Fic: Admiration of Form (Equilibrium)
Title: Admiration of Form
Fandom: Equilibrium
Pairing: Partridge/Preston
Rating: PG
Summary: Introspective. Errol Patridge considers his partner.
Under other circumstances, Errol would probably have given little thought to most men, much less one like John Preston. Under the present circumstances, however, he finds no small difficulty in keeping his mind trained to things other than John.
No. No, not John. Preston, perhaps, or Cleric, but never John. Such a man would not suffer the demeaning familiarity of being addressed by his given name. Not that Errol has ever tried; the risk of exposure, of some trace of Feeling finding its way into his voice, is far too great. So it is Preston, never John.
The first thought comes with music, born on a dark wave of timpani and brass, rolling from the sound piece of a carefully salvaged gramophone. With his eyes closed, he can see Preston, in perfect harmony, slaughtering Offenders with the same savage grace that echoes in the deep hum of violins, the beautiful efficiency unique to his - their - singular profession.
And it is their profession, he realizes. This is a thing, the only thing, they share. The difference is that Errol can see and appreciate the beauty and the paradox where Preston cannot. He can see, also and foremost, that Preston, in his way, is truly elevated beauty. But this is merely admiration of form.
The second thought is sparked by a moment that, Errol later wonders, may or may not have happened. After a particularly long and difficult raid - the Offenders had hidden in the building’s walls and were shooting through small holes in the concrete - Errol sighs quietly and shuts his eyes for a second of rest. When he opens them, Preston is watching him, and for a single surreal instant, Errol is able to look his partner directly in the eye. The steel and sharpness he sees there cut into his memory, leaving a deep gash that will sting and wake him in the dead of many nights. Preston’s eyes quickly find another subject, and the moment passes without incident. But, Errol is haunted by their emptiness, and he cannot help but wonder how different they would be were Preston able to Feel.
In the days following, Errol fills his idle thoughts imaging different emotions in John’s eyes. He sees them burning with rage and wide with astonishment. In his dreams, they are gentle and lit with wonder. One night, he dreams that they are close and darkened with a feral kind of need that he feels heavy and hot in the very bottom of his stomach hours after waking. But this is still only admiration of form because what he feels, what he imagines, is not possible, not in this world.
He knows his life is forfeit when Preston sees the book. Such a small thing, really. Just a few brittle pages dressed in fading ink, but it is his last misstep. Knowing this, he clings to it, stealing glances inside at every opportunity, gripping it so tightly that the cover creases between his fingers.
Even prepared as he is for the confrontation, the echo of Preston’s step sets his heart pounding. He does not look up because he wants one moment more to imagine the warmth, or even regret, he knows he will never see in Preston’s eyes. When he does at last lift his stare from the book, he does so slowly, learning again the perfect angles and grace of the Cleric’s form.
I assume you dream, Preston.
The dark eyes are as empty as he knew they would be, more so because of the life and colour with which his imagination fills them. For a moment, he wishes desperately that he could have invaded that emptiness, could have lifted the drug veil and watched the dawning of wonder burn away the shadows.
I’m sorry.
It means nothing, and strikes more bitterly because of it.
These are his dreams, the admiration of truth, and they are shattered by gunfire, the fragments crushed, softly, beneath the tread of now hesitant boots.
~
Fandom: Equilibrium
Pairing: Partridge/Preston
Rating: PG
Summary: Introspective. Errol Patridge considers his partner.
Under other circumstances, Errol would probably have given little thought to most men, much less one like John Preston. Under the present circumstances, however, he finds no small difficulty in keeping his mind trained to things other than John.
No. No, not John. Preston, perhaps, or Cleric, but never John. Such a man would not suffer the demeaning familiarity of being addressed by his given name. Not that Errol has ever tried; the risk of exposure, of some trace of Feeling finding its way into his voice, is far too great. So it is Preston, never John.
The first thought comes with music, born on a dark wave of timpani and brass, rolling from the sound piece of a carefully salvaged gramophone. With his eyes closed, he can see Preston, in perfect harmony, slaughtering Offenders with the same savage grace that echoes in the deep hum of violins, the beautiful efficiency unique to his - their - singular profession.
And it is their profession, he realizes. This is a thing, the only thing, they share. The difference is that Errol can see and appreciate the beauty and the paradox where Preston cannot. He can see, also and foremost, that Preston, in his way, is truly elevated beauty. But this is merely admiration of form.
The second thought is sparked by a moment that, Errol later wonders, may or may not have happened. After a particularly long and difficult raid - the Offenders had hidden in the building’s walls and were shooting through small holes in the concrete - Errol sighs quietly and shuts his eyes for a second of rest. When he opens them, Preston is watching him, and for a single surreal instant, Errol is able to look his partner directly in the eye. The steel and sharpness he sees there cut into his memory, leaving a deep gash that will sting and wake him in the dead of many nights. Preston’s eyes quickly find another subject, and the moment passes without incident. But, Errol is haunted by their emptiness, and he cannot help but wonder how different they would be were Preston able to Feel.
In the days following, Errol fills his idle thoughts imaging different emotions in John’s eyes. He sees them burning with rage and wide with astonishment. In his dreams, they are gentle and lit with wonder. One night, he dreams that they are close and darkened with a feral kind of need that he feels heavy and hot in the very bottom of his stomach hours after waking. But this is still only admiration of form because what he feels, what he imagines, is not possible, not in this world.
He knows his life is forfeit when Preston sees the book. Such a small thing, really. Just a few brittle pages dressed in fading ink, but it is his last misstep. Knowing this, he clings to it, stealing glances inside at every opportunity, gripping it so tightly that the cover creases between his fingers.
Even prepared as he is for the confrontation, the echo of Preston’s step sets his heart pounding. He does not look up because he wants one moment more to imagine the warmth, or even regret, he knows he will never see in Preston’s eyes. When he does at last lift his stare from the book, he does so slowly, learning again the perfect angles and grace of the Cleric’s form.
I assume you dream, Preston.
The dark eyes are as empty as he knew they would be, more so because of the life and colour with which his imagination fills them. For a moment, he wishes desperately that he could have invaded that emptiness, could have lifted the drug veil and watched the dawning of wonder burn away the shadows.
I’m sorry.
It means nothing, and strikes more bitterly because of it.
These are his dreams, the admiration of truth, and they are shattered by gunfire, the fragments crushed, softly, beneath the tread of now hesitant boots.
~