Title: Certain Rhymes
Author: Kelandris the Mad 
Fandom: View Askewniverse, general (Mallrats era?)
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob poem-fic. Smarm, some kissing, some angst, 
no steamy sex.
Rating: PG-13, maybe, for adult topics and a little language.
Status: New 
Archive: You must send an email to me and let me know where you 
intend to archive. Private archiving allowed as long as you don't 
intend to publish. Behave. 
Email address for feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequel: I know this sequels something, but for the life of me 
I can't remember the title. The one I did with the original poem in 
it. When I archive this I'll run it down.
Disclaimers: All characters belong to Kevin Smith and the View 
Askewniverse. If I really get into this, I probably will too. Or at 
least go into hock when I walk into a video store, go into rut, and 
buy all the DVDs at once. 
Notes: Ah, this poem just *begged* to be attributed to Jay.
Summary: Bob pines for Jay through poetry, and discovers he's not 
alone.

"Certain Rhymes" 
by Kelandris 


"Fasten your hair with a golden pin,
And bind up every wandering tress"

The man in the leather trench looked up from the slim volume he held, 
watching the man with the long blond hair dance in the food court. A 
black cap snugged down over the flyaway cornsilk mass, and the young 
man jumped and slid, bobbed and swayed his hips, dancing to a beat 
only he could hear. Silent Bob watched Jay dance, his eyes 
unfocusing for a long moment. He ran a hand through his closely 
trimmed brown beard and turned his attention back to the book.

"I bade my heart build these poor rhymes:
It worked at them, day out, day in,
Building a sorrowful loveliness
Out of the battles of old times."

He'd lost count of the number of poems he'd written to Jay, about 
Jay, and never had the courage to reveal them. Save for one which 
he'd fallen asleep holding, and the brat had come home and taken it, 
crumpling it up and tossing it to the floor. Plus, he kept losing 
track of the poems that Jay hadn't trashed, because he'd never seen 
them--he knew they were somewhere in his room, but God knew where--
he'd looked, too, and couldn't turn them up. Maybe they weren't 
supposed to surface. Maybe this was God's way of telling him to give 
up.

Bob looked around, capturing Jay's attention with a head shake. The 
mall was gearing up to close. It had been a pretty profitable day, 
overall, but now they needed to start for home. Kill a few beers, 
watch some tv, smoke a bowl�whatever. Anything and everything but 
what he truly wanted to do, which was hold that twitching body close, 
kiss those quirking lips, run his hands over and over through that 
glory of honey hair. He sighed, walking to the bus stop, Jay 
trailing behind him for once. If only. As if he had a shot in hell, 
but if only.

"You need but lift a pearl-pale hand,
And bind up your long hair and sigh;
And all men's hearts must burn and beat"

The poem rang within him as they packed up their gear and headed for 
home. He could feel it, fluttering against his chest, the book 
riding in an inside pocket of his trench. He rode home in a daze, 
hearing only dimly Jay's constant droning prattle, which, usually, he 
was fanatically attuned to. Now, it was just noise. He only heard 
the poem, branding the surface of his brain.

"And all men's hearts must burn and beat�"

Arriving home, Jay got out two beers, and absentmindedly, Bob walked 
away from the door to his room. He opened the door, hearing Jay 
shout in the background, and walked inside before he realized he'd 
stepped into Jay's room completely by accident. Struck dumb--even 
for him--he stood in the doorway, one hand clutching the frame, white-
knuckled.

Everywhere he turned, everywhere he looked, pinned to every 
conceivable space on the walls--his poetry. The long works, the 
short ones, the ones he'd written on bar napkins, on scraps of 
supermarket receipts, on lined paper�everything he'd ever written, it 
looked like. Every poem he'd been missing. Everything.

He felt heat against his back and turned, his eyes wide. Jay stood 
there, and immediately flinched back, raising his hands.

"Don't hit me," he said.

Silent Bob blinked. Why the hell would I hit you, he thought. As if 
I could ever raise a hand to strike that face. Why the fuck do you 
think I wrote all this shit, that you then stole�He blinked, turning 
around again, his eyes searching over the walls. Something, 
something he'd seen, something on the walls�He walked slowly into the 
room, walking over next to the closet, where a crumpled poem had been 
laboriously smoothed and pinned flat. He remembered this one. He 
remembered the day Jay had taken it, made some stupid insult, and 
crushed it into a ball. What the hell�?

He turned, looking at Jay. The young man shrugged.

"I liked it. I, I liked all of them." He looked at the floor, 
mumbling the next few words. "Like you'd ever show me this shit�"

Bob's hands stroked over the wrinkles in his work, moving to the one 
above it where he'd dared to write Jay's name. His eyes flew open. 
His mouth worked, no sound coming out. Finally he turned--to find 
Jay standing right there. The cap was in his hands, and he was 
twisting it, looking more nervous than Bob had ever seen him.

"Fuck, Lunchbox," he said in the softest voice Bob had heard him 
use. "Like you never knew."

Bob shook his head. He hadn't. He shook it again and reached out, 
stroking a hand across Jay's smooth cheek, over his trembling lips.

"I didn't know," he said. He watched, entranced, as Jay bit his lip, 
then leaned forward, pecking Bob's cheek nervously. He darted back, 
as if he were still waiting to be hit. Bob shook his head a third 
time, smiling, and placed both hands on Jay's face, pulling him 
closer and kissing him slowly, tasting the mouth finally that he'd 
only dreamt of before.

"And candle-like foam on the dim sand,
And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,
Live but to light your passing feet." 

Yeah, he thought, kissing the blond, feeling him reach out finally to 
wrap his long arms around Bob. If they only knew, you couldn't beat 
them away with seven sticks. But you're all mine. You're all mine. 
And you make my heart burn and beat, Jay. Burn and beat.

END
(Poem is W.B. Yeats' "He Gives His Beloved Certain Rhymes")
*************