mrsronweasley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mrsronweasley) wrote2006-05-23 03:34 pm
mrsronweasley) wrote2006-05-23 03:34 pm
Entry tags:
"Slings & Arrows" drabiclet (because I cannot do 100 words, I just can't!)
Written for my Wifey. Never thought I'd write "S&A", but hey - there are worse things to be doing at 3pm at work, right?
Oliver had found life to be lonely. Oliver had found death to be lonely. However, he had also found death to be almost liberating. No more suits to impress or beg money from, no more actors complaining about blocking and mistunderstanding their motivations, no more smiles to keep up, no more ties to tie.
Well, no. He still wore a tie. There were some things that didn't disappear with death.
A few other things remained, as well. The shame. The rage. The love. He had stopped believing himself capable of genius a long time ago. He'd given up, his bed made for him by somebody else's weakness. Maybe that somebody else had become weak due to Oliver's own weakness, of course, and he knew that to be true. His weakness for power met Geoffrey's weakness for love, and both imploded most spectacularly. Oliver had never really understood the utter passion with which Geoffrey threw himself into his union with Ellen, even though he had understood the impulse.
Perhaps Oliver had merely been missing one crucial component of the equation. After all, he had known love - real, passionate, sickeningly true love. But his love never loved him back. And it was rather difficult to sustain that feeling of loyalty and compassion towards somebody who, at the very best, had forgotten all about you.
No, not forgotten. Oliver knew, irrevocably, that Geoffrey would never forget him - oh, no. Oliver was, after all, the primary cause of Geoffrey's downfall. No, Oliver was not forgotten. He was despised; hated; cursed. If in life he had never had the courage to face the fact that Geoffrey, in the most ironic twist fate had ever given Oliver, was the love of his life, then in death, he could never escape it.
For that is what Geoffrey was: the big one, the true one, the love that would never be topped by any other. Oliver hated that. He had resented Geoffrey with almost the same passion with which he loved him. He resented his talent, could never resist it. He resented his character, could never come even close to replicating it. He knew which one of them shone, which one was truly put on this Earth to move people. It wasn't Oliver. It never was Oliver. If his "Hamlet" had been a success at all, it had been no accomplishment of his own that had done it. Pacing in the wings, he could feel every vibration that passed through Geoffrey, every tremor, every thought. The stage had moved on opening night, and Oliver's pacing had never even registered on anybody's radar.
No, no. It had been Geoffrey, and it had been Ellen, and Oliver had hated them both, loved them so much, he thought he would go half out of his mind. Ironic, now. Ironic and deeply sad. Now dead, he could view his life as a stage wholly separate from himself. He could walk behind it, analyze its movements, its structure. He could see its flaws. And death was lonely.
But, of course, that didn't mean he had to do it alone. In the biggest twist of them all, Oliver found he could influence what happened after his death - and he could do it through Geoffrey. Of all people, Geoffrey - so close to the edge, he could actually commune with the dead - could be Oliver's salvation. He could do in Oliver's death what he had never been willing to do in Oliver's life. He could bring to life the visions that Oliver had nearly given up on, and he could do it to thunder and lightning and the sort of trembling that this stage had not seen for eight long years. Yes, yes, Geoffrey could do it - and he would do it. Of that, Oliver was quite certain. The one thing that Oliver had never truly lost was the ability to manipulate and cajole. Every, even marginally good, director had it in him, and Oliver, for all his flaws and shortcomings, had it in spades. He held Geoffrey in the palm of his hand, with all the coldness of death and eternity behind him. He wasn't afraid of losing Geoffrey anymore. And that was the most liberating thought of all.
*
More drabbles to come.
Oliver had found life to be lonely. Oliver had found death to be lonely. However, he had also found death to be almost liberating. No more suits to impress or beg money from, no more actors complaining about blocking and mistunderstanding their motivations, no more smiles to keep up, no more ties to tie.
Well, no. He still wore a tie. There were some things that didn't disappear with death.
A few other things remained, as well. The shame. The rage. The love. He had stopped believing himself capable of genius a long time ago. He'd given up, his bed made for him by somebody else's weakness. Maybe that somebody else had become weak due to Oliver's own weakness, of course, and he knew that to be true. His weakness for power met Geoffrey's weakness for love, and both imploded most spectacularly. Oliver had never really understood the utter passion with which Geoffrey threw himself into his union with Ellen, even though he had understood the impulse.
Perhaps Oliver had merely been missing one crucial component of the equation. After all, he had known love - real, passionate, sickeningly true love. But his love never loved him back. And it was rather difficult to sustain that feeling of loyalty and compassion towards somebody who, at the very best, had forgotten all about you.
No, not forgotten. Oliver knew, irrevocably, that Geoffrey would never forget him - oh, no. Oliver was, after all, the primary cause of Geoffrey's downfall. No, Oliver was not forgotten. He was despised; hated; cursed. If in life he had never had the courage to face the fact that Geoffrey, in the most ironic twist fate had ever given Oliver, was the love of his life, then in death, he could never escape it.
For that is what Geoffrey was: the big one, the true one, the love that would never be topped by any other. Oliver hated that. He had resented Geoffrey with almost the same passion with which he loved him. He resented his talent, could never resist it. He resented his character, could never come even close to replicating it. He knew which one of them shone, which one was truly put on this Earth to move people. It wasn't Oliver. It never was Oliver. If his "Hamlet" had been a success at all, it had been no accomplishment of his own that had done it. Pacing in the wings, he could feel every vibration that passed through Geoffrey, every tremor, every thought. The stage had moved on opening night, and Oliver's pacing had never even registered on anybody's radar.
No, no. It had been Geoffrey, and it had been Ellen, and Oliver had hated them both, loved them so much, he thought he would go half out of his mind. Ironic, now. Ironic and deeply sad. Now dead, he could view his life as a stage wholly separate from himself. He could walk behind it, analyze its movements, its structure. He could see its flaws. And death was lonely.
But, of course, that didn't mean he had to do it alone. In the biggest twist of them all, Oliver found he could influence what happened after his death - and he could do it through Geoffrey. Of all people, Geoffrey - so close to the edge, he could actually commune with the dead - could be Oliver's salvation. He could do in Oliver's death what he had never been willing to do in Oliver's life. He could bring to life the visions that Oliver had nearly given up on, and he could do it to thunder and lightning and the sort of trembling that this stage had not seen for eight long years. Yes, yes, Geoffrey could do it - and he would do it. Of that, Oliver was quite certain. The one thing that Oliver had never truly lost was the ability to manipulate and cajole. Every, even marginally good, director had it in him, and Oliver, for all his flaws and shortcomings, had it in spades. He held Geoffrey in the palm of his hand, with all the coldness of death and eternity behind him. He wasn't afraid of losing Geoffrey anymore. And that was the most liberating thought of all.
*
More drabbles to come.
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*pets poor, dead
BobOliver*no subject
askdlaksd
aksldak
Indeed. Oh, Oliver. Such a sad man, really. Never a break! *g*
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Pssst! Small typo - "cojole" should be "cajole" in last paragraph.
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Fixed and fixed. Damn work. *g*
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And this! Oh, Oliver. It's heartbreaking. Man.
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This is a wonderful character piece. Great job.
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Ohhhhhh.
Oh, Oliver. I always liked him, because I identified possibly a little too much, and ow, ow, you've done him perfect justice. Oh, Oliver. Such a fucked up guy, and I feel for him while being really kind of scared at where it might go from there, because, fuck, it's going to be bad. At least for a while. And poor Oliver, sort of seeing his problems but not quite and never really being able to do anything about them and being sort of... a potential person, like there was so much good there but it never went anywhere and then he died and now he's literally a potential person, a ghost hanging around because he has nothing better. Gyah.
Thankyou, though, darling. It's beautiful.
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I wonder if Oliver's ghost will disappear at the end of S&A, rather like Bob at the end of Due South. i.e. he would have accomplished whatever he was hanging around to do (get Geoffrey back to New Burbage, get Geoffrey and Ellen back together, break Claire's leg etc).
No, no. It had been Geoffrey, and it had been Ellen, and Oliver had hated them both, loved them so much, he thought he would go half out of his mind.
Of course, they all felt that way about each other. So when Geoffrey felt he had lost them both at the same time, he did go out of his mind.
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For that is what Geoffrey was: the big one, the true one, the love that would never be topped by any other. Oliver hated that. He had resented Geoffrey with almost the same passion with which he loved him. He resented his talent, could never resist it. He resented his character, could never come even close to replicating it.
WoW!
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I just got into S&A a few weeks ago; finished the third season last week, and now I'm binging on fic. I've been giving a lot of people a blast from the past by feedbacking months-old fics. ;)
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