The
most mild of mild slash--it's more an undercurrent than anything blatantly
stated or done (in other words, wonder of all wonders, I am trying to be subtle).
And I have never attempted to write slash before (I didn't even used to
like it--but I'm gaining an appreciation for some of it...slowly), so this is a first for me. I was watching "Rocket to the
Moon"--the opening scene, when Jules and Phil are fencing and Jules loses,
and all of a sudden it struck me as a most...intriguing moment
(translation: I've been reading too
much slash in order to gain an appreciation for it, and it's affected my
mind). So I ran with it--this is a
scene directly after the end of "RttM"--and the only spoiler warnings
are for that episode. Don't own the
characters, make no profit off the story, intend no copyright
infringements.
Duel
Phileas Fogg debated with himself
about going downstairs for a drink. It
seemed rather silly, as he'd just come up with Rebecca and Passepartout,
bidding them both good night and telling the valet he would not need his
services to help get undressed that night.
And he didn't want to wake Verne up if the young man had already fallen
asleep downstairs. But Phileas felt a
bit restless, and he thought a drink might settle him down.
He was standing in the center of his
rather cramped room on the Aurora in
a rare moment of indecisiveness when he heard the light fall of footsteps
outside his door on the landing. He
stilled, watching the door and waiting, unable to stop his entire body tensing
instinctively. The footsteps also
paused, as if in uncertainty, and then he heard them retreating.
Out of curiosity, Fogg opened his
bedroom door.
Jules Verne swung back to face him
when he heard the door open, already halfway to the stairs. The gas lights had all been turned down by
Passepartout for the night, so Verne carried a candle, its light flickering
shadows onto his thin face. Fogg
couldn't read the younger man's impassive expression. "So you are still awake."
"Indeed," Phileas replied
and paused. "Did you want
something,Verne?" he went on when the writer remained mute and frozen
before him.
Verne lifted his chin and
straightened, still with that oddly intense but indefinable expression sketched
onto his delicate features. "I was
wondering if you'd like to give me another fencing lesson." The words were almost cold, certainly
unusually harsh and distant, sparking Fogg's curiosity even more about his
friend's mood.
"At this hour of the
night? An unusual request indeed,
Verne. Why didn't you ask earlier when
we were all still downstairs?"
Phileas wondered if the younger man were drunk. He didn't remember Jules taking any alcohol
after they'd settled themselves back onto the Aurora upon leaving Russia.
"Forget it." The boy swung around again, heading for the
stairs.
"Now wait a minute,"
Fogg's exasperated but hushed (in consideration for the other occupants of the
airship) voice stopped the writer unwillingly by the spiral railing that led to
the lower level of the Aurora. "I didn't refuse, Verne, I just said it
was odd." Fogg paused, then closed
his bedroom door behind him and joined Verne by the stairs. "I'll fence with you."
Jules didn't look back at him or
reply, only flitting down the stairs with a grace and speed that somehow surprised
the ex-Secret Service agent.
Fogg stood in the center of the
room, holding both swords while Verne turned up a few of the gas lamps. He was still curious why Verne wanted a
lesson so late at night and, catching a glimpse of the sofa that Jules called a
bed when he stayed overnight on the Aurora,
he wondered if Jules had been feeling lonely, sleeping by himself downstairs
while his three friends remained separate and out of reach upstairs. An interesting possibility; he'd have to
give it more thought.
But perhaps he was just trying to
distract himself from his own emotions and motivations for coming back down
here tonight. He was feeling a bit
vulnerable and underdressed, as he'd taken off his outer coat and cravat in his
room before the consideration of a drink had made him pause. He hadn't bothered putting them back on
before following Verne. What would be
the point? He tried to suppress his
unusual and uncomfortable feelings.
He watched Jules move around the
room lightly, his feet eerily making no sound on the floor boards or rugs, too
much like an intangible ghost for Fogg's liking. The writer was still dressed in the stained white shirt with
flowing sleeves rolled up, the black suspenders stark against the shirt. He'd been wearing it since at least the
night before; Fogg wondered why the French youth hadn't bothered changing. His dark face was interesting to study in
this eerie half-light, shadows and hollows in his thin cheeks and under his hazel
eyes. His curly hair seemed particularly
soft and thick; Fogg idly wondered when the Frenchman had last had it cut. His small, slender body was tense under his
clothing, his gentle face tightened into a hint of--anger? Fogg was intrigued.
Verne took one of the swords from
him without meeting his eye or saying a word.
This was getting more and more odd, driving Fogg's curiosity to a fever
pitch. The writer stepped back and held
the weapon up in front of him, finding his stance.
"Ready?" Phileas asked
unnecessarily.
"En garde," Verne answered,
face set.
Phileas lunged.
"May I ask what brought this
on, Verne?" Fogg asked as they alternated lunging and parrying, attacking
and defending. Jules was quiet,
intense, almost vicious, surprising the Englishman with his unusual ferocity. Of course it had taken him a while to get
the Frenchman used to holding the sword, let alone getting him comfortable
using it against anyone. Especially his
own friend and teacher.
"I wasn't tired," Verne
said, breathing heavily and watching Fogg's sword with an intensity that made
the other man vaguely uneasy. It was
that sort of concentrated gaze that Jules got when thinking up a new invention
or story idea, only magnified a hundredfold.
Fogg couldn't tell his friend how uncomfortable it made him. He was only grateful the man wasn't looking
him in the eye with that expression on his face. "And I thought some exercise would help that."
"Ah." Fogg effortlessly parried, metal striking
metal with a ruthless jangle of discord.
Jules stepped back, taking a moment to catch his breath before
refreshing his attack. "And is it
helping?"
"I don't think so," was
the flat reply.
Phileas sincerely wished he knew
what was going on in his young friend's mind.
"Are you still angry at me for gambling away Passepartout's
contract?"
"Why should I be?" Verne
asked in a deceptively innocent tone, the acidic sarcasm hidden behind layers
Fogg would never have expected the smaller man capable of. "Passepartout doesn't care that you sold him to a madman bent on clinging to
an unequal, antiquated, indifferent past; why should I? It's not like you were giving me away." He lunged forward suddenly, his frustration getting the better of
him, and overbalanced himself. Fogg
took the sword out of his hand easily.
Fogg waited until he had Verne's
complete attention before handing back the weapon and replying in his most
precise and clipped accents.
"Passepartout agreed to the wager before I played the card game
with Count Kugarin. And anyway, the
count is now probably somewhere in the vicinity of the moon, while my
manservant is quite safely back on the Aurora
with us, as you well know Verne."
Verne's face was set, eyes burning
in the dim light, chin jutting forward, the muscles on his forearms visibly
distended as he clutched his sword too tightly with whitened fingers. Fogg could almost feel the nervous energy
radiating off the wiry younger man, even at two swords length distance. "And for how long is he safe?" the
writer shot back. "How long until
you gamble him away again? How long
until you gamble yourself
away?!"
"I don't know," Fogg said
in a light but increasingly dangerous tone.
He was firmly keeping control of his temper, reminding himself of
Jules's "strong views" and trying not to think about why he was
really in danger of losing his grip on his emotions. "We'll find out, won't we?"
The flippant response only seemed to
anger the Frenchman more, judging by his renewed deadly concentration on their
sparring and the scowl on his handsome face.
"Don't you care Fogg?"
"Care, Verne? Care about what?"
"Life," Jules
snapped. "Living. Friends, family. You're so easily ready to chance everything--don't you know you
can't keep playing games of risk with Death?
She always wins!"
While the idea of Death being a she
was a diverting topic in and of itself, Fogg couldn't allow himself to be
distracted. He needed--well, he didn't
know what he needed to do. But he was
worried about his friend, about the boy's state of mind, which was not
something that often caused him unease.
He usually thought of Jules as being much more sane and sensible than
his own self. On the other hand, Fogg
sometimes privately wondered if the writer thought too much, too deeply, about
certain subjects, more than was good for him.
But he certainly had no right to judge what other people should or
shouldn't think.
"Perhaps, Verne, I care too
much about life," Fogg said, paying more attention to his opponent's
weapon than to his own words.
"What the hell does that
mean?"
While one part of Fogg's mind busied
itself to recalling if he'd ever heard the younger man swear before, another
part answered, giving Jules the reply he thought the writer expected--or at
least would accept, coming from him.
"Taking risks let me know I'm still alive. If I didn't chance everything, I wouldn't be alive."
"That is so utterly
hypocritical!" Jules cried, pausing for a moment and having to hurriedly
defend himself when Fogg used the opportunity to press home his advantage. Sweat made a fine sheen on the Frenchman's
face, turning his smooth skin golden in the odd lamplight. "It's a contradiction, Fogg!" His dark green brown eyes were wide with his
frustrated disbelief.
"I never said it made sense,
Verne," Phileas retorted, a smile breaking through his mood and dispelling
his tension at last. There was no
answering smile from his serious companion.
"Things in life rarely do.
I've told you before, Jules--life isn't a book or a play, with a set
beginning, middle, and end. Life
doesn't have rising action and resolutions--it's chaotic, it's inexplicable,
it's untrustworthy."
"Exactly," Verne cried
triumphantly. "Why make it more so
with your gambling?"
Fogg shrugged. He still hadn't broken into a sweat, though
Verne was certainly making him work tonight.
Phileas found it invigorating.
And he was enjoying watching the younger man's movements around the
room, for once not clumsy, a beginner's awkwardness. No, Jules was letting some intuitive, inward grace and litheness
take control, which he'd never done before.
The boy could be a wonderful fencer after some more lessons under his
belt. "Some things, Verne, you
can't explain."
"A deep flaw in your
character." The little fellow came
as close to sneering as was possible for his gentle soul to do. It surprised Fogg, which gave Verne an
unexpected--if momentary--advantage in their fencing.
Verne really could be the most
aggravating youngster, Fogg thought to himself, now concentrating fiercely on
the swordfight. So obtuse in some ways
even as he was staggeringly intelligent and observant in others. Refusing to see others' viewpoints,
sometimes positively blind to the reality around him. But then, at times Fogg was intensely grateful that Jules could
miss so much; the boy had a beautiful soul that was begging to be taught; a
fragile soul that Fogg would give his life to keep pure and innocent, protected
from the darkness that formed so much of Fogg's own life.
He was getting tired, Phileas noted
coolly, watching his opponent's feints and thrusts lose their forceful energy,
become sluggish. Verne's hair was damp
with sweat, tightening into even thicker curls. The hollows in his cheeks and under his eyes were even more
pronounced. He was so young, so
delicate, so beautiful.
"And what about you,
Verne?" Fogg asked in a low voice.
"Aren't you gambling your life away right now, fencing with
me? Couldn't I kill you? Couldn't you
kill me? Couldn't this be considered too much a risk for you?"
"Of course not," Verne
snapped, his concentration faltering.
"I trust you, Fogg."
He slipped up again, not paying
enough attention to the fight and too much attention to the words, and Fogg
slid the sword right out of Verne's hands, the weapon clattering uselessly to
the floor. Jules found himself once
again pinned against the wall, a sword pressed against his neck. He stared up into Fogg's eyes, oddly defiant
and afraid, before looking away again, his attention focusing inward to some
mental place Fogg wasn't privy to go.
Fogg, exhilarated by the encounter, was for once not feeling guilty
about making his own friend frightened of him.
Fogg studied Verne's face, eyes
running slowly and with meticulous care and attention to detail over hair,
eyes, cheek, nose, lips, neck. A little
smile played around his mouth as he leant in close to his opponent and
whispered gently, "Then your life is in my hands."
* * *
I
need to let go.
He was trapped. Backed up against a wall with startlingly
cold metal tickling against his neck, sending convulsive shivers throughout his
body, Fogg's body pressed up against his.
Fogg always had a thing about invading others' personal space, getting
too close and making them uncomfortable.
Jules could only stare into the Englishman's eyes, heart thumping
against his ribcage as if begging to be let out, sweat running irritatingly
down the side of his face.
The others had all begun to relax as
they started their trip earlier that evening to Paris to drop Jules off. He'd only grown more restless, more
frustrated, driven more and more to release some wild pent-up urge or bundle of
emotions that he couldn't quite identify.
Some part of it was anger, he knew.
He even knew at whom it was directed--who it was always directed at.
The invitation for a fencing lesson
had been a way to purge at least some of the anger and frustrated energy. Embarrassment, fear, and something
altogether more uncomfortable had mixed together to make him
uncharacteristically short and almost rude with his--mentor? protector?--on the
landing above. And he'd seen the concern
in Fogg's eyes at the top of the stairs, which had only made him angrier. At himself or at Fogg--possibly at both of
them--he didn't know. That particular
confusion often happened these days, he found.
The observation didn't help.
I
need to let go.
And now Fogg had him trapped again;
he always had him trapped, with a word, with a glance, with a gun to his
head. A tiny smile had settled itself
on the older man's face, and he was looking Verne over as he might critically
inspect a new waistcoat, his weary green eyes mocking, almost teasing. It made Verne squirm and curl his fists in
renewed and even more helpless frustration.
Feelings were surging inside him, combining together into an explosive,
almost irresistible urge to do something,
and he couldn't even move.
The English gentleman hadn't even
broken into a sweat, it galled Jules to at last notice as he ran his own eyes
desperately over the other man. He'd
been too wrapped up in his own distracting, dizzying thoughts and the fierce
sparring to observe anything about his opponent before, other than the
delicate, catlike way he moved, always just beyond Verne's reach. He noted now the way Fogg stood, as always
loosely and jauntily, with almost no physical tension whatsoever. With him, everything was mental. Fogg was dressed positively casually by his
standards, collarless, with top shirt buttons undone, flowing and pristine
white shirtsleeves naked of outer coat.
His waistcoat was even unbuttoned, hanging loosely off his tall, trim
body, and he still looked perfectly groomed and put together, not a single
salt-and-pepper hair out of place. He
didn't even bloody need to shave. But Verne took heart to catch sight of
Fogg's chest heaving deeply and evenly under his shirt--at least it'd taken the
man some effort.
He was impossible, Verne thought to
himself once again in aggravation, as he'd done hundreds of times since falling
into the Foggs' company. Some damned
English gentleman with his asinine English gentleman's code and all that
entailed about honor and fair play and the rest, damn whatever might occur in
consequence. They were complete
opposites, in their upbringing, in their philosophy, in how they dealt with
situations, how they saw life--everything.
He sometimes didn't know how they had become friends, let alone how they
stayed that way.
And other times he knew he could
never give up Fogg's friendship for anything.
Not give up their debates, their adventures, their lessons, their jokes,
his profound respect and trust for the older man. There was a vulnerability about the older man, a sort of mental
scar, which filled Jules with an almost painful compassion. He knew he couldn't abandon Fogg, somehow
certain that just one more person walking out of Fogg's life would kill the
other man. Even if that man was holding
a sword to his neck and standing so dizzyingly close he couldn't quite catch
his breath or focus his thoughts into some semblance of coherence and order.
I
need to let go!
He met Fogg's eye again, defiantly,
waiting for the moment to end, knowing this unbearable tension would have to
resolve itself (no matter what Fogg's views on the subject were)
eventually. Yes, he trusted Phileas
Fogg--with his life, with his soul--even if sometimes he thought he
might be mad to do so. And, considering
Fogg's own words to him, perhaps the Englishman was right--staying by Fogg's
side was a very great risk. But he knew
he was more than willing to take it, that he couldn't refuse the Englishman's
friendship, no matter how dangerous a gamble it might be. And even as he thought that, Phileas leant
in to whisper in his ear, hot breath on his neck making Jules shiver,
"Then your life is in my hands."
The words were almost kindly even as they pierced Jules's heart as
easily as the sword could pierce his throat.
I
want to let go.
Jules closed his eyes,
swallowing. He felt Phileas take a step
back, and suddenly Verne could breathe again without Fogg's body heat,
overpowering presence, clouding his ability for even that most basic of functions. He opened his eyes again. Fogg was holding out his sword expectantly.
"Are we finished for
tonight?" Fogg asked in that maddeningly airy, disinterested voice he
could put to such effective and devastating use when he chose. Jules repressed a violent, unexpected urge
to hit him and nodded dumbly, taking the sword.
"Then do be so kind as to put
the weapons away, won't you?" Fogg continued, his manner still
frustratingly cavalier and easy. Verne
admired the other man's iron control.
"I think I'm ready for bed.
Good night, Verne."
"Good night, Fogg," Jules
muttered, hoping his face wasn't burning.
He felt like an amusing child who had been dismissed because the adult
no longer wanted to play. He picked up
his fallen sword and stiffly walked away to put both weapons back.
"Sweet dreams," Fogg's
voice carried down from the upper level of the airship, lingering in the dimly
lit room like a ghost laughing at him.
The clashing sound of metal as Jules dropped the swords in their proper
place startled the serene silence, making the writer feel ugly and out of
place. He threw himself onto the couch,
shutting his eyes, though a still bewildering variety of emotions and desires
coursed through him, making the idea of sleep a mockery.
And still one thought remained aloof
from the unbearable confusion in his mind, constant among the morass of other
random thoughts and feelings.
I
want to let go.
