Fic: He Looked In At The Window
Title: He Looked In At The Window
Author: speak_me_fair
Play: Richard II, 1 Henry IV
Characters: Archie Douglas, Harry Percy, assorted unseens.
Warnings: Present-day academia!AU. Rugby. Border Ballads. Gordonstoun references. Debate refences. Violence. Rating: M
Summary: They have something, and it might be a good thing, but Archie's only sure of one thing. Scotland is fucking cold.
Notes: Written in the Academic!AU for and with permission from gileonnen, who created it to a chorus of glee. The music prompt can be found here Dudelzack - Schandmaul
He Looked In At The Window
The first time Archie Douglas met Harry Percy was the year after Common Entrance, and neither of them had stood a chance in hell of going to where their parents wanted. Archie didn't want to be stuck in Scotland, because his whole bloody life had been geared around trying to get out of Scotland, thank you very much, even if he was definitely going to end up using it to get into Parliament one day. Harry just - hadn't been accepted at Eton, and ended up in their knacker-freezing bitch of a school. Harry had in fact wanted to go there all along, and what Harry wanted, Archie was learning, Harry tended to get. Even if, by the time it was in his lap, it resembled a drowned mouse that not even a cat would look at.
Harry wanted to win at rugby, so he got made captain and got his collarbone broken by Archie in a practise game, and insisted that Archie came with him to the hospital because it was all his fucking fault anyway. Harry knew that Archie liked debates, so showed up to every single one and set ballads about their respective families to the tune of 'Glory, Glory'. And sang them while Archie was making his points. Harry sang 'The Campbells are Coming' whenever Archie appeared, despite all attempts to make him understand the difference between Highland and Lowland Scots. Harry wanted to pass his maths GCSE, so he scored speed off a bloke in the village, and stayed up for a week before somehow getting an A.
Harry was the traditional thorn in Archie's Scottish side, and he claimed it was tradition.
Harry wanted Archie, and got him as soon as it was legal and they couldn't be chucked out for it. But he also got them the lecture from hell, courtesy of the disgusted headmaster, who had somehow failed to realise that after a game, you might as well fuck as fight.
Archie learned, in their last year, that Harry loved him for being Scottish, so he might as well give in and hold to it as tightly and as nail-diggingly as he ever did when ploughing that particular Northumbrian field.
He fell in love with snow and cold and with Harry's chapped and bitten lips, with blood that was dried and darkening on cut legs; fell in love with a frozen pitch and rimed gravel paths and underage whiskey that held all the deep smoked peat of his home in it.
He got a tattoo of the saltire on his shoulder, all clear blues painting his skin like a true Scot. Harry wore a red and clawed lion on his arse, and sat down in class with a grin of satisfaction twenty minutes after walking out of the parlour.
Archie got the grades that St. Andrews' wanted, went up for the Open Day and fell in love with its bleak expanse, and thought, when he was given his place, that Harry would be with him. But Harry left for New York and his father and the new bright brash world that still rang salt-harsh in Archie's mind, and gave his loyalty to no-one and nothing, and cared less about what would happen to him.
His e-mail address read hotspurofthenorth@history.angliau.com. His interests read 'Hating Hal Monmouth for the ponce he f***ing is.'
He never stopped calling Archie 'Helmet.'
Archie never stopped gloating over the Rangers' victories, and sent Harry a green and white scarf every birthday. Harry never stopped loving the border ballads, or gloating over using the last verse of 'The Twa Magicians'.
And he became the cold clay, and covered her all around. Must be in Scotland, then, Archers.
Call me a peachy drink one more time, bonny lad, and I'll have an end to you.
Neither of them ever pretended to forget that one day, New York veneer and all, Harry was coming home.
**
Author: speak_me_fair
Play: Richard II, 1 Henry IV
Characters: Archie Douglas, Harry Percy, assorted unseens.
Warnings: Present-day academia!AU. Rugby. Border Ballads. Gordonstoun references. Debate refences. Violence. Rating: M
Summary: They have something, and it might be a good thing, but Archie's only sure of one thing. Scotland is fucking cold.
Notes: Written in the Academic!AU for and with permission from gileonnen, who created it to a chorus of glee. The music prompt can be found here Dudelzack - Schandmaul
He Looked In At The Window
The first time Archie Douglas met Harry Percy was the year after Common Entrance, and neither of them had stood a chance in hell of going to where their parents wanted. Archie didn't want to be stuck in Scotland, because his whole bloody life had been geared around trying to get out of Scotland, thank you very much, even if he was definitely going to end up using it to get into Parliament one day. Harry just - hadn't been accepted at Eton, and ended up in their knacker-freezing bitch of a school. Harry had in fact wanted to go there all along, and what Harry wanted, Archie was learning, Harry tended to get. Even if, by the time it was in his lap, it resembled a drowned mouse that not even a cat would look at.
Harry wanted to win at rugby, so he got made captain and got his collarbone broken by Archie in a practise game, and insisted that Archie came with him to the hospital because it was all his fucking fault anyway. Harry knew that Archie liked debates, so showed up to every single one and set ballads about their respective families to the tune of 'Glory, Glory'. And sang them while Archie was making his points. Harry sang 'The Campbells are Coming' whenever Archie appeared, despite all attempts to make him understand the difference between Highland and Lowland Scots. Harry wanted to pass his maths GCSE, so he scored speed off a bloke in the village, and stayed up for a week before somehow getting an A.
Harry was the traditional thorn in Archie's Scottish side, and he claimed it was tradition.
Harry wanted Archie, and got him as soon as it was legal and they couldn't be chucked out for it. But he also got them the lecture from hell, courtesy of the disgusted headmaster, who had somehow failed to realise that after a game, you might as well fuck as fight.
Archie learned, in their last year, that Harry loved him for being Scottish, so he might as well give in and hold to it as tightly and as nail-diggingly as he ever did when ploughing that particular Northumbrian field.
He fell in love with snow and cold and with Harry's chapped and bitten lips, with blood that was dried and darkening on cut legs; fell in love with a frozen pitch and rimed gravel paths and underage whiskey that held all the deep smoked peat of his home in it.
He got a tattoo of the saltire on his shoulder, all clear blues painting his skin like a true Scot. Harry wore a red and clawed lion on his arse, and sat down in class with a grin of satisfaction twenty minutes after walking out of the parlour.
Archie got the grades that St. Andrews' wanted, went up for the Open Day and fell in love with its bleak expanse, and thought, when he was given his place, that Harry would be with him. But Harry left for New York and his father and the new bright brash world that still rang salt-harsh in Archie's mind, and gave his loyalty to no-one and nothing, and cared less about what would happen to him.
His e-mail address read hotspurofthenorth@history.angliau.com. His interests read 'Hating Hal Monmouth for the ponce he f***ing is.'
He never stopped calling Archie 'Helmet.'
Archie never stopped gloating over the Rangers' victories, and sent Harry a green and white scarf every birthday. Harry never stopped loving the border ballads, or gloating over using the last verse of 'The Twa Magicians'.
And he became the cold clay, and covered her all around. Must be in Scotland, then, Archers.
Call me a peachy drink one more time, bonny lad, and I'll have an end to you.
Neither of them ever pretended to forget that one day, New York veneer and all, Harry was coming home.
**