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120_minutenTeam: Phoenix
Challenge: August No. 3 - Gefühlsausbruch/Geständnis
Fandom: Sherlock
Wörter: ~ 600
Kommentar: Englisch, weil meine deutsche Muse kaputt ist. Und es ist auch kein richtiger Ausbruch, weil es Mycroft ist. *drop*
The gardener's son is back. Dressed as a waiter, he makes Mycroft's thoughts reel for a moment. An unwelcome feeling, a grain of sand disturbing a finely tuned mechanism.
Mycroft has observed that all rich children want to be or be with the gardener's boy. It's all an artificial bid for freedom.
Not specifically this gardener's boy, of course. This one is just the reason why Mycroft is no exception from the rule. His soft dark hair and easy grin feature prominently in Mycroft's fantasies since- well, since he has fantasies, to be quite honest.
He finds it hard to distinguish between the person and the fantasy sometimes. The gardener's son is not even three years older than him, but intuitively, when he sees him now, the gap between eighteen and almost-twentyone seems as vast as ever. It's laughable. Objectively, Mycroft is superior on so many levels. Objectively, the gardener's boy is not even that beautiful.
Mycroft's life is fixed, he can see it before him like a technical draft. The gardener's boy has no place in it. School finished, so that leaves university and increasingly important positions in the government. Increasingly low visibility, if he has a say in the matter (and he will have). To lead people it isn't necessary to be liked. Mycroft excels at the former, the latter eludes him. Power is a much harder currency than popularity.
It is useful to be invisible.
He follows the gardener's boy with his eyes while one of mummy's friends drones on about politics besides him. The brilliant thing about a garden party, Sherlock pointed out a few hours earlier, is that you don't have to sit next to someone abominably boring for hours. Mycroft quite agrees, though he wouldn't voice it. He's also not sure if standing next to several boring people for a few minutes each is that much better. Sherlock has the freedom to just walk away, it's one of the perks of being a child.
Mycroft watches the gardener's boy walk his rounds, quite elegant how he holds the champaign tray with one hand, how the bland and polite servant's smile looks naughty on him when he offers a drink. How the stark white collar of his dress shirt stands in sharp contrast to the golden skin of his neck.
He watches him slink away into the dark part of the garden. The future splits into distinct possibilities.
One of them has Mycroft following. He would find the gardener's boy in the shadow of the copper beech, his presence only betrayed by the glimmer of his cigarette.
“Young Master Mycroft,” he would say with mocking joviality. His idea of a joke and he's making it since his father started working here six years ago.
Mycroft would smile and ask for a cigarette, although he doesn't smoke. They would stand close, their eye would meet over the flickering flame of the lighter and Mycroft would realise that all gardener's boys want to seduce the rich kid. Freedom is the knowledge or the illusion that you can cross a given boundary.
His lips would be firm and his hands insistent. Dwellers of two very different spheres entangled and equal for a short amount of time.
This possibility is achingly inappropriate, of course. It has no place in the draft of his life. Mycroft savours the decision - this moment of hesitation possesses its own thrill - before he drains his glass and excuses himself from the conversation.
It's a bit shameful, he doesn't even believe in freedom.
Challenge: August No. 3 - Gefühlsausbruch/Geständnis
Fandom: Sherlock
Wörter: ~ 600
Kommentar: Englisch, weil meine deutsche Muse kaputt ist. Und es ist auch kein richtiger Ausbruch, weil es Mycroft ist. *drop*
The gardener's son is back. Dressed as a waiter, he makes Mycroft's thoughts reel for a moment. An unwelcome feeling, a grain of sand disturbing a finely tuned mechanism.
Mycroft has observed that all rich children want to be or be with the gardener's boy. It's all an artificial bid for freedom.
Not specifically this gardener's boy, of course. This one is just the reason why Mycroft is no exception from the rule. His soft dark hair and easy grin feature prominently in Mycroft's fantasies since- well, since he has fantasies, to be quite honest.
He finds it hard to distinguish between the person and the fantasy sometimes. The gardener's son is not even three years older than him, but intuitively, when he sees him now, the gap between eighteen and almost-twentyone seems as vast as ever. It's laughable. Objectively, Mycroft is superior on so many levels. Objectively, the gardener's boy is not even that beautiful.
Mycroft's life is fixed, he can see it before him like a technical draft. The gardener's boy has no place in it. School finished, so that leaves university and increasingly important positions in the government. Increasingly low visibility, if he has a say in the matter (and he will have). To lead people it isn't necessary to be liked. Mycroft excels at the former, the latter eludes him. Power is a much harder currency than popularity.
It is useful to be invisible.
He follows the gardener's boy with his eyes while one of mummy's friends drones on about politics besides him. The brilliant thing about a garden party, Sherlock pointed out a few hours earlier, is that you don't have to sit next to someone abominably boring for hours. Mycroft quite agrees, though he wouldn't voice it. He's also not sure if standing next to several boring people for a few minutes each is that much better. Sherlock has the freedom to just walk away, it's one of the perks of being a child.
Mycroft watches the gardener's boy walk his rounds, quite elegant how he holds the champaign tray with one hand, how the bland and polite servant's smile looks naughty on him when he offers a drink. How the stark white collar of his dress shirt stands in sharp contrast to the golden skin of his neck.
He watches him slink away into the dark part of the garden. The future splits into distinct possibilities.
One of them has Mycroft following. He would find the gardener's boy in the shadow of the copper beech, his presence only betrayed by the glimmer of his cigarette.
“Young Master Mycroft,” he would say with mocking joviality. His idea of a joke and he's making it since his father started working here six years ago.
Mycroft would smile and ask for a cigarette, although he doesn't smoke. They would stand close, their eye would meet over the flickering flame of the lighter and Mycroft would realise that all gardener's boys want to seduce the rich kid. Freedom is the knowledge or the illusion that you can cross a given boundary.
His lips would be firm and his hands insistent. Dwellers of two very different spheres entangled and equal for a short amount of time.
This possibility is achingly inappropriate, of course. It has no place in the draft of his life. Mycroft savours the decision - this moment of hesitation possesses its own thrill - before he drains his glass and excuses himself from the conversation.
It's a bit shameful, he doesn't even believe in freedom.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 01:06 pm (UTC)Und: Ich liebe Erzählungen im (partiellen) Konjunktiv!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 05:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 05:01 pm (UTC)Mir gefällt, dass es ein Gefühlsausbruch ist, der keiner ist, und damit schon ein nennenswertes Ereignis. - Und das Genießen der Entscheidung, hach.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 05:48 pm (UTC)Dafür verlerne ich offenbar deutsch, es ist schrecklich. Vielleicht sollte ich es einfach mal übersetzen, um mir selbst in den Hintern zu treten...