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3pipeproblemSo...uh...if anyone wants to read it, it's all implied, and it's really short.
Please?
Probably should mention that it's for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre poetry line challenge and I wrote it in 27 minutes.
Tom/Charles, of course.
I would meet you now
and I would wish this scar
to have been given with
all the love
that never occurred between us.
-Michael Ondaatje, "The Time Around Scars"
Charles wants to ask Tom why he only trains horses, never rides them.
He thinks, though, that to ask Tom a question is to demand something of him, to wrest some truth from somewhere inside the other man. Because Tom never lies. Never fibs, never utters a syllable he doesn't mean. Charles finds it nearly impossible to hold a conversation--a real conversation, one that doesn't revolve around horses--with him. The words, no matter how trivial or commonplace, have force. They hit like 100-proof whiskey, nothing held back or kept in reserve.
But Charles knows words aren't weapons to Tom. He watches his trainer's eyes, sometimes, when he soothes Seabiscuit. Watches Tom gently incline his head so he can murmur...entreaties, encouragement, reassurance, whatever Charles needs to imagine that day. These words he can't hear, the indistinct rising and falling of Tom's voice, reminds him of honey. He tries not to consider why.
Charles talks about the future. He writes speeches in his head, occasionally. Essays, volumes, all concerning the time to come, what will be soon. He doesn't like to think about what is. Never wants to think of what was. But the future, though. Always full of hope and possibility. At least to someone with imagination.
"Could you please pass the potatoes?"
Charles looks up, raising the dish with his gaze, and for an instant their eyes lock. Tom's eyes fix him there, in the moment. With only the present and the past.
For no reason he can think of, Charles remembers the porch, that perfect day, clutching his son to his chest, crying and imagining his tears mingling with splashes of blood. The moment is so real that he wipes his hands on his napkin, convinced they must be stained with blood.
Tom turns his attention to his potatoes, and Charles, disciple of the future that he is, knows he will never ask.
Please?
Probably should mention that it's for the
contrelamontre poetry line challenge and I wrote it in 27 minutes.Tom/Charles, of course.
I would meet you now
and I would wish this scar
to have been given with
all the love
that never occurred between us.
-Michael Ondaatje, "The Time Around Scars"
Charles wants to ask Tom why he only trains horses, never rides them.
He thinks, though, that to ask Tom a question is to demand something of him, to wrest some truth from somewhere inside the other man. Because Tom never lies. Never fibs, never utters a syllable he doesn't mean. Charles finds it nearly impossible to hold a conversation--a real conversation, one that doesn't revolve around horses--with him. The words, no matter how trivial or commonplace, have force. They hit like 100-proof whiskey, nothing held back or kept in reserve.
But Charles knows words aren't weapons to Tom. He watches his trainer's eyes, sometimes, when he soothes Seabiscuit. Watches Tom gently incline his head so he can murmur...entreaties, encouragement, reassurance, whatever Charles needs to imagine that day. These words he can't hear, the indistinct rising and falling of Tom's voice, reminds him of honey. He tries not to consider why.
Charles talks about the future. He writes speeches in his head, occasionally. Essays, volumes, all concerning the time to come, what will be soon. He doesn't like to think about what is. Never wants to think of what was. But the future, though. Always full of hope and possibility. At least to someone with imagination.
"Could you please pass the potatoes?"
Charles looks up, raising the dish with his gaze, and for an instant their eyes lock. Tom's eyes fix him there, in the moment. With only the present and the past.
For no reason he can think of, Charles remembers the porch, that perfect day, clutching his son to his chest, crying and imagining his tears mingling with splashes of blood. The moment is so real that he wipes his hands on his napkin, convinced they must be stained with blood.
Tom turns his attention to his potatoes, and Charles, disciple of the future that he is, knows he will never ask.
