Free Verse and Kisses (sequel to Blank Verse)
Thursday, 14 April 2016 11:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carose59Harry insisted on seeing the poem.
Cooper didn't know why he felt so . . . unsettled at the thought that he'd written a poem for someone he loved—was in love with. It was a natural thing to do, wasn't it? For most people, if you mentioned poetry, they automatically defaulted to love poetry, as though there was no other kind. And while it was certainly not a good poem, it was nothing to be ashamed of.
Harry took a long time reading it.
It was only eighteen lines long, eighteen lines of free—very free, perhaps even unrestrained—verse, but Harry read it as though it was a short story—and one he would be tested on later. Cooper sat very still, wondering if this was how a squirrel felt when it froze in the middle of the street, with a car coming at it.
What really made this crazy was, there were two things happening here, two interlocked events: Cooper had fallen in love with another man, and he'd written a poem about that man. And the one that was causing him to break out in a cold sweat was not the one he would need to keep hidden from the Bureau.
Although, come to think of it, he probably should keep the poetry-writing from the Bureau, too, particularly since wasn't any good at it.
"Harry," he said at last, "It's not—it's only eighteen lines! You must have finished it by—"
"I'm finished," Harry said, but he seemed to still be reading. "I've been re-reading."
Was Harry teasing him again? He had a remarkably subtle sense of humor.
"You were right about one thing," Harry said, finally lowering the paper, though he didn't give it back to Cooper. "You're not a poet. But then, I don't really know anything about poetry, so even if you were, it would probably go over my head. But this, I like." He still didn't give the paper back to Cooper. "I like it a lot."
It wasn't the most effusive compliment Cooper had ever received, but he had no complaints—except that Harry was folding up his badly-made poem and putting it in his pocket. "What are you doing?"
"What do you mean?" Harry looked confused.
"I mean—" Cooper had the desperate urge to say, Give it back!
"Did you think I was going to steal your poem?" Harry asked. "I wouldn't do that. No, I'd like to buy it from you."
"What?" Cooper was very confused, but that might have been because his heart was pounding very hard, and because Harry was moving from the chair he'd been sitting in to the sofa Cooper was sitting on, sitting next to Cooper, very close. "You want to—"
Harry kissed him. "I don't know what the going rate is for poems, so you just tell me when I've given you enough of those." And Harry kissed him again.
Cooper didn't know why he felt so . . . unsettled at the thought that he'd written a poem for someone he loved—was in love with. It was a natural thing to do, wasn't it? For most people, if you mentioned poetry, they automatically defaulted to love poetry, as though there was no other kind. And while it was certainly not a good poem, it was nothing to be ashamed of.
Harry took a long time reading it.
It was only eighteen lines long, eighteen lines of free—very free, perhaps even unrestrained—verse, but Harry read it as though it was a short story—and one he would be tested on later. Cooper sat very still, wondering if this was how a squirrel felt when it froze in the middle of the street, with a car coming at it.
What really made this crazy was, there were two things happening here, two interlocked events: Cooper had fallen in love with another man, and he'd written a poem about that man. And the one that was causing him to break out in a cold sweat was not the one he would need to keep hidden from the Bureau.
Although, come to think of it, he probably should keep the poetry-writing from the Bureau, too, particularly since wasn't any good at it.
"Harry," he said at last, "It's not—it's only eighteen lines! You must have finished it by—"
"I'm finished," Harry said, but he seemed to still be reading. "I've been re-reading."
Was Harry teasing him again? He had a remarkably subtle sense of humor.
"You were right about one thing," Harry said, finally lowering the paper, though he didn't give it back to Cooper. "You're not a poet. But then, I don't really know anything about poetry, so even if you were, it would probably go over my head. But this, I like." He still didn't give the paper back to Cooper. "I like it a lot."
It wasn't the most effusive compliment Cooper had ever received, but he had no complaints—except that Harry was folding up his badly-made poem and putting it in his pocket. "What are you doing?"
"What do you mean?" Harry looked confused.
"I mean—" Cooper had the desperate urge to say, Give it back!
"Did you think I was going to steal your poem?" Harry asked. "I wouldn't do that. No, I'd like to buy it from you."
"What?" Cooper was very confused, but that might have been because his heart was pounding very hard, and because Harry was moving from the chair he'd been sitting in to the sofa Cooper was sitting on, sitting next to Cooper, very close. "You want to—"
Harry kissed him. "I don't know what the going rate is for poems, so you just tell me when I've given you enough of those." And Harry kissed him again.