Gone (or at least very severely faded)
May. 4th, 2007 10:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quietcontraryI never have voices of characters very strongly in my head, but today I toyed idly with the idea of HH-fic and the characters were gone. Which is unsurprising, because it's been about a year since I was involved in the fandom.
But I read![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
quigonejinn's latest - the one about the paper soldier, and, ouch. Because she always does that to me :) And I remember once upon a time, I had the scribblings of a fic based on the same fairytale. And others too, I think. I was slowly making my way through a Chinese book of fairytales at the time. Sadly, I don't own the book anymore. I think there was Rapunzel-fic and Beauty and the Beast-fic. I don't know where it all is anymore. Probably on my laptop somewhere...
The Nonsuch
Women had never come between them. Bush was kind to Maria and polite to Barbara; he was friendly with Marie and ignored the others. It had never occurred to Hornblower to give a second thought to the women who came in and out of Bush's life like the tide.
Until the one night where they failed to fit; where, for all of Hornblower's mathematical precision and Bush's trained hands, the angle between their bodies was awkward. Bush's mouth against Hornblower's teeth, his hand on the bony plane of his hip. Hornblower, with his hand twisted beneath the crush of Bush's shoulder while he gasped and squirmed in grotesque mimicry of a newly landed fish. Their breath and heartbeats jarred like music, and even the crescendo was a discordant clash.
Hornblower felt oddly adrift. He was restless and dissatisfied. But it was not until he looked down at the sleeping form of Bush that he realised that he was homesick - that the Bush who lay snoring on his bed was an alien creature to him. The muscle in his body was tighter and more defined, vaguely dispproportionate to compensate for the missing foot. But that was not it - the difference, Hornblower saw, was in the sterner line of the jaw, the confidence of his carriage, even in sleep, and the freedom on his brow.
He wondered if she was the cause of it, and knew that she was, even as he thought it.
He despised himself, but he never called Bush to him again. He despised himself, but he never knew just how much until Caudebec.
(So let this be a warning to me.)
But I read
quigonejinn's latest - the one about the paper soldier, and, ouch. Because she always does that to me :) And I remember once upon a time, I had the scribblings of a fic based on the same fairytale. And others too, I think. I was slowly making my way through a Chinese book of fairytales at the time. Sadly, I don't own the book anymore. I think there was Rapunzel-fic and Beauty and the Beast-fic. I don't know where it all is anymore. Probably on my laptop somewhere...The Nonsuch
Women had never come between them. Bush was kind to Maria and polite to Barbara; he was friendly with Marie and ignored the others. It had never occurred to Hornblower to give a second thought to the women who came in and out of Bush's life like the tide.
Until the one night where they failed to fit; where, for all of Hornblower's mathematical precision and Bush's trained hands, the angle between their bodies was awkward. Bush's mouth against Hornblower's teeth, his hand on the bony plane of his hip. Hornblower, with his hand twisted beneath the crush of Bush's shoulder while he gasped and squirmed in grotesque mimicry of a newly landed fish. Their breath and heartbeats jarred like music, and even the crescendo was a discordant clash.
Hornblower felt oddly adrift. He was restless and dissatisfied. But it was not until he looked down at the sleeping form of Bush that he realised that he was homesick - that the Bush who lay snoring on his bed was an alien creature to him. The muscle in his body was tighter and more defined, vaguely dispproportionate to compensate for the missing foot. But that was not it - the difference, Hornblower saw, was in the sterner line of the jaw, the confidence of his carriage, even in sleep, and the freedom on his brow.
He wondered if she was the cause of it, and knew that she was, even as he thought it.
He despised himself, but he never called Bush to him again. He despised himself, but he never knew just how much until Caudebec.
(So let this be a warning to me.)
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no subject
Date: 2007-05-04 02:12 pm (UTC)*squooshes you*
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Date: 2007-05-06 09:27 am (UTC)*squooshes you back!*