Arkieve - The First Poem In The World Is; "i Want To Eat."

embodying tchaikovsky every time someone ignores my text

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am an observer, but not by choice.’

[text id: my fist has always been clenched around the handle of an invisible suitcase. / i am always ready to leave. / there is not a single room in this world where i belong.]

addicted to thinking about regulus black as a living wound. he’s an erased act of history. he’s defined only through three separate acts of betrayal, first his brother, then his family, his friends. he is a massive scar on the life of anyone who was close to him and he leaves those marks on everything he touches. the reader can only really get a sense of who he was by tracing the exit-wounds he left on the lives of other people… he isn’t haunting the margins of the story because he walked away from it, with purpose, a long time ago. he’s a fragmentary text of which translation will always be approximate. he is the fact that even the oldest, healed-over, invisible wounds will be reopened through exposure to scurvy, too much time spent at sea. he’s the burnt edge of a manuscript! he’s the scar that unknits itself when proteins denature!!

— Jennifer S. Cheng, So We Must Meet Apart

burnt, part 2

part 1 here: LINK

They don’t have a first date.

Here is the thing about dating while raising children: it doesn’t work. Or maybe it does and it’s just James, particularly unlucky, because it’s like clockwork: they set a date, they choose a restaurant, James gets ready and then something happens.

No-show babysitter. Broken washing machine flooding the kitchen. Harry waking up screaming, with a fever.

By the end of two weeks, he’s cancelled on Regulus three times.

He’s more than surprised to get another shot. They’ve been texting, Regulus wonderfully sharp and wonderfully patient. Every day, he drives his now-silent not-ice-cream van down James’ road, and they wave at each other through the kitchen window. James watches him and vows to never get in a car with Regulus behind the wheel, because the way he drives? Atrocious. He regularly stalls, misses his turn off the road, and treats traffic rules as nothing more than suggestions. For James road safety is very important, but somehow even this is endearing instead of rightfully horrifying.

It’s a Thursday evening and James is ready for their date on Friday. Everything is sorted out: the dinner reservation is made, the flowers are waiting in a vase (sunflowers and baby’s breath), his good thin sweater (curse the English weather) is dried and ironed and ready. His mum is taking Harry for the night. Nothing is going to go wrong.

At six thirty, it starts to rain. It’s been raining for a few weeks, so he’s not surprised, but then the sky gets dark and ominous looking, and it really starts coming down. Within half an hour he can barely see outside. Harry, mercifully, sleeps through the thunder, uncaring of the inclement weather. At six thirty, James makes himself a cup of tea, looks out of the window, and promptly chokes.

Against some of the strongest wind James can remember seeing, the flimsy little ice cream van stalls. Sputters. Doesn’t start again. James puts down his tea, puts on his shoes, grabs the baby monitor, and rushes outside.

It’s a pitiful sight. The wipers are trying their best but no matter, the window remains completely obscured by water. The side of the van is open. Regulus sits inside, frantic looking and completely soaked, trying his best to start the engine.

James, already feeling the water seeping though his socks, knocks on the window. It’s rolled down. Big eyes, big pout.

“If you ask me for a flake I’ll ruin your life.”

James laughs out loud. “You can’t drive in this.”

“Sure I can. It’s just rain.”

As if in response, a massive, forked lightning splits the sky in half, rumble of thunder following within a split second.

“Bit of a storm,” Regulus adds. The right side of his hair is plastered to his face, the curls stretched and sagging. A raindrop makes its way down his nose. He sneezes and its all so pitiful James just wants to bring him tea and wrap him in a blanket.

“Come on, love,” he says, patient despite having gotten completely drenched, “come inside. I’ll park this up for you, alright?”

For a second Regulus looks like he’ll argue – against coming inside or James driving his van, or maybe against both. Then, another strike of lightning and he scoots over on the chair, opens the door for James to climb in.

It’s less than five minutes, the whole interaction, until they’re tracking water across the floor of James’ living room and kitchen. Harry hadn’t stirred, unaware that the person his daddy has been excitingly talking about for days is now in their home.

James gets them each a towel and sticks on the kettle for tea. Regulus thanks him and runs it over his head, making his curls stick up in all directions. James has a startling realisation that there is a drug dealer in his house and that he let him in willingly – demanded it even.

It’s not the reason he starts laughing.

He starts laughing because, apparently, that is how drug dealers look. Beautiful and tiny and scowling at their wet t shirts, with rings on every finger and eyes like those.

Regulus looks at him a bit wounded, and that’s fair enough actually, because he stands in James’ kitchen for the very first time, looking a little worse for wear, and James just laughs.

“It’s not…” James starts, trying to explain himself, but a bout of giggles stops him again, “you’re very beautiful, and you’re in my kitchen.”

The blush that spreads across Regulus’ face goes al the way down his neck (pretty pretty pretty), and James notices just how soggy his clothes are. “I’ll bring you something dry to wear, alright? Just make yourself comfortable.”

He comes back, himself changed and with a soft T-shirt and comfortable joggers for Regulus (and if the thoughts that led him there were too close to: I want to see him in my clothes, then that’s his own business and nobody else’s.)

“I didn’t know how you take your tea,” Regulus tells him as he takes the clothes, “but I made you one anyway. The way I have it. Because that’s the correct way.”

There’s something so wonderful about how Regulus speaks, all blunt edges to cover a softness.

“Black with lots of sugar?”

Sceptical wariness. “How did you know?”

“You look like you’d have a sweet tooth,” James laughs in response and isn’t it lovely, to stand in a kitchen, with the smell of tea in the air, and a person who inspires laughter?

But Regulus is apparently full of mischief, too. “Are you sweet?” he asks, innocent as anything, big eyes looking up from under his wet curls, and James chokes on his laughter and on thin air.

“Where can I change?” he adds like he’s not just rearranged all the atoms in James’ body to point north.

“Bathroom,” he manages, “first door up the stairs.”

When he comes back his curls are in a frizzy disarray, and James’ shirt dwarfs him. He pulls on the hem, looking unsure. It’s the first time James sees him looking unsure and goddamn it, this works on him just as well.

Could spend his whole life exploring different expressions show up on Regulus’ face, James could. Maybe even causing them. (Definitely causing them.)

“Harry?” Regulus asks.

“Asleep.”

“How long for?”

“Should be a couple hours still.”

“Good,” he strides across the kitchen, crowds James against the counter.

Regulus’ nose is cold the first time they kiss. It makes it even better somehow, this one point against the hot silk of his mouth. James thinks that without it – it grounds him – without it, his mind wouldn’t be able to stay anchored. As it is, he’s floating.

Regulus hums, pulls away. It’s a tragedy. “You are sweet,” he says and then his lips are on the corner of James’ mouth and on his jaw and on the space where his neck meets it.