(no subject)
Title: The Moon's Men
Author: gileonnen
Play: 1 Henry IV, bits of 2 Henry IV
Characters: Hal, Poins (slight Hal/Poins)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Hal never fired a shot, in the run on London.
Notes: While this AU is open, I would prefer to discuss additions to the AU rather than seeing them drop in unannounced.
He admits he's probably a little in his cups by now--just a little sloshed, lips loose and wet and smiling to press against Ned's half-accidentally. "You're through, mate," Ned laughs; "I'm not drunk, swear I'm not," answers Hal, but he suffers himself to be raised from his stool, fingers curling slow in Ned's hair. In the morning he's going to have to say that he didn't mean anything by it; disclaim drunk kisses and bad poetry and a lot of piss-poor philosophy about the sun and clouds and England.
Always England; always fucking England, says Ned when they're fighting, and his lips draw back over his crooked teeth. They're bad teeth; cracked, yellowed from the cigarettes that Ned rolls for himself. He's rolling one now with Hal's arm about his shoulders, a deft-fingered art like picking a pocket or a latch, but at least he shares his fag when he's got it lit. No need to ask him--they understand each other too well by now.
It's always been like that, thinks Hal, although he knows it hasn't. Ned Poins warm against his side and under his arm, holding out pleasantly on the subject of the weather or his sister's position in the factory (but then the boys came home, and she was thrown out on her arse, she was, do you call that Christian decency? Because I don't)--and surely they've always been like this.
The London air is cool, after the close heat of the pub, although it's just as heavy. Hal presses his lips together and shakes back his hair, watching the way the shadows shiver under the streetlamps.
It's always been like this, in London. His father on the throne, and his own face advertising coffee and toothpaste (his own teeth are better than Ned's by a long shot); he can't walk a dozen feet without meeting his own pretty, vapid eyes. Rudolph Valentino eyes, Ned's sister calls them, all smooth smoulder and empty intensity. "Hey," he says, soft, and Ned turns to look at him. They're close enough that his cheek grazes against Hal's, both of them stubble-rough. "Hey."
"Hey, yourself," says Ned, but he's listening.
"I thought we might deface the Prince of Wales," says Hal, and rolls his head like a gesture toward the rough poster that bears his likeness. VICTORY is everyone's duty! it proclaims, Prince Henry kneeling in a victory vegetable patch with a shit-eating grin; Hal likes to think that it's the most honest advertisement that bears his face.
You can tell he's faking it.
His pocketknife is in his hand. It comes naturally, that two-inch blade folding out smooth and slow. He can almost hear the sound of the jeeps rumbling over the cobbled streets--he unhooks his arm from around Ned's shoulders.
There was gunfire, too, by the palace; when his heart starts to race, he can almost tick off heartbeats to time it. The jeeps went silent--he held his breath--
There.
They said the king's guard had fired first, which didn't change a damned thing, really.
His knife carves a mustache onto his own face, carves thick brows over his eyes and devils' horns over the brows; he's making a monster of himself, and if the idea doesn't make him laugh, it at least makes him smile. "How's it look?" he asks, turning wide with his arms spread out and the knife flashing dull under the streetlight. Ned smiles, the way he's always smiled; the way he's always smiled when he thinks his prince might be just a touch mad. "It's a better likeness now," he says, and he laughs, as though laughing makes it all right.
Hal closes up his knife and slips it into his pocket again. He offers his arm, but Ned doesn't take it.
He can't say he blames him.
They make it to Ned's flat, the little garret he leases from a pawnbroker who runs his shop out of the first floor and has the second floor to himself--and on a night like this it's easier to go back to that shabby space under the roof and curl up in a mess of blankets, lie together half-undressed with the world soft at the edges. Ned will sit up and smoke in bed, flicking ash over the side while Hal rests his head on Ned's thigh and stares at the rafters.
"How's university?" asks Ned, at length.
"Philosophy and science."
"That's a what, and you know it's a what," says Ned.
Hal draws in a breath. He's been thinking about anything but university, anything but the carrels in the library where he curls up with a book of Nietzsche and obliterates himself for hours at a time. (He is thinking of a particular rill on a patch of green in Northumberland, a sliver of water slicing inexorably down to the Tweed.)
"It's like everything else that you do for duty," he says, when the silence has stretched on too long for comfort. "The pleasure's in having done it right."
Ned only nods and passes him the cigarette, shifting to curl up at his side. "I've got a bottle of gin," he offers; he doesn't have to add, if you can't sleep without.
"I'm all right." He takes a long drag, nearly singes his fingers on the fag end and then crushes the end out on the floor. "I'm all right."
He's all right. The run on London was bloodless. The war is over.
It's over. He's all right.
Ned runs his hand over the smooth, dark bowl of Hal's hair, and his breath is sour in the darkness.
Author: gileonnen
Play: 1 Henry IV, bits of 2 Henry IV
Characters: Hal, Poins (slight Hal/Poins)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Hal never fired a shot, in the run on London.
Notes: While this AU is open, I would prefer to discuss additions to the AU rather than seeing them drop in unannounced.
He admits he's probably a little in his cups by now--just a little sloshed, lips loose and wet and smiling to press against Ned's half-accidentally. "You're through, mate," Ned laughs; "I'm not drunk, swear I'm not," answers Hal, but he suffers himself to be raised from his stool, fingers curling slow in Ned's hair. In the morning he's going to have to say that he didn't mean anything by it; disclaim drunk kisses and bad poetry and a lot of piss-poor philosophy about the sun and clouds and England.
Always England; always fucking England, says Ned when they're fighting, and his lips draw back over his crooked teeth. They're bad teeth; cracked, yellowed from the cigarettes that Ned rolls for himself. He's rolling one now with Hal's arm about his shoulders, a deft-fingered art like picking a pocket or a latch, but at least he shares his fag when he's got it lit. No need to ask him--they understand each other too well by now.
It's always been like that, thinks Hal, although he knows it hasn't. Ned Poins warm against his side and under his arm, holding out pleasantly on the subject of the weather or his sister's position in the factory (but then the boys came home, and she was thrown out on her arse, she was, do you call that Christian decency? Because I don't)--and surely they've always been like this.
The London air is cool, after the close heat of the pub, although it's just as heavy. Hal presses his lips together and shakes back his hair, watching the way the shadows shiver under the streetlamps.
It's always been like this, in London. His father on the throne, and his own face advertising coffee and toothpaste (his own teeth are better than Ned's by a long shot); he can't walk a dozen feet without meeting his own pretty, vapid eyes. Rudolph Valentino eyes, Ned's sister calls them, all smooth smoulder and empty intensity. "Hey," he says, soft, and Ned turns to look at him. They're close enough that his cheek grazes against Hal's, both of them stubble-rough. "Hey."
"Hey, yourself," says Ned, but he's listening.
"I thought we might deface the Prince of Wales," says Hal, and rolls his head like a gesture toward the rough poster that bears his likeness. VICTORY is everyone's duty! it proclaims, Prince Henry kneeling in a victory vegetable patch with a shit-eating grin; Hal likes to think that it's the most honest advertisement that bears his face.
You can tell he's faking it.
His pocketknife is in his hand. It comes naturally, that two-inch blade folding out smooth and slow. He can almost hear the sound of the jeeps rumbling over the cobbled streets--he unhooks his arm from around Ned's shoulders.
There was gunfire, too, by the palace; when his heart starts to race, he can almost tick off heartbeats to time it. The jeeps went silent--he held his breath--
There.
They said the king's guard had fired first, which didn't change a damned thing, really.
His knife carves a mustache onto his own face, carves thick brows over his eyes and devils' horns over the brows; he's making a monster of himself, and if the idea doesn't make him laugh, it at least makes him smile. "How's it look?" he asks, turning wide with his arms spread out and the knife flashing dull under the streetlight. Ned smiles, the way he's always smiled; the way he's always smiled when he thinks his prince might be just a touch mad. "It's a better likeness now," he says, and he laughs, as though laughing makes it all right.
Hal closes up his knife and slips it into his pocket again. He offers his arm, but Ned doesn't take it.
He can't say he blames him.
They make it to Ned's flat, the little garret he leases from a pawnbroker who runs his shop out of the first floor and has the second floor to himself--and on a night like this it's easier to go back to that shabby space under the roof and curl up in a mess of blankets, lie together half-undressed with the world soft at the edges. Ned will sit up and smoke in bed, flicking ash over the side while Hal rests his head on Ned's thigh and stares at the rafters.
"How's university?" asks Ned, at length.
"Philosophy and science."
"That's a what, and you know it's a what," says Ned.
Hal draws in a breath. He's been thinking about anything but university, anything but the carrels in the library where he curls up with a book of Nietzsche and obliterates himself for hours at a time. (He is thinking of a particular rill on a patch of green in Northumberland, a sliver of water slicing inexorably down to the Tweed.)
"It's like everything else that you do for duty," he says, when the silence has stretched on too long for comfort. "The pleasure's in having done it right."
Ned only nods and passes him the cigarette, shifting to curl up at his side. "I've got a bottle of gin," he offers; he doesn't have to add, if you can't sleep without.
"I'm all right." He takes a long drag, nearly singes his fingers on the fag end and then crushes the end out on the floor. "I'm all right."
He's all right. The run on London was bloodless. The war is over.
It's over. He's all right.
Ned runs his hand over the smooth, dark bowl of Hal's hair, and his breath is sour in the darkness.