Author's Note: Written for Goldenlake SMACKDOWN 2011, these are two companion drabbles which can be read together, but were also designed to stand alone. They were prompted by the song of the same name, by Toussaint McCall.
Gary wishes he had a portrait of Raoul. He'd never look at it, because he can't bear to look at that face if he can't touch it. To have the option would be a comfort, though. He reads Raoul's letters. Bloodstained letters which go through the wars just to arrive in his hands at the palace. Gary reads them, then reads them again, then intermittently reads them and hides them from himself in a locked drawer. Raoul is a small part of his life, now. They write letters, but what can a letter say? And who knew if and when they'd be received?
Gary spends his evenings talking to Jon. He loves Jon, who lacks Raoul's sweetness, and he always enjoys their time together, but that time doesn't freeze, or speed up unnaturally, as it does when he's with Raoul. Gary spends his nights making love to his wife. He loves his wife. She's light and soft, beautiful and responsive. He kisses her body and she trembles. Gary enjoys their time together, but he isn't trembling. His wife feels good, but he needs to remember Raoul in the moments before he comes. He spends his mornings with his children. They are the best thing he has, now.
During the afternoon, Gary does his paperwork. Sometimes he receives a report of the war, and his belly lurches. He combs the pages for mentions of Raoul, or Third Company. He recognises Raoul's voice before he sees the signature. It's strange that these words, dry and detached and static upon the page are, for Raoul, thick with blood and fear, action and reaction, death and dying. The letters are no more accurate: they're more personal, but Raoul omits the hurt. Gary can't see the equivalence between the written word, or war room discussions, and Raoul's experience of the senses. He reads, and hears, and talks about Raoul's experience, but he can't know it, until Raoul comes and shows him. If then.
Raoul is grateful that Gary isn't here. That he's at home, happy and safe. Raoul never worries about Gary being hurt or killed, and the knowledge that he has to see Gary again keeps Raoul from being hurt or killed. Raoul reads the letters, though delivery days are few and far between, and he's sure he's missing some. He keeps them in his pack, hidden between his spare uniforms. Averse to sharing even the sight of the envelopes with anyone else, he reads them in the few private moments he can wrangle. Gary tells Raoul about Jon, Cythera, his children, his life. Raoul tells Gary about his men: who shows promise, who's wounded, who he found crying behind the barracks last week. He transposes his own correspondence for that of his soldiers, unwilling to burden Gary with his own experience; unwilling to burden himself with that responsibility. Gary is a small part of his life, now. Out here, the comfort and delicacy of the court seems illusory, almost mythical; a mockery and a paradise. A totem for contempt and longing. Raoul is more alone than Gary is. His men have become his family, but he misses physical intimacy and the familiarity of long communion. He talks to Alanna when he sees her, but she's too like him: tainted by violence. They laugh and trade war stories, but they have too much in common. Gary is a point of departure, a place of refuge. Raoul dictates reports, knowing Gary will read some of them. He wonders whether the cool, matter-of-fact descriptions; numbers; estimates; annotations; colour-coded arrows; death tolls; logistical figures, ever communicate the truth of his experience. Out here, he's shrouded; by distance of space and perception, by purposeful obfuscation. But when Raoul returns to Gary, there are no hiding places.