Ficlet: Three Months Away
Title: Three Months Away
Author: chiralove
Characters/Pairing: Lewis/Hathaway (unrequited?)
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 221
Warnings: none
Summary: Robbie gets an e-mail from James.
Author’s note: Title and quotes (italicised) are from Robert Lowell’s Home After Three Months Away. Dedicated to the memory of those who have left us.
Twelve sentences are all there is, short as a postcard (shorter maybe, but it’s enough). James is loving it, Robbie can tell, even though he never uses the word (has never used the word.)
Dearest I cannot loiter here.
The sun, heat, smell of smoke, people, places - all painted with broad brushstrokes, all vivid enough to make Robbie yearn to be there (to be with James, rather, if he’s honest.)
The sun is setting, dropping into the ocean like a great gold-red coin where James is, and left behind in Oxford, Robbie’s left with gray and cold and the slap of his shoes in the puddles, the dampness of his trouser cuffs. He hangs his suit up to dry in the empty damp air of his flat.
They tell me nothing’s gone.
There’s the absence of pints and takeaway, the lack of smart remarks, smoking breaks, half-forgotten smiles. He’d forget his shadow if it wasn’t attached, lose his lungs if they weren’t needed for breathing - smart as he is, sometimes he hasn’t a clue.
The bells ring out over the city (he’s hours away), and the dusk is dropping in early and there’s no leaving it, no leaving here.
Robbie had the chance, didn’t take it.
Cured, I am frizzled, stale and small.
Author: chiralove
Characters/Pairing: Lewis/Hathaway (unrequited?)
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 221
Warnings: none
Summary: Robbie gets an e-mail from James.
Author’s note: Title and quotes (italicised) are from Robert Lowell’s Home After Three Months Away. Dedicated to the memory of those who have left us.
Twelve sentences are all there is, short as a postcard (shorter maybe, but it’s enough). James is loving it, Robbie can tell, even though he never uses the word (has never used the word.)
Dearest I cannot loiter here.
The sun, heat, smell of smoke, people, places - all painted with broad brushstrokes, all vivid enough to make Robbie yearn to be there (to be with James, rather, if he’s honest.)
The sun is setting, dropping into the ocean like a great gold-red coin where James is, and left behind in Oxford, Robbie’s left with gray and cold and the slap of his shoes in the puddles, the dampness of his trouser cuffs. He hangs his suit up to dry in the empty damp air of his flat.
They tell me nothing’s gone.
There’s the absence of pints and takeaway, the lack of smart remarks, smoking breaks, half-forgotten smiles. He’d forget his shadow if it wasn’t attached, lose his lungs if they weren’t needed for breathing - smart as he is, sometimes he hasn’t a clue.
The bells ring out over the city (he’s hours away), and the dusk is dropping in early and there’s no leaving it, no leaving here.
Robbie had the chance, didn’t take it.
Cured, I am frizzled, stale and small.