27-Sep-2000
Disclaimer: Sunrise, Bandai et al own GW; the great and glorious musical god Elvis Costello owns "Motel Matches", and I own nothing. Suing would be pointless.
Warning: 2+3, POV, angsty, slight language and OOC
[~~~] = lyrics
* = emphasis
I leaned against the wall of the alley, scraping my boot down the bricks. I don't know what I stepped in and I don't *want* to know. In this neighborhood, it could be anything from puke to shit to body parts. I just don't want to know.
[Somewhere in the distance I can hear "Who shot Sam?"]
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to ward off the night's chill. A homeless guy starts down the alley, dragging a bag of scrap metal behind him, but I glare until he leaves. Duo Maxwell, bane of the homeless. I don't care. I already had to fight off two hookers and a floating crap game for this spot. I'm not giving it up.
Right here, leaning against the wall, I can see the fleabag hotel on the corner. Fleabag, dump, rattrap, flophouse; it's all of those. It even has one of those cheesy flashing signs. "Hotel - Hotel - Hotel" It would drive me crazy if I were trying to sleep. Not that anyone *sleeps* in a hotel like that.
Just like clockwork, I see Trowa turn the corner, pulling his man of the night behind him. Hell, the way he's been lately, it could just as well be man of the hour. What the *fuck* does he think he's doing? Shit. I can't lie to myself; I *know* what he's doing. I know. That's why I follow him.
[This is my conviction that I am an innocent man]
I finally confronted him about it last month. There were just too many signs to ignore: his disappearences at night, the bruises on his neck, the sour smell of smoke and sex, the bright empty glitter in his eyes. At first he didn't answer me; just twisted his lips into an expression contempt and shame, all mixed together. Then very quiet and intense he said, "Like you're one to talk, Maxwell." before brushing by me so hard I was knocked into the wall. I watched him grab a jacket and leave. He's right. I'm the *last* person who should be talking to him about this.
So that's when I started following him.
[You say I'm unkind]
I tell myself it's for the protection of the group; that eventually OZ will figure out he's a Gundam pilot with a vulnerablity that they can exploit, that they'll try to get information from him and I'll be here to stop it.
But that's a lie, too.
I *know* what it's like to despise yourself. To *know* that everything about you is twisted and worthless and perverted. To know that your only purpose is to be used and discarded, because there is *nothing* of value about you. And I also know what it's like to go out every night and try to *prove* you're worthless, over and over again. Just so there's one thing in you life that you have control over, that you're *right* about. And that's why I follow him.
Every martyr deserves a witness.
[I'm being as nice as I can]
Tonight's guy is eager. And young, so young. He's got Tro up against the side of the hotel, not even trying to go inside. Trowa pulls his arm, moving towards the stairs, but the guy slaps him, pushes him against the wall, hands reaching for Trowa's belt. Trowa throws his head back and laughs. He actually sounds happy, but something about the arch of his neck, the hand in his hair, makes me feel like screaming until blood runs down my throat.
[Boys everywhere fumbling with the catches]
The boy leaves Trowa slumped on the ground, a fistful of money flashing through the air. Trowa stretches out a hand, picks up a coin. He moves it along the back of his fingers for a moment, like a magician. Out of nowhere street children appear, amazed and laughing. Trowa smiles and gives them all the coins. The smile bleeds off his face as he rebuckles his belt. He runs his hands through his hair, and walks off down the street.
I wait. He'll be back.
[I struck lucky with motel matches]
I wait, and watch the stars come out. So beautiful, so perfect, and so far above us. Sometimes they fill me with peace, but mostly I feel mocked and small. Trowa feels the same way, I think. I never see him look up anymore.
Trowa, you tell us to leave you alone, you brush our friendship aside, but do you know what you're doing? Do you *really*? What kind of redemption are you trying to find in these encounters? Or are you looking for someone with a well of self-hatred greater than your own, someone to lose yourself in?
[Falling for you without a second look]
It won't work, Trowa, and God knows I'm talking from experience. It's so easy to prove yourself worthless. It's so easy to believe it. It's a cynical world, baby, and it's just one small step form self-mockery to self-destruction. A small and *easy* step.
And you take it and you're falling and every doubt and fear and failing you ever thought you had suddenly seems to be the truth. And you're on the ground and you're covered in mud and 'worth' and 'value' and 'joy' and 'love' are just fairy tales someone told you, so why bother? You're already dirty, that's what people see when they look at you; why not stay that way?
Is that what you're thinking, Trowa?
[Falling out of your open pocketbook]
Or is it just fear? You think it's different for me, because I have Heero. Well, you could have Quatre. Hell, you have him right now, you just won't *take* him. You think you're not worthy of him, and you're trying to prove it. Prove it to who; Quatre? Do you think he cares? You could fuck those lions you're so fond of, and he'd still want you, love you.
The only person *in* this equation who thinks you're worthless is *you*. But you're the only person who really matters. And the more we try to show you that you're wrong, the faster you throw yourself at the abyss. Oh, Trowa. Is being right *really* so much easier?
[Giving you away like motel matches]
I shift against the wall as I see you turn the corner, under the glare of a streetlamp. The sodium light changes all your colors, making you seem alien and unaware, your lips black like dried blood, your angel's face an open wound. It hurts me to look at you.
I try to see you with a stranger's eyes. It doesn't work; all I see is my face superimposed on yours. I see what I was on my way to becoming. Your present is what my future *was*, before four people showed me my life did have value, meaning, purpose. You were one of those people, Trowa. Why can't you do it for yourself?
A fat drunk approaches you, places his greasy hands on your crotch. You lean into him as if you're coming home. Arms around each other, you climb the stairs to the hotel. I settle back against the wall. It's going to be a long night tonight.
I don't mind, though. I'll be waiting when you come out. I've *been* where you're falling. I'll always catch you and bring you home. And one day, you'll stay.
[Giving you away like motel matches]
END END END
that's it. what did you think?
long live the great and powerful elvis!!
hyuy
(:./hyuy/motel)
