notoriousromanticist

[notoriousromanticist]

ancient literature as onion headlines

[notoriousromanticist]

Before Definition

relationships:

10th Doctor/Giacomo Casanova

Giacomo Casanova/11th Doctor

Not native speaker so there might be some grammar/wording mistakes in this article (> _ <) apologies in advance

The original(Chinese) version

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Giacomo Casanova was still holding the chicken in his arms when the man appeared in the impenetrable night. The chicken was not his rightful property: he had stolen it when the old Slovenian lady was not looking. Of course he knew it was wrong to steal, but he was too hungry.

The ribs looming on the sides of his body were shaped like failed specimens of scientists. And, indeed, he was a failure to his parents.

The man bent down and took the poor hen from his hand. Why would he give up precious food with no revolting? Was he scared by the faint odor of the man or bewitched by sweet nothings the man nattered? Casanova couldn’t remember.

Three voices broke that night. His incredibly clear claim: “you owe me a chicken”, the man’s laugh, and the ticks.

Years later, Casanova might forget the weight of the chicken, the man’s comically dishevelled face, even the hunger that came from deep inside his body.

But the ticking, the two regular sound waves that came from the man’s chest were deeply embed in his mind.

He asked, why do you have two different heartbeats?

Because I have two hearts. The man replied.

He cannot recall anymore after this dialogue. His eyelids were crushed by the man’s heartbeats. Then he had a bizarre dream. He dreamed weird old man and a greased chicken.

Such encounter was Casanova’s once upon a time. When it took place, there were still times long for Casanova became Casanova.

It sounds strange, what else could the boy be except Casanova？

Well, the four-syllable surname will be endowed tones of definitions in the future: lover, writer, explorer, libertine or shameless man. In conclusion, the name itself will become a legend, and will cover up all the night tales -- including the night’s tale.

But at this particular time, it was just a meaningless code. A code for a skinny boy who lived in a old Slovenian lady’s house. A code for the boy who always dreaming.

Another tricky truth has to be told in advance: the birth of Casanova -- the defined one -- was not instantaneous. It was a constant motion.

Casanova became himself for the first time in a dusty little room. A stream of nosebleed ran down his lips. Crossing his weedy chest through his collar. Sketching his skeleton. He had a vague sense that something was going to happen.

The older maid spat on the rag, then wipe the dirt off his body, cleaned up the nosebleed. But Casanova thought: what if he had a nosebleed in his head like the teacher said? Isn’t the blood gonna occupy his brain forever?

The just-disappeared smell of blood resurfaced in his horrible image. Then the fishy-like smell was released from the reveries, progressively invaded the limited indoor space. The forbearing odor overcame the foul mark of drool on the tip of his nose, crept permeated his senses.

The maid lifted one of his legs, the bottom of his trousers, felt up slowly. He know that something was coming, something was breaking through the earth. He shivered, either because the maid touched his thigh or because of the smell of blood he imagined.

“Do you want to go on?” She asked.

These words set off a fireball of dynamite. He trembled, got goose pimples as the shards of it crackled in front of his eyes. He gasped, his eyes tinged with excitement and fear. He opened and closed his mouth again and again, suddenly felt as if he had never spoken before. He shouted as he feels the on coming storm, as he breaks free from his prison --

Boom.

Between the maid’s lips, Giacomo Casanova was born for the first time.

He would be born many times. When he dressing blue satin. When the nobility punched him. When he cheated. When he breathed. When he smiled. He became Casanova for million times. He felt the joy of birth every moment.

Everything in the world made him feel alive. He lived by his lover’s bed, by aristocratic gossip, by the moan of a woman’s orgasm, by every golden mutinous dawn.

Giacomo Casanova was a discarded white silk which scattered in the shape of a blooming flower. He was the rotten Adonis, a paper narcissus reddened with fetal blood.

Occasionally, he would dream those two different heartbeats, wondering if the man was real, but he never thought he would come back.

The mansion at the end of main street is flanked by a footpath, which usually picked by the cheaters. Casanova kissed a madam’s fair cheek to goodbye, leaped into the path of her husband’s curses, and collided with the man who owed him a chicken.

The man’s striped shirt was stained with the lip gloss that the lady had left on Casanova’s lips. He looked down with abashed expression, saw the red paint mixed with glitter. Casanova looked at him in amazement: after so much time, so much so that Casanova had been reborn hundreds times, the man were barely old at all.

The old Slovenian woman had fallen into the long sleep on decayed wooden rocking chairs. Emaciated starving boys were shaded as a memory of past. But the man with two hearts didn’t change, like he never left that night.

That night, Casanova thought the man would be back soon. He waited. He dreamed. When the dream elapsed, he waited for once again. As the black sky faded, he realized that he had waited for a dawn, but not for the man.

He noticed it was at exactly 8:00 a.m. This means that before 8 a.m. , Casanova used to eagerly anticipate something -- the chicken, the man or the double heartbeats.

“Hey, ” Casanova said, “you owe me a chicken, remember?”

The man was confused, but then the animal that growled from somewhere else saved him from embarrassing. The man raised an eyebrow, began to be anxious: “This kind of thing later, you help me to find a chicken first. ”

“What --” Before Casanova getting the full sentence, the man took his wrist and dragged him ran off into the much more intense night.

The man -- Doctor said he was looking for a creature that looked like a chicken. Be careful, though, because that creature always appears before the human timeline, so if you see it --

“Like seeing the florescent narcissus before it blossoming?” Casanova said.

“What Metaphor is that? ” Doctor said, with unutterable affection,“You cannot see a burst flower that has not bloomed just like you cannot see things that do not exist yet or will happened in the future -- shamans claimed they can but actually no they were over-confident -- anyway, if your narcissus has not been observed or the wave function has not collapsed, then you can not see it. Plus, the creature does not look like a narcissus. ”

Casanova helped Doctor to find everything he needed -- majority of them was used to repair his device which could determine the creature he want. They said more things to make each other laugh. They went to places together to search for the chicken creature (Casanova insisted it should be called a narcissus).

His last memory of that night was when Doctor grabbed the device and ran towards the roar. Doctor looked back at Casanova, who was leaning against a wall, waving at him and reminded him to pay his debt.

Then Casanova heard screams, but they could not mask the double beating of hearts in the deeper shades.

When the sound of two hearts beating methodically came from profundity of the dim light of night, slowly, Casanova felt that he was experiencing another reborn.

——

“I knew that was the last time I would see him. ” The aging lover ended his story.

“Then why are you waiting?” Edith asked.

“Sometimes people wait but do not expect results, ” Casanova said, “sometimes it’s just a mean of consolidating memories with regret. Waiting itself is the end. ”

His vision blurred, but his eyes were not cloudy. As Casanova’s only audience in his envoi, Edith never took her eyes off the sly grin on the white-haired man’s face.

A frail figure laid on the bed, and the young man, with his usual light step, came up behind her and bent down, lifting Edith’s chin to show her the narrow sky prisoned in the window.

Casanova smiled and whispered near her ear: “Waiting is the meaning. I am the meaning. ”

As tears filled her eyes, Edith could make out the man’s eyelids on the bed shivered, like a weak wink. What she didn’t notice was that, it was exactly 8:00 a.m. when the wink accomplished.

——

As soon as he landed in Venice, Doctor found a pile of tawny feathers on the Tardis floor. He asked the Ponds if they had any contraband on the Tardis but got negative answers. Sullenly, Doctor sat with his legs swinging for a long time, looking at the most common fowl feather on earth.

Chicken feathers. Sometimes, as with all things mysterious, Doctor takes it as complications of time travel. His peripheral vision caught sight of Amy and Rory’s clock on the wall: eight o’clock exactly.

By the sharpness of this moment, he suddenly recalled his debt. Is this what happened to Casanova? Doctor wondered. What did he do? He sure that even the libertine just blinked, the whole Venice would fall into some kind of fanaticism.

Doctor’s last guess was correct, but he missed one thing. He didn’t realize that he’s been regenerated. The searing heat burned his jacket, tie, and striped shirt with lipstick. Now the two beating hearts of that night were the only things that relative to Casanova in this body. Therefore the announcement could be publicize: the Doctor is dead.

The dead Timelord saw Casanova’s blink for the last time in 145 years: that was the last time he reborn to Casanova.

“...Oh, I still owe Casanova a chicken.” murmured the Doctor.

But he quickly realized that not only the adventurer had not yet been defined but also the scrawny boy still was a speck of dust in the universe.

In 1580, Doctor called out the defined name before it existing. He saw the florescent narcissus before it blossoming.

End.