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clo_again... here is the first of what I'm calling The Poetry Ficlets. I'm paying all this money to study English Lit and so far it's done me a whole lot of no good at all, so it may as well be put to some use. Over the next week there'll be five ficlets, of which this is the first, written around a few lines or a stanza of different poems. They should all be very different, I hope, since I have something very different planned for at least two of them. This however is something nice and simple, just to kick us off.
Title: The Poetry Ficlets (1/5)
Rating: G
Pairing: Federer/Safin
Summary: Marat’s thoughts after having ‘slain the Jabberwock’ so to speak.
Notes: Set right after the Safin vs Federer match at the 2005 Australian Open. One of five special ficlets written for our self-declared International Tennis Slash Week.
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, own themselves, this is just the bunnies talking. ‘Jabberwocky’ is taken from Alice in Wonderland and is © Lewis Carroll.
The Poetry Ficlets – Jabberwocky
~ "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy. ~
Marat’s still in shock. You don’t just beat Roger Federer. You win a few games, maybe a set on a good day but Roger’s been untouchable for so long, losing has become almost routine. A gracious smile, a few soft words and perhaps a hug, hot skin through sweat-damp cotton; dark eyes meeting yours with nothing but innocent pleasure at success. Modest, untouchable Roger. And Marat’s beaten him.
He’s still in shock.
There’s a howl of something Marat identifies as either pure glee or gut-wrenching pain; from the broad smile splitting his coach’s face in two, he decides it’s the former. Peter descends on him like a force of nature, babbling in Swedish. Marat catches a few words, won and stunning and unbelievable before large arms are thrown around him and he’s being crushed against his coach’s chest. It’s a new experience for him – Marat’s not used to being literally crushed by anyone. Peter is still chanting in a mix of Swedish and English, swearing every other word and fierce joy suffusing it all. Marat would laugh if his ribs weren’t being crushed and if the numb disbelief at what he’s done would fade. Peter’s happy and his fans are happy and all he can think of is the smile thinly covering Roger’s exhaustion at the net. He’s never seen that weary edge in the Swiss’ eyes before; never felt Roger lean on him just to stay upright when they touched. He’d more than just beaten Roger. He’d crushed him.
He thinks of Roger, all in white, on his knees, still reaching for his racquet even when he must have known he’d lost. A fallen angel, broken. Beaten.
He’s still in shock.
“You beat him!” Peter switches to English, clinging to Marat like an oversized teddy bear. “You beat him, you beat him, you beat him-“
I beat him, thinks Marat. The words don’t feel right, even in his head. He tries them in Russian then, desperately, in Spanish but it doesn’t make them any more believable. Roger, beaten.
He thinks he’s sailed past shock right into the land of denial.
“This calls for a celebration!” Peter chortles as he releases Marat and spins towards the door, the bouncing of his outer regions almost hypnotic. Marat watches him gyrate out the room, no doubt in search of another victim to crush or more likely, a good supply of vodka. He’s always wondered if his coach bears a grudge against Federer and from the look of this reaction he’d be inclined to say he does. They’ve never spoken of the Swiss except in terms of matches and then there’s a hushed reverence to Peter’s tone, respect and disbelief giving Roger an aura of… menace? Superiority? Marat could never tell. All he knows if that it’s been shattered.
“He seems happy,” a soft voice comments. Marat wonders if he’s imagining it but when he turns Roger’s standing there, still in his tennis clothes, wavering with exhaustion. In two strides Marat is by his side and his arms are around the Swiss, cradling the smaller man against him.
“Don’t take it personally,” he murmurs. Roger’s quiet in his arms, forehead resting on Marat’s shoulder. “I think he thought I would not win. You had become some sort of…” He searches for a word, stroking Roger’s damp curls. “Unbeatable monster to him. It is a surprise to him that I get lucky.”
“Don’t say that.” Roger turns his head so his face is pressed to Marat’s neck instead, leaning into the tall Russian for support. He’s completely exhausted; Marat knows if he lets go, the Swiss will fall. “You were too good.”
“I was lucky,” Marat corrects, voice soft. “And my little Roger, how are you? You had me worried, calling the trainer.”
“It was nothing. I’m only tired.” Roger makes a wordless sound that tears into Marat’s heart; it’s sound of pure exhaustion, childlike and sweet as he hides his face in Marat’s shirt, muffling his next words. “I want to go back to the hotel.”
“I’ll find you a car.” Marat shifts his grip, reaching for his phone to call his driver. Roger’s silent, his slender arms tightening around Marat’s waist and the Russian knows what he wants, knows what the Swiss is still too proud to say. “I’ll come back with you.”
“No.” Roger’s insistent, almost petulant. “You should stay and celebrate.”
“I will be happier with you.” Marat tilts his head down and kisses Roger’s forehead. “But if you wish me not to…”
“No!” Roger clings tighter. “If you don’t want to stay… I want you. Please.”
“Then you’ll have me.” Marat smiles to himself as he dials for a car. The shock’s still there and may always be, underlying everything he does, but he thinks he may enjoy the day after all with Roger beside him. After all, it isn’t about winning or losing when he gets Roger either way. He brushes another kiss across the Swiss’ golden skin.
“I do love you,” he murmurs. “My little monster.”
~ Fin ~
So what happened to going to bed early tonight? Hhhmm.
EDIT: Okay in terms of comments and fic reviews, can I go to bed early tonight on the condition I give y'all another ficlet and possibly - if you're very good - the next part of the Pretty Close to Invincible series tomorrow? Pwease? I've woken up a little from this afternoon but I know unless I get nine+ hours sleep tonight I'll be useless tomorrow.
Title: The Poetry Ficlets (1/5)
Rating: G
Pairing: Federer/Safin
Summary: Marat’s thoughts after having ‘slain the Jabberwock’ so to speak.
Notes: Set right after the Safin vs Federer match at the 2005 Australian Open. One of five special ficlets written for our self-declared International Tennis Slash Week.
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, own themselves, this is just the bunnies talking. ‘Jabberwocky’ is taken from Alice in Wonderland and is © Lewis Carroll.
~ "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy. ~
Marat’s still in shock. You don’t just beat Roger Federer. You win a few games, maybe a set on a good day but Roger’s been untouchable for so long, losing has become almost routine. A gracious smile, a few soft words and perhaps a hug, hot skin through sweat-damp cotton; dark eyes meeting yours with nothing but innocent pleasure at success. Modest, untouchable Roger. And Marat’s beaten him.
He’s still in shock.
There’s a howl of something Marat identifies as either pure glee or gut-wrenching pain; from the broad smile splitting his coach’s face in two, he decides it’s the former. Peter descends on him like a force of nature, babbling in Swedish. Marat catches a few words, won and stunning and unbelievable before large arms are thrown around him and he’s being crushed against his coach’s chest. It’s a new experience for him – Marat’s not used to being literally crushed by anyone. Peter is still chanting in a mix of Swedish and English, swearing every other word and fierce joy suffusing it all. Marat would laugh if his ribs weren’t being crushed and if the numb disbelief at what he’s done would fade. Peter’s happy and his fans are happy and all he can think of is the smile thinly covering Roger’s exhaustion at the net. He’s never seen that weary edge in the Swiss’ eyes before; never felt Roger lean on him just to stay upright when they touched. He’d more than just beaten Roger. He’d crushed him.
He thinks of Roger, all in white, on his knees, still reaching for his racquet even when he must have known he’d lost. A fallen angel, broken. Beaten.
He’s still in shock.
“You beat him!” Peter switches to English, clinging to Marat like an oversized teddy bear. “You beat him, you beat him, you beat him-“
I beat him, thinks Marat. The words don’t feel right, even in his head. He tries them in Russian then, desperately, in Spanish but it doesn’t make them any more believable. Roger, beaten.
He thinks he’s sailed past shock right into the land of denial.
“This calls for a celebration!” Peter chortles as he releases Marat and spins towards the door, the bouncing of his outer regions almost hypnotic. Marat watches him gyrate out the room, no doubt in search of another victim to crush or more likely, a good supply of vodka. He’s always wondered if his coach bears a grudge against Federer and from the look of this reaction he’d be inclined to say he does. They’ve never spoken of the Swiss except in terms of matches and then there’s a hushed reverence to Peter’s tone, respect and disbelief giving Roger an aura of… menace? Superiority? Marat could never tell. All he knows if that it’s been shattered.
“He seems happy,” a soft voice comments. Marat wonders if he’s imagining it but when he turns Roger’s standing there, still in his tennis clothes, wavering with exhaustion. In two strides Marat is by his side and his arms are around the Swiss, cradling the smaller man against him.
“Don’t take it personally,” he murmurs. Roger’s quiet in his arms, forehead resting on Marat’s shoulder. “I think he thought I would not win. You had become some sort of…” He searches for a word, stroking Roger’s damp curls. “Unbeatable monster to him. It is a surprise to him that I get lucky.”
“Don’t say that.” Roger turns his head so his face is pressed to Marat’s neck instead, leaning into the tall Russian for support. He’s completely exhausted; Marat knows if he lets go, the Swiss will fall. “You were too good.”
“I was lucky,” Marat corrects, voice soft. “And my little Roger, how are you? You had me worried, calling the trainer.”
“It was nothing. I’m only tired.” Roger makes a wordless sound that tears into Marat’s heart; it’s sound of pure exhaustion, childlike and sweet as he hides his face in Marat’s shirt, muffling his next words. “I want to go back to the hotel.”
“I’ll find you a car.” Marat shifts his grip, reaching for his phone to call his driver. Roger’s silent, his slender arms tightening around Marat’s waist and the Russian knows what he wants, knows what the Swiss is still too proud to say. “I’ll come back with you.”
“No.” Roger’s insistent, almost petulant. “You should stay and celebrate.”
“I will be happier with you.” Marat tilts his head down and kisses Roger’s forehead. “But if you wish me not to…”
“No!” Roger clings tighter. “If you don’t want to stay… I want you. Please.”
“Then you’ll have me.” Marat smiles to himself as he dials for a car. The shock’s still there and may always be, underlying everything he does, but he thinks he may enjoy the day after all with Roger beside him. After all, it isn’t about winning or losing when he gets Roger either way. He brushes another kiss across the Swiss’ golden skin.
“I do love you,” he murmurs. “My little monster.”
~ Fin ~
So what happened to going to bed early tonight? Hhhmm.
EDIT: Okay in terms of comments and fic reviews, can I go to bed early tonight on the condition I give y'all another ficlet and possibly - if you're very good - the next part of the Pretty Close to Invincible series tomorrow? Pwease? I've woken up a little from this afternoon but I know unless I get nine+ hours sleep tonight I'll be useless tomorrow.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-02-23 03:48 am (UTC)And omg! *melts into a puddle of aaww-ing goo*
It was so sweet!
*pets stunnedmullet!marat and tired!roger*
*loves the Jabberwocky*
Date: 2005-02-23 04:02 am (UTC)Go to sleep, I'll see you in the morning.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-23 10:16 pm (UTC)*grins* It was inspired by possibly my favourite poem ever, so it had to be sweet. *pets them too* Glad you liked it! ^__^
Re: *loves the Jabberwocky*
Date: 2005-02-23 10:17 pm (UTC)Yay for sleep!
no subject
Date: 2005-02-23 10:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 12:54 am (UTC)Jabberwocky
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
- http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/jabber/jabberwocky.html
Isn't it crazy? :D
Re: *loves the Jabberwocky*
Date: 2005-02-24 01:18 am (UTC)Re: *loves the Jabberwocky*
Date: 2005-02-24 01:29 am (UTC)Oh dear...
Re: *loves the Jabberwocky*
Date: 2005-02-24 04:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 06:57 am (UTC)Its great!!!!!
Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 08:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 03:35 am (UTC)that is as coherent as I get. :-P
no subject
Date: 2005-10-09 02:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-17 08:32 pm (UTC)I normally hate fics where Roger loses! lmao, because it makes me feel sad, but this was angsty/fluffy sad so that's okay! =D