FIC: the matter of Britten
Silly little thing I wrote for speak_me_fair, who could do with more silliness in her life. Richard/Robbie, academic!AU, nothing objectionable unless you really like Debussy. (I like Debussy. Richard doesn't!)
"You know how you can tell I love you?" Richard says, out of nowhere. They're leaning against a wall in front of the Apollo, passing a cigarette back and forth, and Richard has been complaining for the last twenty minutes about the awful indignity of having just sat through Pelléas et Mélisande. "I go with you to this sort of thing. Honestly, I'd rather watch Wagner. Or all eight hours of the Nicholas fucking Nickelby revival."
"You just don't appreciate opera," Robbie says, finishing up the cigarette and grinding it out with his foot. "Unless it's about grim condemnations of homophobia."
"I happen to be very fond of Britten," Richard sniffs, "and I don't understand how a gay man with a choral background can turn up his nose at him."
Robbie laughs. "I'm not making fun of Britten," he says. "I'm making fun of you."
"Oh, well, that's all right, then." Richard rolls his eyes, and then after a moment his brain appears to jump tracks and his face lights up with the energy of yet another complaint. "The other thing about this opera -- "
"Besides -- no, don't recap, I'm sure I can remember it all -- the lack of plot and the dodgy metaphorical ring-searching and the fact that people in it basically die of boredom and your criminal lack of appreciation for Debussy, you mean?"
"No, this is more basic," Richard says. "I just can't stand love-triangle plots. You'd think they'd communicate. And then they could have a threesome or something."
"Golaud and Pelléas are brothers, though," Robbie points out, "and that's degenerate even by my standards."
"Might have made the opera more exciting though." Richard's smirk is not altogether wholesome. Robbie shrugs: he can't really argue with that.
"At any rate," he says, "I don't know what an aspiring medievalist such as yourself plans to do without the Matter of Britain."
"That's different," Richard shrugs, and filches the cigarette Robbie's just finished rolling. "Anyway, I'm a historian. Or, I guess, I will be, before you start the smug postgrad thing. I don't have to write about it."
Robbie is about to protest the theft, but instead he just laughs and watches him light up -- he looks beautifully angular in profile, all lit up by headlights and streetlights and the glowing bit on the end of the cigarette.
"Have I mentioned lately you're an utter twit?" he says, grinning.
"It's been at least five minutes," Richard says. "Practically an eternity by your standards."
"So we could stand here in the street while you complain about opera, or, alternately, we could go back to my place and, you know, fuck or something."
Richard laughs and hands back the cigarette.
"Starry Vere, God bless you!" he says.
"You know how you can tell I love you?" Richard says, out of nowhere. They're leaning against a wall in front of the Apollo, passing a cigarette back and forth, and Richard has been complaining for the last twenty minutes about the awful indignity of having just sat through Pelléas et Mélisande. "I go with you to this sort of thing. Honestly, I'd rather watch Wagner. Or all eight hours of the Nicholas fucking Nickelby revival."
"You just don't appreciate opera," Robbie says, finishing up the cigarette and grinding it out with his foot. "Unless it's about grim condemnations of homophobia."
"I happen to be very fond of Britten," Richard sniffs, "and I don't understand how a gay man with a choral background can turn up his nose at him."
Robbie laughs. "I'm not making fun of Britten," he says. "I'm making fun of you."
"Oh, well, that's all right, then." Richard rolls his eyes, and then after a moment his brain appears to jump tracks and his face lights up with the energy of yet another complaint. "The other thing about this opera -- "
"Besides -- no, don't recap, I'm sure I can remember it all -- the lack of plot and the dodgy metaphorical ring-searching and the fact that people in it basically die of boredom and your criminal lack of appreciation for Debussy, you mean?"
"No, this is more basic," Richard says. "I just can't stand love-triangle plots. You'd think they'd communicate. And then they could have a threesome or something."
"Golaud and Pelléas are brothers, though," Robbie points out, "and that's degenerate even by my standards."
"Might have made the opera more exciting though." Richard's smirk is not altogether wholesome. Robbie shrugs: he can't really argue with that.
"At any rate," he says, "I don't know what an aspiring medievalist such as yourself plans to do without the Matter of Britain."
"That's different," Richard shrugs, and filches the cigarette Robbie's just finished rolling. "Anyway, I'm a historian. Or, I guess, I will be, before you start the smug postgrad thing. I don't have to write about it."
Robbie is about to protest the theft, but instead he just laughs and watches him light up -- he looks beautifully angular in profile, all lit up by headlights and streetlights and the glowing bit on the end of the cigarette.
"Have I mentioned lately you're an utter twit?" he says, grinning.
"It's been at least five minutes," Richard says. "Practically an eternity by your standards."
"So we could stand here in the street while you complain about opera, or, alternately, we could go back to my place and, you know, fuck or something."
Richard laughs and hands back the cigarette.
"Starry Vere, God bless you!" he says.