Cathryn (formerly catslash) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
remindmeofthe) wrote2009-11-05 01:16 am
remindmeofthe) wrote2009-11-05 01:16 am
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So I have often wondered, on the rare occasion I have encountered Evita fic, why it tends to be obtuse and confusing. As it turns out, this is because if you even try to interpret this shit literally enough to write a straightforward fic, you will tie yourself in knots so fast your brains will leak right out.
Which is all by way of saying that the fic you will find below the cut is kind of experimental for me; I'm of a fairly literal turn of mind and tend not to deal in extended metaphor, so writing this was new and different. It's Perón/Che, with Che playing less the role of a real character and more the meta construct he is in the play. I have no idea if it works or not. Let me know?
(Oh, and the first line is on account of Argentina being in the southern hemisphere. August = winter.)
It's dark and cold in Perón's office, with the August chill winning out over the failing fire. Perón has been at his desk for some time, ostensibly working, though the document in front of him remains untouched. The wastebasket next to his desk, however, will soon contain an empty wine bottle. There are things to do, and precious little time to do them in as the political noose begins to tighten, but Eva has been dead a week and he has been too busy making a public show of his mourning to even begin to grieve.
"You made your choices." Che is leaning against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets. "Even you, señor presidente, have to live with that."
He crosses the room to sit on the corner of Perón's desk. Perón's wine glass wobbles, and falls; the wine left in the bottom is just enough to trickle out and make a small stain on the paper.
"Which isn't to say that yours is not a special case. After all, we have had to live with your choices, too."
Perón leans back in his chair, looks up coolly at Che. "I don't need your lecture. I am not one to shirk my responsibilities."
Che looks at him for a moment of silent astonishment, then starts to laugh. "When," he asks, "did you start saying that and believing it?"
Abruptly, Perón stands, kicking his chair away with one foot. "I will not listen to this. You don't even understand what you're saying."
Che slides off the desk, bring himself close to Perón. The smirk on his face is not reflected in his eyes.
"No," he says. "I am only simple, with my humble life and small worries about small people. I see my country falling apart, but that must be an illusion, because you have done such a good job."
Perón steps forward, crowding him against the desk. Che doesn't so much as flinch, doesn't even seem to notice Perón's imposing frame almost pressed against his own leaner, thinner body.
"This country," Perón spits, "was once on the brink of civil war. Every year I have been President has taken us further away from that."
"And you did it all by yourself, of course." Che leans forward, closing the little space between them, using his weight to force Perón to brace himself lest they both fall. "You didn't need our help or lie to get our votes or coast along on a manufactured love affair." He leans back suddenly, taking advantage of Perón's imbalance to grab him around the waist and switch positions, smooth and dancer-quick, pressing Perón back against the desk. Perón in turn clutches at him instinctively, holding on to Che rather than fall backward too hard.
"Perón! Perón! Perón!" The familiar chant is a bright mockery in Che's mouth. "You can't even stand upright without me."
"I have enough without you. I have always had enough without you. You aren't everyone. You aren't even most."
"Then why aren't you letting go?" Che's hands move up to rest against Perón's neck, placement ambiguous, as if he can't decide whether to cradle or strangle. Perón makes no move to stop him, his gaze not wavering, and after a moment something in Che's own stare eases.
"I was not always beyond your reach," he says, low and sad. His hands relax and slide into Perón's hair, and Perón's arms tighten around him as the rest of the gap closes.
Che puts Perón's slicked-down hair into disarray, and Perón grips him hard enough to bruise, but the kiss is soft and easy, and when it breaks, Che's fingers are gentle as they leave streaks of pomade on Perón's cheek.
"I wanted so much from you," he says. "It would have cost you so little."
"It would have cost me everything."
An echo of the smirk returns to Che's face and his hands drop to his sides. "A good thing, then, that you don't need me. So let me go."
Slowly, slowly, muscles and tendons creaking as though he'd been holding them tense for hours, Perón loosens his hold. Che slips out of his hands and walks away, his footsteps fading into silence in the darkness of Perón's office.
Which is all by way of saying that the fic you will find below the cut is kind of experimental for me; I'm of a fairly literal turn of mind and tend not to deal in extended metaphor, so writing this was new and different. It's Perón/Che, with Che playing less the role of a real character and more the meta construct he is in the play. I have no idea if it works or not. Let me know?
(Oh, and the first line is on account of Argentina being in the southern hemisphere. August = winter.)
It's dark and cold in Perón's office, with the August chill winning out over the failing fire. Perón has been at his desk for some time, ostensibly working, though the document in front of him remains untouched. The wastebasket next to his desk, however, will soon contain an empty wine bottle. There are things to do, and precious little time to do them in as the political noose begins to tighten, but Eva has been dead a week and he has been too busy making a public show of his mourning to even begin to grieve.
"You made your choices." Che is leaning against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets. "Even you, señor presidente, have to live with that."
He crosses the room to sit on the corner of Perón's desk. Perón's wine glass wobbles, and falls; the wine left in the bottom is just enough to trickle out and make a small stain on the paper.
"Which isn't to say that yours is not a special case. After all, we have had to live with your choices, too."
Perón leans back in his chair, looks up coolly at Che. "I don't need your lecture. I am not one to shirk my responsibilities."
Che looks at him for a moment of silent astonishment, then starts to laugh. "When," he asks, "did you start saying that and believing it?"
Abruptly, Perón stands, kicking his chair away with one foot. "I will not listen to this. You don't even understand what you're saying."
Che slides off the desk, bring himself close to Perón. The smirk on his face is not reflected in his eyes.
"No," he says. "I am only simple, with my humble life and small worries about small people. I see my country falling apart, but that must be an illusion, because you have done such a good job."
Perón steps forward, crowding him against the desk. Che doesn't so much as flinch, doesn't even seem to notice Perón's imposing frame almost pressed against his own leaner, thinner body.
"This country," Perón spits, "was once on the brink of civil war. Every year I have been President has taken us further away from that."
"And you did it all by yourself, of course." Che leans forward, closing the little space between them, using his weight to force Perón to brace himself lest they both fall. "You didn't need our help or lie to get our votes or coast along on a manufactured love affair." He leans back suddenly, taking advantage of Perón's imbalance to grab him around the waist and switch positions, smooth and dancer-quick, pressing Perón back against the desk. Perón in turn clutches at him instinctively, holding on to Che rather than fall backward too hard.
"Perón! Perón! Perón!" The familiar chant is a bright mockery in Che's mouth. "You can't even stand upright without me."
"I have enough without you. I have always had enough without you. You aren't everyone. You aren't even most."
"Then why aren't you letting go?" Che's hands move up to rest against Perón's neck, placement ambiguous, as if he can't decide whether to cradle or strangle. Perón makes no move to stop him, his gaze not wavering, and after a moment something in Che's own stare eases.
"I was not always beyond your reach," he says, low and sad. His hands relax and slide into Perón's hair, and Perón's arms tighten around him as the rest of the gap closes.
Che puts Perón's slicked-down hair into disarray, and Perón grips him hard enough to bruise, but the kiss is soft and easy, and when it breaks, Che's fingers are gentle as they leave streaks of pomade on Perón's cheek.
"I wanted so much from you," he says. "It would have cost you so little."
"It would have cost me everything."
An echo of the smirk returns to Che's face and his hands drop to his sides. "A good thing, then, that you don't need me. So let me go."
Slowly, slowly, muscles and tendons creaking as though he'd been holding them tense for hours, Perón loosens his hold. Che slips out of his hands and walks away, his footsteps fading into silence in the darkness of Perón's office.