wine provides you with a false sense of confidence...
...which is the only reason I can think why I'm doing this. 'Cos sometimes I write stuff, you see. And now here they are, because sometimes I'm also a masochist. Who knew.
.Untitled I
AKT. will/chaucer. pg. drabble. fluff.
It rains on a Thursday.
The warm shower is a welcome relief, the pitter patter on dry skin and parched lips. Will is twirling down the road, giddy and carefree like a child, while his companions reside by the gravel edge immersed in their own tasks.
All except one.
Chaucer - knees folded to his chest, long arms looped around - watches him with a studious interest. There is unmarked, sodden parchment at his feet, deserted in frustration when words failed to present themselves.
Will, sun kissed face turned to the heavens, arms stretched out as if to touch the birds swooping above, spins in a dizzy circle. Chaucer cannot contain his laughter, though he attempts to smother it in his knees. The soft noise seems to pierce Will's consciousness. He turns with a smile; half cheerful, half embarrassed. The others are beginning to pay attention, looking up discretely under eyelashes as Will takes steady, measured steps towards his herald. He reaches out a hand, bowing politely, though the devious glint in his eye speaks volumes.
"Would you allow me the honour of this dance, gentle Sir?"
Chaucer, amused and not-so-secretly delighted, slides his slender fingers into the knight's calloused hand and rises,
"I accept, Sir Ulrich."
Chaucer's mind wanders to the empty parchment for a brief moment; dancing in the rain will make a most romantic tale.
.Runaway (with my heart)
AKT. will/chaucer, roland, kate. pg. drabble.
Roland has taken to confiding in Kate.
Whether this was intentional or not he can't quite decide. Either way she is a fine confidante; strong, kind and wise beyond her young years. He has begun to look upon her as the sister he was never blessed with.
It is another warm Sunday morning. The two sit side by side in the early light, shaded beneath a tall oak tree. Fields and meadows stretch on to the horizon in all directions, broken only by the small lake running down from the hills. The quiet is almost oppressive save for Wat's gentle snoring nearby.
"Geoff is a character, no?" Kate remarks out of the blue in her soft Scottish brogue.
Roland lazily turns his head in her direction,
"That's one way to put it."
The blacksmith laughs gently,
"You like him though."
It's not a question.
"Aye, it's hard not to. Though Wat tries his best."
"Will has certainly taken to him."
As if the sentence has jogged her memory Kate leans forward and searches out their fellow companions in the brightening sunlight. Will is leading the horse back from the water, Geoff trailing behind a ways on his left, eyes sweeping side to side studying the ground. In that moment he stops excitedly. Their distance is too great but Kate can make out Geoff calling out. Will turns abruptly, leaving the horse with a pat on the neck, and tiptoes to Geoff's side. The taller man is pointing downwards, crouching slowly.
Kate sheilds her eyes, the shade retreating backwards over her ebony locks as the sun climbs higher. Happy laughter carries across to her pricked ears and she smiles sweetly.
The knight and the herald right themselves once more and continue on their way. Will throws an arm easily about Chaucer's neck, leaning in close, and Geoff tentatively holds onto the hand resting upon his shoulder.
"He loves him," Roland states suddenly, soft and plainly, without wonderment nor judgement.
"Aye," Kate smiles.
It's bittersweet and there's nothing else to say.
.For that is knightly too
AKT. kate, vaguely will/chaucer. pg. drabble.
Kate adores Chaucer, almost as much as she does Roland. Her existance has known death too often, sweeping through like a storm and washing away the best of her life. Geoff is so alive, he fills the empty spaces with charm and wit and poetic intelligence. He exudes confidence and kindness. Like a moth drawn to the flame, he cannot be resisted.
Yet, there is a darkness beneath the surface. A quiet, lonely desperation passing like shadows in azure eyes.
Will saw it clearly that day under the tent of God's supposed purveyors. This is why Will adores him. He never could resist a soul in need.
That, afterall, must be knightly too.
.Oh you're an eclipse.
AKT. will/chaucer. pg. drabble. angst.
The storm lashes against the fragile windows of the inn. It is the fifth night and there is no end in sight. Summer has turned to autumn, autumn to winter, and the night is perishing cold.
Geoff sits by the roaring fire, alone in the late hour, leather bound book clasped loosely in slender, pink tinged fingers. The pages smell of history, of romance and heroic deeds in times gone by.
Salty tears slip down flushed cheeks and drown in the ink stained parchment.
Sorrows quietly mixes with smoke, when a sudden rush of wind from the now open door spikes the fire into brilliant new life. Chaucer turns abruptly, spooked from his introspective trance.
Soaking golden curls frame a rain sodden face, expression indecipherable. With determined strides he places himself before the green, moth eaten chair.
"Geoff."
It sounds a lot like empty promises.
Chaucer curses himself in that moment, face as naked as the branches of the trees.
"Yes, William?"
"I'm sorry."
The poet lowers his head in resignation to his fate. There's no escape from this; no way to run that doesn't lead back to the beginning.
"I know."
.How I wonder what you are
AKT. will/chaucer. pg. drabble. fluffy angst?
Chaucer is fascinated by stars. They are wonderment and unrivaled beauty. The tales that one can weave around them are endless in scope and imagination. They are pure and seemingly unchanging in a world that is forever progressing.
It is a clear, unclouded autumn evening, and the air is cool. Geoff reclines in silence upon the dew sodden grass, right arm pillowing his head, fingers threaded through soft blond hair. The left hand traces the shining dots together in lazy patterns.
The night is quiet and everlasting. Soft footsteps crunch across the crisp earth and stop close enough to touch.
"You'll catch your death," comes the softly spoken reprimand.
"Ah, but what a wonderful way to die, don't you think."
"You shouldn't say such things."
Chaucer raises his head, propping himself up on his elbows. His knight's face is still visible in the waning light, beautiful features knitted in a gentle scowl. Chaucer shifts his weight to one elbow and raises a hand to his companion. Will takes it without a word and lowers himself to the cold ground, laying in the opposite direction, heads aligned side by side.
Silence descends again, broken occassionally by the hoot of an owl in distant trees. Will watches the dancing lights of the sky,
"Do you love me?"
"Yes."
Will turns his head to the side and locks eyes with his herald, confidante, friend. The earth and ocean collide.
"Good."
Chaucer smiles, and if it is a little sad it passes too quickly to note. He presses forward and places a tentative kiss on the forehead on his knight.
It is a perfect moment, under a perfect sky. Chaucer turns his face back to the night, and catches one of his twinkling diamonds disappear with a blink, like the flame of a candle suddenly extinguished. The empty space pierces his heart like a knife.
Even stars cannot last forever.
***
I love how I can't raise the rating above PG. What a wuss, haha. Um, yeah... *hides*
.Untitled I
AKT. will/chaucer. pg. drabble. fluff.
It rains on a Thursday.
The warm shower is a welcome relief, the pitter patter on dry skin and parched lips. Will is twirling down the road, giddy and carefree like a child, while his companions reside by the gravel edge immersed in their own tasks.
All except one.
Chaucer - knees folded to his chest, long arms looped around - watches him with a studious interest. There is unmarked, sodden parchment at his feet, deserted in frustration when words failed to present themselves.
Will, sun kissed face turned to the heavens, arms stretched out as if to touch the birds swooping above, spins in a dizzy circle. Chaucer cannot contain his laughter, though he attempts to smother it in his knees. The soft noise seems to pierce Will's consciousness. He turns with a smile; half cheerful, half embarrassed. The others are beginning to pay attention, looking up discretely under eyelashes as Will takes steady, measured steps towards his herald. He reaches out a hand, bowing politely, though the devious glint in his eye speaks volumes.
"Would you allow me the honour of this dance, gentle Sir?"
Chaucer, amused and not-so-secretly delighted, slides his slender fingers into the knight's calloused hand and rises,
"I accept, Sir Ulrich."
Chaucer's mind wanders to the empty parchment for a brief moment; dancing in the rain will make a most romantic tale.
.Runaway (with my heart)
AKT. will/chaucer, roland, kate. pg. drabble.
Roland has taken to confiding in Kate.
Whether this was intentional or not he can't quite decide. Either way she is a fine confidante; strong, kind and wise beyond her young years. He has begun to look upon her as the sister he was never blessed with.
It is another warm Sunday morning. The two sit side by side in the early light, shaded beneath a tall oak tree. Fields and meadows stretch on to the horizon in all directions, broken only by the small lake running down from the hills. The quiet is almost oppressive save for Wat's gentle snoring nearby.
"Geoff is a character, no?" Kate remarks out of the blue in her soft Scottish brogue.
Roland lazily turns his head in her direction,
"That's one way to put it."
The blacksmith laughs gently,
"You like him though."
It's not a question.
"Aye, it's hard not to. Though Wat tries his best."
"Will has certainly taken to him."
As if the sentence has jogged her memory Kate leans forward and searches out their fellow companions in the brightening sunlight. Will is leading the horse back from the water, Geoff trailing behind a ways on his left, eyes sweeping side to side studying the ground. In that moment he stops excitedly. Their distance is too great but Kate can make out Geoff calling out. Will turns abruptly, leaving the horse with a pat on the neck, and tiptoes to Geoff's side. The taller man is pointing downwards, crouching slowly.
Kate sheilds her eyes, the shade retreating backwards over her ebony locks as the sun climbs higher. Happy laughter carries across to her pricked ears and she smiles sweetly.
The knight and the herald right themselves once more and continue on their way. Will throws an arm easily about Chaucer's neck, leaning in close, and Geoff tentatively holds onto the hand resting upon his shoulder.
"He loves him," Roland states suddenly, soft and plainly, without wonderment nor judgement.
"Aye," Kate smiles.
It's bittersweet and there's nothing else to say.
.For that is knightly too
AKT. kate, vaguely will/chaucer. pg. drabble.
Kate adores Chaucer, almost as much as she does Roland. Her existance has known death too often, sweeping through like a storm and washing away the best of her life. Geoff is so alive, he fills the empty spaces with charm and wit and poetic intelligence. He exudes confidence and kindness. Like a moth drawn to the flame, he cannot be resisted.
Yet, there is a darkness beneath the surface. A quiet, lonely desperation passing like shadows in azure eyes.
Will saw it clearly that day under the tent of God's supposed purveyors. This is why Will adores him. He never could resist a soul in need.
That, afterall, must be knightly too.
.Oh you're an eclipse.
AKT. will/chaucer. pg. drabble. angst.
The storm lashes against the fragile windows of the inn. It is the fifth night and there is no end in sight. Summer has turned to autumn, autumn to winter, and the night is perishing cold.
Geoff sits by the roaring fire, alone in the late hour, leather bound book clasped loosely in slender, pink tinged fingers. The pages smell of history, of romance and heroic deeds in times gone by.
Salty tears slip down flushed cheeks and drown in the ink stained parchment.
Sorrows quietly mixes with smoke, when a sudden rush of wind from the now open door spikes the fire into brilliant new life. Chaucer turns abruptly, spooked from his introspective trance.
Soaking golden curls frame a rain sodden face, expression indecipherable. With determined strides he places himself before the green, moth eaten chair.
"Geoff."
It sounds a lot like empty promises.
Chaucer curses himself in that moment, face as naked as the branches of the trees.
"Yes, William?"
"I'm sorry."
The poet lowers his head in resignation to his fate. There's no escape from this; no way to run that doesn't lead back to the beginning.
"I know."
.How I wonder what you are
AKT. will/chaucer. pg. drabble. fluffy angst?
Chaucer is fascinated by stars. They are wonderment and unrivaled beauty. The tales that one can weave around them are endless in scope and imagination. They are pure and seemingly unchanging in a world that is forever progressing.
It is a clear, unclouded autumn evening, and the air is cool. Geoff reclines in silence upon the dew sodden grass, right arm pillowing his head, fingers threaded through soft blond hair. The left hand traces the shining dots together in lazy patterns.
The night is quiet and everlasting. Soft footsteps crunch across the crisp earth and stop close enough to touch.
"You'll catch your death," comes the softly spoken reprimand.
"Ah, but what a wonderful way to die, don't you think."
"You shouldn't say such things."
Chaucer raises his head, propping himself up on his elbows. His knight's face is still visible in the waning light, beautiful features knitted in a gentle scowl. Chaucer shifts his weight to one elbow and raises a hand to his companion. Will takes it without a word and lowers himself to the cold ground, laying in the opposite direction, heads aligned side by side.
Silence descends again, broken occassionally by the hoot of an owl in distant trees. Will watches the dancing lights of the sky,
"Do you love me?"
"Yes."
Will turns his head to the side and locks eyes with his herald, confidante, friend. The earth and ocean collide.
"Good."
Chaucer smiles, and if it is a little sad it passes too quickly to note. He presses forward and places a tentative kiss on the forehead on his knight.
It is a perfect moment, under a perfect sky. Chaucer turns his face back to the night, and catches one of his twinkling diamonds disappear with a blink, like the flame of a candle suddenly extinguished. The empty space pierces his heart like a knife.
Even stars cannot last forever.
***
I love how I can't raise the rating above PG. What a wuss, haha. Um, yeah... *hides*