Mot (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} motley_sis) wrote,@ 2009-04-14 05:43:00 |
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| Entry tags: | * fiction, char: heero yuy, char: trowa barton/no-name, fandom: gundam wing, ljcom: gw_dark |
[fic] Sand "I… I wrote stories." "Heero, … Have you had time to read them yet?" "Page forty-five," I say as you take the seat across me. "Page fifty-five," I say, stifling a yawn. "Page ninety-seven," I say, putting on my jacket. "Stopped at your illustration of the trapeze." You glance at me sidelong, lips pursed, and I repay you with a guilty half-smile. "I will be there to pick you and Catherine up when you land," I say. "Finished reading, by the way. All hundred-and-twenty pages." I stare over my shoulder at the wreckage on the TV screen, seeing but not seeing, unable to distinguish the various sources of the noise now filling my head.
Pairing/Characters: Heero and Trowa
Rating & Warnings: Probably R. Warnings would only spoil the fun.
Notes: Written for the darkficexchange at LJ's gw_dark: Gift 6. (link)
Summary: Heero reviews Trowa's writing.
"So, Trowa,—"
The little slate-blue notebook with the damaged corners feels heavy in my hands, heavy with ink and charged words.
"Stories," I repeat dumbly.
"I want you to read them."
"Me?" I study your attitude; it's slack, aloof, but your eyes flicker for a moment. "You are serious. Why me?"
"Because if I asked you what you thought of them, you wouldn't shit me."
Funny. "If you're really looking for a brutally honest opinion, why don't you ask Wu Fei?"
We look at each other in silence for a few moments; slowly, your lips curve to a grin and you start chuckling.
"Zhang's been so spoiled with the classical greats, he would only laugh at me and give me lectures on poetic imagery."
I snort and grin back. "Point."
This is harder than I'd thought it would be. I feel your eyes watching me at my four o'clock and imagine their soft and somewhat distant expression, their silent encouragement.
Watching my hands make damp marks on the cover, I take a moment to consider my own words. Part of me wants to pick them as carefully as I am sure you did, though I know I wouldn't be standing here if you hadn't asked me to pass frank judgment on the burdens of your soul.
"About those stories you wrote…."
"The first twenty pages."
You look at me, biting your lip, as if embarrassed to inconvenience me.
"If you want me to give my opinion on what I've read so far,—"
You laugh. "No, my first attempts probably reek anyway. Take your time."
The spine of your notebook makes a barely audible, by now familiar squeak when I open it. My eyes glide over your words again, the small handwriting with the tendency to lean backwards.
"The Moral High-Ground," I say, taking care not to let any of the ragged bookmarks and pictures fall out. "Let me start by reading this one back to you—you were wondering why we ever let you fly with us."
You stir your coffee and raise your eyebrows.
I shift my look from your face to the reader before me on the table and back. "No, not this," I say. "Your book."
"Oh," you say and put the spoon in your mouth.
Raised eyebrows, big eyes, slight flush on the cheekbones… "Did you think I'd forgotten?"
"No," you reply and flash a stupid grin, fiddling the spoon in front of your face. "Just anticipating the verdict."
I raise my eyebrows, nodding once questioningly.
"Take your time," you say. "I'm patient."
I turn my head to glance at your face; your expected expression meets my eye and the urge to walk up to you to smack that poor excuse for an easy-going smile from your face wells up inside me.
Instead, I return my attention to the book in my hands and read.
"I had no right to be on that mountain, had no right to breathe that delicate air. Down at 'Moral Rock-Bottom', the air is thick with the stench of garbage, ammonia and rotting corpses, and the sun's radiance is obscured by vast clouds of dust, stirred up by men fighting each other to the death over a crust of bread, a piece of jewellery, a mere cigarette."
When I pause, I hear the sound of rain gently ticking against the windows.
"Work?" You quirk an eyebrow.
I nod. "Hectic. Had to put in a lot of overtime."
You are the one to smile apologetically. Git. I slap you in the back of the head when you start humming Time Is On My Side.
"I knew there was only so much weight my fake wings could carry, but I figured being empty inside—I had no heart laden with promises, not the weight of all the suffering in the world on my shoulders, was not burdened with the grave task of cleansing the world of iniquity—would increase my chances, give me more time to soar."
When I pause again to turn the page, a pregnant silence fights the sound of the rain for domination of the atmosphere in the room. I push back a wistful thought and give in to the rising need to scrape my throat.
You lower your head and cross your arms. I wonder if your patience is running out as I check my right pocket for my car keys, but when I cock my head to look at your face, I see you are trying not to laugh.
"You know I want to give your writing my undivided attention." It is not so much a statement as it is a hopeful nudge.
"Page numbers are becoming a regular greeting between us," you say.
I snort, inwardly slapping myself. "I know. Sorry. I will have more time after the weekend." I look at my watch. "Crud. Got to go."
You give me a smile and a V-sign before I dash off.
"For a while, then, it did. I would plummet from the sky later, but for a while I soared with the rest of them, and—"
I take a sip of water to try and wash the dry itch in my throat away and continue with a frown.
"And breathed their precious air, which they shared with me willingly. And I took it without hesitation. It occurs to me now I ought to be ashamed, even if they will hear none of it. They gave out of camaraderie, and later out of—"
Another ill-timed pause—I need more water. The rain lashes at the windows, swayed by a gust of wind and as I sip from my water bottle I listen to its urgency. I turn my head again to catch your gaze.
"Page ninety-seven. Sorry."
"Worked hard?"
The tone of your voice suggests you already know. "Yes, she worked me hard," I reply, mustering the dignity to flush under your amused smirk.
You pat my shoulder. "All the time in the world."
"Forget it." I shake my head. "You know how it ends."
I close the book with a snap and flourish it in your direction. "Why did you want me to review the lot, Trowa? Because I wouldn't shit you, or laugh at you like you thought Wu Fei would?"
You grin at me from the screen, hand rubbing your neck.
"So, let's do coffee somewhere after getting Catherine settled."
"Thanks, Heero." You incline your head, then lean in and look me in the eyes. "On both accounts."
I give you a stern-faced salute and watch you bursting out in laughter till Catherine moves in front of you.
"Sorry, Heero, we have a shuttle to catch!" She smiles and waves at me before she breaks the connection.
"You must be shitting me, Barton," I say, frowning. "You could've guessed I wouldn't like any of it. Your characterization of 'them' stinks and your main character is Stupid in the land of the blind."
Breathing in deeply, I turn away and close my eyes.
When I glance down at the notebook in my hands, open to reveal a picture of you and Catherine, I become aware again of the agent addressing me from the vidphone screen before me.
"Yuy, I—," a broken voice says. I look up and see a Preventers uniform, above it Wu Fei's nearly-concealed pained expression. "I am sorry."
"I remember one day waking up in your trailer to the sound of rain, bandaged, with you sitting at the edge of my bed. You were writing and I was watching you."
I open my eyes and look down at the book in my hands.
"Maybe being detached from yourself, as you seemed to think you were at the time you wrote these stories, and being selfless, as I have gotten to know you, are two sides of the same coin. I don't know."
My lip twitches and I have to bite it to keep it still. For the first time since taking the stand, I take a look at the people before me; all glazed-over eyes and tense shoulders.
"Trowa," I say, watching them. My voice sounds strange in my head. Judging from Wu Fei's wince and Quatre squeezing a sobbing Duo's arm, my state of affect must indeed be audible. "Trowa. Whatever you may think, I consider you my friend. I think I have from that moment I woke up in your trailer and saw you writing."
I look down again, squeeze the notebook in my hands until my knuckles whiten, frown. "There never was a mountain, at least none that we didn't create ourselves by our own delusions."
My latest was to believe it my Mission to analyze every chosen word of your stories, give them my undivided attention, take my time.
I turn around and walk towards you, watching the enlarged portrait on your casket. That soft and somewhat distant expression in your picture becomes softer, even, once I stand still to put your notebook down on the casket—and eventually dissolves.
I'm sorry, Trowa. I'm sorry it took me so long.