-;- goddess on my knees -;- (gpiiretu) wrote in temps_mort,
-;- goddess on my knees -;-

Windbeat (GW, PG, yaoi, 5>2)

Title: Windbeat
Author: gpiiretu
Fandom: Gundam Wing, the true Nostalgia fandom
Type: unrequited/unknown shounen ai
Pairing: 5>2 (Or is it 5+2 when it's unrequited? I dunno.)
Rating: PG for a touch of gore.
Summary: Wufei POV, unconventional to say the least.
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and all related mumbo-jumbo does not, I repeat, DOES NOT belong to me. I make-a no money, make-a no claims, make-a nothing but hot air.
Notes: Inaugural post. I'm okay-satisfied with this thing. Somewhere around a thousand words, about forty-five minutes.

And apologies for all the "buts". I just realized typing it how many there really are. :\

Wind upon my back, catching in my hair and I remember you in red and black, bleeding for me. Not literally, not that I could see, not then, but a river of blood for me to drown in; it's very near blackmail. The sun was staining everything scarlet, a wash of death to cling to the hollow bones of a regretful soldier. Just another reminder of our past, our deeds which were reportedly necessary, but ultimately useless. All war is. All bloodshed. All the seeping pools amount to nothing in the face of a divine justice we find ourselves grasping, clutching futily at. Acts of desperation, in which perserverance has been no luck-out, no free card, no escape. Nosing the grindstone only made you ignore the flour on your clothes. Just as a hand glued to the gun will only slip if you notice the blood sticking to it.

Taking a drag from the primeval cigarette really only reinds me of you, and how you said you'd take up the romance of smoking after your job didn't depend on your health and conditioning. You'd take up drinking, too: sampling the fine wines of Europe and the cheap booze of America. It offered me no reassurance, no calming effect that drugs so often promise --neither the alcohol nor tobacco in any form. I mostly took it up for the novelty, revisiting charming old-world practices. It was in fashion a few eyars ago, had died out as fads do, but I still clung to it as a survivor clings to driftwood in the great expanses of oceans arms with no intentioin of letting you go. That ocean reminded me of you, too.

It never really occurred to me how many things gave off ghosts of you, hints of you that left me nowhere but chilly bedsheets and drafty daydreams. An open window letting in the scent of orange blossoms down on Earth; the purple sheen of a department store dress catching in the afternoon sunlight like a bubble of color amidst gray. Sometimes a train clacking along late at night, those solitary forms of transport so out-dated and sorrowful, yet appealing enough to those who would read about the outlaws and indians of the old American west. It surprised Sally when I mentioned this in passing one night after a reluctant start towards love-making.

Needless to say it dampened the already molded mood and her skirt didn't even make it to the floor. It wasn't the comment about you in particular that struck her as unusual --because it'd become increasingly and conspicuously apparent I had more than just passing thoughts on the subject of you you you-- but rather my seemingly in-depth knowledge on your cultural history. Not that life on L2 much resembled the America of old --not by a long, winding, blind shot. America had reached its pinnacle through its colony cluster and then promptly imploded, caving in from the political peaks down into the grungy, drug-doused streets. It was much like an aging animal littering just one more link for the chain of nature and then collapsing into exhaustion. America's labor birthed your home, into a shining era of comfort and considerance, with fairytale getaways and dreams to smother even the lightest sleeper. But like most last litters, the offspring are smaller, weaker, fewer, runts less likely to live than the previous generations. A tragic end to a tragic culture.

But the morph from okay to bad to worse, from a scholarly standpoint, was an interesting one at the very least. I could have written books on the subject of American's downfall, it's self-prescribed destruction and final destination among the stars. Surely it would have been accepted, but not necessarily welcome. If a millenia or two had passed, then my cause proposals would have appeared novel and fresh, alight with intrigue and fascination few topics acheive nowadays. But since it was only a few centuries past, the point was nil in the scope of things. The times did not bode well for academic endeavor. The world's mind was still war-bound and -gagged.

And yet I doubt I would've written anything at all because the insight I sought, and indeed, craved, was not a matter of the world. It was a matter of a steeled individual who's clownish behavior was mostly a mask to soften the edges of a hardened spirit riddled with, well, riddles. Of the five of us, you were always the most puzzling. Someone so cheerful among persons so grim? Even Quatre had his bouts with depression. But your smiles and your laughter, though mad and maddening, were so false and spattered I have often wondered why in God's name no one else saw the annihilated spirit set behind the gems of your eyes. But people will often miss what they weren't looking for, and even more times, what they are. Perhaps that's what inspired my quest for knowledge on the culture that was America, to see into the pool of standards and hopes in order to snatch a fleeting glimpse of any such ideals and influences in the small looking-glass of the soul. Obsession has its quirks.

The smoke that drifts from my lips and nose plays as lavender in the night sky, tumbling away on the breeze coming in from the west, over the sea. All breezes seem to come from the west, just as all the best tales come from the west. The west of any place seems always to hold the treasure the journeymen seek. All jewels, secrets, safety kept in the west, under mountain, lock and key.

I wanted to go there to look for you, thinking you a rogue spirit in need of open roads and spaces now that the necessity of travel only comes through the necessity of sanity, not safety or survival. The traveling man suited you, on a bike down a lonely stretch of broken highway with mountains blossoming over the horizon. Moonwashed and starpaled, you'd be a servant of Satan on the run from justice's angels. It struck me as ironic that I'd be chasing after you.

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