Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Springer and Straw, and the others, are from Morality Play, a novel by Barry Unsworth.
Spoilers: Morality Play. Suffice to say, you need to have read the book.
Notes: I read this book for school, and the near canon gay between these two medieval actors was SO sweet that it proceeded to nibble at my brain until I wrote about it.
Warnings: Springer/Straw
Summary: Springer, growing up.
Disclaimer: Springer and Straw, and the others, are from Morality Play, a novel by Barry Unsworth.
Spoilers: Morality Play. Suffice to say, you need to have read the book.
Notes: I read this book for school, and the near canon gay between these two medieval actors was SO sweet that it proceeded to nibble at my brain until I wrote about it.
Warnings: Springer/Straw
Summary: Springer, growing up.
Masks
Sometimes, on the few occasions when he's all alone, Springer likes to put on the mask of God the Father. There's something appealing about the lines of its cheekbones, too long for his child's face, and the golden shine of its cracking paint. Or maybe it's simply the seduction of a part he'll never be able to play.
He doesn't have the height for it or the majesty. Stephen doesn't have the talent, but Springer will never say that out loud. He'll sit back, in his itchy yellow wig, and watch as Stephen struts about the stage in a senseless drunken stupor. And he'll keep his mouth shut because if Stephen ever got really mad, he'd be too little to fight back.
Sometimes he wonders if he'll ever grow as tall as Straw, whether he'll ever have his skinny height or his long, pallid fingers or the shallow length of his neck or the faint inset line of his spine, creasing his back all the way down.
And then he thinks that maybe its better that he's himself after all. "So warm," Straw had said the first time, and it's really for the best because Straw is so much like ice that Springer can feel the warmth being sucked out of him when they lie together.
"So warm," Straw had said when Springer had first told him he wanted him. And Straw had smiled a smile crooked at the edges and made the sign of acceptance. But it was jerky and unpolished, and his eyes looked nervous. Unsure. Frightened.
So when Springer had taken his hand and felt the long fingers twine with his and the soft down hair brush his cheek, he'd learned something: regardless of which parts he gets to play, it's the times when the masks are off that really matter.
He doesn't have the height for it or the majesty. Stephen doesn't have the talent, but Springer will never say that out loud. He'll sit back, in his itchy yellow wig, and watch as Stephen struts about the stage in a senseless drunken stupor. And he'll keep his mouth shut because if Stephen ever got really mad, he'd be too little to fight back.
Sometimes he wonders if he'll ever grow as tall as Straw, whether he'll ever have his skinny height or his long, pallid fingers or the shallow length of his neck or the faint inset line of his spine, creasing his back all the way down.
And then he thinks that maybe its better that he's himself after all. "So warm," Straw had said the first time, and it's really for the best because Straw is so much like ice that Springer can feel the warmth being sucked out of him when they lie together.
"So warm," Straw had said when Springer had first told him he wanted him. And Straw had smiled a smile crooked at the edges and made the sign of acceptance. But it was jerky and unpolished, and his eyes looked nervous. Unsure. Frightened.
So when Springer had taken his hand and felt the long fingers twine with his and the soft down hair brush his cheek, he'd learned something: regardless of which parts he gets to play, it's the times when the masks are off that really matter.