Hi all! This is a multi-part fic (the parts of which can stand by themselves) in honor of School Antics week. There is a different original poem by me in every part (translation: DO NOT steal my poetry or any lines therefrom--they belong wholly to ME); the idea for these fics actually comes from a particular line that came to me that I couldn't get out of my head. It will become rapidly apparent which line it was as the parts roll out ^_^
Disclaimers, notes: These characters do not belong to me, so you can do whatever you want with them and I won't care. The poems belong solely to me, so if you do anything to them I'll cry and then get angry. I don't own anything but the clothes on my back, and they probably wouldn't fit you. So you can sue me, but it will do you no good.
/... /=thoughts
~... ~=poetry
"Back in school again. Joy." Duo Maxwell walked into the nondescript dorm room and tossed his duffel on the bed by the window. He had been somewhat nonplussed to hear that he and Heero had once again been assigned a mission requiring them to pass themselves off as students. /Sharing a room, again. In the same classes, again. Desperately in a one-sided love with him, again. This whole scene is so cliched, I feel like a cross between an amateur fanfic and a country western song./
"Shut up, Duo." /Cliche? Did I think cliche? Oh dear me no... /
"Saa, Heero, you need to learn to relax. So, when do our classes start? Anything interesting?"
Heero began to ignore Duo, then realized that for once his questions actually required valid answers, and began rattling of their schedule. "9 a.m.--Music. 10 a.m.--World Literature. 11 a.m.-- History. Noon--lunch. 1 p.m.--Math. 2 p.m.--Biology." He resumed ignoring Duo and booted up his computer.
Duo, if he had not been used to Heero Yuy's mechanical way of spewing facts and then lapsing into stony silence, would've been miffed at the brush-off. As it was, he merely continued to talk as he unpacked his things and redid his braid. When finished, he checked his watch. "Na, Heero, it's 8:30 now; we'd better get going if we want to eat breakfast before music class."
"Hn." Heero intoned, not looking up. Duo flipped through his mental Heero-English DictionaryTM and came up with "'Hn': 1. 'A noise indicating assent purely for the reason that food is necessary for a soldier to operate efficiently.' 2. 'Do not bother me.'"
And with that, another day began.
Few people knew Duo Maxwell was a poet. He had never shared his work with anyone, because he figured one bout of teenage angst was pretty much the same as any other, and he couldn't afford to draw attention to himself anyway. Besides, he only wrote about a few people, and they were either him, dead, or trigger-happy partners with really tight shorts. Mostly the latter. /I am so pathetic./
However, the school day is a long and boring one, and you need to pass the time somehow. So Shinigami, the God of Death, wrote love poetry. Sort of.
"And so we see that Chopin was an important composer because of his sense of chromatic lyricism, blah blah... Greek legends... the mute girl was turned into the nightengale, a songbird; rather like a voice without meaning... blah blah blah... tonal concepts, whereas Schumann... "
/Hmm. 'Voice without meaning.' Can I do something with that?/ Duo was bored out of his skull. He had long since grown exhausted from staring at his partner, sitting ramrod-straight in the desk in front of his; the amount of physical effort it would've cost *him* to stay that still for that long was mind-boggling. The view was beautiful, though. /Messy brown hair, muscular back... drool... / Sighing, he gave in to the inevitable and took out his poetry notebook, tuning the teacher out around the time he got into the characteristics of the nocturne.
~you sit straight as a stick~
Duo chewed his pencil, contemplating his next line. /'And you have one up your a**'... no, not the right feel... /
~I hear the chords behind my
jabbering as I sing you
without song~
/And you never hear it... cold bastard. Why do I love you? Is this some sort of sick cosmic joke where God traps me in a shoujo manga and watches me suffer?/
~I am your white noise~
/Not to mention your white trash./ Duo heard a discreet cough in front of him, and he lifted his head up long enough to prattle something about the significance of Chopin's role as both performer and composer before returning to his thoughts. As always, he looked at the teacher directly, but never allowed a certain familiar head leave his peripheral vision. Heero was taking notes, his hands more than likely on autopilot while his mind moved at the speed of light contemplating their next mission. Muscles flexed minutely beneath his shirt.
~you don't know I'm watching
you move, a machine in
your world but I see
your power your chill~
"The left hand moves in a slightly out-of-time counterpoint with the soprano voice... "
~I am your silent accompanyist~
" ...of course, then there are the mazurkas... "
~in this dance of indifference
you slap my touch away hard
well I bruise and I
want you more~
Heero shifted in his seat exactly once every five minutes, like a robot. It gave one the impression that it was a badly-carried-off ploy to act normal and fidget just like the average human being; a stiff performance by a clumsy actor.
~you tune me out every time~
/It's alright, Yuy, go ahead and hit me. If you hit me, at least you're touching me... and if you're angry at least I got a reaction./
~you glare and I want you
you hit and I want you to feel
every time you burn me I want
to burn myself into you~
"Hn." Without looking up, Duo once again consulted the Heero-English DictionaryTM (hereafter known as the HED). "'Hn': 1. 'Class is over, baka. Move it.' 2. 'You're bothering me.'" He quickly stuffed his belongings back in his schoolbag and followed the object of his affections, who was already halfway out the door. /Heero no baka. You could at least treat me with the common courtesy to wait until I'm ready, since you're the one who knows how to get to our next class./ Duo sighed. /You do have a great ass, though./
/Ah, well./ Another day, another desk, another round of poetry about a boy who didn't give a shit about him. Duo caught up with his homicidal love and pondered the likelihood of snagging a desk next to Heero in World Literature. /I wonder if we'll read any Chinua Achebe? Nice to have something that applies to my life... /
End Part 1
Well, that's it for now, folks! Not your standard fare from me, but hey! Change is good. Now, off to do my laundry...
(:./cutter/desk1)
