Road to Recovery Vignette #7 Poetry
Apr. 15th, 2014 01:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eskil_douglasSummary: Young Eskil Douglas is found asleep in a pile of notepapers, bad poetry and cuteness ensues
Content Note: Bad love poetry, some of it mildly racy.
It’s early, early in the morning (or late, late at night, depending on how you look at it). Nothing’s happening in the storefront office at 2 Maiden Lane except that the naturalist who runs the place is putting the finishing touches on a new design for a decorative fungus bed for a certain Incorrigible Raconteur. The naturalist pushes back from the drafting table, exhales, remembering the need to breathe.
He picks up the lamp at his desk and as quietly as he can manage ascends the stair to his apartments, where things are quiet, this time of night. (Of course, there being no real “day” in London, it’s always night, but there are certain schedules that a household observes even underground.) Quietly, quietly he moves to the bedroom, where he very gently pushes open the door, which lately has always been left slightly ajar to allow easy access.
By all accounts Eskil is not awake, not that Becquerel can see anyway. But apparently he’s been busy! Strewn around him are sheets of notepaper, the low-quality scratchpaper made of fungal pulp that one sees bohemians of all stripes employing for their various authorial activities. Curious stuff! Maybe Holzknecht passed the Swede some paper--or perhaps it was Karin, encouraging her cousin’s creative streak. It strikes Becquerel as odd (and the fact that it strikes him as odd also strikes him as odd--it’s funny to him, that he himself should think it strange). He never really figured Eskil for a bohemian.
Lightly, lightly, the naturalist perches at the edge of the bed, setting the lamp down on the side-table. He presses the gentlest of affectionate kisses to Eskil’s forehead and gazes down at the sheets in front of him.
A grin spreads over his face, and he has to restrain himself from laughing …
On one of the sheets there’s an unfinished poem, it reads:
My love is an angel,
though he thinks I don’t know.
But I have seen his wings,
and I have seen him glow.
My love has amber eyes,
that sometimes shine like the sun.
In his gaze lies the world,
and I am undone.
And on another sheet there’s something far sillier:
His lips taste like honey.
He smells like bergamot.
If I didn’t know better,
I’d say he’s a teapot.
He is warm and cosy,
and his kisses steamy.
I love my sweet teapot,
he is so dreamy.
The naturalist’s face is bright red. Poetry from Eskil, for him. It’s sweet. It’s utterly sweet, and he feels a tickling feeling in his stomach. What a sweet, sweet man …
… then, of course, his mind wanders to the love letters he received a month ago, those most intimate letters, and the feeling of reading them--but no. He pushes it away, that feeling. For the moment it’s something he’ll keep to himself, and he will adore these poems, the ones written to him by the sweetest man alive. Another light, light kiss to Eskil’s forehead.
The Swede wakes at the kiss, just like in the fairy tales, and he beams sleepily at Becquerel. Then he remembers the writing, and he realizes he must have fallen asleep whilst working on some rather bad poetry. He blushes shyly and bites his lip.
Becquerel grins at him and lifts the teapot poem, points at the word “teapot,” and mouths teapot! He’s obviously pleased with it, though he’s curious to see Eskil’s reaction at being caught in the act (so to speak).
Eskil grins a bit sheepishly and blushes even more. “I... eh, it’s perhaps a bit silly, and eh, not terribly well written, but, um, it’s, it’s true. I need to practice more, I’ve never tried to write um, poetry in English before... but you inspire me.” He rummages about amongst the papers, obviously looking for something in particular. Another sheet of paper, of course. When he finds it he turns bright red. It’s embarrassing, but he still feels like he should share. Shyly, almost hesitantly, he offers it to Becquerel:
Flesh against flesh,
Quivering touches,
The heavy scent of love,
Silence broken only by my own moans,
and the sounds of our bodies as they melt together,
as one.
His lips, hot, scorching my skin.
His hands, his fingers, finding me,
my skin that aches for his touch.
I want him, need him, need him to want me.
Need him to mark me with our lust.
Want him to lose himself with me.
Need to lose myself with him.
Flesh against flesh,
and being lost together in the others arms.
Bliss.
The naturalist takes his time reading this one. When he discovers the nature of the poem, his lips part and he lifts one hand to his face in surprise and slight embarrassment. His smile is surprised, half-hidden, pleased--and when he finishes he shuts his eyes and touches the top of the page to his lips. Very, very lightly indeed.
Then he cracks a little grin and writes, snuggling a little closer, Is this how you make up for not being well enough to do the real thing?
Eskil grins, still a bit shy. He’s a bit self conscious about the quality of his work, it would have been easier if he could have written it in his own language, but he wanted Becquerel to know. He wanted to do something for him, to share something with him. “It’s eh, at least an attempt to... is it, does it... do you like it? As I said, you do inspire me. In eh, more ways than one I should add.”
Eyelids lowered, Becqui bites his lip and slips a hand down Eskil's chest before writing again. I can tell, he writes with a shy little grin, nuzzling Eskil's neck and ear and cheek. Lightly he leaves a kiss on Eskil's mouth, a teasing thing, where he's oddly and confusingly aware of the effect he has on this man. Heal fast, lover. You're inspiring me, too, and I have to do something about it soon ...
There’s a shuddering breath, and a small shiver runs down the Swedes spine. “I’m working on it, believe me,” he says, sounding ever so determined. He reaches for Becquerel, wanting him close even if it’s torture to not be able to actually fulfill their shared desires.
It's funny, the naturalist writes after a moment of thought. Before we made love the first time it was much scarier. Now, though--his face is thoughtful, even a little confused--now I know what I want. My desires ... I know better what they are. I'm not an expert by any means. But I know better now.
Eskil nods in agreement, then blushes again. “... and, eh, we still have um, more things to explore should we feel like it... not that I, um, know exactly what... but things.”
London is a big city, writes the naturalist; you're in London now. It's a much bigger city than it was when you were just a visitor. I'm not the only aspect of London you should prepare to explore. Again he touches his lips to Eskil's forehead, a gesture of gentle care. I'm your introduction, at best. He looks a little proud of having been deemed worthy to introduce someone, actually.
“You know, I look forward to it... and if you, eh, would be so kind as to offer me some guidance, I’m sure I’ll do well here...” much better than I did back home at least. “I... want to be here, and um, I think that will help, yes? I’m, I want London to become my new home, a real home... no matter what that ends up like.”
Becquerel nods. And having had the chance to visit before settling on this place as your future home, you've informed your decision much better. I'll guide you as far as I can, he writes, fully cognizant of his lack of experience in the darker wells of information in the city makes him unsuited as an advanced teacher. When comes time for you to advance further ... well, we'll get there. He grins shyly and touches Eskil's chin again. I am here to help you settle in.
Eskil captures the hand on his chin with his own and gently guides it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the naturalists palm. “I... words can’t describe how thankful I am for that. Though,” he grins and gestures to the papers around them, “I could try, if you’d like.”
Becquerel's not clear on Eskil's meaning; he shakes his head with a little smile. Try what, sweet?
The Swedes grin grows a little wider. “I could try to, um, express my gratitude in um, another... poem if one feels eh, charitable enough to call my feeble attempts poems.”
Laughing, Becquerel retrieves a fresh sheet of paper for Eskil and sets it up in front of him. With that and a pencil, Eskil now has all the tools he needs. Now Becquerel rests his head on Eskil's shoulder, snuggling in, sneaking in under the blankets with him.
Given the tools Eskil sets to work, focused entirely on his writing. It’s a hasty piece, not polished or refined, but once he’s done he offers it to Becquerel, unless he’s already fallen asleep, with a kiss to the top of the naturalists head.
If I could I’d give you the sun,
and I would still owe you.
If I could I’d take down the stars,
shining like diamonds,
and strew them across the city,
to light your way,
and I’d still owe you.
If I could I’d give you a garden,
untouched, like a new canvas,
for you to plant your dreams and watch them grow,
and I’d still owe you.
I can give you my heart,
and it’s yours to keep,
Perhaps it is enough to pay my debt,
for all that you have offered.
But I will remain your servant,
always and forever.
And you will have my gratitude,
for always and forever.
Now--Becquerel turns very red. The poem surprises him. He lifts up from where he's leaning against Eskil's shoulder a little bit, taking a long, long time to parse everything.
Esse, he writes eventually, when he has found the words, you don't owe me. Not a thing. I give what I can and I only hope for a return. And ...--his fingers hover over the last four lines--I don't desire servitude. What I desire is friendship. Respect. Do you see?
“Becquerel... it’s, it’s a poem, I... it’s not supposed to be taken so, uh, literally.” Eskil bites his lip, wondering how’s he’s supposed to explain this to reassure the other man. “I, eh, know that I don’t, um, owe you in... it’s not, I just... and I don’t mean servitude as in, I mean... I just.” He sighs and feels guilty. “I’m sorry... it wasn’t intended to, I didn’t want to give you the wrong impression.”
The naturalist just giggles at his own mistake, blush staying put on his face. Of course. He looks more embarrassed now--That’s my mistake. I take things literally, don’t I? Too much a scientist. Still laughing through his embarrassment, he leans over and presses a kiss to Eskil’s cheek. Thank you, lover. I’ll treasure them all.
To say that Eskil is relieved would be an understatement. “I’ll um, be more careful to not write things that can be so... misinterpreted next time,” he says with a smile and a nod. “I eh, want you to enjoy them, not fret over the eh, meaning.” He snuggles a bit closer, that can at least not be misinterpreted he thinks.
Becquerel cuddles close, content with the hold. It’s also a matter of just--knowing what I find to be romantic, I think. I’m not sure we really … know each other well enough yet, to be able to say whether we know for certain what the other wants, one hundred per cent. It’s ongoing. For example: now you know that I might need a little guidance understanding your poems if they’re very metaphorical. Now you know. And it’s not to discourage you from writing poems; in fact, if you enjoy writing them, you should write lots of them, make lots and lots of mistakes, and find out which ones actually work. Experimentation. If he can offer one thing to a creative conversation, it’s scientific principles …
“Mmm, you’re right.” He doesn’t specify which part, but it’s probably safe to assume he means all of it. “It’s a bit tiring though... writing I mean, I should um, probably pace myself a bit. Or I’ll drown in piles of paper... you’d have to dig me out from underneath them.” He sounds happy as he makes silly jokes, but also very tired and a bit drained.
Sweet boy, writes the naturalist with a studying, but happy look, one day you’ll be able to dig yourself out. We’ll get you there. He pulls the blanket up over them, ignoring the pages and pencils still littered over top of them, too tired to really care. They’ll still be there when the two men wake up, after all.
Content Note: Bad love poetry, some of it mildly racy.
It’s early, early in the morning (or late, late at night, depending on how you look at it). Nothing’s happening in the storefront office at 2 Maiden Lane except that the naturalist who runs the place is putting the finishing touches on a new design for a decorative fungus bed for a certain Incorrigible Raconteur. The naturalist pushes back from the drafting table, exhales, remembering the need to breathe.
He picks up the lamp at his desk and as quietly as he can manage ascends the stair to his apartments, where things are quiet, this time of night. (Of course, there being no real “day” in London, it’s always night, but there are certain schedules that a household observes even underground.) Quietly, quietly he moves to the bedroom, where he very gently pushes open the door, which lately has always been left slightly ajar to allow easy access.
By all accounts Eskil is not awake, not that Becquerel can see anyway. But apparently he’s been busy! Strewn around him are sheets of notepaper, the low-quality scratchpaper made of fungal pulp that one sees bohemians of all stripes employing for their various authorial activities. Curious stuff! Maybe Holzknecht passed the Swede some paper--or perhaps it was Karin, encouraging her cousin’s creative streak. It strikes Becquerel as odd (and the fact that it strikes him as odd also strikes him as odd--it’s funny to him, that he himself should think it strange). He never really figured Eskil for a bohemian.
Lightly, lightly, the naturalist perches at the edge of the bed, setting the lamp down on the side-table. He presses the gentlest of affectionate kisses to Eskil’s forehead and gazes down at the sheets in front of him.
A grin spreads over his face, and he has to restrain himself from laughing …
On one of the sheets there’s an unfinished poem, it reads:
My love is an angel,
though he thinks I don’t know.
But I have seen his wings,
and I have seen him glow.
My love has amber eyes,
that sometimes shine like the sun.
In his gaze lies the world,
and I am undone.
And on another sheet there’s something far sillier:
His lips taste like honey.
He smells like bergamot.
If I didn’t know better,
I’d say he’s a teapot.
He is warm and cosy,
and his kisses steamy.
I love my sweet teapot,
he is so dreamy.
The naturalist’s face is bright red. Poetry from Eskil, for him. It’s sweet. It’s utterly sweet, and he feels a tickling feeling in his stomach. What a sweet, sweet man …
… then, of course, his mind wanders to the love letters he received a month ago, those most intimate letters, and the feeling of reading them--but no. He pushes it away, that feeling. For the moment it’s something he’ll keep to himself, and he will adore these poems, the ones written to him by the sweetest man alive. Another light, light kiss to Eskil’s forehead.
The Swede wakes at the kiss, just like in the fairy tales, and he beams sleepily at Becquerel. Then he remembers the writing, and he realizes he must have fallen asleep whilst working on some rather bad poetry. He blushes shyly and bites his lip.
Becquerel grins at him and lifts the teapot poem, points at the word “teapot,” and mouths teapot! He’s obviously pleased with it, though he’s curious to see Eskil’s reaction at being caught in the act (so to speak).
Eskil grins a bit sheepishly and blushes even more. “I... eh, it’s perhaps a bit silly, and eh, not terribly well written, but, um, it’s, it’s true. I need to practice more, I’ve never tried to write um, poetry in English before... but you inspire me.” He rummages about amongst the papers, obviously looking for something in particular. Another sheet of paper, of course. When he finds it he turns bright red. It’s embarrassing, but he still feels like he should share. Shyly, almost hesitantly, he offers it to Becquerel:
Flesh against flesh,
Quivering touches,
The heavy scent of love,
Silence broken only by my own moans,
and the sounds of our bodies as they melt together,
as one.
His lips, hot, scorching my skin.
His hands, his fingers, finding me,
my skin that aches for his touch.
I want him, need him, need him to want me.
Need him to mark me with our lust.
Want him to lose himself with me.
Need to lose myself with him.
Flesh against flesh,
and being lost together in the others arms.
Bliss.
The naturalist takes his time reading this one. When he discovers the nature of the poem, his lips part and he lifts one hand to his face in surprise and slight embarrassment. His smile is surprised, half-hidden, pleased--and when he finishes he shuts his eyes and touches the top of the page to his lips. Very, very lightly indeed.
Then he cracks a little grin and writes, snuggling a little closer, Is this how you make up for not being well enough to do the real thing?
Eskil grins, still a bit shy. He’s a bit self conscious about the quality of his work, it would have been easier if he could have written it in his own language, but he wanted Becquerel to know. He wanted to do something for him, to share something with him. “It’s eh, at least an attempt to... is it, does it... do you like it? As I said, you do inspire me. In eh, more ways than one I should add.”
Eyelids lowered, Becqui bites his lip and slips a hand down Eskil's chest before writing again. I can tell, he writes with a shy little grin, nuzzling Eskil's neck and ear and cheek. Lightly he leaves a kiss on Eskil's mouth, a teasing thing, where he's oddly and confusingly aware of the effect he has on this man. Heal fast, lover. You're inspiring me, too, and I have to do something about it soon ...
There’s a shuddering breath, and a small shiver runs down the Swedes spine. “I’m working on it, believe me,” he says, sounding ever so determined. He reaches for Becquerel, wanting him close even if it’s torture to not be able to actually fulfill their shared desires.
It's funny, the naturalist writes after a moment of thought. Before we made love the first time it was much scarier. Now, though--his face is thoughtful, even a little confused--now I know what I want. My desires ... I know better what they are. I'm not an expert by any means. But I know better now.
Eskil nods in agreement, then blushes again. “... and, eh, we still have um, more things to explore should we feel like it... not that I, um, know exactly what... but things.”
London is a big city, writes the naturalist; you're in London now. It's a much bigger city than it was when you were just a visitor. I'm not the only aspect of London you should prepare to explore. Again he touches his lips to Eskil's forehead, a gesture of gentle care. I'm your introduction, at best. He looks a little proud of having been deemed worthy to introduce someone, actually.
“You know, I look forward to it... and if you, eh, would be so kind as to offer me some guidance, I’m sure I’ll do well here...” much better than I did back home at least. “I... want to be here, and um, I think that will help, yes? I’m, I want London to become my new home, a real home... no matter what that ends up like.”
Becquerel nods. And having had the chance to visit before settling on this place as your future home, you've informed your decision much better. I'll guide you as far as I can, he writes, fully cognizant of his lack of experience in the darker wells of information in the city makes him unsuited as an advanced teacher. When comes time for you to advance further ... well, we'll get there. He grins shyly and touches Eskil's chin again. I am here to help you settle in.
Eskil captures the hand on his chin with his own and gently guides it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the naturalists palm. “I... words can’t describe how thankful I am for that. Though,” he grins and gestures to the papers around them, “I could try, if you’d like.”
Becquerel's not clear on Eskil's meaning; he shakes his head with a little smile. Try what, sweet?
The Swedes grin grows a little wider. “I could try to, um, express my gratitude in um, another... poem if one feels eh, charitable enough to call my feeble attempts poems.”
Laughing, Becquerel retrieves a fresh sheet of paper for Eskil and sets it up in front of him. With that and a pencil, Eskil now has all the tools he needs. Now Becquerel rests his head on Eskil's shoulder, snuggling in, sneaking in under the blankets with him.
Given the tools Eskil sets to work, focused entirely on his writing. It’s a hasty piece, not polished or refined, but once he’s done he offers it to Becquerel, unless he’s already fallen asleep, with a kiss to the top of the naturalists head.
If I could I’d give you the sun,
and I would still owe you.
If I could I’d take down the stars,
shining like diamonds,
and strew them across the city,
to light your way,
and I’d still owe you.
If I could I’d give you a garden,
untouched, like a new canvas,
for you to plant your dreams and watch them grow,
and I’d still owe you.
I can give you my heart,
and it’s yours to keep,
Perhaps it is enough to pay my debt,
for all that you have offered.
But I will remain your servant,
always and forever.
And you will have my gratitude,
for always and forever.
Now--Becquerel turns very red. The poem surprises him. He lifts up from where he's leaning against Eskil's shoulder a little bit, taking a long, long time to parse everything.
Esse, he writes eventually, when he has found the words, you don't owe me. Not a thing. I give what I can and I only hope for a return. And ...--his fingers hover over the last four lines--I don't desire servitude. What I desire is friendship. Respect. Do you see?
“Becquerel... it’s, it’s a poem, I... it’s not supposed to be taken so, uh, literally.” Eskil bites his lip, wondering how’s he’s supposed to explain this to reassure the other man. “I, eh, know that I don’t, um, owe you in... it’s not, I just... and I don’t mean servitude as in, I mean... I just.” He sighs and feels guilty. “I’m sorry... it wasn’t intended to, I didn’t want to give you the wrong impression.”
The naturalist just giggles at his own mistake, blush staying put on his face. Of course. He looks more embarrassed now--That’s my mistake. I take things literally, don’t I? Too much a scientist. Still laughing through his embarrassment, he leans over and presses a kiss to Eskil’s cheek. Thank you, lover. I’ll treasure them all.
To say that Eskil is relieved would be an understatement. “I’ll um, be more careful to not write things that can be so... misinterpreted next time,” he says with a smile and a nod. “I eh, want you to enjoy them, not fret over the eh, meaning.” He snuggles a bit closer, that can at least not be misinterpreted he thinks.
Becquerel cuddles close, content with the hold. It’s also a matter of just--knowing what I find to be romantic, I think. I’m not sure we really … know each other well enough yet, to be able to say whether we know for certain what the other wants, one hundred per cent. It’s ongoing. For example: now you know that I might need a little guidance understanding your poems if they’re very metaphorical. Now you know. And it’s not to discourage you from writing poems; in fact, if you enjoy writing them, you should write lots of them, make lots and lots of mistakes, and find out which ones actually work. Experimentation. If he can offer one thing to a creative conversation, it’s scientific principles …
“Mmm, you’re right.” He doesn’t specify which part, but it’s probably safe to assume he means all of it. “It’s a bit tiring though... writing I mean, I should um, probably pace myself a bit. Or I’ll drown in piles of paper... you’d have to dig me out from underneath them.” He sounds happy as he makes silly jokes, but also very tired and a bit drained.
Sweet boy, writes the naturalist with a studying, but happy look, one day you’ll be able to dig yourself out. We’ll get you there. He pulls the blanket up over them, ignoring the pages and pencils still littered over top of them, too tired to really care. They’ll still be there when the two men wake up, after all.
