Till Human Voices Wake Us
Title: Till Human Voices Wake Us
Rating: PG
Characters: Ianto, Jack
Words: ~1,000
Summary: An argument about mortality. Firmly in the "this is nothing" category.
Author's Note: For heddychaa, because she makes being a poetry snob cool, and is my favorite new person. The poem is The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T. S. Eliot. It is, without a doubt, my absolute favorite poem; every time I read it, I am wracked with nerdish glee at how perfect it is. Though the meme is definitely "pornetry", dubbed by azn_jack_fiend, mine is totally not at all porny. If you want poetry-porn, see the inspirations: Sunflower Sutra and Holy, Holy, Holy by heddychaa, Leaves of Grass by lyryk, and Falling through Fire by remuslives23. YOU GUYS ARE ALL AWESOME.
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
I am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.
Ianto read by the soft coloured lights which lined the Plass, cold in his overcoat and soft black gloves, each breath a drift of smoky vapor. His hand itched for a cigarette but turned the page. It was easier comfort than walking to a shop; his fingers slid pads-down on the warped old paper, the thin volume left once too often in the rain on the windowsill or one of the three front steps to his home on the estate, when he was sixteen and still young enough to really own books, to let them be marked by his care, or to mourn his lack of care. The wind stole through him and he held the page down with three fingers, letting his hair be tossed and carded through as if by cold hands.
The bay splashed, quiet, before him. He sat on his metal bench and read and felt someone behind him.
"Good evening, sir," he said into the book. The pages waved half-heartedly back at him. Jack, unseen, said nothing, and didn't move at all. Ianto could picture him, behind and a little to the right, looking out over the bay with his coat closed, buttoned and belted, his hands on his pockets, his face and eyes old and distant. He sighed. He murmured, reading, "'I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms on my trousers rolled.'" Jack still didn't move. "'Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk along the beach.'" He lifted his eyes from the page as Jack walked around the bench and to the metal rail that kept the bay in place.
Ianto stood. He slipped the book into his coat pocket and walked to Jack on legs stiff and half-frozen. He leaned his elbows on the barrier and watched the roll of waves below him. "'I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each,'" he continued quietly. "'I do not think they will sing to me.'"
"I should have known you'd like Eliot," Jack said after a long silence.
"I suspect you're one for the Romantics," Ianto mumbled down at his arms, at the waves hitting and breaking below. "Keats, Shelley. Byron."
"I have a story about Shelley," Jack said.
"Not first-hand."
"No." Ianto could hear, without seeing, the small, sad smile on Jack's face. "I never knew him."
Ianto waited for a moment. He glanced at the buttons of Jack's coat beside him. "Tell the story," he said.
"He died," Jack said, "when his boat capsized. They burned his body on the shore, all of the people who were with him. Byron, his wife, a few other people. Except, Mary Shelley -- she took his heart," Jack said. "She took it out of the fire. She carried it with her for the rest of her life."
The story sat strange and ominous on the air around them.
"I probably shouldn't have told that one," Jack said at length.
Ianto said nothing. He watched the distance where dark sea met dark sky, almost indistinguishable. Stars burned in neither; clouds rolled over both at speed, and the wind once again clipped through the gap in Ianto's collar. He held it closed with one hand. "I won't apologize," he said at last.
"You don't have to." Jack put an arm around Ianto's back. He lowered his mouth so that his breath was warm against the frozen shell of Ianto's ear. "I won't either."
Ianto almost smiled. He turned into the embrace, let Jack's other arm come around him, pull him tighter into the the warmth. He put his cheek against Jack's coat and watched the sea through the hollow beneath Jack's chin. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each, he thought. "'I have seen them riding seaward on the waves, combing the white hair of the waves blown back, when the wind blows the water white and black.'"
He gripped Jack back, a hand on his sleeve and a hand on his side, less an embrace than a twist of fabric between fingers, almost waltz position, almost. "You won't take my heart when I die," he said.
"I won't," Jack agreed.
"You won't bring me back, with a glove or a miracle or anything."
Jack was silent.
"Jack."
"Why don't you want to live?"
Ianto laughed humorlessly, turning his face into the coat, breathing it in. He watched their shoes together on the stones of the Plass. "There's a difference," he said. "I'm not eager to die, believe me."
"Then why?"
Ianto looked into Jack's face for the first time since he'd appeared. Always the same face; sometimes different eyes, but always the same face. "I've seen what it's done to you, Jack," he said. His hands tightened on the coat, fingers bunching material, compensating. "I'm not meant for it. I get to live out my duty and leave. It's selfish, but it's safer."
Jack looked wounded, and Ianto couldn't help that. It was so much better to die than to face the unimaginable duration that Jack faced. The offense would be less than a pinprick on his memory, and it was necessary. He couldn't keep them all there. He couldn't keep this life he'd finally built. "You won't bring me back," he repeated.
Jack set his hand against the small of Ianto's back. He sighed. "I won't." Then he drew away, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I saw how it went with Owen. I won't put you or Gwen or Tosh through that."
Ianto nodded. He put his own hands in his pockets. He wondered, What next?
Jack glanced toward the fountain, then let out a breath that froze on the air. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ianto," he said. He walked away.
Ianto watched his retreating back with faint surprise, uncertain. Then he turned and once more rested his elbows on the railing, letting his eyes follow the toss and roll of black, glassy waves. He let the poem finish in his mind.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By the sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Rating: PG
Characters: Ianto, Jack
Words: ~1,000
Summary: An argument about mortality. Firmly in the "this is nothing" category.
Author's Note: For heddychaa, because she makes being a poetry snob cool, and is my favorite new person. The poem is The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T. S. Eliot. It is, without a doubt, my absolute favorite poem; every time I read it, I am wracked with nerdish glee at how perfect it is. Though the meme is definitely "pornetry", dubbed by azn_jack_fiend, mine is totally not at all porny. If you want poetry-porn, see the inspirations: Sunflower Sutra and Holy, Holy, Holy by heddychaa, Leaves of Grass by lyryk, and Falling through Fire by remuslives23. YOU GUYS ARE ALL AWESOME.
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
I am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.
Ianto read by the soft coloured lights which lined the Plass, cold in his overcoat and soft black gloves, each breath a drift of smoky vapor. His hand itched for a cigarette but turned the page. It was easier comfort than walking to a shop; his fingers slid pads-down on the warped old paper, the thin volume left once too often in the rain on the windowsill or one of the three front steps to his home on the estate, when he was sixteen and still young enough to really own books, to let them be marked by his care, or to mourn his lack of care. The wind stole through him and he held the page down with three fingers, letting his hair be tossed and carded through as if by cold hands.
The bay splashed, quiet, before him. He sat on his metal bench and read and felt someone behind him.
"Good evening, sir," he said into the book. The pages waved half-heartedly back at him. Jack, unseen, said nothing, and didn't move at all. Ianto could picture him, behind and a little to the right, looking out over the bay with his coat closed, buttoned and belted, his hands on his pockets, his face and eyes old and distant. He sighed. He murmured, reading, "'I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms on my trousers rolled.'" Jack still didn't move. "'Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk along the beach.'" He lifted his eyes from the page as Jack walked around the bench and to the metal rail that kept the bay in place.
Ianto stood. He slipped the book into his coat pocket and walked to Jack on legs stiff and half-frozen. He leaned his elbows on the barrier and watched the roll of waves below him. "'I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each,'" he continued quietly. "'I do not think they will sing to me.'"
"I should have known you'd like Eliot," Jack said after a long silence.
"I suspect you're one for the Romantics," Ianto mumbled down at his arms, at the waves hitting and breaking below. "Keats, Shelley. Byron."
"I have a story about Shelley," Jack said.
"Not first-hand."
"No." Ianto could hear, without seeing, the small, sad smile on Jack's face. "I never knew him."
Ianto waited for a moment. He glanced at the buttons of Jack's coat beside him. "Tell the story," he said.
"He died," Jack said, "when his boat capsized. They burned his body on the shore, all of the people who were with him. Byron, his wife, a few other people. Except, Mary Shelley -- she took his heart," Jack said. "She took it out of the fire. She carried it with her for the rest of her life."
The story sat strange and ominous on the air around them.
"I probably shouldn't have told that one," Jack said at length.
Ianto said nothing. He watched the distance where dark sea met dark sky, almost indistinguishable. Stars burned in neither; clouds rolled over both at speed, and the wind once again clipped through the gap in Ianto's collar. He held it closed with one hand. "I won't apologize," he said at last.
"You don't have to." Jack put an arm around Ianto's back. He lowered his mouth so that his breath was warm against the frozen shell of Ianto's ear. "I won't either."
Ianto almost smiled. He turned into the embrace, let Jack's other arm come around him, pull him tighter into the the warmth. He put his cheek against Jack's coat and watched the sea through the hollow beneath Jack's chin. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each, he thought. "'I have seen them riding seaward on the waves, combing the white hair of the waves blown back, when the wind blows the water white and black.'"
He gripped Jack back, a hand on his sleeve and a hand on his side, less an embrace than a twist of fabric between fingers, almost waltz position, almost. "You won't take my heart when I die," he said.
"I won't," Jack agreed.
"You won't bring me back, with a glove or a miracle or anything."
Jack was silent.
"Jack."
"Why don't you want to live?"
Ianto laughed humorlessly, turning his face into the coat, breathing it in. He watched their shoes together on the stones of the Plass. "There's a difference," he said. "I'm not eager to die, believe me."
"Then why?"
Ianto looked into Jack's face for the first time since he'd appeared. Always the same face; sometimes different eyes, but always the same face. "I've seen what it's done to you, Jack," he said. His hands tightened on the coat, fingers bunching material, compensating. "I'm not meant for it. I get to live out my duty and leave. It's selfish, but it's safer."
Jack looked wounded, and Ianto couldn't help that. It was so much better to die than to face the unimaginable duration that Jack faced. The offense would be less than a pinprick on his memory, and it was necessary. He couldn't keep them all there. He couldn't keep this life he'd finally built. "You won't bring me back," he repeated.
Jack set his hand against the small of Ianto's back. He sighed. "I won't." Then he drew away, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I saw how it went with Owen. I won't put you or Gwen or Tosh through that."
Ianto nodded. He put his own hands in his pockets. He wondered, What next?
Jack glanced toward the fountain, then let out a breath that froze on the air. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ianto," he said. He walked away.
Ianto watched his retreating back with faint surprise, uncertain. Then he turned and once more rested his elbows on the railing, letting his eyes follow the toss and roll of black, glassy waves. He let the poem finish in his mind.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By the sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.