of the late master’s will. The freedmen are to manage the estate. I think he meant Davus to do it -- always trusted Davus, he did -- but a fever cut down the poor old fellow. And I’m the only one left who can write and do sums.”
“The late master left the most peculiar of wills.”
“He did. Mainly to vex the old she-bear, I think.”
There was a lengthy, thoughtful silence while Catullus ran his fingers absently through Iuventius’s hair. The faltering lamplight glinted off of his startlingly red hair, giving the odd impression that Iuventius was crowned in flames. Iulus, Catullus thought distantly. Iulus wreathed in fire. He was fairly certain he would not remember that simile when the morning came, and was vaguely disappointed.
“I’m going to the baths tomorrow afternoon,” Catullus finally said. “With Aurelius, Furius, and Calvus. Come with me. Bring your poetry.”
“Are you sure?” Iuventius looked suddenly shy, and glanced ruefully at his discarded tablet. “But...I’m not --”
“None of that. You have a great deal to learn, but you could show a few poets a thing or two. Especially Aurelius.” Catullus made a face. “Decent enough fellow, but his epigrams could choke horses. Besides...” He yawned, and wrapped his arms around Iuventius’s shoulders lazily. “They’ll be wanting to meet ‘Iuventius’”.
“Is that my name now?” Iuventius turned in Catullus’s arms like a stretching cat.
“What, you don’t like it?”
“On the contrary. It’s a bit on the prosaic side, though.”
“Flosculus gentis Iuventii,” Catullus murmured, against Iuventius’s throat, “Pulcherrimus flosculus...”
“The gods punish flatterers, erastes,” he whispered in return, shifting onto Catullus’s lap, the stylus and tablet completely abandoned.
“Come to bed,” Catullus muttered. Iuventius made a wordless noise deep in his throat and caught him with a kiss so quickly that Catullus nearly slipped off the side of the couch; as he steadied himself on the arm, Iuventius pulled back just long enough to chuckle some admonition about drinking too much wine. Catullus was beyond listening to words. He knotted Iuventius’s hair around his fingers (the boy was inordinately proud of that hair) and breathed in the smell of ink and papyrus that always hung around Iuventius. It was that hair, that smell, the sound of his voice and the feel of his mouth, fierce and fiery and boyish...it chased away memories of another couch and another false name.
Iuventius’s kisses washed the name Lesbia from Catullus’s lips.