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rainbowfic2020-04-04 09:06 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2020-04-04 09:06 pm
Acanthus #4 [Divide & Rule]
Name: Between the Lines
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Acanthus #4 (quill/fountain pen)
Supplies and Styles: Seedbeads
Word Count: 726 words.
Rating: Teen
Warnings:
Notes: 1940, 1950, 1961; Jack Brayfield/Afzal Syed.
Summary: Jack writes. It’s rarely enough.
***
1940
Jack writes. He writes in pencil – he’s not yet graduated to pen and ink – and fills the lined English exercise book with stilted accounts of the weekend in his neatest handwriting.
At home, he stains his fingers with ink when Mother isn’t looking, and writes out lurid adventures of a soldier, too busy for legibility.
He writes.
1950
Jack only attends the debate for want of anything better to do that day. He’d have gone to LitSoc, but Bill will be there and he doesn’t want to see him. (He’d somehow got through school his heart almost untouched, fonder of words than of his fellow obnoxious schoolboys, only to fall now. And he knows Bill is a damned arrogant bastard, but his mind drifts anyway, remembering stolen moments in college corners, hands in his hair, heat rising –)
The speaker’s voice rises, snapping Jack back to reality and, more than that, drawing his attention to him. Afzal Syed. He’s seen him around. It turns out he’s not only got a true writer’s way with words, he can deliver them brilliantly in person, with a well of anger and passion behind them.
Afterwards, Jack tries to tell him so, though his own gift with words fails him in the attempt.
“Thank you,” says Afzal with a grin. “Brayfield, isn’t it? I make that two compliments in one week. I’ll have to be careful not get puffed up over it.”
Jack frowns. “I’m sorry, old thing. You must have me confused with someone else.”
“No,” Afzal insists and catches hold of his arm, laughing. “Not at all. You write for the Student Review, yes? You praised my poetry. Just call me Anonymous.”
Jack’s confusion lifts and he gives a reluctant laugh in response. “I see.” It makes sense in his head now that he connects the two; that speech, and those poems. Their words intertwine and the world widens.
“Let me buy you a drink,” says Afzal. He hesitates, then, glancing sidelong at Jack. “If you like. If Bill – is it? – isn’t around, of course.”
Jack makes up his mind. “Bill can go to hell.”
1961
Jack waits in the car in the next road along from the prison gates. He despises himself for the cowardice, but this is the furthest he can bring himself to go.
Afzal knows where to find him anyway, walking over to him, bag in hand. “You’re here,” he says, as he gets into the car.
Jack closes his eyes, his knuckles tightening white around the steering wheel of the green Morris Minor. “Yes.” He turns his head. “Sorry. What must you think of me?”
“I’m too tired to think,” Afzal says, pressing his head back against the seat. “Shall we get out of here?”
Jack turns the key and pulls the choke, starting the engine on the second try. He wants to say something, wants to offer more, but words fail him. The thing is, he’s still got his job at the paper. If he keeps his head down, he can carry on writing, if nothing else. “I didn’t mean –” he says and then stops again. “I can’t.”
“I know. I’ll clear out as soon as I can.”
Jack turns the corner. “No. I only meant I can’t join your little rebellion.”
“You don’t want to be arrested for harbouring a dissident, either.”
Jack would like to ask Afzal to do as he does, to keep quiet, and wait for this to pass. Other people will put things right, won’t they? It doesn’t have to be the two of them to try and do it. That’s just a terrible, doomed idea. But it’s different for the two of them – Jack’s got family here to protect; Afzal’s are out of his reach, maybe for good, if someone doesn’t stop Hallam. And Afzal can’t fade into the background as easily as Jack, either. There are always people looking, pointing at ‘foreigners’, aren’t there? Even in a world where that weren’t true, Jack can’t really ask Afzal to be less than he is. He doesn’t want that. He just doesn’t want any of this, either.
“Oh, God,” Jack says, admitting defeat. “I know. But you don’t have to go yet.”
Afzal gives a soft laugh. “Not yet, then. Soon. And Jack? You be careful what you write.”
Jack doesn’t answer.
***
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Acanthus #4 (quill/fountain pen)
Supplies and Styles: Seedbeads
Word Count: 726 words.
Rating: Teen
Warnings:
Notes: 1940, 1950, 1961; Jack Brayfield/Afzal Syed.
Summary: Jack writes. It’s rarely enough.
***
1940
Jack writes. He writes in pencil – he’s not yet graduated to pen and ink – and fills the lined English exercise book with stilted accounts of the weekend in his neatest handwriting.
At home, he stains his fingers with ink when Mother isn’t looking, and writes out lurid adventures of a soldier, too busy for legibility.
He writes.
1950
Jack only attends the debate for want of anything better to do that day. He’d have gone to LitSoc, but Bill will be there and he doesn’t want to see him. (He’d somehow got through school his heart almost untouched, fonder of words than of his fellow obnoxious schoolboys, only to fall now. And he knows Bill is a damned arrogant bastard, but his mind drifts anyway, remembering stolen moments in college corners, hands in his hair, heat rising –)
The speaker’s voice rises, snapping Jack back to reality and, more than that, drawing his attention to him. Afzal Syed. He’s seen him around. It turns out he’s not only got a true writer’s way with words, he can deliver them brilliantly in person, with a well of anger and passion behind them.
Afterwards, Jack tries to tell him so, though his own gift with words fails him in the attempt.
“Thank you,” says Afzal with a grin. “Brayfield, isn’t it? I make that two compliments in one week. I’ll have to be careful not get puffed up over it.”
Jack frowns. “I’m sorry, old thing. You must have me confused with someone else.”
“No,” Afzal insists and catches hold of his arm, laughing. “Not at all. You write for the Student Review, yes? You praised my poetry. Just call me Anonymous.”
Jack’s confusion lifts and he gives a reluctant laugh in response. “I see.” It makes sense in his head now that he connects the two; that speech, and those poems. Their words intertwine and the world widens.
“Let me buy you a drink,” says Afzal. He hesitates, then, glancing sidelong at Jack. “If you like. If Bill – is it? – isn’t around, of course.”
Jack makes up his mind. “Bill can go to hell.”
1961
Jack waits in the car in the next road along from the prison gates. He despises himself for the cowardice, but this is the furthest he can bring himself to go.
Afzal knows where to find him anyway, walking over to him, bag in hand. “You’re here,” he says, as he gets into the car.
Jack closes his eyes, his knuckles tightening white around the steering wheel of the green Morris Minor. “Yes.” He turns his head. “Sorry. What must you think of me?”
“I’m too tired to think,” Afzal says, pressing his head back against the seat. “Shall we get out of here?”
Jack turns the key and pulls the choke, starting the engine on the second try. He wants to say something, wants to offer more, but words fail him. The thing is, he’s still got his job at the paper. If he keeps his head down, he can carry on writing, if nothing else. “I didn’t mean –” he says and then stops again. “I can’t.”
“I know. I’ll clear out as soon as I can.”
Jack turns the corner. “No. I only meant I can’t join your little rebellion.”
“You don’t want to be arrested for harbouring a dissident, either.”
Jack would like to ask Afzal to do as he does, to keep quiet, and wait for this to pass. Other people will put things right, won’t they? It doesn’t have to be the two of them to try and do it. That’s just a terrible, doomed idea. But it’s different for the two of them – Jack’s got family here to protect; Afzal’s are out of his reach, maybe for good, if someone doesn’t stop Hallam. And Afzal can’t fade into the background as easily as Jack, either. There are always people looking, pointing at ‘foreigners’, aren’t there? Even in a world where that weren’t true, Jack can’t really ask Afzal to be less than he is. He doesn’t want that. He just doesn’t want any of this, either.
“Oh, God,” Jack says, admitting defeat. “I know. But you don’t have to go yet.”
Afzal gives a soft laugh. “Not yet, then. Soon. And Jack? You be careful what you write.”
Jack doesn’t answer.
***
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