Post by The Anglophile on Sept 4, 2007 10:46:51 GMT -5
Title: The Rules
Summary: Repressed feelings and whatnot. Oh, I hate these.
Rating: PG
A/N: So I generally can't stand first person fanfics. But then I wrote this, so it just goes to show how hypocritical I am. >_<
This is on my fanfiction, but that's the version I submitted to a contest at the Hideaway, and the only difference is that that one has three paragraphs of crap tacked onto the end because I had a specific ending line I needed to use. So you guys get the good one. ^_^
Why are we doing this? It is very simple; we are following the rules of propriety, even if it is not very healthy. Or at least, it is the only excuse I have ever thought of. It has silenced the few well-meaning friends who cared enough to notice what was happening.
But propriety does not keep us from everyday interaction. We are not forbidden friendship. We are allowed to invite each other to tea, but not to enjoy it too enthusiastically, and others should be invited as well so that there can be no whisperings about what goes on behind closed doors. But I am not forbidden to notice that he puts too much sugar in his tea and pays more attention to cakes than sandwiches, because these are private observations that go on behind my own closed doors.
He is not forbidden to call me “my dear.”
We both know, of course, how the other feels. We both also know what the rules are. It is, in some ways, like a game. Behave yourself and act professionally: move ahead three spaces and have your sordid little tea party. Let your gaze linger a fraction of a second too long at the staff table: lose a turn, avoid each other for a week to ward off suspicion.
I sometimes wonder if anyone would care. When I was his student and I allowed myself idle daydreams, they always ended unhappily but realistically with everyone outraged by the breach of decorum. But at least our imaginary selves were happy for a little while, safe and warm and hidden in his tower where everything was silver or scarlet or in flames. I never could decide on the colour.
Now I am a responsible adult, and no one could accuse him of taking advantage of me. But now there is the professional boundary, which has only been tested once, a very long time ago. Now it is treated properly, silently acknowledged and steadfastly obeyed.
The boundary was tested once, fleetingly, and it was a moment of exceptional beauty. I remember it clearly. Sometimes I catch myself playing it over in my mind, cutting it off where its beauty is tainted before starting it over again. Because of course it ends unhappily. It’s almost disturbing how my adolescent fantasies got that part right.
It was a bright, fresh spring afternoon. I had half a dozen vases of flowers in my drawing room; very somber white lilies, large pale daisies, sickly yellow roses, sinister poppies and irises, bizarre, skinny carnations, and quiet, pink gladiolas, which I rather liked. But they were so quiet that the chorus of flowers around them made them hard to notice.
I remember that there were so many flowers because my father had just died, and apparently the best thing to send a grieving daughter is flowers. I think flowers are the most impractical thing to give someone when they’ve lost a loved one. Flowers are quite lovely in life, yes, but then they die, just like the loved one, and if you think about this parallel how are you supposed to feel comforted when you know that more death is coming, that you are surrounded by dying things?
I sat in my drawing room, deafened by a cacophony of flowers, the sunlight streaming in unabashedly through the open windows and warming my skin. I was staring at the gladiolas, straining to pick out their unobtrusive beauty. They were in a vase of rose-tinted glass, and I was wondering what I would do with all the vases once the flowers had died. They ugly gold china vase that held the roses, for instance, was not one I could imagine myself using ever again. I wondered if my well-meaning friends would be offended if I smashed all the vases and told everyone I was grieving when asked why I was throwing perfectly good vases at the wall.
I thought too about what to do with the flowers. Not the sallow roses and their companions, but the gladiolas. They didn’t belong here in this room laced with death. They should have been on a kitchen table in a sunny village by the sea where the light could warm people to their cores and the gladiolas would not have to sit resignedly in a corner. I was very sorry for them, but I could not change their fate. These flowers, I decided, I would bury. The other flowers had always been destined for the rubbish bin, but the gladiolas would return to the earth with dignity, not surrounded by offal.
I had just decided this when there was a knock at the door. Knock is the wrong word; it was a very soft, polite, and almost silver-coloured tap. I did not move. I think I might have realised then who it was if I had thought about it, but I didn’t bother.
“Minerva?” he called gently through the door, his voice the kind you would use to waken an invalid from their afternoon nap to say you had their soup ready.
I turned my head to the door, that was all. Somehow he knew, and he silently opened the door. I was staring at the carpet by the time it clicked shut.
“I am not in the mood for entertaining,” I said in a dewy voice.
“My dear, do you think I would ask such a thing of you?” he murmured, and his sympathy was so clear in his voice, more real than anyone else’s. Suddenly offered this earnestness—which I later learned was empathy—I didn’t know what to say.
“Do sit down,” was all I managed. My voice was slightly stronger. He hesitated for a moment, then his purple high-heeled boots clashed with the spot of crimson carpet I was staring at. When I knew he had settled himself in the chair opposite me, I looked up to find his eyes fixed very firmly on mine. I remember the way his hair, auburn but with streaks of grey, glowed faintly in the sun. His eyes were too blue and too concerned and I looked away at the irreverently thrown-open window.
“Minerva.”
What can I say about that word? It is the clearest thing in my mind. So much of the day’s beauty is in that word and the way he said it. He was reproachful on the surface, but clearly written on the layer below that was “I am worried about you,” and below that he was sad, very sad; if you were paying attention you could hear the sorrow winding around the ‘r’ especially. I am still amazed by his mastery of expression, packing all those emotions into three syllables. But there is more. I almost didn’t catch it but I know I didn’t imagine it; there was love, cautiously peering out from the ‘a.’ I did catch it, though, staring at the window without seeing anything, and once I had dissected the word and discovered all its layers I turned to him with wide eyes.
“I am very sorry for you.”
“I know,” I said crisply. “Of course I know.”
“I didn’t want to bother you—”
“I know that too,” I leapt from my chair impatiently, suddenly feeling on fire because of the feelings he had conveyed to me but was now ignoring even though they hung in the flower-scented air. He stood too, discomforted by my agitation.
“Minerva,” he said again, the layers now in reverse order, and I began to pace because he wouldn’t say it outright.
“What?”
“If there’s anything I can—” he began, but I would not allow him to finish that sentence.
“I am sick to death of that offer, Albus,” I snapped, squeezing my eyes shut tight as though that would make it all have never happened, but then his very thin hands gripped my shoulders with surprising force and I was startled into looking at him.
“Calm down,” he murmured.
“I protest to being patronised in this manner!” I cried, ridiculously, but he wasn’t being condescending when he kissed me, so I couldn’t protest.
This is, perversely, the least clear thing. My brain was fogged and all I can say is that it was too short. This is where I always start over, because I was the one who pulled away, so I don’t really have the right to be upset about it.
His sadness was no longer wrapped subtly around an ‘r.’ It was horribly plain in the wrinkles around his eyes, on his half-open lips to which some of my saliva must have still been clinging.
“I am so sorry,” I said very quietly but truthfully, and at least he knew that.
“You’re right, it would be inappropriate and unprofessional,” he said softly.
“Propriety—”
“I know—”
“If there were any way—”
“I would too.”
We went on this way, flustered and pathetically sad but aware for the first time of the boundary that was not to be breached. Later it became a rule to leave everything unsaid because it is less painful than the halting, side-stepping conversation we had that day. He left, and I stood frozen in the centre of the room, surrounded by flowers that failed at being cheerful and sunlight that couldn’t even warm my skin. After several minutes like this, I decided I hated the roses the most, so they would be first. They were the nearest to death anyway.
I picked up the gold vase and, with an economy of movement, dropped the roses in the waste basket and poured the water unceremoniously over them, then took the vase to the kitchen and simply let go. The china shattered beautifully on the stone floor, filling the kitchen for the briefest moment with the perfect melody of chaos.
I did not disturb the gladiolas, because they deserved to die naturally after being deprived of a life by the sea.
Summary: Repressed feelings and whatnot. Oh, I hate these.
Rating: PG
A/N: So I generally can't stand first person fanfics. But then I wrote this, so it just goes to show how hypocritical I am. >_<
This is on my fanfiction, but that's the version I submitted to a contest at the Hideaway, and the only difference is that that one has three paragraphs of crap tacked onto the end because I had a specific ending line I needed to use. So you guys get the good one. ^_^
The Rules
[/b]Why are we doing this? It is very simple; we are following the rules of propriety, even if it is not very healthy. Or at least, it is the only excuse I have ever thought of. It has silenced the few well-meaning friends who cared enough to notice what was happening.
But propriety does not keep us from everyday interaction. We are not forbidden friendship. We are allowed to invite each other to tea, but not to enjoy it too enthusiastically, and others should be invited as well so that there can be no whisperings about what goes on behind closed doors. But I am not forbidden to notice that he puts too much sugar in his tea and pays more attention to cakes than sandwiches, because these are private observations that go on behind my own closed doors.
He is not forbidden to call me “my dear.”
We both know, of course, how the other feels. We both also know what the rules are. It is, in some ways, like a game. Behave yourself and act professionally: move ahead three spaces and have your sordid little tea party. Let your gaze linger a fraction of a second too long at the staff table: lose a turn, avoid each other for a week to ward off suspicion.
I sometimes wonder if anyone would care. When I was his student and I allowed myself idle daydreams, they always ended unhappily but realistically with everyone outraged by the breach of decorum. But at least our imaginary selves were happy for a little while, safe and warm and hidden in his tower where everything was silver or scarlet or in flames. I never could decide on the colour.
Now I am a responsible adult, and no one could accuse him of taking advantage of me. But now there is the professional boundary, which has only been tested once, a very long time ago. Now it is treated properly, silently acknowledged and steadfastly obeyed.
The boundary was tested once, fleetingly, and it was a moment of exceptional beauty. I remember it clearly. Sometimes I catch myself playing it over in my mind, cutting it off where its beauty is tainted before starting it over again. Because of course it ends unhappily. It’s almost disturbing how my adolescent fantasies got that part right.
It was a bright, fresh spring afternoon. I had half a dozen vases of flowers in my drawing room; very somber white lilies, large pale daisies, sickly yellow roses, sinister poppies and irises, bizarre, skinny carnations, and quiet, pink gladiolas, which I rather liked. But they were so quiet that the chorus of flowers around them made them hard to notice.
I remember that there were so many flowers because my father had just died, and apparently the best thing to send a grieving daughter is flowers. I think flowers are the most impractical thing to give someone when they’ve lost a loved one. Flowers are quite lovely in life, yes, but then they die, just like the loved one, and if you think about this parallel how are you supposed to feel comforted when you know that more death is coming, that you are surrounded by dying things?
I sat in my drawing room, deafened by a cacophony of flowers, the sunlight streaming in unabashedly through the open windows and warming my skin. I was staring at the gladiolas, straining to pick out their unobtrusive beauty. They were in a vase of rose-tinted glass, and I was wondering what I would do with all the vases once the flowers had died. They ugly gold china vase that held the roses, for instance, was not one I could imagine myself using ever again. I wondered if my well-meaning friends would be offended if I smashed all the vases and told everyone I was grieving when asked why I was throwing perfectly good vases at the wall.
I thought too about what to do with the flowers. Not the sallow roses and their companions, but the gladiolas. They didn’t belong here in this room laced with death. They should have been on a kitchen table in a sunny village by the sea where the light could warm people to their cores and the gladiolas would not have to sit resignedly in a corner. I was very sorry for them, but I could not change their fate. These flowers, I decided, I would bury. The other flowers had always been destined for the rubbish bin, but the gladiolas would return to the earth with dignity, not surrounded by offal.
I had just decided this when there was a knock at the door. Knock is the wrong word; it was a very soft, polite, and almost silver-coloured tap. I did not move. I think I might have realised then who it was if I had thought about it, but I didn’t bother.
“Minerva?” he called gently through the door, his voice the kind you would use to waken an invalid from their afternoon nap to say you had their soup ready.
I turned my head to the door, that was all. Somehow he knew, and he silently opened the door. I was staring at the carpet by the time it clicked shut.
“I am not in the mood for entertaining,” I said in a dewy voice.
“My dear, do you think I would ask such a thing of you?” he murmured, and his sympathy was so clear in his voice, more real than anyone else’s. Suddenly offered this earnestness—which I later learned was empathy—I didn’t know what to say.
“Do sit down,” was all I managed. My voice was slightly stronger. He hesitated for a moment, then his purple high-heeled boots clashed with the spot of crimson carpet I was staring at. When I knew he had settled himself in the chair opposite me, I looked up to find his eyes fixed very firmly on mine. I remember the way his hair, auburn but with streaks of grey, glowed faintly in the sun. His eyes were too blue and too concerned and I looked away at the irreverently thrown-open window.
“Minerva.”
What can I say about that word? It is the clearest thing in my mind. So much of the day’s beauty is in that word and the way he said it. He was reproachful on the surface, but clearly written on the layer below that was “I am worried about you,” and below that he was sad, very sad; if you were paying attention you could hear the sorrow winding around the ‘r’ especially. I am still amazed by his mastery of expression, packing all those emotions into three syllables. But there is more. I almost didn’t catch it but I know I didn’t imagine it; there was love, cautiously peering out from the ‘a.’ I did catch it, though, staring at the window without seeing anything, and once I had dissected the word and discovered all its layers I turned to him with wide eyes.
“I am very sorry for you.”
“I know,” I said crisply. “Of course I know.”
“I didn’t want to bother you—”
“I know that too,” I leapt from my chair impatiently, suddenly feeling on fire because of the feelings he had conveyed to me but was now ignoring even though they hung in the flower-scented air. He stood too, discomforted by my agitation.
“Minerva,” he said again, the layers now in reverse order, and I began to pace because he wouldn’t say it outright.
“What?”
“If there’s anything I can—” he began, but I would not allow him to finish that sentence.
“I am sick to death of that offer, Albus,” I snapped, squeezing my eyes shut tight as though that would make it all have never happened, but then his very thin hands gripped my shoulders with surprising force and I was startled into looking at him.
“Calm down,” he murmured.
“I protest to being patronised in this manner!” I cried, ridiculously, but he wasn’t being condescending when he kissed me, so I couldn’t protest.
This is, perversely, the least clear thing. My brain was fogged and all I can say is that it was too short. This is where I always start over, because I was the one who pulled away, so I don’t really have the right to be upset about it.
His sadness was no longer wrapped subtly around an ‘r.’ It was horribly plain in the wrinkles around his eyes, on his half-open lips to which some of my saliva must have still been clinging.
“I am so sorry,” I said very quietly but truthfully, and at least he knew that.
“You’re right, it would be inappropriate and unprofessional,” he said softly.
“Propriety—”
“I know—”
“If there were any way—”
“I would too.”
We went on this way, flustered and pathetically sad but aware for the first time of the boundary that was not to be breached. Later it became a rule to leave everything unsaid because it is less painful than the halting, side-stepping conversation we had that day. He left, and I stood frozen in the centre of the room, surrounded by flowers that failed at being cheerful and sunlight that couldn’t even warm my skin. After several minutes like this, I decided I hated the roses the most, so they would be first. They were the nearest to death anyway.
I picked up the gold vase and, with an economy of movement, dropped the roses in the waste basket and poured the water unceremoniously over them, then took the vase to the kitchen and simply let go. The china shattered beautifully on the stone floor, filling the kitchen for the briefest moment with the perfect melody of chaos.
I did not disturb the gladiolas, because they deserved to die naturally after being deprived of a life by the sea.
