Happy St. Andrew's Day!
Dec. 1st, 2007 12:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anitabuchanThough I suppose I'm a bit late. 15 minutes late, which is probably quite fashionable, isn't it?
I don't like this fic much. Have been writing and re-writing for ages and it's still rubbish. WHY? But I need to start work on my yuletide fic and I can't with this hanging over my head.
Also? I don't talk about them much because I know there aren't any other Bairns on my flist, but send some good thoughts Falkirk's way this weekend. We've fallen to second bottom, when we were all hoping that we might end up in the top half of the table. There's no danger of relegation, because let's face it, Gretna are going down, but...my Falkirk!
Do better. Please. Cannot even care that much about Arsenal losing their first game of the season when you're down there.
Now, fic.
Title: Homecoming
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Pagan/Roland
Summary: A year older and wiser, Pagan returns to St. Martin's Abbey.
Babbling: This started out as two different fics, both of which I was trying to write first person and in the style of Catherine Jinks. It's now one fic, third person, and not really in her style at all. But this is the first time I've ever written Pagan-slash, so, hopefully next time will be an improvement!
David loved Jonathan.
And Jonathan loved David; he loved him more than his own soul, more than his own wife. They swore their covenant again and again, always for love. They kissed and embraced, disrobed and delighted in each other.
Samuel became Pagan’s favourite Book. His fingers traced the verses over and over till the words rolled across the back of his eyelids as he tried to sleep. He debated meaning, pondered translations, then studied Genesis and Leviticus, Romans and Corinthians. Then realised that no one had the slightest clue what they were talking about, and read it all again just to feel angry.
But Roland wouldn’t see it that way.
*
Anyone who owned so much as a rabbit hole outside the town walls left Carcassonne in the summer, when the normal stink grew to unbearable levels as bodies streamed with sweat and rubbish rotted almost before you’d thrown it out.
The clerics told Pagan to stay and study. They told him he needed to read his Cassidorus, his Martianus Capella, and his Isidore of Seville. They told him his grasp of the trivium was poor, that his grammar wasn’t up to scratch and his logic faulty.
But Pagan could spot a lie. Besides, there were messages to be taken to Abbot Anselm, and Brother Clement had written to humbly beg the loan of a rather precious book that could simply not go by common messenger.
So Pagan rode out the city gates, on a horse that felt as big as a small house and seemed to have all the brains of one, but comforted himself with the fact that he could probably use it as an excuse to extend his week away.
As long as he didn’t actually strain something. That would be annoying.
It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy Carcassonne. He loved the freedom, the learning, the way argument was encouraged and he wasn’t scolded for impertinence but praised for his cleverness. He’d found his place, among books and sharp tongues, and knew he’d grown from the boy who’d cried to leave Roland behind.
The unidentifiable ache he felt whenever he thought of Roland wasn’t childish at all, even if the urge to kick the stupid horse into a gallop was.
Delays in leaving meant the sun hung low in the sky by the time the abbey walls came into view. The gates stood open, welcoming to visitors, and Pagan’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the tall figure lurking in the shadows under the gatehouse.
Of course, he couldn’t just jump down and go running over. He was an adult now (almost, anyway). He was becoming more learned by the day. He needed to conduct himself with dignity, not just go running about like a child.
Besides, he didn’t think his legs would support him anyway.
“Roland,” he said, drawing closer. “Are you well?” He pulled gently on the reins, intending to come to a graceful halt.
Unfortunately, the horse had a mouth made of rock and seemed utterly oblivious to his gentle pull or Pagan’s wish that it should stop.
Roland caught the bridle before the horse could walk past him, smiling up at Pagan. Behind the amusement hesitancy lurked, but he spoke before Pagan could begin to figure out the cause. “I’m well. And you?”
Well, his legs hurt, his arse hurt, his back hurt, his arms hurt, and he wasn’t sure if he was still able to more his fingers. But Pagan didn’t think that was what Roland wanted to know. “I’m fine.” On the other hand, when had he ever cared about what Roland wanted? “My legs hurt, my – ”
“Get down.” Roland held out a hand.
It was more of a slither down the horse’s flank than an elegant dismount, and Pagan’s knees buckled as soon as his feet hit the ground.
But it didn’t really matter. Arms encircled him, crushing him against Roland’s chest and holding him upright. Pagan felt something in him relax, a knot of tension he hadn’t been aware of dissolving in an instant.
Home, he thought. It was good to be home.
*
They skirted round each other, trying to settle back into some kind of pattern where everything felt comfortable again. Roland told him, ‘You’ve grown,’ and, ‘You’ve changed,’ and each time Pagan felt a stab of disappointment that Roland hadn’t been there to see it happen.
Roland was different too. Someone had given him his confidence back, or maybe helped him find it himself. The constant fasting had stopped, and he walked with straight shoulders once more. Pagan felt glad.
Night-time was still the only time if you wanted to talk to someone without a dozen ears listening in. It was only the pressure of time that had made Pagan overcome his nerves to whisper to Roland a request to meet him in the orchard two hours before Nocturnes. He felt all too aware of the few days remaining to him. He might not return for another year. He needed to know, and that meant he needed to ask.
He knelt on the grass, a pebble digging into his shin and tree knobbly against his back. Roland, he thought, wouldn’t come. The Roland he’d left behind over a year ago would have tried to talk him out of it, which at least this Roland hadn’t done. But that didn’t mean that Pagan wasn’t waiting here for nothing.
And the only thing worse than Roland not coming would be if Roland appeared that second. Pagan reminded himself that this was just Roland, who had looked after him and taught him, thrown rocks at him and combed his hair. So why his stomach seemed to be trying to crawl inside itself was a mystery, and Pagan wished it would stop.
For a moment, he thought the scuff of a boot against a stone he heard was the night watchman; and let himself tense, ready to run. But then came a whisper of, “Pagan?” through the dark.
“Here.”
A few more muffled footsteps, and Roland appeared, hair rumpled and eyes heavy-lidded. “Pagan. You wanted to talk.”
Yes, but some chat about the weather would have been a nicer way to start. Anything but leaping straight into it. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
“Of course I came. You sounded like it was important.”
Wasn’t that nice. “It’s something I wanted to tell you, that’s all.”
Roland peered at him for a minute, squinting to see better. Then he looking away, searching the ground for pointy roots or sharp stones before kneeling. He faced Pagan, only a few inches between them, although Pagan didn’t kid himself that it was down to anything but the surrounding trees.
Roland seemed to be waiting for him to speak, so he started with, “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” Spoken so easily, and sounding almost surprised, as if Roland thought these feelings should be so obvious that they didn’t need to be said. “It is amazing how much quieter everything seems when you aren’t around.”
And…Pagan wasn’t really sure if that was a good thing or not, so he decided to just frown and ignore it. “I’ve been thinking a lot, about things.”
“You always do.”
“Yes. But…” He didn’t know how to say it. All this time spent considering what words to use, and he just had no idea. “Roland…Roland, I love you.”
Roland’s expression was of deepening concern, and he reached out to clasp one of Pagan’s hands between his own. “I love you too. Pagan, what’s wrong?”
And there were so many possible responses to that, Pagan didn’t know where to begin. What was wrong? What was wrong was that he didn’t love Roland the way he should. He loved Roland in a way that invaded his dreams at night, dreams that would leave Roland sickened and shocked. He loved Roland in a way that haunted his waking hours, plagued his every thought. He loved Roland in a way he shouldn’t, and he didn’t know how to explain.
“I’m scared you’ll leave. I’m scared that if I tell you, you won’t ever want to see me again.”
It took a lot to say that, and Pagan had to look away to study broken grass instead of meeting Roland’s eyes. But the hands clasping his didn’t let go. If anything, they grew tighter. “Pagan, there is nothing that could make me do that. You are the only person left on this earth that I love, and I won’t lose you.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to tell you.”
“You’re a good person. Whatever it is, it won’t be as bad as you think.”
How like Roland. Pagan knew he wasn’t that good a person, even if he tried. Average, maybe, but not as good as Roland seemed to believe.
Somewhere, a chorus of crickets had started their chirping, and Pagan used it as a distraction to pull back for a moment. He withdrew his hand, Roland letting it slip reluctantly. Pagan looked in the direction of the crickets, and realised he couldn’t go through with this. Even if it meant living his life in misery, he couldn’t risk that Roland would turn away.
“Nothing,” he started to say, turning back. “It’s – ”
Roland’s fingers caught his cheek. He’d been reaching to turn Pagan back to face him again, and been taken by surprise by Pagan’s sudden movement. A rough nail jerked across Pagan’s cheekbone, before Roland froze, callused fingertips trailing heat across Pagan’s face.
And oh. Pagan met Roland’s eyes and felt his breath disappear, and Roland looked shocked, caught out, but still wasn’t moving his hand. He hadn’t been prepared for Pagan to look at him, had been expecting Pagan to resist and refuse to turn. And now he’d leaned so close Pagan could almost feel his breath across his lips.
“Pagan,” said Roland, and Pagan didn’t know if it was a question or admonishment or exclamation or what. But it felt completely natural to lean forwards, closing the distance, letting some instinct guide him. An instinct that surely came from the Devil, because there could be no good from letting his lips brush over Roland’s, from pressing harder to deepen the kiss.
Roland let him. He didn’t respond, apart from a slight tensing, but he failed to pull away. He left it to Pagan to draw back, half of him terrified and the other half so exhilarated he thought he must be flying already.
But no. Still on the ground, that pebble still digging into his shin, and Roland looking at him with equal shame and compassion. And maybe, deep beneath, something else, but Pagan’s heart was plummeting too fast for him to spend much time searching.
“Roland…”
“This is wrong.” He said it softly, firmly, but the quaver in his voice told Pagan all he needed to know.
“Roland…”
“Pagan, I’m sorry.” He didn’t even give Pagan a chance to start his arguments. “I had no idea you felt…” He paused, took a deep breath, swallowed. “That you felt like this. But you shouldn’t worry yourself. It is confusion, no doubt, because you are still very young and – ”
“No!” He spoke a little too loudly for comfort, and both of them were looking around for the night-watchman to appear. He didn’t, and Pagan rolled his shoulders to try and rid them of the tension before continuing. “It’s not confusion. I didn’t realise until I left, and then I started…thinking. About you, about us, about Jordan…”
That was a mistake, mentioning Jordan. He could see Roland tense at the thought. “Not that this is anything to do with…him. I love you, I always have, and, I want…I want more. Need more.”
Now it was Roland who refused to meet his eyes, staring at the tree behind him instead. “Pagan, this is wrong. A sin, one of the worst there is. And – ”
“But how do you know?”
“What?”
“How do you know it’s a sin?” Now Roland looked shocked, properly shocked, so Pagan barged on, “I’ve read all about it, all the writings I could find. And yes, maybe they say this is wrong, but what do they know? They’re just old men. And the Bible…the Bible, it doesn’t mention this, Roland. It doesn’t say that being with someone you love is a sin, even if you are both men. David and Jonathan – ”
Now he’d said something wrong, Roland shaking his head and leaning away. “You can’t justify this, Pagan. However you argue, I know this is wrong.”
“How? How do you know?”
Roland shook his head again, finally looking back at him. “Pagan, I – I need to think.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. But my head…I am not thinking clearly. I cannot, and I need to. I know this is wrong, but…” He let the admission of want go unspoken, but Pagan understood. Roland continued, “You could talk the Pope into becoming a Cathar. Please. I give you my word, I will meet you again here tomorrow, but until then…”
Pagan felt some of his hope slip away from him. What could Roland want time for, except to think up appropriate excuses?
Some dark part of him whispered that he could sit for as long as he wanted tomorrow night, but Roland would never come. He would stay sleeping in the dormitory, letting Pagan wait and wonder. He would use the rules of silence to avoid Pagan until it came for the time for Pagan to leave, and that would be it. Over.
He tried to swallow that part of him down, crushing it beneath the logic that told him Roland would never go back on his word, never be so cruel.
But Roland saw some of it in his face, and leaned forward as he stood, brushing a kiss over Pagan’s head. “I promise. I will be here. And whatever happens, I will never forget you.”
And that had to be good enough, because Roland walked away without giving Pagan a chance to respond. Pagan watched him go before standing himself, wincing as new pain sprung to the fresh bruise on his shin.
Stupid pebble. He kicked at the grass, and made his way back to the guest rooms.
*
The next day, standing waiting in the cloisters before matins, Pagan caught Roland’s eye. For a second, he thought Roland might come over to stand next to him, or even just offer a friendly nod.
He looked away instead. Pagan stared at him harder, wishing he would look back. Roland didn’t.
And then after that there was Brother Clement, wanting to discuss all that Pagan had learnt and argue over the significance of the Concordat of Worms. Pagan fidgeted through it, aware of how unfair his distraction was to Brother Clement, who after all had given Pagan this chance, and deserved a bit of entertainment after months of trying to teach idiot novices the basics of Latin.
But Pagan’s concentration didn’t improve. He could pay no attention in Terce, Sext, Nones or Vespers; and he stared at Roland all through Compline, unable to pray for wondering if Roland would show up that night.
He wouldn’t, he eventually decided. Roland wouldn’t. The old Roland, the one who hadn’t descended into grief and depression, that Roland might have. But this Roland was too concerned with prayer and holiness to be much concerned with Pagan.
He wouldn’t show up.
*
That night, clouds covered the moon and cast the monastery grounds into darkness. Pagan leant against the door for several minutes before he dared move, letting his eyes adjust.
As soon as he could see well enough to feel sure he wasn’t walking into anything, he headed towards the orchard. He only realised his hands were clenched into fists when it came to unlatching the gate: every muscle was tense with nerves. Would Roland be there?
He saw no sign of him. He walked with his hands outstretched, tripping over roots and stumbling into tree-trunks. The occasional low branch caught his forehead, making his curse. Honestly. When God had created night, couldn’t he have made it a little brighter?
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
Pagan yelped, trying to jump and spin at the same time and only succeeding in falling over. The hand caught him, another joining it to pull Pagan upright. Pagan became aware of a voice apologising, although his heart was beating so loudly e could hardly make it out.
“Roland – ”
Roland kissed him.
It took Pagan a moment to work out what was happening. He was standing in St. Martin’s orchard, and being kissed by Roland. Thoroughly kissed, with a tongue invading his mouth, fingers tangled in his hair and all the breath stolen from his lungs.
Then Roland pulled away, and Pagan realised that he’d been too shocked to actually do anything but clutch for handholds, and that maybe responding would have been a good idea. “Roland – ” he said, more of a gasp than a word.
“Pagan.” The fingers in his hair loosened, the grasp turning into a caress. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. I’ve been going mad.”
Oh. Well, Pagan supposed that was sort of an explanation. “I…I thought you would say no.”
“I have prayed over it. In truth, I have prayed over this before now as well. And while I know it is a sin, I also know the Lord is forgiving. He knows we are just human.” One of Roland’s hands slid down to clasp Pagan’s cheek. “He knows that sometimes there are things we want too greatly to deny ourselves.”
“Oh.” And now Pagan didn’t know how to respond, what to say.
“I felt guilt over leading you into sin,” said Roland, “But you are an adult now. You can make your own choices.”
About time he realised that. “I don’t need you to look after me any more.”
Roland smiled. “You’ll always need that.”
Pagan would have protested, but Roland leaned forward, and the tiny movement was enough to scatter all thought from his mind. He tilted his head back instead, wishing for an extra inch of height that would make this all easier, but then it didn’t matter anymore because Roland was kissing him. His lips felt chapped and rough, but Pagan didn’t care, leaning into it hungrily. Roland’s tongue traced timidly across his lips, and Pagan parted them willingly, ready to let Roland take this wherever he wanted.
Roland slipped his tongue into Pagan’s mouth, moving with the hesitancy of a man who wasn’t sure what he was doing, inexperienced and uncertain. Or so Pagan thought, until Roland suddenly turned aggressive, taking control, his hands gripping Pagan firmly, tongue plundering Pagan’s mouth in a way that made Pagan remember the tales he’d heard of Templars back in Jerusalem, about what happened to pretty boys behind their high walls.
Roland’s hands were around Pagan’s waist, and Pagan couldn’t even remember how they’d got there, but it didn’t really matter. They slid around to his back, pressing down and making Pagan squirm against Roland. He knew he should be responding, doing more than standing here and letting Roland do all the work, but the part of his mind that still couldn’t believe this was happening wouldn’t let him.
Because Roland was kissing him. Roland’s hands were sliding over his arse, and that didn’t happen. And all Pagan could do was feel grateful for the tree behind him, because otherwise he wouldn’t still be upright.
Roland broke away from the kiss to move onto Pagan’s neck. Pagan gasped for breath, the cool air unfogging his brain and letting him remember where his hands were. He used them to tug uselessly at Roland’s robe, as if hoping the stitching would come apart by magic.
It didn’t. But Roland got the message anyway, pulling back enough that Pagan could go to work on his clothes. It almost made him laugh, remembering all the times he had undressed Roland from clothes caked with sweat, mud, blood…But never like this. His hands had never trembled before, and Roland had always stood patiently. Now he tried to help, merely getting in the way.
Then he tried to start undoing Pagan’s shirt, and that was even more unhelpful. How could Pagan concentrate on anything with Roland’s fingers brushing down his stomach?
Never mind. They gave up soon anyway, reaching a silent consensus that it didn’t really matter if clothes still hung from hips or shoulders, as long as hands could be snaked underneath to touch and ghost over sensitive skin. Pagan shivered, pressing against Roland once more, and then Roland clearly got tired of holding them both up and just kind of slumped to the ground, taking Pagan with him.
Which was fine. Even the root digging into his hip was fine, and the stone under his shoulder blade. They didn’t matter. Roland mattered, his weight pressing Pagan down, his mouth burning against Pagan’s jaw. His hands grasped Pagan’s hips, and Pagan could feel Roland rubbing against him, hot and hard. “Oh, God,” muttered Roland, blaspheming for what Pagan thought was possibly the first time ever. “Pagan.”
Some response was probably appropriate, but then Roland moved his hips in a way that was definitely deliberate and all Pagan could do was moan and arch up. And then decide that lying here and letting Roland do all the work was really quite selfish, so he turned the arch into more up a rub.
He slid his hands down Roland’s back, the skin hot and slick. Roland muttered something against Pagan’s neck, and Pagan didn’t really hear, but Roland had slipped one hand down to grasp Pagan’s thigh and tug at his leg…
Pagan gasped, thumping his head back against the ground as the new position brought them closer, the cloth between them suddenly feeling much thinner. He arched up, rubbing against Roland, and the other man thrust back. Then his vision was blurring, and his breathing failing to work. He clutched at Roland’s back, the other man grinding into him. He could hear Roland panting in his ear, see his hand clutching the tree beside them. And something was rising up inside him, his body shuddering, and he’d almost forgotten what this felt like, and from his groans Roland had too, and then something was exploding inside of him.
It took him what felt like several minutes of deep breathing to come back to himself. Luckily, Roland didn’t seem much more lucid.
Although he was very heavy.
Pagan gave him a delicate push on one shoulder, not enough to force Roland off, just enough to hint that he should think about letting Pagan breath. Roland took the hint, rolling away but trying to drag Pagan with him as he went. It didn’t really work at first, and Pagan thought his arm might get crushed to death, but then somehow Roland got him tucked up against his side, Pagan’s head pillowed on his shoulder.
“I meant,” muttered Roland, “For that to last a little longer.”
Roland had probably planned it all out, knowing him. Pagan just curled a little closer, ignoring the stickiness between his legs. He could clean himself later. “We can always try again.”
He felt a kiss press against his forehead, but Roland didn’t respond.
*
The Abbott spoke to him at Prime, to enquire what time Pagan planned to leave that day. Pagan could only stare at him in confusion. Leave?
The Abbott looked equally surprised. “I’m sorry. I assumed you would speak to Brother Roland yesterday. Didn’t he pass on the message?”
No, he hadn’t.
“The university has written to request that you return today.” The Abbott let a smile brush over his features, deepening the wrinkles lining his cheeks. “They feel a week is more than enough time in which to deliver a book.”
*
They were excused Sext: Pagan, so he could eat an early lunch, and Roland, so he could help Pagan get ready. Not that Pagan needed the help. He was perfectly capable of tacking up a horse himself, and did Roland really need to be adjusting his stirrups like that?
“They’re fine how they are.”
“I think they look too short. You’ll have better control if they’re longer.”
“No, I won’t, because my feet won’t be able to reach them!”
Roland sighed, briefly resting his forehead against the saddle. Not that Pagan was watching him. He was looking the other way, in fact, waiting for the others to finish praying so they could come out and say goodbye. Then he could leave.
“Pagan...”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Roland hadn’t answered before, just apologising, like that made a difference. Now, he said, “I didn’t want it to be hanging over us. And you were happy. I didn’t want to spoil that.”
“I’m not happy now.”
“The Abbott said that maybe you could return at Christmas. If not, there’s next summer.”
A year away. A whole year. Pagan could hardly stand it, feeling his eyes burn as he stared at the ground. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Yes, you do. You belong in Carcassonne, at the university. And, Pagan...”
Pagan didn’t have the chance to pull away, before Roland gripped his shoulders hard, and brushed a kiss over his lips, then brow. “I will miss you, I promise. But the time will go quickly.”
“It won’t.”
But even if he did feel angry at Roland for not saying a word, he knew it wouldn’t last. And he knew he would regret resisting Roland’s embrace. And, really, it did just seem easier to lean against the older man, letting Roland attempt to squeeze all the sadness out of him.
It worked a little bit. Enough that when the banging of a door announced the arrival of the others, he could give Roland a smile to say goodbye.
----
A/N: There isn't actually anything in the Bible that forbids a consenting homosexual relationship, but translations around in the Middle Ages wouldn't have shown that. So unless Pagan was reading the original text, that's historically inaccurate. As probably is a bunch of other stuff but that's the only thing I've added purposefully. So sorry.
I don't like this fic much. Have been writing and re-writing for ages and it's still rubbish. WHY? But I need to start work on my yuletide fic and I can't with this hanging over my head.
Also? I don't talk about them much because I know there aren't any other Bairns on my flist, but send some good thoughts Falkirk's way this weekend. We've fallen to second bottom, when we were all hoping that we might end up in the top half of the table. There's no danger of relegation, because let's face it, Gretna are going down, but...my Falkirk!
Do better. Please. Cannot even care that much about Arsenal losing their first game of the season when you're down there.
Now, fic.
Title: Homecoming
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Pagan/Roland
Summary: A year older and wiser, Pagan returns to St. Martin's Abbey.
Babbling: This started out as two different fics, both of which I was trying to write first person and in the style of Catherine Jinks. It's now one fic, third person, and not really in her style at all. But this is the first time I've ever written Pagan-slash, so, hopefully next time will be an improvement!
David loved Jonathan.
And Jonathan loved David; he loved him more than his own soul, more than his own wife. They swore their covenant again and again, always for love. They kissed and embraced, disrobed and delighted in each other.
Samuel became Pagan’s favourite Book. His fingers traced the verses over and over till the words rolled across the back of his eyelids as he tried to sleep. He debated meaning, pondered translations, then studied Genesis and Leviticus, Romans and Corinthians. Then realised that no one had the slightest clue what they were talking about, and read it all again just to feel angry.
But Roland wouldn’t see it that way.
*
Anyone who owned so much as a rabbit hole outside the town walls left Carcassonne in the summer, when the normal stink grew to unbearable levels as bodies streamed with sweat and rubbish rotted almost before you’d thrown it out.
The clerics told Pagan to stay and study. They told him he needed to read his Cassidorus, his Martianus Capella, and his Isidore of Seville. They told him his grasp of the trivium was poor, that his grammar wasn’t up to scratch and his logic faulty.
But Pagan could spot a lie. Besides, there were messages to be taken to Abbot Anselm, and Brother Clement had written to humbly beg the loan of a rather precious book that could simply not go by common messenger.
So Pagan rode out the city gates, on a horse that felt as big as a small house and seemed to have all the brains of one, but comforted himself with the fact that he could probably use it as an excuse to extend his week away.
As long as he didn’t actually strain something. That would be annoying.
It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy Carcassonne. He loved the freedom, the learning, the way argument was encouraged and he wasn’t scolded for impertinence but praised for his cleverness. He’d found his place, among books and sharp tongues, and knew he’d grown from the boy who’d cried to leave Roland behind.
The unidentifiable ache he felt whenever he thought of Roland wasn’t childish at all, even if the urge to kick the stupid horse into a gallop was.
Delays in leaving meant the sun hung low in the sky by the time the abbey walls came into view. The gates stood open, welcoming to visitors, and Pagan’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the tall figure lurking in the shadows under the gatehouse.
Of course, he couldn’t just jump down and go running over. He was an adult now (almost, anyway). He was becoming more learned by the day. He needed to conduct himself with dignity, not just go running about like a child.
Besides, he didn’t think his legs would support him anyway.
“Roland,” he said, drawing closer. “Are you well?” He pulled gently on the reins, intending to come to a graceful halt.
Unfortunately, the horse had a mouth made of rock and seemed utterly oblivious to his gentle pull or Pagan’s wish that it should stop.
Roland caught the bridle before the horse could walk past him, smiling up at Pagan. Behind the amusement hesitancy lurked, but he spoke before Pagan could begin to figure out the cause. “I’m well. And you?”
Well, his legs hurt, his arse hurt, his back hurt, his arms hurt, and he wasn’t sure if he was still able to more his fingers. But Pagan didn’t think that was what Roland wanted to know. “I’m fine.” On the other hand, when had he ever cared about what Roland wanted? “My legs hurt, my – ”
“Get down.” Roland held out a hand.
It was more of a slither down the horse’s flank than an elegant dismount, and Pagan’s knees buckled as soon as his feet hit the ground.
But it didn’t really matter. Arms encircled him, crushing him against Roland’s chest and holding him upright. Pagan felt something in him relax, a knot of tension he hadn’t been aware of dissolving in an instant.
Home, he thought. It was good to be home.
*
They skirted round each other, trying to settle back into some kind of pattern where everything felt comfortable again. Roland told him, ‘You’ve grown,’ and, ‘You’ve changed,’ and each time Pagan felt a stab of disappointment that Roland hadn’t been there to see it happen.
Roland was different too. Someone had given him his confidence back, or maybe helped him find it himself. The constant fasting had stopped, and he walked with straight shoulders once more. Pagan felt glad.
Night-time was still the only time if you wanted to talk to someone without a dozen ears listening in. It was only the pressure of time that had made Pagan overcome his nerves to whisper to Roland a request to meet him in the orchard two hours before Nocturnes. He felt all too aware of the few days remaining to him. He might not return for another year. He needed to know, and that meant he needed to ask.
He knelt on the grass, a pebble digging into his shin and tree knobbly against his back. Roland, he thought, wouldn’t come. The Roland he’d left behind over a year ago would have tried to talk him out of it, which at least this Roland hadn’t done. But that didn’t mean that Pagan wasn’t waiting here for nothing.
And the only thing worse than Roland not coming would be if Roland appeared that second. Pagan reminded himself that this was just Roland, who had looked after him and taught him, thrown rocks at him and combed his hair. So why his stomach seemed to be trying to crawl inside itself was a mystery, and Pagan wished it would stop.
For a moment, he thought the scuff of a boot against a stone he heard was the night watchman; and let himself tense, ready to run. But then came a whisper of, “Pagan?” through the dark.
“Here.”
A few more muffled footsteps, and Roland appeared, hair rumpled and eyes heavy-lidded. “Pagan. You wanted to talk.”
Yes, but some chat about the weather would have been a nicer way to start. Anything but leaping straight into it. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
“Of course I came. You sounded like it was important.”
Wasn’t that nice. “It’s something I wanted to tell you, that’s all.”
Roland peered at him for a minute, squinting to see better. Then he looking away, searching the ground for pointy roots or sharp stones before kneeling. He faced Pagan, only a few inches between them, although Pagan didn’t kid himself that it was down to anything but the surrounding trees.
Roland seemed to be waiting for him to speak, so he started with, “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” Spoken so easily, and sounding almost surprised, as if Roland thought these feelings should be so obvious that they didn’t need to be said. “It is amazing how much quieter everything seems when you aren’t around.”
And…Pagan wasn’t really sure if that was a good thing or not, so he decided to just frown and ignore it. “I’ve been thinking a lot, about things.”
“You always do.”
“Yes. But…” He didn’t know how to say it. All this time spent considering what words to use, and he just had no idea. “Roland…Roland, I love you.”
Roland’s expression was of deepening concern, and he reached out to clasp one of Pagan’s hands between his own. “I love you too. Pagan, what’s wrong?”
And there were so many possible responses to that, Pagan didn’t know where to begin. What was wrong? What was wrong was that he didn’t love Roland the way he should. He loved Roland in a way that invaded his dreams at night, dreams that would leave Roland sickened and shocked. He loved Roland in a way that haunted his waking hours, plagued his every thought. He loved Roland in a way he shouldn’t, and he didn’t know how to explain.
“I’m scared you’ll leave. I’m scared that if I tell you, you won’t ever want to see me again.”
It took a lot to say that, and Pagan had to look away to study broken grass instead of meeting Roland’s eyes. But the hands clasping his didn’t let go. If anything, they grew tighter. “Pagan, there is nothing that could make me do that. You are the only person left on this earth that I love, and I won’t lose you.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to tell you.”
“You’re a good person. Whatever it is, it won’t be as bad as you think.”
How like Roland. Pagan knew he wasn’t that good a person, even if he tried. Average, maybe, but not as good as Roland seemed to believe.
Somewhere, a chorus of crickets had started their chirping, and Pagan used it as a distraction to pull back for a moment. He withdrew his hand, Roland letting it slip reluctantly. Pagan looked in the direction of the crickets, and realised he couldn’t go through with this. Even if it meant living his life in misery, he couldn’t risk that Roland would turn away.
“Nothing,” he started to say, turning back. “It’s – ”
Roland’s fingers caught his cheek. He’d been reaching to turn Pagan back to face him again, and been taken by surprise by Pagan’s sudden movement. A rough nail jerked across Pagan’s cheekbone, before Roland froze, callused fingertips trailing heat across Pagan’s face.
And oh. Pagan met Roland’s eyes and felt his breath disappear, and Roland looked shocked, caught out, but still wasn’t moving his hand. He hadn’t been prepared for Pagan to look at him, had been expecting Pagan to resist and refuse to turn. And now he’d leaned so close Pagan could almost feel his breath across his lips.
“Pagan,” said Roland, and Pagan didn’t know if it was a question or admonishment or exclamation or what. But it felt completely natural to lean forwards, closing the distance, letting some instinct guide him. An instinct that surely came from the Devil, because there could be no good from letting his lips brush over Roland’s, from pressing harder to deepen the kiss.
Roland let him. He didn’t respond, apart from a slight tensing, but he failed to pull away. He left it to Pagan to draw back, half of him terrified and the other half so exhilarated he thought he must be flying already.
But no. Still on the ground, that pebble still digging into his shin, and Roland looking at him with equal shame and compassion. And maybe, deep beneath, something else, but Pagan’s heart was plummeting too fast for him to spend much time searching.
“Roland…”
“This is wrong.” He said it softly, firmly, but the quaver in his voice told Pagan all he needed to know.
“Roland…”
“Pagan, I’m sorry.” He didn’t even give Pagan a chance to start his arguments. “I had no idea you felt…” He paused, took a deep breath, swallowed. “That you felt like this. But you shouldn’t worry yourself. It is confusion, no doubt, because you are still very young and – ”
“No!” He spoke a little too loudly for comfort, and both of them were looking around for the night-watchman to appear. He didn’t, and Pagan rolled his shoulders to try and rid them of the tension before continuing. “It’s not confusion. I didn’t realise until I left, and then I started…thinking. About you, about us, about Jordan…”
That was a mistake, mentioning Jordan. He could see Roland tense at the thought. “Not that this is anything to do with…him. I love you, I always have, and, I want…I want more. Need more.”
Now it was Roland who refused to meet his eyes, staring at the tree behind him instead. “Pagan, this is wrong. A sin, one of the worst there is. And – ”
“But how do you know?”
“What?”
“How do you know it’s a sin?” Now Roland looked shocked, properly shocked, so Pagan barged on, “I’ve read all about it, all the writings I could find. And yes, maybe they say this is wrong, but what do they know? They’re just old men. And the Bible…the Bible, it doesn’t mention this, Roland. It doesn’t say that being with someone you love is a sin, even if you are both men. David and Jonathan – ”
Now he’d said something wrong, Roland shaking his head and leaning away. “You can’t justify this, Pagan. However you argue, I know this is wrong.”
“How? How do you know?”
Roland shook his head again, finally looking back at him. “Pagan, I – I need to think.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. But my head…I am not thinking clearly. I cannot, and I need to. I know this is wrong, but…” He let the admission of want go unspoken, but Pagan understood. Roland continued, “You could talk the Pope into becoming a Cathar. Please. I give you my word, I will meet you again here tomorrow, but until then…”
Pagan felt some of his hope slip away from him. What could Roland want time for, except to think up appropriate excuses?
Some dark part of him whispered that he could sit for as long as he wanted tomorrow night, but Roland would never come. He would stay sleeping in the dormitory, letting Pagan wait and wonder. He would use the rules of silence to avoid Pagan until it came for the time for Pagan to leave, and that would be it. Over.
He tried to swallow that part of him down, crushing it beneath the logic that told him Roland would never go back on his word, never be so cruel.
But Roland saw some of it in his face, and leaned forward as he stood, brushing a kiss over Pagan’s head. “I promise. I will be here. And whatever happens, I will never forget you.”
And that had to be good enough, because Roland walked away without giving Pagan a chance to respond. Pagan watched him go before standing himself, wincing as new pain sprung to the fresh bruise on his shin.
Stupid pebble. He kicked at the grass, and made his way back to the guest rooms.
*
The next day, standing waiting in the cloisters before matins, Pagan caught Roland’s eye. For a second, he thought Roland might come over to stand next to him, or even just offer a friendly nod.
He looked away instead. Pagan stared at him harder, wishing he would look back. Roland didn’t.
And then after that there was Brother Clement, wanting to discuss all that Pagan had learnt and argue over the significance of the Concordat of Worms. Pagan fidgeted through it, aware of how unfair his distraction was to Brother Clement, who after all had given Pagan this chance, and deserved a bit of entertainment after months of trying to teach idiot novices the basics of Latin.
But Pagan’s concentration didn’t improve. He could pay no attention in Terce, Sext, Nones or Vespers; and he stared at Roland all through Compline, unable to pray for wondering if Roland would show up that night.
He wouldn’t, he eventually decided. Roland wouldn’t. The old Roland, the one who hadn’t descended into grief and depression, that Roland might have. But this Roland was too concerned with prayer and holiness to be much concerned with Pagan.
He wouldn’t show up.
*
That night, clouds covered the moon and cast the monastery grounds into darkness. Pagan leant against the door for several minutes before he dared move, letting his eyes adjust.
As soon as he could see well enough to feel sure he wasn’t walking into anything, he headed towards the orchard. He only realised his hands were clenched into fists when it came to unlatching the gate: every muscle was tense with nerves. Would Roland be there?
He saw no sign of him. He walked with his hands outstretched, tripping over roots and stumbling into tree-trunks. The occasional low branch caught his forehead, making his curse. Honestly. When God had created night, couldn’t he have made it a little brighter?
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
Pagan yelped, trying to jump and spin at the same time and only succeeding in falling over. The hand caught him, another joining it to pull Pagan upright. Pagan became aware of a voice apologising, although his heart was beating so loudly e could hardly make it out.
“Roland – ”
Roland kissed him.
It took Pagan a moment to work out what was happening. He was standing in St. Martin’s orchard, and being kissed by Roland. Thoroughly kissed, with a tongue invading his mouth, fingers tangled in his hair and all the breath stolen from his lungs.
Then Roland pulled away, and Pagan realised that he’d been too shocked to actually do anything but clutch for handholds, and that maybe responding would have been a good idea. “Roland – ” he said, more of a gasp than a word.
“Pagan.” The fingers in his hair loosened, the grasp turning into a caress. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. I’ve been going mad.”
Oh. Well, Pagan supposed that was sort of an explanation. “I…I thought you would say no.”
“I have prayed over it. In truth, I have prayed over this before now as well. And while I know it is a sin, I also know the Lord is forgiving. He knows we are just human.” One of Roland’s hands slid down to clasp Pagan’s cheek. “He knows that sometimes there are things we want too greatly to deny ourselves.”
“Oh.” And now Pagan didn’t know how to respond, what to say.
“I felt guilt over leading you into sin,” said Roland, “But you are an adult now. You can make your own choices.”
About time he realised that. “I don’t need you to look after me any more.”
Roland smiled. “You’ll always need that.”
Pagan would have protested, but Roland leaned forward, and the tiny movement was enough to scatter all thought from his mind. He tilted his head back instead, wishing for an extra inch of height that would make this all easier, but then it didn’t matter anymore because Roland was kissing him. His lips felt chapped and rough, but Pagan didn’t care, leaning into it hungrily. Roland’s tongue traced timidly across his lips, and Pagan parted them willingly, ready to let Roland take this wherever he wanted.
Roland slipped his tongue into Pagan’s mouth, moving with the hesitancy of a man who wasn’t sure what he was doing, inexperienced and uncertain. Or so Pagan thought, until Roland suddenly turned aggressive, taking control, his hands gripping Pagan firmly, tongue plundering Pagan’s mouth in a way that made Pagan remember the tales he’d heard of Templars back in Jerusalem, about what happened to pretty boys behind their high walls.
Roland’s hands were around Pagan’s waist, and Pagan couldn’t even remember how they’d got there, but it didn’t really matter. They slid around to his back, pressing down and making Pagan squirm against Roland. He knew he should be responding, doing more than standing here and letting Roland do all the work, but the part of his mind that still couldn’t believe this was happening wouldn’t let him.
Because Roland was kissing him. Roland’s hands were sliding over his arse, and that didn’t happen. And all Pagan could do was feel grateful for the tree behind him, because otherwise he wouldn’t still be upright.
Roland broke away from the kiss to move onto Pagan’s neck. Pagan gasped for breath, the cool air unfogging his brain and letting him remember where his hands were. He used them to tug uselessly at Roland’s robe, as if hoping the stitching would come apart by magic.
It didn’t. But Roland got the message anyway, pulling back enough that Pagan could go to work on his clothes. It almost made him laugh, remembering all the times he had undressed Roland from clothes caked with sweat, mud, blood…But never like this. His hands had never trembled before, and Roland had always stood patiently. Now he tried to help, merely getting in the way.
Then he tried to start undoing Pagan’s shirt, and that was even more unhelpful. How could Pagan concentrate on anything with Roland’s fingers brushing down his stomach?
Never mind. They gave up soon anyway, reaching a silent consensus that it didn’t really matter if clothes still hung from hips or shoulders, as long as hands could be snaked underneath to touch and ghost over sensitive skin. Pagan shivered, pressing against Roland once more, and then Roland clearly got tired of holding them both up and just kind of slumped to the ground, taking Pagan with him.
Which was fine. Even the root digging into his hip was fine, and the stone under his shoulder blade. They didn’t matter. Roland mattered, his weight pressing Pagan down, his mouth burning against Pagan’s jaw. His hands grasped Pagan’s hips, and Pagan could feel Roland rubbing against him, hot and hard. “Oh, God,” muttered Roland, blaspheming for what Pagan thought was possibly the first time ever. “Pagan.”
Some response was probably appropriate, but then Roland moved his hips in a way that was definitely deliberate and all Pagan could do was moan and arch up. And then decide that lying here and letting Roland do all the work was really quite selfish, so he turned the arch into more up a rub.
He slid his hands down Roland’s back, the skin hot and slick. Roland muttered something against Pagan’s neck, and Pagan didn’t really hear, but Roland had slipped one hand down to grasp Pagan’s thigh and tug at his leg…
Pagan gasped, thumping his head back against the ground as the new position brought them closer, the cloth between them suddenly feeling much thinner. He arched up, rubbing against Roland, and the other man thrust back. Then his vision was blurring, and his breathing failing to work. He clutched at Roland’s back, the other man grinding into him. He could hear Roland panting in his ear, see his hand clutching the tree beside them. And something was rising up inside him, his body shuddering, and he’d almost forgotten what this felt like, and from his groans Roland had too, and then something was exploding inside of him.
It took him what felt like several minutes of deep breathing to come back to himself. Luckily, Roland didn’t seem much more lucid.
Although he was very heavy.
Pagan gave him a delicate push on one shoulder, not enough to force Roland off, just enough to hint that he should think about letting Pagan breath. Roland took the hint, rolling away but trying to drag Pagan with him as he went. It didn’t really work at first, and Pagan thought his arm might get crushed to death, but then somehow Roland got him tucked up against his side, Pagan’s head pillowed on his shoulder.
“I meant,” muttered Roland, “For that to last a little longer.”
Roland had probably planned it all out, knowing him. Pagan just curled a little closer, ignoring the stickiness between his legs. He could clean himself later. “We can always try again.”
He felt a kiss press against his forehead, but Roland didn’t respond.
*
The Abbott spoke to him at Prime, to enquire what time Pagan planned to leave that day. Pagan could only stare at him in confusion. Leave?
The Abbott looked equally surprised. “I’m sorry. I assumed you would speak to Brother Roland yesterday. Didn’t he pass on the message?”
No, he hadn’t.
“The university has written to request that you return today.” The Abbott let a smile brush over his features, deepening the wrinkles lining his cheeks. “They feel a week is more than enough time in which to deliver a book.”
*
They were excused Sext: Pagan, so he could eat an early lunch, and Roland, so he could help Pagan get ready. Not that Pagan needed the help. He was perfectly capable of tacking up a horse himself, and did Roland really need to be adjusting his stirrups like that?
“They’re fine how they are.”
“I think they look too short. You’ll have better control if they’re longer.”
“No, I won’t, because my feet won’t be able to reach them!”
Roland sighed, briefly resting his forehead against the saddle. Not that Pagan was watching him. He was looking the other way, in fact, waiting for the others to finish praying so they could come out and say goodbye. Then he could leave.
“Pagan...”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Roland hadn’t answered before, just apologising, like that made a difference. Now, he said, “I didn’t want it to be hanging over us. And you were happy. I didn’t want to spoil that.”
“I’m not happy now.”
“The Abbott said that maybe you could return at Christmas. If not, there’s next summer.”
A year away. A whole year. Pagan could hardly stand it, feeling his eyes burn as he stared at the ground. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Yes, you do. You belong in Carcassonne, at the university. And, Pagan...”
Pagan didn’t have the chance to pull away, before Roland gripped his shoulders hard, and brushed a kiss over his lips, then brow. “I will miss you, I promise. But the time will go quickly.”
“It won’t.”
But even if he did feel angry at Roland for not saying a word, he knew it wouldn’t last. And he knew he would regret resisting Roland’s embrace. And, really, it did just seem easier to lean against the older man, letting Roland attempt to squeeze all the sadness out of him.
It worked a little bit. Enough that when the banging of a door announced the arrival of the others, he could give Roland a smile to say goodbye.
----
A/N: There isn't actually anything in the Bible that forbids a consenting homosexual relationship, but translations around in the Middle Ages wouldn't have shown that. So unless Pagan was reading the original text, that's historically inaccurate. As probably is a bunch of other stuff but that's the only thing I've added purposefully. So sorry.
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(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 12:57 am (UTC)And Happy St Andrews Day! :D
Good luck Falkirk! I don't mind Falkirk, i have good memories of your fans having fun in Dingwall, even if you did always beat us! ;) And i want you to finsih above Caley, just cos. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 07:22 pm (UTC)I want us to finish above Caley too :). And the good luck worked: beat St. Mirren 5-1!!!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 10:54 pm (UTC)Lol, well done! :D I obviously transferred all County's good luck to Falkirk...but I need it back next week! ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 02:06 am (UTC)I really liked your level of realism. Like the prayer times and so forth.
I'm not quite sure I understand your Author's note though. Which part is historically inaccurate about your mentions of the bible?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 07:26 pm (UTC)Um...this is possibly me being a bit anal about things. Pagan says to Roland that the Bible doesn't mention homosexual relationships as being a sin, but all translations around at that time would have. So Pagan would probably have believed the Bible actually did say they were wrong. Which is me getting a bit caught up in insignificant detail, isn't it?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 10:12 pm (UTC)He very well could have made the same interpretation that modern Christian gays/gay supporters do. People reading the older versions of the Bible, like in the 1700s, made that interpretation. But that was one modernisation up from what Pagan was reading.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-02 02:41 am (UTC)The phrase I was thinking of when I wrote it (the one often translated as 'abomination') has a direct translation of 'And with a male you shall not lay lyings of a woman'. Clear as mud. In liberal Bibles that's now often translated as not lying in a woman's bed, so I suppose I was thinking of that when I wrote it.
Isn't it fantastic having a fandom where you can discuss these things? *is geeky*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-02 10:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 08:42 am (UTC)I quite liked this, both from an omg-hotness point of view and a yes-this-works point of view. :-)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 07:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 10:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-02 02:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 11:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 07:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 11:48 am (UTC)I loved it. Lovedlovedlovedit. Your writing is very well thought out and- and the steamy parts were so HOT but still Pagan. ... stupid pebble indeed.
Thank you.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 07:36 pm (UTC)Thank you! I am very glad you like it that much because I had just made up my mind I hated it. But everyone has been nice so now I'll like it again :).
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 07:40 pm (UTC)Heh. Well, I've noticed myself that the transition from first person to third (especially with Pagan) is a litle off-putting, but you still made it... so very Pagan. Like the part where Roland was very heavy.
I've been secretly going over and disecting this fic to find out what the secrets are to the build up of the plot and story line. Hurray for text-analysing lessons at the Translating Academy
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 09:59 pm (UTC)It's especially difficult because Pagan is such a strong first person voice. And 'cause Jinks just has this unique style. Which is of course why we all love her so much...but I'm glad you think I made it Pagan-ish.
I do that ALL THE TIME! I'm still convinced there's some sort of magic formula to writing. And one day I will discover it!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 09:30 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 09:55 pm (UTC)And ditto the yay! for Hearts, because I don't want Celtic to win this year. Though did you notice that Craig was dropped? *cries*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-01 11:02 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-14 10:06 pm (UTC)It's hard for me to say just how much I loved reading this. I recently read Book 3 and found myself crashing with disappointment over the ending. I just had to go searching for fanfiction to assuage these feelings ... and I find this!
From the cleverly oblique opening to the touchingly bittersweet ending, this was a WONDERFUL answer to the Pagan/Roland journey, giving them both closure in a way that entirely respected both characters and their separate destinies. Roland's struggle with his response and Pagan's division between grasping his new opportunities and his love of Roland hinted at the fully-rounded worlds each inhabit, their fateful inner integrity and their heart-breakingly incompatible goals. Their environments were beautifully evoked, as in the references to canonical hours and medieval literature, and despite the choice of a third person narrative, Pagan's ascerbic and witty introspection was still enjoyably evident at many moments, as in
Honestly. When God had created night, couldn’t he have made it a little brighter?
And may I say, the eroticism and excitement of their rendevous was superb :-) Because Roland was kissing him Oh! Even in the furtive secrecy of a monastry orchard it just had to be beautiful and romantic as well as lustfully-charged and it was.
This is one of those pieces of fanfiction which almosts removes my own urge to write any, since I feel it has done everything I could have wished. Whether I do write anything in this fandom, I will regard your story as 'canon' as I cannot picture anything better in a non-AU context. I do hope YOU will be inspired to write more of them, as I love your sympathy with these characters. I love the idea that Roland has 'found himself' again and that they could continue their love, however clandestinely, in the future.
Thank you so much for this, you have lightened my heart, and allowed me to love Pagan/Roland again without wishing to knock their/Jinks heads together :-). May I friend you?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-16 12:19 am (UTC)But I'm very sad I've removed your urge to write. Because I love reading other people's fic, and it generally inspires me! (i.e. I steal ideas :)).
And of course! *friends back*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-16 11:18 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-25 11:12 pm (UTC)