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early morning fic post
A random bit of fluff, which occurred to me while standing at the photocopier and was written while watching the Superbowl on mute, so make of that what you will. With thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iuliamentis for schmoop- and comma-wrangling.
Don/Charlie. Fluff. 626 words.
He could number this easily enough.
i
As a kid, Charlie had habitually attached secret numerical values to things. The dresser in his room had five drawers, and its height and width were a ratio of three to two: (3 x 2) + 5 = 11. The nightstand, by the same formula, was 4. The value of the bookshelf was complicated and changeable, depending on the number of books on the shelves; he'd been relieved to learn the rudiments of algebra, so that he could define it as x + 5.
He'd never seriously attempted to apply numerical values to people. Even after he'd learned algebra there were far too many variables to ever account for properly; even inanimate objects got complicated if you tried to describe too many attributes. Still, he was aware sometimes of noting the change in a value, or of related values in some function.
The Charlie-and-Don function, for instance, had experienced wild variation over the course of thirty years. Distances--physical and otherwise--had widened and narrowed over and over and eventually had collapsed into this sweaty singularity.
Charlie settled his cheek against Don's shoulder, tracing his fingers over Don's ribs until Don's hand clamped down, punishingly tight. "Stop that," Don muttered into the top of his head. "Tickles."
"Sorry," Charlie mumbled, wriggling his fingers in Don's grip, and Don let up, letting his hand rest flat on Charlie's, holding it to Don's side.
Charlie smiled. This, now, he could number this easily enough, when you came right down to it, stopped trying to pick out individual attributes and looked at the whole thing at once. This was i, the imaginary number, the square root of negative one. It shouldn't exist--there was no way it could exist, there was no number that could be squared and come out negative. Charlie had tried to fathom how i could be part of the mathematical universe, when he was younger; he'd tried to theorize some third state, some quasi-negativity that could be squared to produce a negative, but it was like trying to think in five dimensions, and in the end he just had to accept it. i existed because they said it existed--because someone could think of it, could put it into words, and so this thing that shouldn't be possible came into the world.
Just like this--though it hadn't been so much a matter of putting it into words. Still, they'd thought of it and then it had been real, whether they could understand why or not, whether it fit into their number line or not, no matter what it did to their worldview.
Charlie grinned against Don's skin as it struck him, and he shook a little with silent laughter. i for incest.
"What?" Don muttered, tightening his arm around Charlie. He sounded half asleep.
Charlie had tried once to explain to Don why the sofa was thirty-seven and the love seat was thirty-one and how that was interesting, two prime numbers making up the living room set. Don, nine years old, had listened patiently through the first three or four minutes before he said, "Charlie, it's a couch and a love seat. They're not numbers, they're just things."
Don had never been interested in quantifying things. Don was interested in things going ahead and being what they were without having to talk about it.
Still smiling, Charlie pushed himself up over Don and kissed him until his own smile found its way onto Don's face. "Nothing," he whispered, long after Don had forgotten what he asked. "I'm just happy."
"All right then," Don said, eyes half-open and bright with a lazy smile. "So am I."
Charlie buried his face against Don's neck and laughed until he couldn't breathe.
iuliamentis for schmoop- and comma-wrangling.Don/Charlie. Fluff. 626 words.
He could number this easily enough.
i
As a kid, Charlie had habitually attached secret numerical values to things. The dresser in his room had five drawers, and its height and width were a ratio of three to two: (3 x 2) + 5 = 11. The nightstand, by the same formula, was 4. The value of the bookshelf was complicated and changeable, depending on the number of books on the shelves; he'd been relieved to learn the rudiments of algebra, so that he could define it as x + 5.
He'd never seriously attempted to apply numerical values to people. Even after he'd learned algebra there were far too many variables to ever account for properly; even inanimate objects got complicated if you tried to describe too many attributes. Still, he was aware sometimes of noting the change in a value, or of related values in some function.
The Charlie-and-Don function, for instance, had experienced wild variation over the course of thirty years. Distances--physical and otherwise--had widened and narrowed over and over and eventually had collapsed into this sweaty singularity.
Charlie settled his cheek against Don's shoulder, tracing his fingers over Don's ribs until Don's hand clamped down, punishingly tight. "Stop that," Don muttered into the top of his head. "Tickles."
"Sorry," Charlie mumbled, wriggling his fingers in Don's grip, and Don let up, letting his hand rest flat on Charlie's, holding it to Don's side.
Charlie smiled. This, now, he could number this easily enough, when you came right down to it, stopped trying to pick out individual attributes and looked at the whole thing at once. This was i, the imaginary number, the square root of negative one. It shouldn't exist--there was no way it could exist, there was no number that could be squared and come out negative. Charlie had tried to fathom how i could be part of the mathematical universe, when he was younger; he'd tried to theorize some third state, some quasi-negativity that could be squared to produce a negative, but it was like trying to think in five dimensions, and in the end he just had to accept it. i existed because they said it existed--because someone could think of it, could put it into words, and so this thing that shouldn't be possible came into the world.
Just like this--though it hadn't been so much a matter of putting it into words. Still, they'd thought of it and then it had been real, whether they could understand why or not, whether it fit into their number line or not, no matter what it did to their worldview.
Charlie grinned against Don's skin as it struck him, and he shook a little with silent laughter. i for incest.
"What?" Don muttered, tightening his arm around Charlie. He sounded half asleep.
Charlie had tried once to explain to Don why the sofa was thirty-seven and the love seat was thirty-one and how that was interesting, two prime numbers making up the living room set. Don, nine years old, had listened patiently through the first three or four minutes before he said, "Charlie, it's a couch and a love seat. They're not numbers, they're just things."
Don had never been interested in quantifying things. Don was interested in things going ahead and being what they were without having to talk about it.
Still smiling, Charlie pushed himself up over Don and kissed him until his own smile found its way onto Don's face. "Nothing," he whispered, long after Don had forgotten what he asked. "I'm just happy."
"All right then," Don said, eyes half-open and bright with a lazy smile. "So am I."
Charlie buried his face against Don's neck and laughed until he couldn't breathe.