Ну э, фик. =)
Малк/Джейми, Джулиус, и ангст.
What We Notice
читать дальшеSometimes Julius thinks that he notices all the wrong things about Malcolm, things that likely don’t even mean anything.
He notices how elegant Malcolm’s hands are – bony wrists and long fingers, flying up to punctuate his sentences or clutching thick folders protectively. They are not hands of a violent man, Julius thinks, too thin and too delicate, more suiting a musician, maybe, not the main psychopath of the Whitehall.
Julius notices how Malcolm’s hair curls at his nape, cut short but still managing to adopt its natural state. There’s something boyish and desperately fragile about it, asking for a caress.
Julius notices that Malcolm’s eyes aren’t really grey, but that sort of a transparent, soft green that changes with the lighting and the mood, warm when he laughs and steely when he’s annoyed.
Julius notices how Malcolm’s voice gets hoarser towards the evening from all the yelling and snarling, and how sometimes, when a day is relatively calm, it gets lower and softer instead, almost soothing, almost like Malcolm doesn’t hate whomever he’s speaking to.
Julius notices all the palette of Malcolm’s smiles, and it’s surprisingly a large one for a man who doesn’t seem to have fun whatsoever. On the one side of the palette, there are his fake smirks and exaggerated grins, sometimes devastatingly charming, sometimes sharp and disturbing, the ones he gives to people he despises or people he intends to use. On the other side, there are the genuine ones, open and unself-conscious, appearing when he’s tired or triumphant, and those ones he gives mostly to Samantha and James, his closest circle, people he feels safe with. Julius is envious of Malcolm’s pet employees like hell, but at least there’s knowledge of the fact Malcolm’s capable of sincere joy at all, and of the fact he didn’t yet eradicate all his human weaknesses.
Julius notices how fast stress settles on Malcolm’s face, wearing it down and draining all the colours from his paper-thin skin, eating away his flesh and sharpening his cheekbones. Julius notices that weariness doesn’t affect his stride at all, back always straight, no slowing down, determination in his every movement – Julius can’t possibly imagine the sheer force of will it must require.
Julius also notices that the thinner Malcolm gets, the more youthful he appears – it’s not in the lines of his face, of course, but rather, in the set of his shoulders, his profile, neck, framed by the white shirt’s collar – it’s a very strange observation, Julius thinks, almost imaginary, and he’s never seen Malcolm younger than forty, anyway, but the impression lingers and makes Malcolm look more fragile than he is.
All these things combine into an image, a hidden one, or at least Julius likes to think so. It’s an image of a gentle but passionate man, long since retreated behind the layers of armour and defence mechanisms; it’s an image that makes Julius’s chest ache when he ponders about it too closely, because it’s not all that hard to imagine what Malcolm could be like if his life wasn’t a battlefield. Julius thinks that they could be friends with that other, calmer and less guarded Malcolm, but the speculation is futile and painful both.
Jamie knows that he’s pretty much the only person in the entire fucking world who knows the real Malcolm, Malcolm behind his masks and barbed wire, and outposts with heavily armed velociraptors guarding his somewhat mythical soul. This inner, real Malcolm is hardly anything like outer Malcolm, a construct that was carefully built and polished for the audience. Although, with time they begin to blend, to Jamie’s horror, because sometimes, when they get home, Malcolm doesn’t bother to take the mask off and falls asleep with it around three a.m., looking like a decaying corpse and not letting Jamie touch him. In those moments Jamie thinks that maybe the mask is all there is anymore, but thankfully, these moments pass, and in the morning Malcolm’s himself again, slightly spaced out before his first cup of coffee, pliant and soft under Jamie’s hands, leaning into his kisses with all his guards down, hair fuzzy and fingers drawing lazy circles on Jamie’s shoulders. This Malcolm belongs to Jamie alone, never to be shared, never to be known by anyone, because Jamie’s the only one who has the right, because Jamie was there before the mask even whispered by.
Jamie notices things about Malcolm that no one else can – not because Malcolm wouldn’t let them, but because they wouldn’t know what to search for.
He notices Malcolm growing old. He cuts his greying hair shorter every year, and the frown gets deeper fucking daily; he buys increasingly more expensive cufflinks – fucking cufflinks, and he tries to give Jamie nice silk ties for his birthdays, and there’s suddenly a neat stack of fleeces where a pile of jeans used to be; the little fussy pillows on his sofa get softer and pinker, his whole fucking house gets softer, adopting this sickening middle-class sort of cosiness, and when Jamie thinks sarcastically that the only thing it lacks is a fucking flower pot, Malcolm goes and buys a fucking orchid. He becomes fucking sensible and it gets on Jamie’s nerves, like a white fucking fence makes a punk crave for a blunt heavy object.
Jamie notices that he eats less to the point of not at all and eventually, Jamie has to conclude he survives on satsumas and human fear. He notices that it doesn’t affect Malcolm’s energy levels, though, only the lack of sleep making him intake more coffee and therefore making him more manic than driven. As the time passes, he notices that erratic sleeping hours and weird dietary habits do reflect on him after all, making him skinnier than he was in his twenties, and making him nearly lethargic once off work. Of course, that doesn’t stop Jamie from shagging him every other night and receiving a very passionate fucking reply, but it takes longer to get him in the mood and get him off, but then, neither of them is getting any younger.
Jamie notices that Malcolm stops finding politics very funny and stops seeing his job as an adventure. Jamie still does, never able to take it too seriously, but Malcolm though, the more powerful he gets, the more serious he becomes about it. Jamie notices how idealism drains out of him, replacing with single-minded control-freak desire to be the one calling the shots, to be the one in charge and ordering all the right things, because he’s sure no one else has a clue anymore. It makes him bitter and angry and vicious, and Jamie doesn’t want to think that it will corrupt his already black soul, but sometimes he can’t help but think it’s going to end badly, probably for both of them.
He notices the changes he’d rather ignore, he thinks he shouldn’t be noticing them at all, everyday intimacy blurring up the tiny details, but Malcolm is Jamie’s daily revelation. He takes his eyes off, turns away for a second, switching his attention, and then he turns back to discover Malcolm mocking some unfortunate moron, and his sideways smirk comes across just as cutting as the first time Jamie saw it. Jamie knows he probably looks like an idiot, pausing to gape at Malcolm in the middle of an ordinary conversation, but he can’t help it, momentarily dumbfound, taking the sight in and then realizing that yes, all of it belongs to him. Changes do too, after all, being a part of Malcolm, and being the part only Jamie can see. So what if they are painful to witness at times – Jamie knew what he was signing up for when he stepped into Malcolm’s flat back in Glasgow and stayed for life.
Малк/Джейми, Джулиус, и ангст.
What We Notice
читать дальшеSometimes Julius thinks that he notices all the wrong things about Malcolm, things that likely don’t even mean anything.
He notices how elegant Malcolm’s hands are – bony wrists and long fingers, flying up to punctuate his sentences or clutching thick folders protectively. They are not hands of a violent man, Julius thinks, too thin and too delicate, more suiting a musician, maybe, not the main psychopath of the Whitehall.
Julius notices how Malcolm’s hair curls at his nape, cut short but still managing to adopt its natural state. There’s something boyish and desperately fragile about it, asking for a caress.
Julius notices that Malcolm’s eyes aren’t really grey, but that sort of a transparent, soft green that changes with the lighting and the mood, warm when he laughs and steely when he’s annoyed.
Julius notices how Malcolm’s voice gets hoarser towards the evening from all the yelling and snarling, and how sometimes, when a day is relatively calm, it gets lower and softer instead, almost soothing, almost like Malcolm doesn’t hate whomever he’s speaking to.
Julius notices all the palette of Malcolm’s smiles, and it’s surprisingly a large one for a man who doesn’t seem to have fun whatsoever. On the one side of the palette, there are his fake smirks and exaggerated grins, sometimes devastatingly charming, sometimes sharp and disturbing, the ones he gives to people he despises or people he intends to use. On the other side, there are the genuine ones, open and unself-conscious, appearing when he’s tired or triumphant, and those ones he gives mostly to Samantha and James, his closest circle, people he feels safe with. Julius is envious of Malcolm’s pet employees like hell, but at least there’s knowledge of the fact Malcolm’s capable of sincere joy at all, and of the fact he didn’t yet eradicate all his human weaknesses.
Julius notices how fast stress settles on Malcolm’s face, wearing it down and draining all the colours from his paper-thin skin, eating away his flesh and sharpening his cheekbones. Julius notices that weariness doesn’t affect his stride at all, back always straight, no slowing down, determination in his every movement – Julius can’t possibly imagine the sheer force of will it must require.
Julius also notices that the thinner Malcolm gets, the more youthful he appears – it’s not in the lines of his face, of course, but rather, in the set of his shoulders, his profile, neck, framed by the white shirt’s collar – it’s a very strange observation, Julius thinks, almost imaginary, and he’s never seen Malcolm younger than forty, anyway, but the impression lingers and makes Malcolm look more fragile than he is.
All these things combine into an image, a hidden one, or at least Julius likes to think so. It’s an image of a gentle but passionate man, long since retreated behind the layers of armour and defence mechanisms; it’s an image that makes Julius’s chest ache when he ponders about it too closely, because it’s not all that hard to imagine what Malcolm could be like if his life wasn’t a battlefield. Julius thinks that they could be friends with that other, calmer and less guarded Malcolm, but the speculation is futile and painful both.
Jamie knows that he’s pretty much the only person in the entire fucking world who knows the real Malcolm, Malcolm behind his masks and barbed wire, and outposts with heavily armed velociraptors guarding his somewhat mythical soul. This inner, real Malcolm is hardly anything like outer Malcolm, a construct that was carefully built and polished for the audience. Although, with time they begin to blend, to Jamie’s horror, because sometimes, when they get home, Malcolm doesn’t bother to take the mask off and falls asleep with it around three a.m., looking like a decaying corpse and not letting Jamie touch him. In those moments Jamie thinks that maybe the mask is all there is anymore, but thankfully, these moments pass, and in the morning Malcolm’s himself again, slightly spaced out before his first cup of coffee, pliant and soft under Jamie’s hands, leaning into his kisses with all his guards down, hair fuzzy and fingers drawing lazy circles on Jamie’s shoulders. This Malcolm belongs to Jamie alone, never to be shared, never to be known by anyone, because Jamie’s the only one who has the right, because Jamie was there before the mask even whispered by.
Jamie notices things about Malcolm that no one else can – not because Malcolm wouldn’t let them, but because they wouldn’t know what to search for.
He notices Malcolm growing old. He cuts his greying hair shorter every year, and the frown gets deeper fucking daily; he buys increasingly more expensive cufflinks – fucking cufflinks, and he tries to give Jamie nice silk ties for his birthdays, and there’s suddenly a neat stack of fleeces where a pile of jeans used to be; the little fussy pillows on his sofa get softer and pinker, his whole fucking house gets softer, adopting this sickening middle-class sort of cosiness, and when Jamie thinks sarcastically that the only thing it lacks is a fucking flower pot, Malcolm goes and buys a fucking orchid. He becomes fucking sensible and it gets on Jamie’s nerves, like a white fucking fence makes a punk crave for a blunt heavy object.
Jamie notices that he eats less to the point of not at all and eventually, Jamie has to conclude he survives on satsumas and human fear. He notices that it doesn’t affect Malcolm’s energy levels, though, only the lack of sleep making him intake more coffee and therefore making him more manic than driven. As the time passes, he notices that erratic sleeping hours and weird dietary habits do reflect on him after all, making him skinnier than he was in his twenties, and making him nearly lethargic once off work. Of course, that doesn’t stop Jamie from shagging him every other night and receiving a very passionate fucking reply, but it takes longer to get him in the mood and get him off, but then, neither of them is getting any younger.
Jamie notices that Malcolm stops finding politics very funny and stops seeing his job as an adventure. Jamie still does, never able to take it too seriously, but Malcolm though, the more powerful he gets, the more serious he becomes about it. Jamie notices how idealism drains out of him, replacing with single-minded control-freak desire to be the one calling the shots, to be the one in charge and ordering all the right things, because he’s sure no one else has a clue anymore. It makes him bitter and angry and vicious, and Jamie doesn’t want to think that it will corrupt his already black soul, but sometimes he can’t help but think it’s going to end badly, probably for both of them.
He notices the changes he’d rather ignore, he thinks he shouldn’t be noticing them at all, everyday intimacy blurring up the tiny details, but Malcolm is Jamie’s daily revelation. He takes his eyes off, turns away for a second, switching his attention, and then he turns back to discover Malcolm mocking some unfortunate moron, and his sideways smirk comes across just as cutting as the first time Jamie saw it. Jamie knows he probably looks like an idiot, pausing to gape at Malcolm in the middle of an ordinary conversation, but he can’t help it, momentarily dumbfound, taking the sight in and then realizing that yes, all of it belongs to him. Changes do too, after all, being a part of Malcolm, and being the part only Jamie can see. So what if they are painful to witness at times – Jamie knew what he was signing up for when he stepped into Malcolm’s flat back in Glasgow and stayed for life.