For savagestime
This is what I have to do to make sure I keep getting tags from a certain someone. And also because chat wanted to see it, and I am a sucker for peer pressure.
William’s dead and all Arthur has left is his watch.
He thinks that it’s not fair. There was no reason for William to die, no reason for him to go to war and leave him behind before he could gather the courage to confess. At that split moment when he realized his friend would not look out the window, when he was pedaling so fast his legs ached and his arms trembled, breathing so hard that it feels like his heart will be smashed between his expanding lungs and rib cage. In the moment when he is forced to stop, Arthur hates God just a little bit. Right along with Lodge and the Germans and this stupid war and even William, he begins to hate Him just a little bit.
Arthur goes home, changes, and begins to pray. And pray and pray and pray. Sitting in that empty room, surrounded by deafening silence, he apologizes and asks for forgiveness until the hate finally fades away. It scares him how long it takes.
The day Arthur hears of William’s death, he clings to the watch.
He runs his fingers over it again and again, back in that same seat as before. But he’s too numb to know what he should be asking for this time, so there is no response. Outside the dark ceiling is replaced by a sky so blue it hurts his eyes, the cold bench replaced by a thick tree root which feels all too warm despite the shade. Arthur wonders when he started thinking like this.
He breaks down in front of Winifred, crying and clutching unto her for what feels like too long. His eyes puffy from the tears, mouth dry from crying. She hopes that it has at least relieved some of the weight of his chest. But all it does is make Arthur feel sick; because letting go like he did has made him admit more than just his sorrow and his love. It’s made him admit his hate.
He’s felt it before, but never like this. It sits in the pit of his stomach, gnawing and scratching and eating at him until he feels like he’s going to be sick. He starts to doubt; doubt Newton’s Laws, doubt Einstein’s theories, and most of all doubt God’s laws. What good is it following commandments and teachings that forbid so many things when the single selfish thing he’s begged for is so thoroughly and utterly denied? It’s in that moment, that single moment when his tears have dried and his prayers have been silenced, that Arthur decides to turn his back on God.
Even now, the hesitation is there. The worry of getting caught, of being recognized welling up the moment he sets foot out the door in the middle of the night. The shame that he should be feeling because of what he is about to do. It all dissipates when he realizes that there is no longer a reason for him to care. Arthur brings the watch with him, slipping it into his pocket as he heads out. The weight is a comfort, the cold feeling of metal against his fingers calming his nerves as he makes his way towards a place he has never allowed himself to near.
When he was a young boy, Arthur sneaked a swig of beer from one of the many bottles brought along by one of the older boys, as deep in the woods as they allowed themselves to venture. The taste was bitter on his tongue and made his eyes water, but he sneaked another and another. Each time telling himself it would be the last one. A beer and a half later they were all found and roughly dragged home. He doesn’t remember what his mother told him then, or much at all; there is only the blur of a man’s eerily calm expression, his tone cold, and her warm fingers as they brushed through his hair once. Next thing he knew he was retching over the side of the bed for an impossibly long amount of time, each heave bringing new tears to his eyes, each painful throb of his head forcing out another half strangled cry. He was made to clean up the mess himself, and not allowed outside his room except for daily visits to the latrine, and only allowed one meal a day. Eventually he was allowed to return to school, though exactly how much later he was no longer sure.
And now, sitting in a pub that everyone silently acknowledges as a place for ‘those’ kinds of people, in the very edges of the village, Arthur realizes that the beer taste no less bitter than it did then. But he downs the pint placed before him nevertheless, the liquid disappearing all too quickly in his nervousness. By his second glass he is well on his way to being drunk, and it’s then that he catches someone’s eye.
He doesn’t remember the man’s name, or even his face. How they make it to his house is a collection of too loud sounds and too bright lights, the sounds of a motor running in the background echoing in his mind. But they do, and for a moment he flashes to guiding the stranger awkwardly through a house that will not house his sister for month’s to come, tripping into the first room that contains a bed. Here the memories become more vivid, if no less jumbled.
The bed is cold beneath his bare back, his glasses, along with the rest of his clothes, lying in an unruly pile by the door. Arthur finds himself returning the kisses, awkwardly at first, but with more and more enthusiasm after each one. He allows his hands to wander over heated flesh, for a fraction of a moment reveling in the feeling of this stranger’s rough, calloused fingers doing the same. They have to force themselves to disentangle from one another as the man fumbles in the dark to find the small tube of lotion he’s brought with him. Arthur has a single moment of clarity right then, amidst the drunkenness and arousal, a chance to stop things before anything is actually done. He closes his eyes and waits.
Soon enough the heated body is back on top of him, and only moments later he feels something push roughly into him, his body fighting the intrusion even as his mind begs for more. His hands clutch at the sheets and he holds back every sound he can, allowing his body to be shifted this way and that without protest. It seems that everything becomes too much for his brain to register then, because next thing he knows there is a white, sticky fluid dried on his belly and more dripping down his thigh; the other man has already collapsed besides him, back turned away. Arthur simply lays there until sleep overtakes him.
Come morning he is alone in bed, sweat and semen having cooled on his skin during the night, small bruises blossoming here and there on his torso. Everything hurts as he stands, and it takes him an excruciating amount of time and movement to find his glasses. The whole room is a complete mess, and when he makes his way to the bathroom Arthur realizes he is no better. He steps into the bath and lets the cold water run over his aching muscles, slowly and carefully washing every part of his body that he can reach.
When he finally steps out he slowly dresses, pulling on a fresh suit and fitting each piece properly, ignoring the discomfort. He combs his hair, replaces his glasses, then digs through the pile of clothing still by the door until he manages to dig out something small, round, and golden. Taking a seat in his study, ignoring both the pain caused by this position as well as his empty stomach, he begins to clean the watch. He wipes and polishes until its face winks back at him, sunlight playing and bouncing against the smooth glass. And still he continues cleaning it, until the sun has begun to go down and his fingers are bruised and shaking from the hunger. It’s only then that he slips it back into his pocket, barely managing to make it to the kitchen before his legs give out from under him thanks to exhaustion. It takes him a long time to prepare himself something resembling a meal, and even then he has to force each bite down a throat that seems to have clamped shut despite the constant rumbling of his stomach. He leaves the plates on the table and makes his way to his room, slowly and carefully undressing himself before crawling back in bed, the house once again dark and silent.
Three days later, he goes out and does it all again.
Muse: Arthur Stanley Eddington
Fandom: Einstein and Eddington
Word Count: 1,481
Prompt: ....ask Fa-chan.
William’s dead and all Arthur has left is his watch.
He thinks that it’s not fair. There was no reason for William to die, no reason for him to go to war and leave him behind before he could gather the courage to confess. At that split moment when he realized his friend would not look out the window, when he was pedaling so fast his legs ached and his arms trembled, breathing so hard that it feels like his heart will be smashed between his expanding lungs and rib cage. In the moment when he is forced to stop, Arthur hates God just a little bit. Right along with Lodge and the Germans and this stupid war and even William, he begins to hate Him just a little bit.
Arthur goes home, changes, and begins to pray. And pray and pray and pray. Sitting in that empty room, surrounded by deafening silence, he apologizes and asks for forgiveness until the hate finally fades away. It scares him how long it takes.
The day Arthur hears of William’s death, he clings to the watch.
He runs his fingers over it again and again, back in that same seat as before. But he’s too numb to know what he should be asking for this time, so there is no response. Outside the dark ceiling is replaced by a sky so blue it hurts his eyes, the cold bench replaced by a thick tree root which feels all too warm despite the shade. Arthur wonders when he started thinking like this.
He breaks down in front of Winifred, crying and clutching unto her for what feels like too long. His eyes puffy from the tears, mouth dry from crying. She hopes that it has at least relieved some of the weight of his chest. But all it does is make Arthur feel sick; because letting go like he did has made him admit more than just his sorrow and his love. It’s made him admit his hate.
He’s felt it before, but never like this. It sits in the pit of his stomach, gnawing and scratching and eating at him until he feels like he’s going to be sick. He starts to doubt; doubt Newton’s Laws, doubt Einstein’s theories, and most of all doubt God’s laws. What good is it following commandments and teachings that forbid so many things when the single selfish thing he’s begged for is so thoroughly and utterly denied? It’s in that moment, that single moment when his tears have dried and his prayers have been silenced, that Arthur decides to turn his back on God.
Even now, the hesitation is there. The worry of getting caught, of being recognized welling up the moment he sets foot out the door in the middle of the night. The shame that he should be feeling because of what he is about to do. It all dissipates when he realizes that there is no longer a reason for him to care. Arthur brings the watch with him, slipping it into his pocket as he heads out. The weight is a comfort, the cold feeling of metal against his fingers calming his nerves as he makes his way towards a place he has never allowed himself to near.
When he was a young boy, Arthur sneaked a swig of beer from one of the many bottles brought along by one of the older boys, as deep in the woods as they allowed themselves to venture. The taste was bitter on his tongue and made his eyes water, but he sneaked another and another. Each time telling himself it would be the last one. A beer and a half later they were all found and roughly dragged home. He doesn’t remember what his mother told him then, or much at all; there is only the blur of a man’s eerily calm expression, his tone cold, and her warm fingers as they brushed through his hair once. Next thing he knew he was retching over the side of the bed for an impossibly long amount of time, each heave bringing new tears to his eyes, each painful throb of his head forcing out another half strangled cry. He was made to clean up the mess himself, and not allowed outside his room except for daily visits to the latrine, and only allowed one meal a day. Eventually he was allowed to return to school, though exactly how much later he was no longer sure.
And now, sitting in a pub that everyone silently acknowledges as a place for ‘those’ kinds of people, in the very edges of the village, Arthur realizes that the beer taste no less bitter than it did then. But he downs the pint placed before him nevertheless, the liquid disappearing all too quickly in his nervousness. By his second glass he is well on his way to being drunk, and it’s then that he catches someone’s eye.
He doesn’t remember the man’s name, or even his face. How they make it to his house is a collection of too loud sounds and too bright lights, the sounds of a motor running in the background echoing in his mind. But they do, and for a moment he flashes to guiding the stranger awkwardly through a house that will not house his sister for month’s to come, tripping into the first room that contains a bed. Here the memories become more vivid, if no less jumbled.
The bed is cold beneath his bare back, his glasses, along with the rest of his clothes, lying in an unruly pile by the door. Arthur finds himself returning the kisses, awkwardly at first, but with more and more enthusiasm after each one. He allows his hands to wander over heated flesh, for a fraction of a moment reveling in the feeling of this stranger’s rough, calloused fingers doing the same. They have to force themselves to disentangle from one another as the man fumbles in the dark to find the small tube of lotion he’s brought with him. Arthur has a single moment of clarity right then, amidst the drunkenness and arousal, a chance to stop things before anything is actually done. He closes his eyes and waits.
Soon enough the heated body is back on top of him, and only moments later he feels something push roughly into him, his body fighting the intrusion even as his mind begs for more. His hands clutch at the sheets and he holds back every sound he can, allowing his body to be shifted this way and that without protest. It seems that everything becomes too much for his brain to register then, because next thing he knows there is a white, sticky fluid dried on his belly and more dripping down his thigh; the other man has already collapsed besides him, back turned away. Arthur simply lays there until sleep overtakes him.
Come morning he is alone in bed, sweat and semen having cooled on his skin during the night, small bruises blossoming here and there on his torso. Everything hurts as he stands, and it takes him an excruciating amount of time and movement to find his glasses. The whole room is a complete mess, and when he makes his way to the bathroom Arthur realizes he is no better. He steps into the bath and lets the cold water run over his aching muscles, slowly and carefully washing every part of his body that he can reach.
When he finally steps out he slowly dresses, pulling on a fresh suit and fitting each piece properly, ignoring the discomfort. He combs his hair, replaces his glasses, then digs through the pile of clothing still by the door until he manages to dig out something small, round, and golden. Taking a seat in his study, ignoring both the pain caused by this position as well as his empty stomach, he begins to clean the watch. He wipes and polishes until its face winks back at him, sunlight playing and bouncing against the smooth glass. And still he continues cleaning it, until the sun has begun to go down and his fingers are bruised and shaking from the hunger. It’s only then that he slips it back into his pocket, barely managing to make it to the kitchen before his legs give out from under him thanks to exhaustion. It takes him a long time to prepare himself something resembling a meal, and even then he has to force each bite down a throat that seems to have clamped shut despite the constant rumbling of his stomach. He leaves the plates on the table and makes his way to his room, slowly and carefully undressing himself before crawling back in bed, the house once again dark and silent.
Three days later, he goes out and does it all again.
Muse: Arthur Stanley Eddington
Fandom: Einstein and Eddington
Word Count: 1,481
Prompt: ....ask Fa-chan.