04-Oct-2003
Title: Fistful Of Flowers
Author: Elemental
Note: This is an... odd one, for me anyways. I've been dying to write more Identity and Abhorsen for weeks now, but RL has pretty much swallowed me hole and doesn't look like it plans on letting go any time soon. This all started from the ONE line "A fistful of cash." I just thought of what a fistful, as opposed to a fist, full of flowers, would look like, and ended up writing this on the fly... Hope you like it.
Pairings: YOU CHOOSE. This thing is really open, and it's intended that way. It could be Duo x Heero, Quatre x Wufei, Trowa x Duo, etc etc etc. Heck, if you take out the Preventor bit, you could include Relena and maybe Dorothy into the equation. So it's all your call. :D
Rating: About as G as you can get folks. :D
Genre: Drama and a lil' bit of angst? It's all character introspective.
Archive: GW Addiction
Notes: *italics*
Feedback: I DO want feedback on this! And I'd love to see who you picture here. It'd be interesting if there's more than one or two ideas.
Why am I even here?
I shouldn't be. Here, your doorstep. Waiting. Caught between ringing the doorbell and walking away.
Ok, running away.
I don't know why I came. It took forever to make up my mind. That's unusual of me. Normally, once I have the information, I act. Make a plan and follow through. I hate to waste time. I never procrastinate. During the war, hesitation got you killed. Obviously, I'm still alive.
But I'm standing on your doorstep, just waiting.
I had your address for three weeks.
*Three weeks.*
Not that hard to get really. Well hidden – you've protected yourself – but not impossible: simply time consuming. I could have had it sooner. The records said you'd been living here for almost a year. I simply didn't try.
You couldn't stay in the Preventors. I didn't think you would. After Marie Maia, they wanted figureheads, not agents. You would have hated that. I did. Such a waste, after all we'd done, all we could still do. They just wanted us to smile for recruitment posters and play bodyguard.
I'm sorry now, that I left so suddenly. Without saying goodbye. Did you worry? You probably did, knowing you. But you probably kept it hidden – you hated to look weak.
Emotions aren't weakness. I know.
It's been two years. I haven't seen you in two years. Seven hundred and thirty days. Seventeen thousand, five hundred and twenty hours. One million, fifty one thousand... .
Sometimes, I wish I could turn my mind off.
I brought flowers. No roses. Simple things. I don't know their names. I should have asked. But what use are flowers to a soldier?
What use do you have for flowers? It was a pointless gesture. Pathetic. They're beginning to wilt, the fancy paper wrinkled, stems crushed in my grasp.
My strength still haunts me, among other things. I wonder what plagues your sleep, behind this cool grey door, and yet I pray that your conscience is free, even if mine is not.
What use do you have for me? I left, and you survived. There is a garden that follows the walk, and your neighbors smile. You haven't just survived, you have thrived here. You don't need me. I doubt you ever really did.
But why am I still here, clutching this fistful of flowers and staring at the plaque that bears your name? – no surname, but your identity nonetheless. What use do you have for me, to want to disrupt your life like this?
I can offer you nothing. I have even less that what I left with. I am here because I am selfish. I stay because I am tired. The war in my head between the soldier and the civilian grows weary. I feel old, far older then I am. I'm worried that if I don't find something to ground myself in, I'll disappear. A final casualty of the war.
That's why I'm here. You were constant, no matter how you tried to conceal it, during the war. You understood me, better than anyone else. Understood what I hoped to do. Understood why.
The sky is grey. I can smell the rain in the air, though it remains dry for now. I should leave before it starts and I'm soaked, again. Yet I'm still at your door, mentally counting the lines in the wood paneling around the doorframe. In the end, I haven't the strength to leave. If I could just die here, right now, I could finally rest.
I wonder if you'd recognize me.
How long have I been here, waiting, squeezing flower stems so tightly they drip water onto the pavement below like tears.
Would I have noticed that if I hadn't met you?
It seems like forever – hours, days even. Perhaps it's been minutes. Seconds. I can't say. I have learned to ignore my internal clock so well now I have nothing to use to measure.
Time passes slowly when you're alone.
This is the God's final punishment for me, I think. To have me stand here forever, unable to leave, unable to move forward, unable to do anything but think. Nothing is important to me anymore. Not my life, not this peace, not these people... only you. Or the memory of you.
The door is opening. God, the door is opening. If I turned and ran now, you wouldn't see me. I could disappear again, this time forever. I have to turn. I can't face you. I'm not strong enough. I have to go!
I can't move.
Your face is the same. A little thinner, perhaps. And already there are lines where there once was none. Your sleep has been plagued too; I can see the weariness in your eyes.
But you're alive. Taller, by a bit, but then I too have grown. You don't look thin or fragile, though you seldom did back then. Now you are muscle, powerful and wiry. Your hair still hasn't changed, though your wardrobe's improved.
Though I really can't be a judge of fashion.
Your eyes... widen, as they see me. Just for a second, I can see the disbelief, but then you smile and your face lights up. I've missed that smile, that true smile you showed so rarely. I didn't even realize I had until you reminded me it was gone.
You still stay silent. Are you worried that if you speak I will disappear? I'm worried too. Perhaps this is a fevered dream; the last workings of my mind before it shuts down as I die huddled on some street.
But I can smell you, and this is no dream.
Your eyes are so bright. The darkness is still there, the anger and sadness still visible. But this peace has done you well. I wish I could say the same.
I want to touch you, but I have no right. I want to hold you so badly I'm trembling, but I cannot move. I so desperately need something to be real. Something to ground my shattered mind.
Do you know? Can you tell in my face, in my eyes? Softly, so softly you call my name. Your hand touches my cheek, almost as a ghost. I can't help but shiver.
Suddenly you are around me, squeezing until I can hardly breathe. My head is pressed into your shoulder, and I know we are both trembling.
But why are you shaking?
Clumsily I return the embrace. It has been so very long...
You no longer smell of machine grease and gunpowder. Now you are something spicy and clean, like cut grass. I tighten my hold, and you return the act.
One of us is going to break a rib.
I don't know what to say. Don't know how to say it. I don't even know if my voice would work right now. It's been ages since I used it last. The flowers are getting even more crushed, but I don't care.
Some part of my mind wonders why I don't drop them, but my grip stays firm.
Slowly, carefully, you break away. Your eyes search mine for long, too long a time. I still cannot speak. I want to, even as I struggle to say your name.
You shake your head, and for a moment I'm worried you want me to leave, but you grasp my free hand and hold it tight, weaving your fingers with mine. Opening the door, you try to pull me inside.
I can't follow blindly. There is too much the soldier in me still for that. You must know the battle you are about to face.
But there are no words. Silently, I hold the flowers to you, and wait as you inspect them. The stems are ruined, broken and crushed in a dozen places. The leaves are beginning to wilt, the petals following suit. The paper no longer looks neat and tidy but rather wrinkled and torn. The ribbon fell off some time ago. It was orange. I remember how you said you disliked orange. Blue is your favorite colour.
You leave the flowers in my hand, eyes gentle as you tug me forward again. This time I follow. I am weak. And selfish. But I want this so badly my chest aches. I think you know, or at least understand. You've always understood.
And you've always accepted me, even now. Fistful of flowers and all.
~Owari.
"I am the Breese of Wisdom; I am the Wind of Insanity."
Feedback? Please?
*puppy eyes*
(:./elemental/fistful)
