no_sin_but | (no subject)

(no subject)

Marlowe is not, and has never been, a continuous writer. He's too full of energy for that, too quick and hurried with that impossible perfectionistic streak. Instead, he writes in episodes of fevered inspiration countered by episodes of staring and thinking.

Tonight, he is in the latter.

He is sitting in his chair, leaning it back with his leg braced against the table to keep from toppling. Hands linked behind his head, eye bright and sharp and far away.

On the table, there are papers. His play, scattered here there and everywhere, and Darren's letters.

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Another quick smile.

"'Alright'?"

"Whatever you..."

Gesture. Vague. Sudden impulse to bolt. Why does Marlowe bring that out in him?

"I can't reply unless you finish the sentence."

"Considering you're not really saying much I don't see why that's an impediment. Or a change."

Ooh, passive aggressive. And a faint internal wince, too because he knows that was probably uncalled for. Eh. It's still true.

He swings back on the chair.

"If we both don't say much, that doesn't leave a lot of room to move, you know."

"Of the two of us, Kit?" Darren very seldomly calls him that, "I think I've done my share of admittings for the next short while. Your move."

He winces, slightly, and rubs the back of his head.

Edited 2007-12-01 03:49 (UTC)

Darren snorts, and opens his book.

It possibly takes longer than it should, and it's nothing to do with any form of jealousy or possessiveness.

Just Marlowe.

"I don't mind if you sleep with other people."

"I don't usually."

He was just so angry.

"Don't let that stop you or anything. I just... I'm still not looking for complicated things."

"Neither do I."

Just, sometimes.

Like Spike.

But, this is Marlowe and admitting things...doesn't happen.

"And neither am I."

"And Geoffrey's asked me back to New Burbage to direct Romeo and Juliet."

Which he may have neglected to mention but now seems like as good a time as any and now Darren just looks tired and miserable.

"It's a good play, even if young William stole my line."

"I hate Geoffrey. I've had to stipulate in my contract that he doesn't stab me."

And it's so fucking romantic, he can hardly stand it.

A sharp, wicked grin.

"Sounds perfectly delightful."

"You are insane, you do know."

"All geniuses are."

"And modest," he quips immediately.

He shudders.

"I had to play modest at school. I think I can safely say that after the first ten minutes it really, really grates."

"You're right. To hell with modesty."

He's running a finger absently up the spine of the book he didn't even really begin reading, watching Marlowe instead.

From the age of six to twenty-three.

It was very, very tiring. Not to mention it didn't help with his natural inclination to keep his thoughts to himself.

Or at the very least, off his face.

"Especially when you aren't going to be kicked out because you ignore it."

"They joys of adulthood. Owning your own life."

If any one is going to be thrown out here, it's Darren.

He snorts.

"Or something akin to that."

"Or something akin to that," echoes Darren, but a lot more cheerfully.

He feels sorted.

"Any thoughts on what you plan to do with aforementioned play?"