Aug 29, 2000
strange. oh strange.
aklw and bclw
dedicated to mae-mae, for the spaces between notes :-) and the things
you didn't do and the words you didn't say...
we do not own these puppets
we do not own this song (the folksinger does)
[Virtue is relative at best]
It's so hot, his white ribbed tank top is sticking to his chest. And for not the first time, he curses the old ghosts and shadows that beg him to keep the curtain of light brown bangs. They are matted with sweat and even a little dried rust-blood. It's slow going down the languid highway.
[There's nothing worse than a sunset]
The gracious sun paints a red streak across the sky, reminding Trowa of *him*, though he would seem to embody amaryllis or black better. He moves uncomfortably in the sticky leather seat and tightens his grip on the steering wheel. His note, his words hastily scribbled and messy, is propped up on the dashboard.
*Come find me.*
[When you're driving due west]
He is doing exactly that. But he can't help feeling that perhaps he has made a grave mistake, leaving his home at the circus to pursue a smoky vision of brilliant radiance. His hand traces the silver chain, while his other rests on the pocket of his hip. He can feel the cross there, the loop broken but not irreparable.
He gave it to me, he reminds himself, and not Heero.
[And I'm afraid that my love is gonna come up short]
Yet he is certain that the Japanese pilot would not have let it get broken.
[That there is no there there]
He allows himself a tiny, almost self-satisfied smile, and turns on the radio. There is only country music in this part of the parched land, but he doesn't mind. There's something happy and joyful about it, something that reminds him of the boy that hid beneath the nom de guerre of Shinigami.
"We're all hiding."
[I guess I'm scared]
He barely recognizes his own voice.
[Cuz I want to have good news to report]
Then he hums a few experimental bars. "Guess I'm too used to silence," he comments, before turning his attention back to the hot tar road. He doesn't want to get stopped for speeding, doesn't want to get into an accident. Trowa just needs to be there, to touch and hold him like he should have.
[Every time I come up for air]
That night still haunts him. Drunk on euphoria, gazing up at the stars, they'd slumped over pool furniture, the mosquitoes vicious and the fireflies exploding into light with little warning. Should have kissed him, he scolds himself. Should have let him know...
[And now I'm cruising through a chromakey blue sky]
"Your eyes," he'd said, brushing away bangs that were too long, "they're so green. Not blue at all." Closer. He's moving closer, he'd thought, not sure if he was afraid or excited by the prospect.
And Trowa had drawn away. Not blue at all, nothing like Heero's. The Japanese pilot that spent all his love and devotion on the slight pilot of Deathscythe.
[But I know that in an hour or three]
He checks the gas gauge and sighs. A stopover for gas and perhaps some coffee. The local Sunco station growls at him in its metal and plastic glory.
"Hey," someone calls, "do you have the time?"
And for some reason, it is horribly funny to him. He doesn't have the time, to sleep, to eat, to breathe. He just needs to keep moving, pushing west, pushing the borders of Old Mejico...
[The sun is gonna be in my eyes]
Would he, Trowa wonders with an amazed grin, throw open the door, come running out onto the street no matter what state of undress? Would he, maybe, possibly, at all, have missed him as much as he had missed him? A sign passes, proclaiming that it is 67 miles to Houston, 178 to Austin, and 447 to Old Mejico City.
Trowa looks onto the next 447 miles as one looks upon death.
[And I know that sometimes all I can see is how I feel]
The coldest one of them all, preaching to him about feeling and love and surrender. But he was wrong, Trowa thinks. How can one follow emotion if they are so numb?
[Like the whole world is on the other side of a dirty windshield]
The skylight is fading, now, replaced by the gray curtain of dusk, settling over the trees, blurring the edges of the road and the sandy dividers. The silence seems unbearably pregnant.
And through his tinted windows, he can see two little girls rollerblading down the street, hair flying behind them, mixed expressions of terror and joy and exhilaration scrawled out onto their faces.
[And I'm trying to see through the glare]
*Come find me.*
*I miss you.*
His eyelids droop, allying against him with gravity. He sees a sign for a Motel 6 and takes the exit, hoping they have an extra room. Tomorrow, he silently promises the cross that presses firmly against his leg.
[Yes I'm struggling just to see what is there]
The girl who checks him in is politely indifferent. But he doesn't really expect anything else. The trek up to his room is boring and soon he takes a corner on its ears to find himself in a room separated from the others. How ironic, he thinks, and slips his keycard in.
[The one person who really knows me best]
So he peels the day-Trowa off, dropping his clothes in a pile onto the floor. Catherine would scold him, but Catherine's not here. Then he decides to take a long, hot shower. The bathroom fills with thick steam, creating a faint sheen along his golden skin.
He looks into the slightly foggy mirror, demanding that it give up its secrets.
[Says I'm like a cat]
Lean muscle, long gangly arms. Slender thighs. He might as well be a girl from mid-thigh down. He traces the ridge of his single scar over his collarbone, the evidence of a kind of higher power watching over him. Mercenaries have scars. Little boys playing at mercenary do not.
[The kind of cat you just can't pick up and throw into your lap]
But he learned. They all did. It's the way of life that a lesson must be learned through hardship and pain, blood and fire. He's determined not to have to relearn it. And his shower's ready, so he steps under the pulsing water.
[No, the kind that doesn't mind being held]
He's not sure how long he stands there, but the water never runs cold and for that he is grateful. He steps out delicately, water pooling in his navel and in the slow curve of his collarbone. The tiles are even warm, like clay.
And he realizes that he wouldn't mind it at all if *he* was here to hold him. To touch him and even run those slender fingers over his scar. The idea is a frightening one in the freedom it brings.
[Only when it's his idea]
He lies down naked on his bed, letting the water from his hair drip onto the comforter and not caring. Would he, Trowa wonders, be willing to let Duo take him?
He's not really sure. A question for another day. Sighing, he tugs down the covers and sleeps only under a thin sheet, still hot from his shower.
[Yeah, the kind that feels what he decides to feel]
The morning comes swiftly; it feels as if his head has just touched the pillow. But he gets up anyway and puts on the shirt Catherine gave him for his birthday the year before. It's comfortable, he tells himself, though it has taken on the status of a good luck charm in the past six months.
Then he fishes Duo's cross out of yesterday's day-Trowa skin, and tucks it into today's pocket.
[When he's good and ready to feel it]
*Come find me.*
*I miss you.*
*I love you.*
He checks out and gets into his car. The engine roars and he narrowly avoids crashing into some asshole entering the parking lot through a one-way exit. But then he's driving, onto the highway, down a long stretch of land that seems to extend into tomorrow.
[Now I am prowling through the backyard]
Here, he's finally here. The lights are on all over the white, two-story house. There's a grassy green backyard, neatly trimmed, and a rose bush near the front door. Such perfect suburban normality.
[And I am hiding under the car]
He wipes sweaty palms onto his jeans. His heart is pounding in a slow, ominous way, every thump echoing dully in his ears. What will he say?
"Hi, Duo," he practices, but he isn't good at saying hello. Or goodbye.
[I have gotten out of everything]
*Come find me.*
"I see you've been doing well?" he converses with the steering wheel. He imagines it nods at him encouragingly; he hasn't frozen yet, hasn't had the words choke in his mouth and die a sputtering death there. So far so good. What can he say that won't sound false, no matter how true the eloquent rhetoric?
"I need you."
[I've gotten into so far]
"And I sound like a bad porn star," he groans. Why can't he just walk up to the door, declare his love, have Duo sweep him off his feet like in his most private of dreams? Why does his happily ever after elude him this far?
*I miss you.*
He curls up in the seat of his car and tries to regain control of his trembling body.
[And I eat when I am hungry and I travel alone]
At last, his hands clench tightly and he sets his jaw stubbornly. Trowa swings the car door open, ignoring the rusty squeak of protest, and stalks up to the front door, hand poised just over the doorbell.
[And just outside the glow of the house]
But at the last second, something inside twists and he turns away, intending to go back to hiding in his car. Maybe he'll go back to the Sanc Kingdom even, let Duo think he never came.
*I love you.*
[Is where I feel most at home]
And then he sees him. His silhouette, marked faintly with shadows and lines, moving into the brightly lit room. He looks around suspiciously, as if hearing Trowa's inner turmoil, then sits down on a bench.
[But in the window you sometimes appear]
He's talking to himself. His lips move rapidly, fluttering with every large gasp for breath, every worried utterance.
*Please.*
Trowa moves slowly, trying not to alert the chattering boy to his presence, and sits in the passenger's side seat. He knows, now, that he can't just drive away. So he leans back against the torn leather and readies himself for a night of sleepless rest.
[And your music is faint in my ears]
*Love, Duo*
~owari~
Ariana and Bianca
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