Work Text:
Too Greedy for Friendship,
Bells ring,
Time is ticking,
And I’m stuck,
Reaching for something that isn’t there.
“The last line is long,” said Diavolo.
“I know,” said Leone.
“What is with the time metaphor.”
“Time is running out.”
“Not really, you’re just stuck.”
“What do you mean?”
“You say time is running out, but you’re just stuck in your feelings, unless there is a confession deadline.”
Leone stared at him, “Speaker of the poem isn’t the poet.”
“Fine, the speaker is stuck.”
Leone crinkled the paper into a ball and threw it. He had a poetry assignment due tomorrow, and he hated all his poems.
“That was a good rough draft,” said Diavolo.
“You’re not helping.”
Diavolo glared at his friend, “Then why did you ask me to be here?”
“I’m lonely.”
“You write good poems,” said Diavolo.
“Quit lying.”
Dear lord Diavolo wished Leone had more confidence in himself, “Just turn in one of your poems.”
“I can’t, the assignment requires at least one simile, and my poems never have similes.” Similes were the most basic, lifeless comparison a person could make. Or at least, that was what Leone always ranted to him.
Before Diavolo could respond Leone was already writing. He knew better than to disturb him when he was in the zone. Not before long a piece of paper was shoved in his face.
Birds swimming in the sky,
Fish flying in the sea,
Everything feels wrong,
My mind is like a question mark.
“This is good.”
“I’m going to kill myself.”
“Do you want help?”
“You’re not supposed to respond with that!”
“Off the top of my head I can think of twenty ways to end your life.”
“Most people say don’t kill yourself, it’s gets better.”
“I’m not most people.”
“I know,” Leone muttered under his breath.
“Why do you dislike this poem?”
“It should be my mind is a question mark, metaphors are superior to similes.”
“Who cares, you can turn in the assignment.”
“I care.”
“I mean you’re going to get a good grade.”
“I guess,” said Leone rolling over, “I’m a traitor to poetry.”
Diavolo loved him with his whole heart, but Leone was the most dramatic person he knew. So, he hit him with a pillow.
“What the hell.”
“You were being annoying.” Leone tackled him to the ground.
“Asshole.”
“You know it,” said Diavolo smirking before being hit with a pillow.
***
A few days later Diavolo found Leone in the library hunched over writing in his diary. It was actually a poetry journal but calling it a diary annoyed him so that was what Diavolo said.
Normally he didn’t try to annoy people. That made enemies. But with Leone, Diavolo knew there weren’t consequences, he was safe with him.
Diavolo sat down next to him, “Hey.”
Leone jumped before looking at him. Well, he was glaring at him. It was a great glare that would scare any kid. But at this point, Diavolo was immune to it.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, Damien asked if I could help him move a piano and I said couldn’t because you needed me.” It was amazing how many social situations Diavolo got out of using Leone.
“So, you’re just using me.”
“I mean you’re clearly going through something,” Diavolo pointed to the journal, “Need a hug?”
“Fuck off.”
“Is it an assignment?”
“No, but if you’re going to annoy me you will be a test reader.”
Moving mountains
Apple orchids producing apple
Stopping the ocean waves from hitting the shore
Can you do this?
Sure, why not.
“Wow, what an empowering poem,” said Diavolo trying to be supportive.
“Not the mood I was going for.”
“The second stanza is weird.”
“It reframes the poem.”
“Does it?” asked Diavolo.
“It’s draft one, we could burn it.”
“We’re not burning your poem.”
“But don’t you want to get rid of any weakness,” said Leone clearly knowing him too well.
“It’s your weakness, not mine.”
“We’re friends we share weaknesses.”
“In that case, we’re improving your knot-tying skills this weekend.”
“I hate you,” except he said it with affection.
***
They did in fact, practice tying knots. They did it on Saturday. But now it was Monday and Diavolo wished that it was Sunday. He understood the importance of gaining knowledge, and that was the whole point of school; but did he have to be surrounded by strangers.
Diavolo was at the lockers when Leone walked up to him and shoved a piece of paper into his chest.
“I don’t want to talk,” he said.
“Draft two?”
“Draft two,” Leone said walking away.
Diavolo glanced down at the piece of paper.
Tell me to move mountains,
I’ll do it,
Tell me to part the seas,
I’ll do it,
Tell me to stop a summer storm,
I’ll do it
But, don’t ask me how I am.
“Nice poem,” said Diavolo when he saw Leone again at lunch.
“I want to burn it.”
“You’re shaping up to be an arsonist.”
“It’s not right,” said Leone gesturing in the air as if that explained everything. It didn’t but Diavolo knew Leone always went for a certain vibe and would rewrite it till he got that. Or hate it so much that he would give up and threaten to burn the poem. He was dramatic like that.
“Random question,” said Diavolo.
“It’s not a random question.”
“Do you feel like people ask too much of you?”
“For the last time, the speaker of the poem and the author are different people.”
“Exactly, which is why it’s a random question.”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m raising Narancia but that’s not why I’m writing this poem.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
That answer tracks with everything he knew about the other. Neither of them was big on talking about their emotions. Granted Diavolo was worst in that category. Fortunately, they more or less knew what the other was feeling.
“All right.”
“If it makes you feel better, I already wrote on that subject.”
“So, you are the speaker.”
“Only twenty percent of the time.” That was bullshit but Diavolo wasn’t going to call him out on it.
***
I wish I could do it,
I want to move the mountains,
Surrounded by those who can,
Can’t do the impossible,
Can’t do the simple,
Diavolo read over the latest draft. He neatly folded up the poem and put it in his pocket.
“What are you doing?”
“Protecting it.”
“From what?”
“You.”
“I’m not going to destroy it.”
“Are you thinking about it?”
Leone answered him with a glare. So yes, he was in fact thinking about it.
“I’m just so close, I can feel it.”
“Really,” said Diavolo on the cautious side of things.
“That or I have ten more drafts.”
“You’re certainly passionate.”
Leone shrugged, “I just need to write it.”
“You’ll get there.”
***
When Diavolo originally said those words, it was because it was true. Leone would always get to the poem no matter how many drafts it took. However, seeing him aggressively write a poem only to throw it away was something else.
They were in Leone’s bedroom. Originally Diavolo’s goal was to practice lock-picking. Instead, he watches as piles of crumpled paper form around Leone.
“I refuse to believe this poem isn’t about you,” said Diavolo putting down his lock.
“I will tattoo speaker and author are different to your back.”
“Sometimes the speaker and author are different and sometimes the speaker is the author, or the author’s insert.”
“I hate you,” Leone said in a tone that meant Diavolo was right.
“Do you want help?” asked Diavolo.
“Yeah, I need something that’s an impossible task involving nature.”
“Wrestling a lion.”
“More like moving a mountain,” said Leone.
“Stopping the winds?” asked Diavolo.
“Wait that could work,” Leone started writing, only to groan in frustration, “Never mind this is shit.”
Diavolo pulled the poem out of his hands and started reading it.
Simple for everyone,
A struggle for me,
Doable for them,
Near impossible for me,
They move a pebble,
And I move a mountain,
They stand in the breeze,
I stand in a tornado,
They swim across the lake,
I drown in the ocean.
“You want to return it?”
“It’s good,” said Diavolo putting the poem in his pocket. It was safer with him anyway.
“Come on, the meaning is too obvious.”
“Nothing wrong with a poem about life being more challenging,” said Diavolo.
“That’s not the meaning,” said Leone.
“What is the meaning?”
Leone scooted closer to him. They were so close, less than an inch. He told it softly as if it was the biggest secret in the world. After which he pulled away.
“Huh,” said Diavolo, “I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well I got better,” said Leone.
“So, on to draft twenty-eight?”
“I think it’s more like fifty-two,” said Leone with a smile, “But I think I’m good. I just needed to tell someone that.”
“You know this means the author is the speaker.”
“Only twenty percent of the time!”
***
For the most part, Leone shared all his poems with Diavolo. For the most part.
Title: Drunk
Stumbling, hitting the wall,
Laughing too loud,
Nothing sounds right,
Too noisy, heart racing,
Wanting to puke,
Stupid words,
“I love you”
But I said it sober