Updating, slashiness, and fic.
Nov. 3rd, 2004 12:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
girlofpreyI really shouldn't be here doing this - Byron awaits, and I keep getting invitations to social events which will thieve more of my time even though I can't really afford to go to them - but I'm trying to be faithful to this Livejournal. I will post, I will, I will, I will.
So here I am. Watched the last episode of Season 4 Six Feet Under last night and am all about the Billy/Nate again, even though they were NEVER EVEN IN A SCENE TOGETHER. That's how much I love this ship. I think when Billy sees Nate again, with all the posturing and bullshit stripped away and just a lot of sadness and strength remaining, he will really, REALLY want his camera. Also, Billy's newfound stability seems like just the thing Nate needs right now. So yes. I foresee much angst in the future they have inside my head (and I would write it down, if not for the ACCURSED ESSAY!!!).
Still obssessing over Guy and Mac though. I wish the DVD was out tomorrow, but apparently if it DOES come out it won't be till the new year :(. Hopefully with many extras, though. Such as commentaries where they all talk about the slash. Have a vague plotbunny for long angsty-ness post episode 9 - they get off the cliff but decide to check into a B'n'B until Guy's ready to face police and home-type people. But Guy is taking his time, oh yes! And getting very drunk! And finally realising he's in love with Mac! But it's just completely the wrong time, and he can't cope, and Mac doesn't quite know what to do. There are many things I have not plotted out (which is good), but I know there will be much angst, and Guy getting angry with the Welsh, and having to spend a fair amount of time in his bathrobe because they have no other clothes, and an odd, fragile Guy/Mac/Martin situation by the end.
But in the meantime, I thought I'd post this rather than letting it languish on my hard drive. I wrote it in about 2 hours one day, having had the plotbunny (hear me utilise the lingo) bouncing around for a few days. I'm not entirely happy with it, and know parts of it to be AU by now, but I wrote it, which I'm proud of, and I finished it, which I'm proud of, and it's the first fic that might actually get read by people who are familiar with the fandom. So...yes. Here it is.
BOYS DON’T CRY, AND PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES…
‘Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save
That breast imbued with such immortal fire?
Could she not live who life eternal gave?
If life eternal may await the lyre,
The only Heaven to which Earth’s children may aspire.’
Lord Byron, ‘Childe Harold`s Pilgrimage’,
Canto II, Stanza, XXXIX
His mother had loved to tell him stories.
Old stories, that is. Not fairytales, or not traditional fairytales at least. Stories from literature, various mythologies, folktales. The stories his mother had liked to read. Things like bedtime stories had been rare in his childhood – there were no games of football on the lawn or trays of biscuits laid out for him in the kitchen after school, or anything like that. Nothing just for him that he hadn’t had to chase down and fight for and wring out for himself. But there had always been stories because his mother had loved to tell them. He hadn’t been hugely interested in them – he’d known even then that girls were generally much more interested in books than boys. But he’d never complained. He got to hear the rich, deep sound of her voice, see her big dark eyes, smell the faint scent of her shampoo. He’d never hated the stories half so much as he’d loved her being there to tell them.
“ Let me tell you about Sappho, ” she said one night, smoothing down the bedcovers.
She’d always wanted him to be worldly.
Sitting on his bed, barely wrinkling the covers, and she’d patted her lap, as she always did, and he’d climbed on, silently, as he always did, and she’d put her arms around him, tight, tight, tight.
“ Sappho, ” she had begun, in her flawless French – she always spoke in French when they were alone. His father insisted on English whenever he was around, had drummed it into him, down to the right accent. He used to have trouble with the vowels. His father said it was ‘for his future’, and he was right, of course, and Guy had believed him. But he never mentioned that his mother only spoke French when his father wasn’t around, to either of them. With his head on her shoulder, half-choking on her perfume, he could feel it vibrating in her throat.
“ Sappho, ” she had begun, her chin above his head, brushing against his hair, her eyes somewhere on the opposite wall, or maybe somewhere beyond it, “ was a poet. She lived in Ancient Greece. They didn’t much care for women there, but it was alright, because Sappho never much cared for men. She left them behind, in fact – she went to live on a little island, all alone, and only allowed women to come and live with her. And she started a school, to teach young girls about poetry, and wrote her own too. Homer called her ‘the tenth muse’. It was beautiful poetry, about loving women. ”
“About love, ” she’d said.
She paused, briefly, and he knew she was thinking about how much she hated his father, her eyes still fixed on that far wall.
Tragic love stories had always been her favourite.
“ She had a lover with her, on the island, you know ” she went on, chin dropping as though she was going to look him in the eyes, though she never looked him in the eyes as long as she lived. “ A woman, of course. The love of her life. ”
Another moment of silence.
“ And then a man came. ”
As they always did.
And, as she always did, she’d started to rock him, gently, eyes on the wall again.
“ Her lover, ” she continued, slower now. Deliberate. “ – left her, for that man. And so Sappho walked to the very edge of her island – to the highest cliff – and threw herself off, into the sea. ”
She’d stopped rocking him now.
“ She was saved, though, ” she said, suddenly upbeat, and he was shocked enough to almost look up. “ The Gods saw her, and took pity. Just before she died, they turned her into a bird, and she flew away, into the sky. ”
“ She was free. ”
And then just silence.
They’d sat like that for about an hour longer, him relaxed against her, enjoying the feel of her, the warmth of her, her being there. Her eyes fixed on the far wall.
He didn’t know if there’d been a lover, female or otherwise, in the end, but there certainly hadn’t been a cliff. Not her style, he supposed. Too messy. The brandy and sleeping pills had done the trick well enough though, and she died as beautiful as she’d lived. It was the middle of the opera season. His father had been furious.
He hoped her soul had flown free in the last few seconds in any case, because her body had hit the ground six feet down, and was locked in now with the worms and insects and the dirt, and he hadn’t known much about her, in the end, but he’d known that wasn’t what she’d ever wanted, ever. And he loved her enough, through the anger and the pain to want her to be happy, at last.
But as for what he knew about her – no. There wasn’t a lot. He didn’t think she’d done it for love, anyway.
Not like he was planning to.
But then, he’d never written a lick of poetry either, so he guessed they were even.
He called it poetry. It had seemed like just words to him. They’d found reams and reams of it, stashed in boxes under the bed, in her closet, in the library. All in French, so his father had been able to read it, but not understand it, not anymore. Not like Guy had. Reams and reams of lines, words, about bodies and heat and skin, about skin that itched and itched and itched until you just wanted to tear it away and let something new out from underneath. Until you turned into something else. Until you were free.
Not a word about him, of course. But then what was there about him worthy of poetry? Even to her?
No, no he’d never written any poetry. And he hadn’t really known a lot about love, in the end. Certainly not how to recognise it. Not what the little jolt in his chest at the sight of him had meant, or how he’d tensed at the sound of his voice, or odd trembly feeling in his gut when their eyes had met, challenging, over the green mask or without it, it didn’t matter. No, he’d only known how to recognise the loss when those eyes had turned away from him, to someone else. To her. When he was left alone, staring at the far wall and listening to the sounds of their voices, talking and laughing together as though he wasn’t even there.
Words never had been his strong point.
With the pain of the rock rubbing against the undersides of his legs though, staring down at the long, dark drop, he knows he’ll get at least one part of it right.
He may not turn into a bird, anymore than his mother did. He doesn’t expect to be saved. But he thinks; at least he’ll get to fly.
Because I'm quite fascinated by the writing experience now I'm actually managing to take part in it, I thought I'd just say a couple of things about how the story came about. First off, I found Green Wing. And I loved Green Wing. And then there was episode 7, with Guy's sad face, him not using Scissor's Bentley, and I loved Guy, and realised HE loved Mac, and that Mac appeared to be attracted to him but was slowly moving away towards Caroline. And then I started hearing about a 'Greek tragedy' in the last episode, and Guy being involved, which was a suprise because I was thinking it would be Martin, though it all makes sense now. But it got me thinking about Guy's mother, and how much he obviously adored her. Then by coincidence I had a seminar where I was the only one who knew who Sappho was, and her death-by-cliff, and then I found out even more about her by accident, and she seemed pretty cool. And then one day I was thinking about Guy, Mac and Caroline, and 'cliffhangers' and Greek tragedies, and it all clicked into place. And so I just sat down and wrote it. The title is from a Smiths song I just recently discovered and adore, and seemed to fit, and the quote was also found by coincidence, when 'reading around' Don Juan, and doesn't really go with the story, but is beautiful and about Sappho, so I thought I'd include it. So yes. This is my fic. Feedback would be much appreciated.
Note to self: Stop doing epic-length posts.
So here I am. Watched the last episode of Season 4 Six Feet Under last night and am all about the Billy/Nate again, even though they were NEVER EVEN IN A SCENE TOGETHER. That's how much I love this ship. I think when Billy sees Nate again, with all the posturing and bullshit stripped away and just a lot of sadness and strength remaining, he will really, REALLY want his camera. Also, Billy's newfound stability seems like just the thing Nate needs right now. So yes. I foresee much angst in the future they have inside my head (and I would write it down, if not for the ACCURSED ESSAY!!!).
Still obssessing over Guy and Mac though. I wish the DVD was out tomorrow, but apparently if it DOES come out it won't be till the new year :(. Hopefully with many extras, though. Such as commentaries where they all talk about the slash. Have a vague plotbunny for long angsty-ness post episode 9 - they get off the cliff but decide to check into a B'n'B until Guy's ready to face police and home-type people. But Guy is taking his time, oh yes! And getting very drunk! And finally realising he's in love with Mac! But it's just completely the wrong time, and he can't cope, and Mac doesn't quite know what to do. There are many things I have not plotted out (which is good), but I know there will be much angst, and Guy getting angry with the Welsh, and having to spend a fair amount of time in his bathrobe because they have no other clothes, and an odd, fragile Guy/Mac/Martin situation by the end.
But in the meantime, I thought I'd post this rather than letting it languish on my hard drive. I wrote it in about 2 hours one day, having had the plotbunny (hear me utilise the lingo) bouncing around for a few days. I'm not entirely happy with it, and know parts of it to be AU by now, but I wrote it, which I'm proud of, and I finished it, which I'm proud of, and it's the first fic that might actually get read by people who are familiar with the fandom. So...yes. Here it is.
BOYS DON’T CRY, AND PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES…
‘Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save
That breast imbued with such immortal fire?
Could she not live who life eternal gave?
If life eternal may await the lyre,
The only Heaven to which Earth’s children may aspire.’
Lord Byron, ‘Childe Harold`s Pilgrimage’,
Canto II, Stanza, XXXIX
His mother had loved to tell him stories.
Old stories, that is. Not fairytales, or not traditional fairytales at least. Stories from literature, various mythologies, folktales. The stories his mother had liked to read. Things like bedtime stories had been rare in his childhood – there were no games of football on the lawn or trays of biscuits laid out for him in the kitchen after school, or anything like that. Nothing just for him that he hadn’t had to chase down and fight for and wring out for himself. But there had always been stories because his mother had loved to tell them. He hadn’t been hugely interested in them – he’d known even then that girls were generally much more interested in books than boys. But he’d never complained. He got to hear the rich, deep sound of her voice, see her big dark eyes, smell the faint scent of her shampoo. He’d never hated the stories half so much as he’d loved her being there to tell them.
“ Let me tell you about Sappho, ” she said one night, smoothing down the bedcovers.
She’d always wanted him to be worldly.
Sitting on his bed, barely wrinkling the covers, and she’d patted her lap, as she always did, and he’d climbed on, silently, as he always did, and she’d put her arms around him, tight, tight, tight.
“ Sappho, ” she had begun, in her flawless French – she always spoke in French when they were alone. His father insisted on English whenever he was around, had drummed it into him, down to the right accent. He used to have trouble with the vowels. His father said it was ‘for his future’, and he was right, of course, and Guy had believed him. But he never mentioned that his mother only spoke French when his father wasn’t around, to either of them. With his head on her shoulder, half-choking on her perfume, he could feel it vibrating in her throat.
“ Sappho, ” she had begun, her chin above his head, brushing against his hair, her eyes somewhere on the opposite wall, or maybe somewhere beyond it, “ was a poet. She lived in Ancient Greece. They didn’t much care for women there, but it was alright, because Sappho never much cared for men. She left them behind, in fact – she went to live on a little island, all alone, and only allowed women to come and live with her. And she started a school, to teach young girls about poetry, and wrote her own too. Homer called her ‘the tenth muse’. It was beautiful poetry, about loving women. ”
“About love, ” she’d said.
She paused, briefly, and he knew she was thinking about how much she hated his father, her eyes still fixed on that far wall.
Tragic love stories had always been her favourite.
“ She had a lover with her, on the island, you know ” she went on, chin dropping as though she was going to look him in the eyes, though she never looked him in the eyes as long as she lived. “ A woman, of course. The love of her life. ”
Another moment of silence.
“ And then a man came. ”
As they always did.
And, as she always did, she’d started to rock him, gently, eyes on the wall again.
“ Her lover, ” she continued, slower now. Deliberate. “ – left her, for that man. And so Sappho walked to the very edge of her island – to the highest cliff – and threw herself off, into the sea. ”
She’d stopped rocking him now.
“ She was saved, though, ” she said, suddenly upbeat, and he was shocked enough to almost look up. “ The Gods saw her, and took pity. Just before she died, they turned her into a bird, and she flew away, into the sky. ”
“ She was free. ”
And then just silence.
They’d sat like that for about an hour longer, him relaxed against her, enjoying the feel of her, the warmth of her, her being there. Her eyes fixed on the far wall.
He didn’t know if there’d been a lover, female or otherwise, in the end, but there certainly hadn’t been a cliff. Not her style, he supposed. Too messy. The brandy and sleeping pills had done the trick well enough though, and she died as beautiful as she’d lived. It was the middle of the opera season. His father had been furious.
He hoped her soul had flown free in the last few seconds in any case, because her body had hit the ground six feet down, and was locked in now with the worms and insects and the dirt, and he hadn’t known much about her, in the end, but he’d known that wasn’t what she’d ever wanted, ever. And he loved her enough, through the anger and the pain to want her to be happy, at last.
But as for what he knew about her – no. There wasn’t a lot. He didn’t think she’d done it for love, anyway.
Not like he was planning to.
But then, he’d never written a lick of poetry either, so he guessed they were even.
He called it poetry. It had seemed like just words to him. They’d found reams and reams of it, stashed in boxes under the bed, in her closet, in the library. All in French, so his father had been able to read it, but not understand it, not anymore. Not like Guy had. Reams and reams of lines, words, about bodies and heat and skin, about skin that itched and itched and itched until you just wanted to tear it away and let something new out from underneath. Until you turned into something else. Until you were free.
Not a word about him, of course. But then what was there about him worthy of poetry? Even to her?
No, no he’d never written any poetry. And he hadn’t really known a lot about love, in the end. Certainly not how to recognise it. Not what the little jolt in his chest at the sight of him had meant, or how he’d tensed at the sound of his voice, or odd trembly feeling in his gut when their eyes had met, challenging, over the green mask or without it, it didn’t matter. No, he’d only known how to recognise the loss when those eyes had turned away from him, to someone else. To her. When he was left alone, staring at the far wall and listening to the sounds of their voices, talking and laughing together as though he wasn’t even there.
Words never had been his strong point.
With the pain of the rock rubbing against the undersides of his legs though, staring down at the long, dark drop, he knows he’ll get at least one part of it right.
He may not turn into a bird, anymore than his mother did. He doesn’t expect to be saved. But he thinks; at least he’ll get to fly.
Because I'm quite fascinated by the writing experience now I'm actually managing to take part in it, I thought I'd just say a couple of things about how the story came about. First off, I found Green Wing. And I loved Green Wing. And then there was episode 7, with Guy's sad face, him not using Scissor's Bentley, and I loved Guy, and realised HE loved Mac, and that Mac appeared to be attracted to him but was slowly moving away towards Caroline. And then I started hearing about a 'Greek tragedy' in the last episode, and Guy being involved, which was a suprise because I was thinking it would be Martin, though it all makes sense now. But it got me thinking about Guy's mother, and how much he obviously adored her. Then by coincidence I had a seminar where I was the only one who knew who Sappho was, and her death-by-cliff, and then I found out even more about her by accident, and she seemed pretty cool. And then one day I was thinking about Guy, Mac and Caroline, and 'cliffhangers' and Greek tragedies, and it all clicked into place. And so I just sat down and wrote it. The title is from a Smiths song I just recently discovered and adore, and seemed to fit, and the quote was also found by coincidence, when 'reading around' Don Juan, and doesn't really go with the story, but is beautiful and about Sappho, so I thought I'd include it. So yes. This is my fic. Feedback would be much appreciated.
Note to self: Stop doing epic-length posts.
