looneyngilo2.livejournal.com

Title: Caged

Fandom: Maurice

Rating: G

Length: 1431

Content notes: pre-slash.

Author notes: Clive always read as an asexual character to me, and I wanted to write a story for him... Also fulfills Kink Bingo’s “Writing on the Body” square, and Trope Bingo’s “Sharing a Bed” Square.

Summary: Maurice is visiting Clive’s room for the first time, and Clive isn’t ready.

Clive sat cross legged on the wooden floor of his bedroom. He tapped his fingers on his knee, to the tune of a song he hoped Maurice didn’t know. The way Maurice reacted whenever Clive introduced him to something new - the way he listened and asked, trying to understand Clive - was one of the things Clive lov- liked so much about Maurice.

He shuffled some of his books and papers around - what were each implying? Was the casual messiness of his room too casual - was the placement of that shirt too obvious? It was the first time Maurice would visit Clive’s room, and Clive still wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

Clive’s heart was beating too loudly and erratically. It was an invasion. It was his privacy - his mind: everything he loved and hated, the things he’d created, the way he related to his space, the way he treated his things, the way he displayed nothing from home, how the letters from his mother were shoved out of sight - that was his heart, there for Maurice to see.

He’d wanted to say no to Maurice when Maurice had asked if they could study in his room for a change. Usually they found themselves in the library, in a friend’s room, in the gardens, or Maurice’s room. Clive had suggested other options, but Maurice had not accepted them.

And so he was trapped. But why did he see it this way? It was just Maurice, after all. Just his friend. Just a friend. Clive’s hands itched for a cigarette.

No, he wasn’t just a friend. Clive would think about him and smile, Clive missed him during the day, Clive loved Maurice’s humor and kindness and oddness. Clive was feeling for him what he’d felt for other boys before - this was no time to fool himself and say this was different. He was in love with Maurice and it was that simple.

At least it would have been, if Maurice had been like all those other loves, arousing temporary feelings that lasted a few days or weeks, the feelings of enthusiasm and attraction always unrequited.

Instead Maurice was devoted to Clive. The way he looked at Clive - that -

“Clive, old man?” Maurice called out, tapping the door with his foot.

Clive smiled, “It’s open, though it sounds like your hands are full.”

“They are,” said Maurice, attempting to open the door, clumsily.

Clive continued to sit there, frowning slightly at Maurice, charmed by his flustered face, the hands nearly dropping his books and notebooks, the eyes looking at Clive’s room curiously, the feet trying to gently close the door.

“Oh, so this is your room?” asked Maurice.

“Yes,” smiled Clive. “You can place your things on the chair -” he suddenly realized this would mean Maurice would have to sit on his bed, and panic made him speak - “Or on the bed. That would be better, to spread everything out.”

Maurice nodded, still looking around as he placed his things on the chair. He hadn’t listened closely enough. But that was something else that amused Clive.

“What’s this?” Maurice asked, his fingers hovering over a volume of books on the bookcase next to the desk. He always hesitated to touch Clive’s things, and when he finally worked up the courage to touch them, it was always lightly and briefly.

“Uh, that’s an art book - it’s quite beautiful, actually,” said Clive, standing up, and coming close to Maurice. “You, um, you can see all these different forms of traditional art - jewelry making, painting on the skin -”

“Oh,” said Maurice, his interest already having moved on to something else.

Clive looked up at him, the blond hair messy from the breeze outside, the blue eyes opened wide, the lips red - and Clive pulled slightly at his vest, aware of how close to touching their hands were. Did he want to touch him at all, however?

Maurice smiled at him, “Well, then, is it time for tea and studying?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Clive, not wanting to move away until he saw Maurice’s expression, as pure and innocent as it always was. It was a form of torture to Clive - to look in those eyes, wanting to see his feelings returned, and to instead see just friendliness. And that heartbreak is what kept him sane, he was sure.

It’s what kept him from telling Maurice everything he felt for him.

*****

The time passed quickly, but the cups of half-finished tea Clive had left behind suggested they’d studied for quite a while. Maurice had, of course, finished all of his, out of either politeness or thirst - either way, it was what Clive had expected. Even the way Maurice had sat on his bed - stiffly, on the edge, awkwardly, as if trying to keep his weight off it, only to finally relax, so that now he was laying down on the bed, was expected.

“So, that art, old man? Drawing on the skin? Drawing what?”

“Words and patterns, really -”

“With a fountain pen?”

“No,” laughed Clive, standing up to find his art tools. “With a brush, like this one, see?”

Maurice didn’t take the fine tipped brush, so Clive sat next to him on the bed and held it for Maurice to take. They weren’t touching, but the air felt electric to Clive, and he stroked Maurice’s forearm with the brush, in a wave pattern.

“What kind of ink would you use?” asked Maurice.

“Oh, uh, henna -”

Maurice took the brush, brushing it against his palm.

Clive looked at him, and wanted to lay beside him. He looked down and murmured that his back hurt, and he slowly, oh so slowly, oh so carefully, lay next to Maurice. His bed felt different - wrong. Too small, too bumpy, too soft. His chest felt too small to contain his heart and lungs, too small to allow him to breathe.

Maurice moved the brush across Clive’s wrist, and he shuddered. What did he want from Maurice? He imagined Maurice reaching for his hand, kissing his wrist -

But was that what he wanted? The idea of being kissed - it felt wrong, it felt dirty, it felt degrading to the way he liked - the way he loved Maurice.

“What are you doing?” he asked Maurice.

“Spelling your name. Would you have to have perfect penmanship? And what are you allowed to write?”

“I - I would assume it depends. If it’s traditional art, certain elements are required. Otherwise, whatever one likes.”

“Like a poem?”

“Yes,” whispered Clive, the brush moving slowly over his skin.

“What poem would you have me write?”

Something about destruction, something about being left burned and devastated - the way he felt Maurice would leave him. Something about pain, something about anger, something about confusion and fear and death and jealousy and wanting to meld with Maurice, something about wanting to erase the prejudice in this world and make everything pure and simple.

Something about saying the words - finally, finally, saying how he felt about Maurice, with no fear of rejection, with no fear of being kicked out of school, no fear of being reported to the police.

Something about wanting to be safe and happy with him.

“You know too much poetry,” said Maurice, assuming Clive had not responded because he was trying to choose a poem. “And it’s made you sad. See? You’ve tightened your jaw and have tears in your eyes.”

Clive smiled slightly, “It’s uh - it’s the poem I thought about: “The Mystery of Pain,” by Emily Dickinson. Have you heard it?”

“No,” and his eyes were bright and curious, adoring.

“Pain -- has an Element of Blank --
It cannot recollect
When it begun -- or if there were
A time when it was not --

It has no Future -- but itself --
Its Infinite contain
Its Past -- enlightened to perceive
New Periods -- of Pain.”

They were silent for a bit. “Explain the meanings to me - besides what I can notice on my own.”

“Even in the good times, you prepare for pain to come back. And pain... it can be invisible, hidden, but taking over, consuming -”

“My God, Clive, you could have chosen a happy poem. Which is it that I read the other day? It went -”

Clive closed his eyes, and listened to Maurice’s chatter. He tried to stop shaking. He tried to breathe. He tried to understand himself.