"The bedsit of Babel" [Sam/Gene; R]
For jamie_dakin, who rightly said the way to a fangirl's pants is through poetry. Inspired by her gorgeous fic, At the Round Earth's Imagined Corners. Read it before you read this. Actually, just read it, period. Seriously, go. Go now. DO EET.
Life on Mars; Sam/Gene; R, and unbeta'd. POETRY ALERT.
Morning, razor sunlit edges scything
Through his bare window
Into his bloodshot eyes.
Filtering through Gene’s unwashed hair,
Hanging around them,
Like the curtain he does not possess.
In his ankle, pain,
In his gut;
His bloodshot mouth.
It ebbs and flows, a bitter tide
Like the flow of time outside his door.
A pooling of confusion, inching up-
And up- his collarbone submerged
His chin- Gene’s tongue, like rising water
Trickling through his lips, into
His bloodshot mouth,
Open like an invitation.
There is no mercy for the wicked,
And even if there was, it isn’t tender.
He’s writ it on his flesh, with Gene’s
Every jerking thrust, and
Every gin-sharp bite, and
Every time their foreheads touch:
Like a train wreck, or an accident.
(Sam knows about accidents
Car accidents, and cop accidents
Which involve smoking guns
Or hastily-shut supply closets
Clattering with fetid mops
As his pants crumple to the floor
All dishabille.
It’s a job hazard, he supposes,
And lets Gene pin him to the wall.)
The air in the apartment is freezing
Inside, he’s numb with cold
But outside, on his skin, too hot:
(He burns and loves the tyranny)
Warmed by Gene’s belly rubbing against him
And his big hands, rough by not ungraceful.
His nerve-ends are throbbing, dancing
Throughout his body, neglecting time;
They couple achingly.
He’s learning.
And suddenly, the noise that reverberates throughout
That little noise he didn’t even notice until now:
It stops.
There is a roar of silence, rising through the air
Like police sirens, or a runaway train
Reaching its terminus; like an old refrigerator
That decides one day to lie down and die.
Into this blazing quiet, he comes
Clenching shut his eyes, his fists;
The lack of noise is deafening-
Gene, he thinks dizzily, is not dissimilar.
Life on Mars; Sam/Gene; R, and unbeta'd. POETRY ALERT.
Morning, razor sunlit edges scything
Through his bare window
Into his bloodshot eyes.
Filtering through Gene’s unwashed hair,
Hanging around them,
Like the curtain he does not possess.
In his ankle, pain,
In his gut;
His bloodshot mouth.
It ebbs and flows, a bitter tide
Like the flow of time outside his door.
A pooling of confusion, inching up-
And up- his collarbone submerged
His chin- Gene’s tongue, like rising water
Trickling through his lips, into
His bloodshot mouth,
Open like an invitation.
There is no mercy for the wicked,
And even if there was, it isn’t tender.
He’s writ it on his flesh, with Gene’s
Every jerking thrust, and
Every gin-sharp bite, and
Every time their foreheads touch:
Like a train wreck, or an accident.
(Sam knows about accidents
Car accidents, and cop accidents
Which involve smoking guns
Or hastily-shut supply closets
Clattering with fetid mops
As his pants crumple to the floor
All dishabille.
It’s a job hazard, he supposes,
And lets Gene pin him to the wall.)
The air in the apartment is freezing
Inside, he’s numb with cold
But outside, on his skin, too hot:
(He burns and loves the tyranny)
Warmed by Gene’s belly rubbing against him
And his big hands, rough by not ungraceful.
His nerve-ends are throbbing, dancing
Throughout his body, neglecting time;
They couple achingly.
He’s learning.
And suddenly, the noise that reverberates throughout
That little noise he didn’t even notice until now:
It stops.
There is a roar of silence, rising through the air
Like police sirens, or a runaway train
Reaching its terminus; like an old refrigerator
That decides one day to lie down and die.
Into this blazing quiet, he comes
Clenching shut his eyes, his fists;
The lack of noise is deafening-
Gene, he thinks dizzily, is not dissimilar.