Written in the Walls: 1/??
Sep. 25th, 2010 05:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lalalive23Title: Written in the Walls
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lalalive23
Rating: E for Everyone...for now...
Pairing: Bell/Dom and a few original characters.
Summary: Matt and Dom are teachers at a local high school in 1954. They don't want their relationship to be discovered, especially by those they work with, even though they've been living together for nearly 4 years. This is the story of what happens when the school librarian discovers them.
Feedback: Is nice! I like it loads! Just don't make fun of me, plz <3
Disclaimer: If i owned Muse, other things would be happening. Things like 1. I wouldn't be sitting here faffing around on my laptop. 2. I would probably be faffing around with them, if you know what I mean. 3. I would be able to fund my trips to NYC to get to work. In fact, I wouldn't be in NYC at all. I do, however, own a Muse hoodie. So, that's a start.
Note: Thanks todolce_piccante and sunshine_173 (especially you dear, for being my beta reader for the past year) for existing and being the most encouraging friends when it comes to things like this. This chapter is going up now because I am going to get my drink on in Little Italy and, if all goes as planned, I will not be in the correct head space to post this either tonight or tomorrow morning LOL. I am embarrassing. ENJOY!
The library felt like a greenhouse, the sun beating through the high windows and trapping it inside. All day, I had been sitting on the hardwood chair regretting my decision to wear the pink jumper, which made me feel like I was suffocating. But Martin had mentioned that he loved it so, once upon a time, and so I wore it today with grim optimism.
It was impossible to deny that the lack of students here today was on account of the weather. As it was mid-October, the sunshine and warmth was sure to be the final reprieve Sevenoaks would have before winter fully set in. Only the most dedicated students were in today, no doubt getting an early start on the work that was necessary to pass their A-levels or GCSE's. Directly in front of me was a group of boys whom I knew to be Oxbridge candidates, all best mates and all frighteningly intelligent. The school boasted about them relentlessly.
A sigh of discontent escaped my throat as I focused once more on the index cards in my hand. My day needed to be centered on correctly cataloging the reference cabinet. The alphabetical system worked well until one person got careless and then all the rest fell apart in a domino effect. Deep down, I wished that the school would invest in a type-writer, though those were garishly expensive. It would, however, make this job a tiny bit easier.
Suddenly, there was a movement in the corner of my eye which caused me to look up with curiosity. I felt a grin tug at the side of my mouth.
They were at it again, though exactly what it was I could not define. That turn of phrase is most probably incorrect, but they seemed to repeat these actions on a regular basis. Or maybe I only seemed to notice these instead of their other myriad of encounters.
The blonde and the brunette were on opposite sides of the library. It was by no means a large distance, thus allowing them to remain in clear view of one another. Both of them were teachers at the school, that much I knew for sure. Their leather satchels slung over their shoulders matched; they were the same brand, but not the same shade of brown. The blonde had his nose in a book of Proust, while the brunette sat at a table in the corner by himself, his papers sprawled across the hardwood. I could tell he is grading something and his furrowed brow was a clue to the extent of the perplexity with which he reviewed a sentence. Once, twice, three times before he looked over to the blonde, pen between his lips.
The blonde didn't notice. Instead, he turned a page, reading intently, or maybe not so intently, as he leaned elegantly against the shelf. I assume not so intently, because as the dark haired man's eyes returned to skimming the pages before him, the blonde crooked his head to the right, daring a look over at the man who had noticed him moments before.
I had been watching them do this for weeks, months even, and I was beginning to think it was something of a game.
They continued in this way, stealing glances at one another over pages of words I very much doubt either were reading thoroughly. And suddenly, their eyes met.
I took in a sharp breath, a breath that I noticed neither of them took. I wanted to shout to everyone else in the room 'don't you see? The game has been lost!' I held my breath for everyone else, the only spectator of this round.
Stunned, I watched as they held the gaze, neither moving or making any attempt to speak, or nod, or wave. Instead they just stared. It was a loaded stare, one filled with affection and memories that only they would remember or understand.
The brunette didn't move, just continued to look as, what I would define as, a wistful sigh escaped him. The blonde smiled after he saw the movement of the other man's chest. So much meaning, and non-meaning, was trapped within the curve of his lips. It was tender, gentle, and warm. And yet, was the same smile one would give to a stranger, to inform them that, 'yes, this seat is free' on a train.
And just as quickly, it was over. And the two returned to what they had been doing before.
I exhaled the breath I had been holding. After working there for two months, and noticing them for just as long, I didn't really know what I had been expecting. Alarms? Answers? Resounding understanding?
I shook my head, the creeping sensation in the back of my mind telling me that I was just a bored librarian making up scenarios as a way to escape the tedium of my job. What I had been witnessing was probably two strangers meeting gazes. The brunette had an odd way about him, in that he seemed jerky or twitchy. Like he couldn't sit still, even for a moment. The fact that his eyes darted from here and there was probably a testimony to his personality and the blonde took notice. And, perhaps, the blonde was not looking at the brunette at all. The dark haired man was sat beneath a window, and the leaves outside turning red was a far better view than the one the cream walls and green carpet of the building could have ever supplied.
"Uhm, Miss?"
A small, female voice shook me from my thoughts. I brought my gaze over to the student in front of me. She was smiling, a sweet smile, and I recognized her as Mary Simms, a bright girl in Year 12. Reminded of how she addressed me, I couldn't help but chuckle.
She hadn't noticed my wedding ring.
It didn't bother me. Most of the time, I didn't notice it either.
"What can I help you with?" I set my catalogue cards down and leaned forward. I was grateful for the conversation, even if it was only to help a student find a book. It was a welcome distraction.
"I'm looking for these books." She slipped a piece of paper across my desk, her neat cursive listing four items. "I can't seem to find them. I might be going down the wrong rows."
She ran her hands down her red skirt, an attempt of flatten creases that weren't there. The simple uniform of the school looked nice on her, the carmine summer cardigan and skirt seemed to sit on her like a second skin. It was understandable why all of the boys in the school admired her. Sitting behind a desk all day allowed one to notice the wandering eyes of the students, and the objects which captured their attention.
As I stood to help her find what she was looking for, I couldn't help but notice the difference in our attire. She made the poly-blend uniform look so lovely and beautiful, the cream chemise under her coat decorated with taste as she pinned a flower broach on top of the cravat. My thick black skirt was heavy and bothersome, and the jumper I had paired it with so tastefully this morning suddenly made me feel frumpy and plain. With disdain, I wondered if I would ever feel young again. I was only 26, for heaven's sake. But by no means did I feel it.
I walked quickly over to the shelves she needed. Her books were all part of the 800 literature group, specifically numbers 821 and 823, English poetry and English fiction. I assumed she was writing something for one of her literature classes. My mind wandered to the dark haired man, who had been grading papers with his pen rubbing his pouting bottom lip. Perhaps he was her teacher, or perhaps he wasn't an English teacher at all.
The sound of my shoes cut through the silent room like thunder, and I cringed at the garish intrusion. Eyes grazed over me, peering from the tops of books and papers, as I walked by, informing me that the noise I was making was disrupting their concentration.
Mary walked silently at my side and, against my will, I felt envious.
A growing tension fixed itself in the base of my spine as I walked next to the blonde man I had spent months noticing. His eyes didn't turn to inspect me as I passed, and the level of disappointment I felt at this surprised me. I wanted to know what it felt like to have those eyes skim my face, my attire, though I knew well that the look would never as intently as the one he reserved for the man across the room.
Crooking my head to the left sightly, I brought my intention briefly to the other man. For the first time since he had walked into the library he appeared to be focusing on his work, paying neither me or the blonde any attention. Briefly, I pondered if he felt a sense of discouragement, the game at a full stop.
We arrived at the shelf she was looking for and I quickly pulled the texts she needed. She inspected them carefully, noting their size and condition. I appreciated the delicateness with which she handled them, knowing full well they would be returned in the exact same condition.
"Thank you so much, Miss Winters. I feel so silly for not being able to find these on my own. The decimal system trips me up from time to time." Her voice was soft and quiet, but quite musical. I wondered if she was part of the school choir.
"You're very welcome, love. And please, call me Ellen."
I know it is not apropos to have students be on a first name basis with an adult who works at their education institution, but I was not much older than she. Her use of the term miss when I was, in fact, a mrs. made me yearn for the youth I had so eagerly given up five years before.
A deep blush spread itself across her cheeks, highlighting the strawberry in her dirty blonde hair. She looked away from me and stammered her response.
"I couldn't! I just.....I just couldn't. It isn't right, Miss."
Her politeness, which proved she had been raised properly, should not have wounded me as it did. Instead, I hid my internal response with a reassuring smile.
"It's alright, Miss Simms. I completely understand."
We walked back to my desk in silence, Mary lightly fingering the books she gently pressed into her chest. The blush had started to subside.
I ran my hands over my jumper, adjusting the hem here and there, as one usually does while walking. The fabric soothed my fingers which had cramped from cataloguing by hand.
She handed me her cards, which I stamped swiftly before I filled out the date due sheet. As I watched her leave, I smiled knowing well that the books would be returned well before the week was up.
My attention returned to the file cards in front of me, and I pouted with disdain, something Martin always said was 'an unattractive feature on a lady.' I only did it in private or when I was on my own. Lately, I found myself watching my steps with him, avoiding any kind of disproval. Though, that was useless. Our conversation only seemed to flow when he was correcting me on my manners or opinions.
And while I feel I should have been loathe to go home, some part of me was genuinely hopeful for the return of his affection. That maybe one night he would come from work, having had a good day instead of the endless streams of days which earned a grunt. That he would take me in his arms, as he used to, and kiss my lips, recognizing the flavors and listing them with a smile. I hope that he would press me to him, tell me what he wanted in the most base of ways, and allow me to have him, as we used to.
I reminded myself, again, that I was merely a bored librarian. And dirty woman, too, for wanting these things.
A dark shadow rose in the distance and I looked up from my musings to see the dark haired man getting to his feet, collecting his things elegantly. It struck me, then, how his slender fingers could work so swiftly and with such keen accuracy. He placed his work neatly in his satchel, lifting it over his shoulder before running his hands over the creases in his dark argyle jumper. He didn't brave one final glance at the blonde, instead fixed his glasses on his nose and took one statuesque step away from the table.
Transfixed, I watched as he exited, his jacket billowing behind him as he turned through the doorway. And, for a moment, I was envious of how graceful his movements truly were. No longer having any form of entertainment, or form of escape, I lowered my head back to my catalogue cards, the tedious duty of filing never truly over. Astutely I was aware of a dark shadow lingering by the glass wall. I looked up only to find the dark haired man looking through the glass, eyes locked with the blonde.
Blinking, I struggled to process what I was seeing. The brunette raised his hand to the glass. He pressed his fingers to the window, not a wave, but a gesture of absence. Instantly, I was aware that both of their looks were sad.
And as suddenly as I had noticed the event, it was over, and the dark haired man removed his hand.
His hand print remained, a smear on the glass, serving as the only proof that he had ever been there at all.
Author:
lalalive23 Rating: E for Everyone...for now...
Pairing: Bell/Dom and a few original characters.
Summary: Matt and Dom are teachers at a local high school in 1954. They don't want their relationship to be discovered, especially by those they work with, even though they've been living together for nearly 4 years. This is the story of what happens when the school librarian discovers them.
Feedback: Is nice! I like it loads! Just don't make fun of me, plz <3
Disclaimer: If i owned Muse, other things would be happening. Things like 1. I wouldn't be sitting here faffing around on my laptop. 2. I would probably be faffing around with them, if you know what I mean. 3. I would be able to fund my trips to NYC to get to work. In fact, I wouldn't be in NYC at all. I do, however, own a Muse hoodie. So, that's a start.
Note: Thanks to
dolce_piccante and sunshine_173 (especially you dear, for being my beta reader for the past year) for existing and being the most encouraging friends when it comes to things like this. This chapter is going up now because I am going to get my drink on in Little Italy and, if all goes as planned, I will not be in the correct head space to post this either tonight or tomorrow morning LOL. I am embarrassing. ENJOY!The library felt like a greenhouse, the sun beating through the high windows and trapping it inside. All day, I had been sitting on the hardwood chair regretting my decision to wear the pink jumper, which made me feel like I was suffocating. But Martin had mentioned that he loved it so, once upon a time, and so I wore it today with grim optimism.
It was impossible to deny that the lack of students here today was on account of the weather. As it was mid-October, the sunshine and warmth was sure to be the final reprieve Sevenoaks would have before winter fully set in. Only the most dedicated students were in today, no doubt getting an early start on the work that was necessary to pass their A-levels or GCSE's. Directly in front of me was a group of boys whom I knew to be Oxbridge candidates, all best mates and all frighteningly intelligent. The school boasted about them relentlessly.
A sigh of discontent escaped my throat as I focused once more on the index cards in my hand. My day needed to be centered on correctly cataloging the reference cabinet. The alphabetical system worked well until one person got careless and then all the rest fell apart in a domino effect. Deep down, I wished that the school would invest in a type-writer, though those were garishly expensive. It would, however, make this job a tiny bit easier.
Suddenly, there was a movement in the corner of my eye which caused me to look up with curiosity. I felt a grin tug at the side of my mouth.
They were at it again, though exactly what it was I could not define. That turn of phrase is most probably incorrect, but they seemed to repeat these actions on a regular basis. Or maybe I only seemed to notice these instead of their other myriad of encounters.
The blonde and the brunette were on opposite sides of the library. It was by no means a large distance, thus allowing them to remain in clear view of one another. Both of them were teachers at the school, that much I knew for sure. Their leather satchels slung over their shoulders matched; they were the same brand, but not the same shade of brown. The blonde had his nose in a book of Proust, while the brunette sat at a table in the corner by himself, his papers sprawled across the hardwood. I could tell he is grading something and his furrowed brow was a clue to the extent of the perplexity with which he reviewed a sentence. Once, twice, three times before he looked over to the blonde, pen between his lips.
The blonde didn't notice. Instead, he turned a page, reading intently, or maybe not so intently, as he leaned elegantly against the shelf. I assume not so intently, because as the dark haired man's eyes returned to skimming the pages before him, the blonde crooked his head to the right, daring a look over at the man who had noticed him moments before.
I had been watching them do this for weeks, months even, and I was beginning to think it was something of a game.
They continued in this way, stealing glances at one another over pages of words I very much doubt either were reading thoroughly. And suddenly, their eyes met.
I took in a sharp breath, a breath that I noticed neither of them took. I wanted to shout to everyone else in the room 'don't you see? The game has been lost!' I held my breath for everyone else, the only spectator of this round.
Stunned, I watched as they held the gaze, neither moving or making any attempt to speak, or nod, or wave. Instead they just stared. It was a loaded stare, one filled with affection and memories that only they would remember or understand.
The brunette didn't move, just continued to look as, what I would define as, a wistful sigh escaped him. The blonde smiled after he saw the movement of the other man's chest. So much meaning, and non-meaning, was trapped within the curve of his lips. It was tender, gentle, and warm. And yet, was the same smile one would give to a stranger, to inform them that, 'yes, this seat is free' on a train.
And just as quickly, it was over. And the two returned to what they had been doing before.
I exhaled the breath I had been holding. After working there for two months, and noticing them for just as long, I didn't really know what I had been expecting. Alarms? Answers? Resounding understanding?
I shook my head, the creeping sensation in the back of my mind telling me that I was just a bored librarian making up scenarios as a way to escape the tedium of my job. What I had been witnessing was probably two strangers meeting gazes. The brunette had an odd way about him, in that he seemed jerky or twitchy. Like he couldn't sit still, even for a moment. The fact that his eyes darted from here and there was probably a testimony to his personality and the blonde took notice. And, perhaps, the blonde was not looking at the brunette at all. The dark haired man was sat beneath a window, and the leaves outside turning red was a far better view than the one the cream walls and green carpet of the building could have ever supplied.
"Uhm, Miss?"
A small, female voice shook me from my thoughts. I brought my gaze over to the student in front of me. She was smiling, a sweet smile, and I recognized her as Mary Simms, a bright girl in Year 12. Reminded of how she addressed me, I couldn't help but chuckle.
She hadn't noticed my wedding ring.
It didn't bother me. Most of the time, I didn't notice it either.
"What can I help you with?" I set my catalogue cards down and leaned forward. I was grateful for the conversation, even if it was only to help a student find a book. It was a welcome distraction.
"I'm looking for these books." She slipped a piece of paper across my desk, her neat cursive listing four items. "I can't seem to find them. I might be going down the wrong rows."
She ran her hands down her red skirt, an attempt of flatten creases that weren't there. The simple uniform of the school looked nice on her, the carmine summer cardigan and skirt seemed to sit on her like a second skin. It was understandable why all of the boys in the school admired her. Sitting behind a desk all day allowed one to notice the wandering eyes of the students, and the objects which captured their attention.
As I stood to help her find what she was looking for, I couldn't help but notice the difference in our attire. She made the poly-blend uniform look so lovely and beautiful, the cream chemise under her coat decorated with taste as she pinned a flower broach on top of the cravat. My thick black skirt was heavy and bothersome, and the jumper I had paired it with so tastefully this morning suddenly made me feel frumpy and plain. With disdain, I wondered if I would ever feel young again. I was only 26, for heaven's sake. But by no means did I feel it.
I walked quickly over to the shelves she needed. Her books were all part of the 800 literature group, specifically numbers 821 and 823, English poetry and English fiction. I assumed she was writing something for one of her literature classes. My mind wandered to the dark haired man, who had been grading papers with his pen rubbing his pouting bottom lip. Perhaps he was her teacher, or perhaps he wasn't an English teacher at all.
The sound of my shoes cut through the silent room like thunder, and I cringed at the garish intrusion. Eyes grazed over me, peering from the tops of books and papers, as I walked by, informing me that the noise I was making was disrupting their concentration.
Mary walked silently at my side and, against my will, I felt envious.
A growing tension fixed itself in the base of my spine as I walked next to the blonde man I had spent months noticing. His eyes didn't turn to inspect me as I passed, and the level of disappointment I felt at this surprised me. I wanted to know what it felt like to have those eyes skim my face, my attire, though I knew well that the look would never as intently as the one he reserved for the man across the room.
Crooking my head to the left sightly, I brought my intention briefly to the other man. For the first time since he had walked into the library he appeared to be focusing on his work, paying neither me or the blonde any attention. Briefly, I pondered if he felt a sense of discouragement, the game at a full stop.
We arrived at the shelf she was looking for and I quickly pulled the texts she needed. She inspected them carefully, noting their size and condition. I appreciated the delicateness with which she handled them, knowing full well they would be returned in the exact same condition.
"Thank you so much, Miss Winters. I feel so silly for not being able to find these on my own. The decimal system trips me up from time to time." Her voice was soft and quiet, but quite musical. I wondered if she was part of the school choir.
"You're very welcome, love. And please, call me Ellen."
I know it is not apropos to have students be on a first name basis with an adult who works at their education institution, but I was not much older than she. Her use of the term miss when I was, in fact, a mrs. made me yearn for the youth I had so eagerly given up five years before.
A deep blush spread itself across her cheeks, highlighting the strawberry in her dirty blonde hair. She looked away from me and stammered her response.
"I couldn't! I just.....I just couldn't. It isn't right, Miss."
Her politeness, which proved she had been raised properly, should not have wounded me as it did. Instead, I hid my internal response with a reassuring smile.
"It's alright, Miss Simms. I completely understand."
We walked back to my desk in silence, Mary lightly fingering the books she gently pressed into her chest. The blush had started to subside.
I ran my hands over my jumper, adjusting the hem here and there, as one usually does while walking. The fabric soothed my fingers which had cramped from cataloguing by hand.
She handed me her cards, which I stamped swiftly before I filled out the date due sheet. As I watched her leave, I smiled knowing well that the books would be returned well before the week was up.
My attention returned to the file cards in front of me, and I pouted with disdain, something Martin always said was 'an unattractive feature on a lady.' I only did it in private or when I was on my own. Lately, I found myself watching my steps with him, avoiding any kind of disproval. Though, that was useless. Our conversation only seemed to flow when he was correcting me on my manners or opinions.
And while I feel I should have been loathe to go home, some part of me was genuinely hopeful for the return of his affection. That maybe one night he would come from work, having had a good day instead of the endless streams of days which earned a grunt. That he would take me in his arms, as he used to, and kiss my lips, recognizing the flavors and listing them with a smile. I hope that he would press me to him, tell me what he wanted in the most base of ways, and allow me to have him, as we used to.
I reminded myself, again, that I was merely a bored librarian. And dirty woman, too, for wanting these things.
A dark shadow rose in the distance and I looked up from my musings to see the dark haired man getting to his feet, collecting his things elegantly. It struck me, then, how his slender fingers could work so swiftly and with such keen accuracy. He placed his work neatly in his satchel, lifting it over his shoulder before running his hands over the creases in his dark argyle jumper. He didn't brave one final glance at the blonde, instead fixed his glasses on his nose and took one statuesque step away from the table.
Transfixed, I watched as he exited, his jacket billowing behind him as he turned through the doorway. And, for a moment, I was envious of how graceful his movements truly were. No longer having any form of entertainment, or form of escape, I lowered my head back to my catalogue cards, the tedious duty of filing never truly over. Astutely I was aware of a dark shadow lingering by the glass wall. I looked up only to find the dark haired man looking through the glass, eyes locked with the blonde.
Blinking, I struggled to process what I was seeing. The brunette raised his hand to the glass. He pressed his fingers to the window, not a wave, but a gesture of absence. Instantly, I was aware that both of their looks were sad.
And as suddenly as I had noticed the event, it was over, and the dark haired man removed his hand.
His hand print remained, a smear on the glass, serving as the only proof that he had ever been there at all.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-09-26 01:38 am (UTC)and that she likes to watch them, almost admitting she wants to be right about what's going on...well..
i want more please. <333
no subject
Date: 2010-09-26 06:47 pm (UTC)Matt and Dom are so beautiful together, it's hard not to notice them.
I love you!!
no subject
Date: 2010-09-26 03:46 am (UTC)I'm so falling in love. But I already told you that on msn. Oh well, I'll keep telling you.
The ending makes me go <3333.
Just...I love this all. <33
no subject
Date: 2010-09-26 06:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-26 08:26 pm (UTC)There's something ethereal about watching the two of them through this librarian's eyes, like walking through a dream...
The brunette didn't move, just continued to look as, what I would define as, a wistful sigh escaped him. The blonde smiled after he saw the movement of the other man's chest. So much meaning, and non-meaning, was trapped within the curve of his lips. It was tender, gentle, and warm.
... I love it. And I quite like Ellen.
And what a note to end it on, I just want more of this, and soon bb. Love ya loads, believe it. <3 <3
no subject
Date: 2010-09-27 12:14 am (UTC)I hope you continue to like Ellen! This story is as much about Ellen as it is about Matt and Dom. She is a very good woman <3
You shall receive more my darling! Once I finish these damn essays and other life things *sigh*
So much adoration for you!
no subject
Date: 2010-09-29 11:24 pm (UTC)This is one of the most romantic stories I´ve read. The secret glances and the tiny gestures speak volumes about their love. It´s all so dreamy *girly sigh*
I think I´m falling for this story, badly.
<3
no subject
Date: 2010-09-30 02:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-30 05:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-30 09:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-30 11:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-30 12:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-30 02:40 pm (UTC)The atmosphere was so romantic. The glances and the locked gaze. It's kinda sad to think that they can't be open but at the same time these stolen moments make it even better.
Love this. *off to the next chapter*
no subject
Date: 2010-09-30 08:34 pm (UTC)The blonde smiled after he saw the movement of the other man's chest. So much meaning, and non-meaning, was trapped within the curve of his lips. It was tender, gentle, and warm. And yet, was the same smile one would give to a stranger, to inform them that, 'yes, this seat is free' on a train.
^Great passage!
The brunette raised his hand to the glass. He pressed his fingers to the window, not a wave, but a gesture of absence. Instantly, I was aware that both of their looks were sad.
Awwww! *hugs the boys* One's gesture can stand for thousands of words! *runs to read chapter 2*
no subject
Date: 2011-04-09 04:16 pm (UTC)