13-Jun-2004
Title: Babel
Author: Natea
Rating: G
Pairing: 1+2+1
Warnings: Shounen ai. PoV fic!
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing.
Challenge: #25 Accents
Word Count: 1155
The area of the world he had chosen to settle in was rich in dialects, it wasn't accidental that I found him living in a port city... easier to blend in when people around you don't all sound the same, and the hustle and bustle of the town itself leant well to anonymity.
He made a home for himself in the midst of that... his own personal island within an island. A place to belong. I wanted that too, a home. Perhaps it was that, which made me read the hidden meanings in his emails... I showed up at his house a week later, rucksack of belongings over my shoulder, a wallet filled with newly acquired currency, and hands tightly fisted and hidden in my pockets.
He didn't say a word, just smiled and stepped to one side to let me in.
A few days of casual exploration and he had mapped out for me the different tones and variants within variants of our new home. The dialect in the centre was harsh and gutteral, strong Germanic backgrounds creating a 'low in the throat' manner of speaking that was entertaining but harsh on the ears.
Further out, in almost concentric circles like a target, the accent calmed, became less severe... softer. You could hear the Irish in it then, Northern Ireland mainly... a rumbling burr rather than the more lilting version of Eire. From that it was a short auditory trip to hints of American or even Australasia.
Strange really that this small port on the west coast of England could have similarities as far away as the other side of the world and yet sound so completely foreign to the next city, thirty five miles inland as the crow flies.
He had settled on one of the outskirts, a suburb on the far reach of the target. Hoping to blend in a little more there rather than try the harsher tones of the city centre.
But even so, we were still discovered.
Our own accents gave us away.
They added colour to our voices, branding them, stamping them... stamping us... 'I am strange, I am unusual, I am not from around here.'
I still find it incredible that he didn't realise he had one... but then, maybe he didn't at first.
It was only recently that his attention was actually brought to the fact; we were shopping and the young starry eyed cashier couldn't keep her eyes off him. I watched on in amusement as she flirted while ringing in the bottle of wine and microwave meal for two. She asked him a question, he answered in a few words.
But that was all it took for her to place him as a foreigner.
She was excited... never having left the city herself... a virgin when it came to travel as she joked. She asked questions about his home, was curious as to what part of L2 he was from.
He froze, tight-lipped, frowning, defences closing down... the conversation died soon after.
He was very quiet for the rest of the evening, I was concerned at first but it was more a contemplative silence than anything else, I knew he would ask when he was ready and he did... while the microwave was heating our meal, the wine was on ice, and the newscaster on the radio station was reading the local news in a local accent... for local people.
And he asked.
So I told him.
I've noticed it for a while now; a slight grit to his words, something a little more than a twang and a little less than a lilt... settled comfortably, perfectly, in the middle. It was barely audible normally but it broadened whenever he became impassioned, bubbling up and spilling over to cover his voice with cadence.
I like it.
For my own selfish reasons I like it.
I watched his eyes as I explained about the inflection in his voice that he was displaying. A mark of who and what he was... not unlike a brand. When I was done he looked almost horrified. The silence fell again, thoughtful, and after the meal and the wine, when the newscaster was finally done and they were playing golden oldies once more, he went to bed.
I left him alone for a while to come to terms with it.
Before I settled down for the night a few hours later I stopped off in the doorway to his room, leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, and waited.
He didn't take long to realise I was there... whether he had been asleep or merely dozing I don't know but soon enough he had turned over to face the light from the hall and I could see his eyes, bright reflections in the dark.
I was curious about his reaction and I told him this... interested to know more about him, how he worked, what his mind hailed as important, sentimental... what he held close to his heart.
Obviously the accent meant something.
It was a form of identification, he informed me quietly. A way for a stranger to pick you out of a line up of people, of narrowing the search boundaries and closing in the net. Something that could link you to a physical place and time... and people. He had worked hard all his life to remove that marker... it had come as a blow to him to realise that he hadn't been successful.
Mission failed.
Failed in a way he hadn't expected obviously... perhaps his failure was from being too successful.
No man is an island, I told him in return. We pick things up from each other, whether we've been to the locales or not. Information, language, accent... everything is linked.
It's not merely identification... it's an outlet for identity itself.
He sat up to continue the conversation, the burr in his voice more noticeable. It made me feel warm to hear those familiar lilts, the blurring at the edges of his previously monotonous, neutral, sharply outlined words.
Lying in my own bed later that night I thought back to him and his reaction. I wondered about his newly discovered accent, how it smoothed out his perfect diction... Eliza Doolittle teaching Professor Higgins a thing or two about real life.
Whether he knew it or not, he was confident enough now to start showing his links to the world instead of keeping them all locked away inside.
I was honoured that he would display his connection to me in such a physical way.
Who knows, maybe one day he'll allow me to see how deep I've ingrained in him. If he'll let me push him past the words, past the dialects and tones... to find the true Heero Yuy.
And show him myself.
The End
(:./natea/babel)
