Jul. 26th, 2007 01:46 pm
Ficlet: Formulaic
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fox_confessorFormulaic
Dominic (from The Incline of Trees)
836 words
("Cello Suite #4 in E Flat" --YoYo Ma)
By the time Dominic got to the end of the third problem set, he thought he had mastered the Kreb Cycle. However, checking the answers at the back of the book, he found that every third problem was wrong. He'd mistaken oxidation for decarboxylation and Isocitrate for Succinyl-CoA. He couldn't tell what was giving off electrons, collecting ions, or what the products were and he didn't care.
Of course, it was more than just these problems, this homework that was due tomorrow afternoon, the lab reports. It was science and what he thought it represented. He hated it. Hated it's coldness, it's distance, and felt chilled into numbness. He refused to believe that it could hold beauty if he could master its concepts.
Rising from the table, he abandoned his chance of passing through the next day's class with calm to seek out the warmth that was offered down the hall. The moment he left his books behind, the first line of a new poem danced into his thoughts but he lost the words--the order of the words--just as quickly, his mind leaden with what he felt was useless knowledge. It felt worse somehow, pounding at his temples and made him feel full--stuffed as if he'd eaten too much hated blood pudding in an effort not to hurt the cook's feelings.
At the bedroom door, he stopped. Billy had hidden himself here for most the day, writing, he said. Or trying to. His feet were bare, the sheets pushed from the bed in the morning and not made all day. He looked rumpled but pleased, to Dominic's eyes, and Dominic crawled onto the bed, pushed aside the papers and books that Billy had surrounded himself with. Dominic moved slowly, the burdens of phyla and formula weighing him down. Billy didn't look up from his work and for a moment Dominic wondered if he'd been rubbed to nothing, etched away, frightened off like the words to his poem. He recoiled from the melodrama of his own thoughts and curled against Billy instead. Billy was warm for a change, his stomach rounded from their dinner and Dominic pillowed his head there, stretched out on the bed. He was determined not to bother Billy anymore than he had already and fought to keep still, to not demand anything more.
It had been minutes since he first came into the room but Dominic's thoughts counted them as hours. He imagined his muscles stiff from disuse, his headache grown until even the soft light from the lamp made his eyes burn. Billy turned the page and Dominic had to force himself not to react. Finally, he was rewarded when Billy's hand settled into his hair, petting him absently. The tension left him in a rush and the words came back, just at the edge of recollection but enough that Dominic could take them if he reached for them and that was enough.
"Did you finish?" Billy asked.
Dominic didn't answer. He was still busy coaxing the words as if coaxing a kitten from hiding beneath a couch. He didn't want to grab them, he wanted to hold them and form them. Billy's fingers curled behind Dominic's ear, scratching lightly and Dominic, his eyes shut tight, knew that Billy was looking at him now rather than at his book. For a moment, Dominic thought Billy would say something else--something slightly scolding but the moment passed.
The words came then and Dominic pounced upon them greedily. His eyes opened and he seized a pen lying on Billy's sheaf of papers. His fingers pushed at the hem of Billy's t shirt and he carefully formed the letters against the skin of Billy's stomach, blowing across them only just barely to dry the ink. Billy stayed still, watching Dominic, fascinated by the conservation of his movements. He still held his book in his hand, forgotten for the moment. It wasn't easy to compose like that, certainly not a publishable medium, and their lips curled into smiles as if they'd just shared the thought.
"They're not mine," Dominic said, dropping the pen so that his fingers could frame the lines of text.
"No?" Billy asked but his voice didn't really hold a question.
"They're yours."
"You belong to me, too."
Dominic nodded, easily acquiescing as had become his custom. The marks of grammar were last upon Billy's skin, the four lines complete, curving beneath the bones in Billy's chest. Dominic reread them, satisfied that they were all there before he said, "I have to go finish."
"I didn't think you had, yet."
"I needed you to keep these safe. I might have lost them otherwise."
Billy nodded, half-understanding that these were words that couldn't be trusted to paper, and Dominic was relieved that he didn't have to say anything more. He crawled from the bed and left the room, returned to the kitchen and the language of numbers and chemicals, safe against them since he had cast his protective charm.
Dominic (from The Incline of Trees)
836 words
("Cello Suite #4 in E Flat" --YoYo Ma)
By the time Dominic got to the end of the third problem set, he thought he had mastered the Kreb Cycle. However, checking the answers at the back of the book, he found that every third problem was wrong. He'd mistaken oxidation for decarboxylation and Isocitrate for Succinyl-CoA. He couldn't tell what was giving off electrons, collecting ions, or what the products were and he didn't care.
Of course, it was more than just these problems, this homework that was due tomorrow afternoon, the lab reports. It was science and what he thought it represented. He hated it. Hated it's coldness, it's distance, and felt chilled into numbness. He refused to believe that it could hold beauty if he could master its concepts.
Rising from the table, he abandoned his chance of passing through the next day's class with calm to seek out the warmth that was offered down the hall. The moment he left his books behind, the first line of a new poem danced into his thoughts but he lost the words--the order of the words--just as quickly, his mind leaden with what he felt was useless knowledge. It felt worse somehow, pounding at his temples and made him feel full--stuffed as if he'd eaten too much hated blood pudding in an effort not to hurt the cook's feelings.
At the bedroom door, he stopped. Billy had hidden himself here for most the day, writing, he said. Or trying to. His feet were bare, the sheets pushed from the bed in the morning and not made all day. He looked rumpled but pleased, to Dominic's eyes, and Dominic crawled onto the bed, pushed aside the papers and books that Billy had surrounded himself with. Dominic moved slowly, the burdens of phyla and formula weighing him down. Billy didn't look up from his work and for a moment Dominic wondered if he'd been rubbed to nothing, etched away, frightened off like the words to his poem. He recoiled from the melodrama of his own thoughts and curled against Billy instead. Billy was warm for a change, his stomach rounded from their dinner and Dominic pillowed his head there, stretched out on the bed. He was determined not to bother Billy anymore than he had already and fought to keep still, to not demand anything more.
It had been minutes since he first came into the room but Dominic's thoughts counted them as hours. He imagined his muscles stiff from disuse, his headache grown until even the soft light from the lamp made his eyes burn. Billy turned the page and Dominic had to force himself not to react. Finally, he was rewarded when Billy's hand settled into his hair, petting him absently. The tension left him in a rush and the words came back, just at the edge of recollection but enough that Dominic could take them if he reached for them and that was enough.
"Did you finish?" Billy asked.
Dominic didn't answer. He was still busy coaxing the words as if coaxing a kitten from hiding beneath a couch. He didn't want to grab them, he wanted to hold them and form them. Billy's fingers curled behind Dominic's ear, scratching lightly and Dominic, his eyes shut tight, knew that Billy was looking at him now rather than at his book. For a moment, Dominic thought Billy would say something else--something slightly scolding but the moment passed.
The words came then and Dominic pounced upon them greedily. His eyes opened and he seized a pen lying on Billy's sheaf of papers. His fingers pushed at the hem of Billy's t shirt and he carefully formed the letters against the skin of Billy's stomach, blowing across them only just barely to dry the ink. Billy stayed still, watching Dominic, fascinated by the conservation of his movements. He still held his book in his hand, forgotten for the moment. It wasn't easy to compose like that, certainly not a publishable medium, and their lips curled into smiles as if they'd just shared the thought.
"They're not mine," Dominic said, dropping the pen so that his fingers could frame the lines of text.
"No?" Billy asked but his voice didn't really hold a question.
"They're yours."
"You belong to me, too."
Dominic nodded, easily acquiescing as had become his custom. The marks of grammar were last upon Billy's skin, the four lines complete, curving beneath the bones in Billy's chest. Dominic reread them, satisfied that they were all there before he said, "I have to go finish."
"I didn't think you had, yet."
"I needed you to keep these safe. I might have lost them otherwise."
Billy nodded, half-understanding that these were words that couldn't be trusted to paper, and Dominic was relieved that he didn't have to say anything more. He crawled from the bed and left the room, returned to the kitchen and the language of numbers and chemicals, safe against them since he had cast his protective charm.
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