Title: Certain Rhymes
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse, general (Mallrats era?)
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob poem-fic. Smarm, some kissing, some
angst, no steamy sex.
Rating: PG-13, maybe, for adult topics and a little language.
Status: posted 2001
Archive: You must send an email to me and let me know where you
intend to archive. Private archiving allowed as long as you
don't intend to publish. Behave.
Email address for feedback: Kelandris
Series/Sequel: Sequel to "My Only Everything".
Disclaimers: All characters belong to Kevin Smith and the View
Askewniverse. If I really get into this, I probably will too. Or
at least go into hock when I walk into a video store, go into
rut, and buy all the DVDs at once.
Notes: Ah, this poem just *begged* to be attributed to Jay.
Summary: Bob pines for Jay through poetry, and discovers he's
not alone.
"Certain Rhymes"
by Kelandris the Mad
"Fasten your hair with a golden pin,
And bind up every wandering tress"
The man in the leather trench looked up from the slim volume he
held, watching the man with the long blond hair dance in the
food court. A black cap snugged down over the flyaway cornsilk
mass, and the young man jumped and slid, bobbed and swayed his
hips, dancing to a beat only he could hear. Silent Bob watched
Jay dance, his eyes unfocusing for a long moment. He ran a hand
through his closely trimmed brown beard and turned his attention
back to the book.
"I bade my heart build these poor rhymes:
It worked at them, day out, day in,
Building a sorrowful loveliness
Out of the battles of old times."
He'd lost count of the number of poems he'd written to Jay,
about Jay, and never had the courage to reveal them. Save for
one which he'd fallen asleep holding, and the brat had come
home and taken it, crumpling it up and tossing it to the floor.
Plus, he kept losing track of the poems that Jay hadn't trashed,
because he'd never seen them--he knew they were somewhere in his
room, but God knew where--he'd looked, too, and couldn't turn
them up. Maybe they weren't supposed to surface. Maybe this
was God's way of telling him to give up.
Bob looked around, capturing Jay's attention with a head shake.
The mall was gearing up to close. It had been a pretty
profitable day, overall, but now they needed to start for home.
Kill a few beers, watch some tv, smoke a bowl...whatever. Anything
and everything but what he truly wanted to do, which was hold
that twitching body close, kiss those quirking lips, run his
hands over and over through that glory of honey hair. He
sighed, walking to the bus stop, Jay trailing behind him for
once. If only. As if he had a shot in hell, but if only.
"You need but lift a pearl-pale hand,
And bind up your long hair and sigh;
And all men's hearts must burn and beat"
The poem rang within him as they packed up their gear and headed
for home. He could feel it, fluttering against his chest, the
book riding in an inside pocket of his trench. He rode home in
a daze, hearing only dimly Jay's constant droning prattle,
which, usually, he was fanatically attuned to. Now, it was
just noise. He only heard the poem, branding the surface of
his brain.
"And all men's hearts must burn and beat..."
Arriving home, Jay got out two beers, and absentmindedly, Bob
walked away from the door to his room. He opened the door,
hearing Jay shout in the background, and walked inside before
he realized he'd stepped into Jay's room completely by
accident. Struck dumb--even for him--he stood in the doorway,
one hand clutching the frame, white-knuckled.
Everywhere he turned, everywhere he looked, pinned to every
conceivable space on the walls--his poetry. The long works,
the short ones, the ones he'd written on bar napkins, on scraps
of supermarket receipts, on lined paper...everything he'd ever
written, it looked like. Every poem he'd been missing.
Everything.
He felt heat against his back and turned, his eyes wide. Jay
stood there, and immediately flinched back, raising his hands.
"Don't hit me," he said.
Silent Bob blinked. Why the hell would I hit you, he thought.
As if I could ever raise a hand to strike that face. Why the
fuck do you think I wrote all this shit, that you then stole...
He blinked, turning around again, his eyes searching over the
walls. Something, something he'd seen, something on the
walls...He walked slowly into the room, walking over next to the
closet, where a crumpled poem had been laboriously smoothed and
pinned flat. He remembered this one. He remembered the day
Jay had taken it, made some stupid insult, and crushed it into a
ball. What the hell...?
He turned, looking at Jay. The young man shrugged.
"I liked it. I, I liked all of them." He looked at the floor,
mumbling the next few words. "Like you'd ever show me this
shit..."
Bob's hands stroked over the wrinkles in his work, moving to
the one above it where he'd dared to write Jay's name. His
eyes flew open. His mouth worked, no sound coming out.
Finally he turned--to find Jay standing right there. The cap
was in his hands, and he was twisting it, looking more nervous
than Bob had ever seen him.
"Fuck, Lunchbox," he said in the softest voice Bob had heard
him use. "Like you never knew."
Bob shook his head. He hadn't. He shook it again and reached
out, stroking a hand across Jay's smooth cheek, over his
trembling lips.
"I didn't know," he said. He watched, entranced, as Jay bit
his lip, then leaned forward, pecking Bob's cheek nervously.
He darted back, as if he were still waiting to be hit. Bob
shook his head a third time, smiling, and placed both hands on
Jay's face, pulling him closer and kissing him slowly, tasting
the mouth finally that he'd only dreamt of before.
"And candle-like foam on the dim sand,
And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,
Live but to light your passing feet."
Yeah, he thought, kissing the blond, feeling him reach out
finally to wrap his long arms around Bob. If they only knew,
you couldn't beat them away with seven sticks. But you're all
mine. You're all mine. And you make my heart burn and beat,
Jay. Burn and beat.
END
(Poem is W.B. Yeats' "He Gives His Beloved Certain Rhymes")
*****************
Kelandris the Mad
strapped to the karmic wheel
If you wanna go back, go back. If you wanna read another one, read another one. If you wanna go somewhere else...hey, I ain't stoppin' you.
Or if you want, write me.
