Love In A Fallout Shelter
folder
Romance › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
1,351
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Romance › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
1,351
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is an original piece of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. If you wish to post this work somewhere else, contact me first and get permission.
Episode Two: 1984 1/2
A/N: Thank you Lei chi for your kind words. I hope it lives up to your expectations! ^_^
This chapter has not been proof read. Will update when it does.
"In his darkroom he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.”
~
War Photographer by
Carol Ann Duffy
Episode Two: 1984 1/2
The room was dimly lit. The only source of light was a coal fire that could barely manage to keep itself alight. Bookshelves lined the walls in the room, it made Jacob Ander unbutton the top button on his shirt. He noted every minor detail in his notebook, the room smelled like a mixture of old porridge and tobacco. Not an uncommon smell in the homes of the elderly in Scotland however the resident of this home did not smoke. Everyday he would ritualistically light one cigarette and leave it in an ashtray to slowly filled the house with smoke, Jacob asked the old man why he did this. He vaguely replied while holding a leather bound diary in his hands that it “stirred up pleasant memories for him“.
Jacob Ander was a journalist. Though he had a great deal of trouble finding newspapers willing to publish his articles. In the showbiz world of journalism people considered Jacob as a loose cannon, a radical idealist who had his head in the clouds. Jacob surmised that these comments were well founded. Though it did not deter him from perusing the stories he considered worthy of the spotlight.
After all, it was this kind of vigilance that lead him to this house. A small stone house in the city of Edinburgh, well over one hundred years old. This old mans name was Nathaniel Robertson and he was dying.
*****
“Would you like some tea?” the old man smiled as he waved a hand towards the kitchen. Jacob inclined his head in reply and started taking notes again in his little notebook. Any stretch of wall that was not filled with books was photos and the occasional poster. One he recognised from his research of Nathaniel, it was of a play he starred in over thirty years ago. The play was apparently never recognised by the mainstream media and quickly faded away in the fickle world of entertainment. Though those who did see it commented that it left a great impression on them.
The soft chiming of metal teaspoons and china echoed from the kitchen as Jacob jotted down other minor details such as the shagginess of the carpet to the type of wood the table was made of. Jacob was (if nothing else) a perfectionist. When the high pitched whistle of the kettle was subdued he put his notebook and pencil to the side as Nathaniel walked through the polished oak door with a tray holding a china tea set and a selection of luxury biscuits. Nathaniel it seemed had a weakness for fine things.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Nathaniel said “I just can’t live through the day without my afternoon tea.” He gave a soft chuckle as he took a sip from the blue and white floral pattern teacup. Jacob wondered if he was being ironic.
“It’s quite alright Mr. Robertson I was just taking notes. You have quiet the collection here.” Jacob was referring to all the antiques squeezed into the room.
“What is a man without a solid mahogany writing bureau? And please, call me Nate. I just loath formalities.” Jacob replied in earnest.
“Quite. Well, okay Nate. I hear you have a tale to tell me. I have a few questions before we begin however.” Jacob took a sip of his tea before picking up his pencil and notebook.
“I expected nothing less Jacob. However this is not a tale, a tale implies that it is spun from the yarn of myth and legend. I assure you, I am anything but legendary. The title of memoir I feel would be more befitting.” he took another sip of tea and a nibble of a biscuit as he smiled across the table. The lines on this old mans face was however not from smiling too much, his eyes implied a more troubling reason. Jacob would have to keep an eye on this one.
“Anything you wish Nate” he made a show of sighing before opening his mouth again to ask his first question. “What I would like to know is why you waited until now to recount your memoirs, from what you told me in your letter. You are dying.”
“Ah, aren’t all the best stories told on a persons deathbed? When someone is not long for this world they have no secrets. You aren’t going to live long enough to see the turmoil that would soon follow.” Nate replied while staring at the bottom of his teacup. Jacob could tell that Nate had a flair for the dramatic, something he should have expected from an actor.
“Very well, would you mind telling me what it is exactly you are dying of?” he tried to make the question seem as natural as possible, scribbling notes in his little book.
“It does not matter Jacob. All you need to know is I will soon be leaving this world, maybe to go into the next…or maybe not. Such things are a mystery to any man.”
“Agreed. Now, where would you like to begin?”
“Well Jacob, I would think a good place to begin would be the start, don’t you agree?” The corner of Nate’s mouth twitched into an amused smirk.
“Yes, I ’spose that would be the best place.” Jacob griped his pencil harder.
“I suppose the start of my story really begins in 1941. I just turned eighteen and was conscripted into the army. My friend Rosie and I wanted to make the world a better place. We would not see each other again for some time but more of that later. I was to go through six months military training before joining the war effort. It was during this time that I met him. His name was Bartholomew Myer…”
This chapter has not been proof read. Will update when it does.
"In his darkroom he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.”
~
War Photographer by
Carol Ann Duffy
Episode Two: 1984 1/2
The room was dimly lit. The only source of light was a coal fire that could barely manage to keep itself alight. Bookshelves lined the walls in the room, it made Jacob Ander unbutton the top button on his shirt. He noted every minor detail in his notebook, the room smelled like a mixture of old porridge and tobacco. Not an uncommon smell in the homes of the elderly in Scotland however the resident of this home did not smoke. Everyday he would ritualistically light one cigarette and leave it in an ashtray to slowly filled the house with smoke, Jacob asked the old man why he did this. He vaguely replied while holding a leather bound diary in his hands that it “stirred up pleasant memories for him“.
Jacob Ander was a journalist. Though he had a great deal of trouble finding newspapers willing to publish his articles. In the showbiz world of journalism people considered Jacob as a loose cannon, a radical idealist who had his head in the clouds. Jacob surmised that these comments were well founded. Though it did not deter him from perusing the stories he considered worthy of the spotlight.
After all, it was this kind of vigilance that lead him to this house. A small stone house in the city of Edinburgh, well over one hundred years old. This old mans name was Nathaniel Robertson and he was dying.
*****
“Would you like some tea?” the old man smiled as he waved a hand towards the kitchen. Jacob inclined his head in reply and started taking notes again in his little notebook. Any stretch of wall that was not filled with books was photos and the occasional poster. One he recognised from his research of Nathaniel, it was of a play he starred in over thirty years ago. The play was apparently never recognised by the mainstream media and quickly faded away in the fickle world of entertainment. Though those who did see it commented that it left a great impression on them.
The soft chiming of metal teaspoons and china echoed from the kitchen as Jacob jotted down other minor details such as the shagginess of the carpet to the type of wood the table was made of. Jacob was (if nothing else) a perfectionist. When the high pitched whistle of the kettle was subdued he put his notebook and pencil to the side as Nathaniel walked through the polished oak door with a tray holding a china tea set and a selection of luxury biscuits. Nathaniel it seemed had a weakness for fine things.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Nathaniel said “I just can’t live through the day without my afternoon tea.” He gave a soft chuckle as he took a sip from the blue and white floral pattern teacup. Jacob wondered if he was being ironic.
“It’s quite alright Mr. Robertson I was just taking notes. You have quiet the collection here.” Jacob was referring to all the antiques squeezed into the room.
“What is a man without a solid mahogany writing bureau? And please, call me Nate. I just loath formalities.” Jacob replied in earnest.
“Quite. Well, okay Nate. I hear you have a tale to tell me. I have a few questions before we begin however.” Jacob took a sip of his tea before picking up his pencil and notebook.
“I expected nothing less Jacob. However this is not a tale, a tale implies that it is spun from the yarn of myth and legend. I assure you, I am anything but legendary. The title of memoir I feel would be more befitting.” he took another sip of tea and a nibble of a biscuit as he smiled across the table. The lines on this old mans face was however not from smiling too much, his eyes implied a more troubling reason. Jacob would have to keep an eye on this one.
“Anything you wish Nate” he made a show of sighing before opening his mouth again to ask his first question. “What I would like to know is why you waited until now to recount your memoirs, from what you told me in your letter. You are dying.”
“Ah, aren’t all the best stories told on a persons deathbed? When someone is not long for this world they have no secrets. You aren’t going to live long enough to see the turmoil that would soon follow.” Nate replied while staring at the bottom of his teacup. Jacob could tell that Nate had a flair for the dramatic, something he should have expected from an actor.
“Very well, would you mind telling me what it is exactly you are dying of?” he tried to make the question seem as natural as possible, scribbling notes in his little book.
“It does not matter Jacob. All you need to know is I will soon be leaving this world, maybe to go into the next…or maybe not. Such things are a mystery to any man.”
“Agreed. Now, where would you like to begin?”
“Well Jacob, I would think a good place to begin would be the start, don’t you agree?” The corner of Nate’s mouth twitched into an amused smirk.
“Yes, I ’spose that would be the best place.” Jacob griped his pencil harder.
“I suppose the start of my story really begins in 1941. I just turned eighteen and was conscripted into the army. My friend Rosie and I wanted to make the world a better place. We would not see each other again for some time but more of that later. I was to go through six months military training before joining the war effort. It was during this time that I met him. His name was Bartholomew Myer…”