Categories > Anime/Manga > Gundam Wing
Drowning, Like the Garden
This is a rewrite of "Before the Night is Over" (If anyone was unfortunate enough to read it). It's somewhat AU post war. Quatre and Trowa have a meeting is the best summary I can think of. Quatre ...
?Blocked
drowning Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or any of its characters. I also don't own the song Trowa sings which is "J'envoie Valser", Zazie does. The song "Drowning Like the Garden" is owned by the band Mephisto Walz. Now if I could make money off this... ::ponders:: I'd still be poor ^^ but anyway here's the fic.
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Notes: rossignol means nightingale. It's important to know... although it probably isn't if you don't know the story...
Drowning, Like the Garden
By Cyrelia J
It is the path of sin that compels our fate
And leaves us drowning like the garden
It is surrender that confuses us
If not existance then departing
He glanced at the expensive timepiece on his wrist and then at the large door in front of him. His long, nail bitten fingers swept trough his damp hair. He absently brushed the rainwater off of his long coat and let the droplets run down the white door. The fluorescent lights hummed above him and illuminated the door to a blinding hue. His bang shaded on eye as he fumbled with wet hands for the knob. He wiped his feet on the mat and only then remembered the passkey into the room. He fumbled through the deep, buttoned pockets of the jacket until his hands hit the smooth card. His thumb circled the braille on one side and he bit his lip.
The wind blew and a few more raindrops battered against his back. He felt bile rising up in his throat and the biting smell of the gases in the air wasn't helping. The rainwater on the back of his neck felt cool and clean. He coughed a few times. Home never smelled so toxic. He'd spent too many years on L4 before his return home. The industrialization of his native colony had given the air of most cities a distinctive smell. It also damaged his throat. The acid rain on earth he'd read, wasn't nearly so toxic after minimal exposure. Something about the smelting of the ore in combination with the Gundanium; which by itself wasn't toxic. He licked his lips recalling the report issued by the Clean Air Authority of L3 which stated many of the inhabitants of the factory sector suffered from severe lung infections and a few who escaped those maladies; the few "lucky" ones had only developed infections in their throats and often required radical surgery. The largest manufacturer of the culprit; New Gundanium Alloy of course had bought most of the votes needed to deny regulative legislation. Not like it was needed. The legislative process on L3 was notoriously slow and muddled. But hell, wasn't it easier to control the migrant workers when they literally had no voices.
He sighed and fingered the bandages around his throat. They'd only released him early by request. Not his of course-
"Ah... there you are." The door swung inwards and Trowa looked down slightly at the blonde young man. He blinked a few times and stood still before being pulled inside. He stumbled on the carpet and leaned back against the wall as his benefactor quickly shut the door. He heard the soft hum in the corner of the expensive air purifier running and scanned the room. It was identical to every other room they'd met in. And those in turn were identical to Trowa's own bedroom in the trailer he'd had during the war. He slowly pushed off from the wall and gave a brief inspection. He didn't doubt everything was in place from the dusty mirror to the bloodstain Heero Yuy had left on the carpet. He didn't doubt it was Heero's blood. He flinched at Quatre's hot breath on the back of his neck. Had the other's arms not encircled him he might have moved away. "Say something/ mon rossignol./"
It is the anceint soul that crouches low
That through the day can never find us
In our stealing glances we appear
Leaving reflections just behind us
The tall figure stiffened and his rough hands ran back and forth over the bandages. He pulled away and crossed the short distance to the mirror. He penned an elegant scrawl across the filthy surface, the pressure of his finger making the glass squeak. "I'm not French."
Something glittered for an instant in Quatre's eyes and he calmly reached a hand into his white coat pocket. A crisp bill was placed on the dresser. "Tonight..."
"Oui//," the finger wrote. Trowa didn't look at him. He wasn't sure how the game was being played tonight. Quatre's gloved fingers began unbuttoning the long row of clasps running down the front of his coat. He didn't look at Trowa. "Le soir, tu est mon rossignol." This time Trowa's uneven nails fingered the bandages painfully. He didn't want to sing. He didn't want to speak. When he breathed, the fine metal chords hummed softly in his throat. Quatre's blond head tilted to the side as he regarded the slightly shredded cloth that the other was working loose. He neatly folded his coat and laid it on a chair before walking over and allowing his gloved fingers to touch the rough strips. The blonde's blue eyes didn't look up to meet the other's. He'd soon grown tired of the brilliantly glimmering jewels. The manufactured eyes he called beautiful emeralds were no longer enough to hold his attention. Trowa didn't watch the cloth unravel. he simply shivered at the cold air on his neck. The smooth glove ghosted over the precise location of his adams apple and polished the smooth red stone. /"Ce bijou est meilleur qu'un collier."/
Trowa didn't say anything. He simply waited for the other to finish his inspection. Quatre's warm lips touched the adornment and Trowa went cold. He thought of Heero's mentor J and of the old man's prosthetic limb. He thought of Doktor S and his fanatical admiration of Tycho Brahe. He'd seen the failed tribute once when the man uncovered his face. He thought a moment of King Midas and his golden touch and wondered perhaps were Quatre's hands to touch his skin he might turn into the perfect golden statue. But... "Les staues ne chantent pas..." he whispered to himself. He didn't want to speak loudly. He didn't want to hear the faint after chime in his ears. Quatre watched the jewel pulsate without listening. He asked, halfheartedly if the other had said anything but didn't pursue a reply. His blue eyes reflected the redness of the jewel and a thousand crimson micro images played across the seemingly flawless surface of an angel surrounded by the fires of hell. He retreated, breathless and clutched at his heart instinctively. He blinked a few times and licked his lips before returning to the folded white garment on the worn chair. He rummaged through the pockets and hurriedly slammed down several more crisp bills. Trowa cracked a smiled and sang softly. "J'en vois des qui se donnent, donnent des bijoux dans le cou..."
Quatre faced him, pale skin flushed with anticipation as his gloved hands started unbuttoning the long coat Trowa wore. The singing brunette stared at the familiar patterns on the old walls and kept his arms dangling limply at their sides while the damp garment slid off. "Mon beau pierrot..." The cool, silky gloves slid down over his naked skin. Trowa made a study of the ceiling. "C'est/ beau mais quand mÂme ce n'sont que des cailloux.../" The slight cracks in the paint ran together from the long staring. He didn't need to blink. Sometimes he liked to sit in his real room and watch the walls, meticulously counting off a perfectly timed string of 'open' and 'shut'; just because he could. As Quatre's hands touched his chest he shivered involuntarily. When his mouth ghosted over a peaked nipple, there was a slight tremor in the song. The honeyed tongue of his blonde benefactor teased and his white teeth tormented. Trowa had to remind himself to breathe as he had to remember to blink./ Inhale and then exhale and somewhere in between remember to be a perfect songbird; remember to be the mechanical nightingale with the perfectly measured waltz and the eternal gears. For what is the good of nature if it cannot be made into something flawless and unattainable by pithy animals. What is the use in a weak creature who grows old and loses beauty and dies. Why do gods like us exist if not to transcend humanity.Quatre/ had told him once what his was like to feel quicksilver running through his blood and to taste immortality. To feel every single heightened emotion beyond human capacity and to feel a weak human heart struggle to keep up. 'When we lose our human hearts,' he said 'we can be gods. Zero showed me I am...'
Trowa felt one hand shift, and tighten painfully on his wrist in warning. before the hand struck his face. "Vous/ mourrez parce que je suis un dieu!"/ He fell down and let every independent thought run out of his body and stared off into space. He always dreamed of being with Quatre and what it might be like to truly die someday. After the sulfur oxide ruined his true eyes and Quatre gave him sight, he wondered if he might not be able to fully obey such a command. As he was lifted up and thrown on the bed he wondered what it would be like to be able to kiss his own cold, dead lips. His cock hardened painfully when he thought of the last final erection of a beautiful hanging. He longed to pull those elegant hands away from his parted thighs and bring them to his throat to give him the most glorious erection he'd ever experienced. His eyes, playing dead to the heavens, had a million beautiful deaths flickering beneath their glassy surfaces as Quatre entered him. His limp form jostled and absently twitched with every motion while he held his breath and he prayed that should the poison of the air burn away his lungs that he be rebuilt from the inside never needing to breath again with lungs as cold and expertly crafted as Quatre's eternal heart.
Up and down, the small bed creaked and Quatre, pale and sweating looked into Trowa's ecstatic and empty eyes with every thrust and was God. The 'dead' form beneath him didn't shudder or stir, but every desperate internal clutch and spasm sent a long string of unspoken bliss to his killer until the blonde felt his metal heart skip so desperately he thought it might give and Trowa felt the heat inside like an unbearable rebirth which called to him to answer in kind. He eyes closed prematurely. "Je/ suis d´sol´/," he whispered to the darkness of his eyelids. He didn't move until he felt half the weight leave the bed. "How many?" Quatre asked to no one in particular. He didn't look at Trowa when the other sat up and went for his coat. Trowa didn't say anything. "How many 'yous' do I have to destroy?..." He looked up at Trowa and into those sparkling dead eyes. The other retrieved the money from the table and filed it away for Catherine's rent. He rebuttoned his coat without looking up. How could one answer a question by God; if God did not know." He licked his lips and knelt before Quatre who sat on the chair and on top of his white coat wrinkling it. He leaned forward and licked the other's lips, They were sweeter than death. His tongue carelessly caressed across Quatre's face and his lips brushed the ear that titched insistently. "Until you kill the real me."
The tender hallowed ground still holds us
And whispers silence to our ears
These frightened winds have always blown us
Now only glisten holds us here
Translations
/"Le soir, tu est mon rossignol." /ÒTonight you are my nightingaleÓ
"Ce bijou est meilleur qu'un collier."/ /ÒThe jewel is better than the collarÓ
/"Les staues ne chantent pas..." /ÒStaues donÕt singÓ
/"Mon beau pierrot..." /ÒMy beautiful clownÓ
*IÕve never found a translation for ZazieÕs music and this was the best babelfish could do
/"J'en vois des qui se donnent, donnent des bijoux dans le cou..." /ÒI see some which is given, give jewels in the neckÓ
"C'est/ beau mais quand mÂme ce n'sont que des cailloux..." /Ã’It is beautiful but nevertheless they are only stonesÓ
"Vous/ mourrez parce que je suis un dieu!" /ÒYou will die because I am your godÓ
"Je/ suis d´sol´/," ÒIÕm sorryÓ
-------
Notes: rossignol means nightingale. It's important to know... although it probably isn't if you don't know the story...
Drowning, Like the Garden
By Cyrelia J
It is the path of sin that compels our fate
And leaves us drowning like the garden
It is surrender that confuses us
If not existance then departing
He glanced at the expensive timepiece on his wrist and then at the large door in front of him. His long, nail bitten fingers swept trough his damp hair. He absently brushed the rainwater off of his long coat and let the droplets run down the white door. The fluorescent lights hummed above him and illuminated the door to a blinding hue. His bang shaded on eye as he fumbled with wet hands for the knob. He wiped his feet on the mat and only then remembered the passkey into the room. He fumbled through the deep, buttoned pockets of the jacket until his hands hit the smooth card. His thumb circled the braille on one side and he bit his lip.
The wind blew and a few more raindrops battered against his back. He felt bile rising up in his throat and the biting smell of the gases in the air wasn't helping. The rainwater on the back of his neck felt cool and clean. He coughed a few times. Home never smelled so toxic. He'd spent too many years on L4 before his return home. The industrialization of his native colony had given the air of most cities a distinctive smell. It also damaged his throat. The acid rain on earth he'd read, wasn't nearly so toxic after minimal exposure. Something about the smelting of the ore in combination with the Gundanium; which by itself wasn't toxic. He licked his lips recalling the report issued by the Clean Air Authority of L3 which stated many of the inhabitants of the factory sector suffered from severe lung infections and a few who escaped those maladies; the few "lucky" ones had only developed infections in their throats and often required radical surgery. The largest manufacturer of the culprit; New Gundanium Alloy of course had bought most of the votes needed to deny regulative legislation. Not like it was needed. The legislative process on L3 was notoriously slow and muddled. But hell, wasn't it easier to control the migrant workers when they literally had no voices.
He sighed and fingered the bandages around his throat. They'd only released him early by request. Not his of course-
"Ah... there you are." The door swung inwards and Trowa looked down slightly at the blonde young man. He blinked a few times and stood still before being pulled inside. He stumbled on the carpet and leaned back against the wall as his benefactor quickly shut the door. He heard the soft hum in the corner of the expensive air purifier running and scanned the room. It was identical to every other room they'd met in. And those in turn were identical to Trowa's own bedroom in the trailer he'd had during the war. He slowly pushed off from the wall and gave a brief inspection. He didn't doubt everything was in place from the dusty mirror to the bloodstain Heero Yuy had left on the carpet. He didn't doubt it was Heero's blood. He flinched at Quatre's hot breath on the back of his neck. Had the other's arms not encircled him he might have moved away. "Say something/ mon rossignol./"
It is the anceint soul that crouches low
That through the day can never find us
In our stealing glances we appear
Leaving reflections just behind us
The tall figure stiffened and his rough hands ran back and forth over the bandages. He pulled away and crossed the short distance to the mirror. He penned an elegant scrawl across the filthy surface, the pressure of his finger making the glass squeak. "I'm not French."
Something glittered for an instant in Quatre's eyes and he calmly reached a hand into his white coat pocket. A crisp bill was placed on the dresser. "Tonight..."
"Oui//," the finger wrote. Trowa didn't look at him. He wasn't sure how the game was being played tonight. Quatre's gloved fingers began unbuttoning the long row of clasps running down the front of his coat. He didn't look at Trowa. "Le soir, tu est mon rossignol." This time Trowa's uneven nails fingered the bandages painfully. He didn't want to sing. He didn't want to speak. When he breathed, the fine metal chords hummed softly in his throat. Quatre's blond head tilted to the side as he regarded the slightly shredded cloth that the other was working loose. He neatly folded his coat and laid it on a chair before walking over and allowing his gloved fingers to touch the rough strips. The blonde's blue eyes didn't look up to meet the other's. He'd soon grown tired of the brilliantly glimmering jewels. The manufactured eyes he called beautiful emeralds were no longer enough to hold his attention. Trowa didn't watch the cloth unravel. he simply shivered at the cold air on his neck. The smooth glove ghosted over the precise location of his adams apple and polished the smooth red stone. /"Ce bijou est meilleur qu'un collier."/
Trowa didn't say anything. He simply waited for the other to finish his inspection. Quatre's warm lips touched the adornment and Trowa went cold. He thought of Heero's mentor J and of the old man's prosthetic limb. He thought of Doktor S and his fanatical admiration of Tycho Brahe. He'd seen the failed tribute once when the man uncovered his face. He thought a moment of King Midas and his golden touch and wondered perhaps were Quatre's hands to touch his skin he might turn into the perfect golden statue. But... "Les staues ne chantent pas..." he whispered to himself. He didn't want to speak loudly. He didn't want to hear the faint after chime in his ears. Quatre watched the jewel pulsate without listening. He asked, halfheartedly if the other had said anything but didn't pursue a reply. His blue eyes reflected the redness of the jewel and a thousand crimson micro images played across the seemingly flawless surface of an angel surrounded by the fires of hell. He retreated, breathless and clutched at his heart instinctively. He blinked a few times and licked his lips before returning to the folded white garment on the worn chair. He rummaged through the pockets and hurriedly slammed down several more crisp bills. Trowa cracked a smiled and sang softly. "J'en vois des qui se donnent, donnent des bijoux dans le cou..."
Quatre faced him, pale skin flushed with anticipation as his gloved hands started unbuttoning the long coat Trowa wore. The singing brunette stared at the familiar patterns on the old walls and kept his arms dangling limply at their sides while the damp garment slid off. "Mon beau pierrot..." The cool, silky gloves slid down over his naked skin. Trowa made a study of the ceiling. "C'est/ beau mais quand mÂme ce n'sont que des cailloux.../" The slight cracks in the paint ran together from the long staring. He didn't need to blink. Sometimes he liked to sit in his real room and watch the walls, meticulously counting off a perfectly timed string of 'open' and 'shut'; just because he could. As Quatre's hands touched his chest he shivered involuntarily. When his mouth ghosted over a peaked nipple, there was a slight tremor in the song. The honeyed tongue of his blonde benefactor teased and his white teeth tormented. Trowa had to remind himself to breathe as he had to remember to blink./ Inhale and then exhale and somewhere in between remember to be a perfect songbird; remember to be the mechanical nightingale with the perfectly measured waltz and the eternal gears. For what is the good of nature if it cannot be made into something flawless and unattainable by pithy animals. What is the use in a weak creature who grows old and loses beauty and dies. Why do gods like us exist if not to transcend humanity.Quatre/ had told him once what his was like to feel quicksilver running through his blood and to taste immortality. To feel every single heightened emotion beyond human capacity and to feel a weak human heart struggle to keep up. 'When we lose our human hearts,' he said 'we can be gods. Zero showed me I am...'
Trowa felt one hand shift, and tighten painfully on his wrist in warning. before the hand struck his face. "Vous/ mourrez parce que je suis un dieu!"/ He fell down and let every independent thought run out of his body and stared off into space. He always dreamed of being with Quatre and what it might be like to truly die someday. After the sulfur oxide ruined his true eyes and Quatre gave him sight, he wondered if he might not be able to fully obey such a command. As he was lifted up and thrown on the bed he wondered what it would be like to be able to kiss his own cold, dead lips. His cock hardened painfully when he thought of the last final erection of a beautiful hanging. He longed to pull those elegant hands away from his parted thighs and bring them to his throat to give him the most glorious erection he'd ever experienced. His eyes, playing dead to the heavens, had a million beautiful deaths flickering beneath their glassy surfaces as Quatre entered him. His limp form jostled and absently twitched with every motion while he held his breath and he prayed that should the poison of the air burn away his lungs that he be rebuilt from the inside never needing to breath again with lungs as cold and expertly crafted as Quatre's eternal heart.
Up and down, the small bed creaked and Quatre, pale and sweating looked into Trowa's ecstatic and empty eyes with every thrust and was God. The 'dead' form beneath him didn't shudder or stir, but every desperate internal clutch and spasm sent a long string of unspoken bliss to his killer until the blonde felt his metal heart skip so desperately he thought it might give and Trowa felt the heat inside like an unbearable rebirth which called to him to answer in kind. He eyes closed prematurely. "Je/ suis d´sol´/," he whispered to the darkness of his eyelids. He didn't move until he felt half the weight leave the bed. "How many?" Quatre asked to no one in particular. He didn't look at Trowa when the other sat up and went for his coat. Trowa didn't say anything. "How many 'yous' do I have to destroy?..." He looked up at Trowa and into those sparkling dead eyes. The other retrieved the money from the table and filed it away for Catherine's rent. He rebuttoned his coat without looking up. How could one answer a question by God; if God did not know." He licked his lips and knelt before Quatre who sat on the chair and on top of his white coat wrinkling it. He leaned forward and licked the other's lips, They were sweeter than death. His tongue carelessly caressed across Quatre's face and his lips brushed the ear that titched insistently. "Until you kill the real me."
The tender hallowed ground still holds us
And whispers silence to our ears
These frightened winds have always blown us
Now only glisten holds us here
Translations
/"Le soir, tu est mon rossignol." /ÒTonight you are my nightingaleÓ
"Ce bijou est meilleur qu'un collier."/ /ÒThe jewel is better than the collarÓ
/"Les staues ne chantent pas..." /ÒStaues donÕt singÓ
/"Mon beau pierrot..." /ÒMy beautiful clownÓ
*IÕve never found a translation for ZazieÕs music and this was the best babelfish could do
/"J'en vois des qui se donnent, donnent des bijoux dans le cou..." /ÒI see some which is given, give jewels in the neckÓ
"C'est/ beau mais quand mÂme ce n'sont que des cailloux..." /Ã’It is beautiful but nevertheless they are only stonesÓ
"Vous/ mourrez parce que je suis un dieu!" /ÒYou will die because I am your godÓ
"Je/ suis d´sol´/," ÒIÕm sorryÓ
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