#i'm sorry this fic is just like stuck in purgatory for some reason rn

[landwriter]

Littledreamling here, I’m sending Death of Translation for the wip game because I want to read it so badly!!!!

At the tail end of winter break, a holiday meant for time with the family he does not have, he breaks into the two hundred year old French wine. It’s corked. Tastes like wet newspaper. He drinks it anyway. He reads Chaucer aloud to his empty flat, just for the warm sound of it and the dipthongs that taste like home. He thinks, I am my own dead language.

Then he has a biting hangover the next day, because immortality did not spare him of that, and he swallows some ibuprofen, and goes to the university, and teaches the best goddamn introductory lecture he’s ever given on Middle English to a hall of bleary-eyed first years.