Hey-o, and welcome to my Lil' World of Weirdness!!
I state for the record that I don't own Gundam Wing, or the wonderful characters that will be gracing this story. . . Le Nausée is a book by Jean Paul Sartre, a French existentialist, the father of modern existentialism!! I, I myself, am an Existentialist, and refuse to believe that anyone, or anything else can make my purpose!
Okay, that's the legal stuff out the way!!
//Thinking//
"Speaking"
*Stress/Emphasis*
~*~
SPECIAL NOTE: Be aware that it's actually really, really, really, really early, I started this at 2am, and finished 4am. I'm suffering from sleep deprivation, and from eating sweet custard at three am. I'm also reading one of my favourite philosophy books . . . stop with the strange stares already! I know I don't sound like a person who likes to read philosophy books but I do! Anyway, this is one that I come back to every now and then when I need an existential wake up call, the first line is adapted from the book, a scene when the main character – a selfish bastard on all accounts – is told that the woman he usually calls on for sex isn't there.
Why Gundam Wing? I don't know.
Why is everyone so out of character? I'm not entirely sure.
Why don't I follow a normal storyline? I can't tell.
Will you learn anything life changing? Depends on you.
You've come this far, why not keep going?
WARNINGS: Severe out of character-ness, probably messed up plot, and a lot of bad words. It's not meant to be funny, but it's not meant to be serious. It's not meant to be a lemon, but it's not meant to be a sweet romance. It's not meant to be anything other than what you make of it.
I present to you . . .
La Nausée et Heero
[The Nausea And Heero]
By Doctor Megalomania
I had come along for a fuck, but I had scarcely opened the door before Hilde, the waitress, called out to me: "the Patron isn't here, he has gone to collect his cousin from the spaceport!"
I felt a little disappointment. Usually Quatre was fairly reliable, but then I supposed our little 'friendship' was still so early in its founding that it was still annoying when he could not be here when I wanted him. Or rather when I wanted to release some pent up tension. As I slid into my favourite seat – just to the end of the bar, near enough the window so I might see out unobstructed, but so no one else could really see me watching them – I tipped my head to Trowa, the bartender.
He cleans the glasses silently, his dark green eyes narrowing under his strange hairstyle. He is Quatre's *other* little friend. He knows all about the friendship I share with Quatre, and doesn't approve. His heart wanted nothing but love for his little blonde Arabian lover, his deep Germanic tones no doubt whisper to the small blonde of the deep passion he holds for him, but Quatre is a shrewd man, he was brought up in Arabia, deep in the desert. Traditions of having a harem have not escaped the little Prince of the Desert. He is used to having his Big Wife and his several little concubines. Trowa is the Big Wife, I and, I think, the other regular I see here are the little concubines.
Chang Wufei is an avid reader, a short Chinese man with a wife he left in China while he looks around this new western world. Wufei is an intriguing man I think, by day he is a meek, little man, who constantly peers at books through thin ornate half moon spectacles, by night, when he has drunk himself into quite a fury, Wufei is a political activist, loud, brash, sexist, bigoted.
He and Trowa disgust me.
Even Quatre, who I come to every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday for a fuck, disgusts me.
I look around and see a world that disgusts me.
But this disgust only lasts for a few moments, a few moments where I can see nothing but the horrid little hairs that grow out of the noses of the old men in the corner. Where Hilde's voice irks me, I stare at the little hairs that grow out of the small mole that grows upon Trowa's revealed cheek. These moments disturb my stomach greatly, I feel myself begin to sway, I want to vomit with every scribble Wufei makes in his notebook.
My laptop buzzes as it comes to life and I open my latest story. I will my Nausea away, telling myself once I leap into my untainted world of writing I can be free of this imperfect world, with it's disorder and decay.
What story I choose to work on doesn't matter, I can switch between them as easily as I would switch from a blue pencil to a red. The muted chink of the coffee cup makes me look up from the blinking cursor, and I glance up to look at the silent Trowa once more. He stares at me for a long time. I stare at his mole with its little black hairs for a long time. I suppose it is handsome, Quatre certainly finds it so. Trowa is brooding, silent, his dark green eyes as very well matched to the tanned complexion of his face and his dark coffee coloured hair.
He blinks, and just as silently he moves away.
He is a little like me, I think. He thinks about the world for all of a second and then files it away somewhere. He stares at each of the costumers, and memorises them, he takes their order, and then as soon as they have left his services, he deletes them from mind.
Wufei is not like that. I stare at him as he comes to the bar to ask for another cup of coffee. Wufei refuses to forget anything, and that is what makes him such a scholar. He reads, memorises, and then crams it into his memory. Every political outrage, no matter how minor, Wufei can recall it from his mind as easily as clicking his fingers.
Of course this is part of what brings to me the Nausea, with Trowa you know once you have left his company you have ceased to exist in his mind. You are no longer important; you are just another mindless drone on the street. You could be a newborn baby, or a forgotten old man shuffling off the mortal coil for all he cared, you do not exist once you've left Trowa's company. I suppose that would be why Quatre is so desperate to keep his Big Wife so close by, he is afraid that once he leaves Trowa's company, Trowa would make him cease to exist.
Wufei on the other hand never forgets a thing, and thus gives everything such equal standing that sometimes he forgets to help his friends when he is so caught up with helping to solve the injustices of the world. That is why his wife is still in China and he is not. She is not more important than Archimedes, no more important than Henry the Eighth, she is just as important to him as Martin Luther King. She means nothing more to him than people he has never met. Does he love her? Certainly, as much as he loves Plato for questioning the reality of existence.
I roll my eyes and focus once more on the glowing screen of my laptop. It is the one thing that really doesn't bring the Nausea to me at all. During the day, during the night, if it rains, if it shines, for winter, or for summer, my laptop does not change its feelings about itself, about others. Once it turns off, it does not continue to work, casually forgetting everything it has seen that day, and yet nor does it contemplate everything that has ever happened. It is not a sweet tempered, mild mannered young prince on the surface, nor – behind this façade – is my laptop as hard as nails, emotionally in control over everything, and as shrewd with his harem as he is with his laptop.
No, my laptop is my laptop and it is controlled.
The only time it comes close to bring me the Nausea is when it is disruptive, when it ceases to perform its tasks. When it is broken, it sends my world into disharmony. I cannot escape this overcrowded world and disappear into my own perfected world of order when my laptop does not do its given purpose.
The Nausea is fear, this I know.
Fear of disorder.
Fear of disruption.
Fear of imperfection.
Everything my mentor, Doctor J, has worked into my system since I was a child has always worked around the Nausea. At first, when I was disruptive, he would bring the Nausea to me artificially. Now he is gone, now I carry on my life as I can, the Nausea comes by itself, reminding me of him and what would happen when I was wrong. Even the slightest touch of imperfection can send my stomach into unnecessary flurries of panic, my body begging to get away from this threat before the full horror of the Nausea comes upon me.
That is the Nausea.
I look up again as the door opens, and a loud laugh is barked. Glancing over the rim of my laptop's screen I see in the mirror, The Mayor, His Excellency Treize Krushrenada and his wife, the good Lady Une, and Baron Zechs Marquise and his wife, Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin enter, laughing gaily. The on running gossip of the four is mildly interesting, and they too provoke whispers of the Nausea in me. It's suggested that the Mayor and the Baron are having a homosexual affair, that Lady Une has two personalities, one moment she will be sweet tempered, another she is violently angry. There are stories about her that seem so cruel it is hard to imagine it of her. One that goes something along the lines that she shot a servant after she had pushed him out of the highest window of their mansion seems completely laughable, it would be funnier if I had not hacked into police accounts and found that a man, a servant of the Krushrenada Household was found in the hedges around the house with a bullet hole in his head.
None of this was ever reported in the news.
Wonderful what money can do.
As they take their seats and the Baron comes up to order, I return myself back to my world, forgetting how corrupt the Baron seems to smell.
The next time I am made aware that I am in the small bar is when the bell of the door rings, and the rest of the customers give a small cheer. I turn and manage a small smile, the Patron has returned.
Quatre is a small man, he has many bodyguards, almost totalling forty I believe. One that never leaves his side is a bear of a man, his name is Rashid. Quatre comes for a large family, and Rashid's family have served Quatre's family for hundreds of years. Rashid looks around the room, frowning as his eyes meet mine, but frowning deeper as he seeks out Trowa. The two do not get along at all. Trowa once tried to kill Quatre, for reasons I don't know, but I believe it came down to a matter of a duel and a large amount of pride. Rashid moves on, knowing that he cannot change the relationships that Quatre indulges in.
Quatre beams happily as he walks into his bar, and looks around inquiring how everyone is. His type of thinking is a sickening mixture of Trowa and Wufei's. He can remember a lot of things, but the importance he places on them is the bare minimum. Like Wufei, he can recall something, like the problems one of his customers was having trying to find a cheese, and then ask that customer if he had any luck, but whether or not they did or didn't he really doesn't actually care. Like Trowa, the only people Quatre can bring himself to care for, care enough to remember their existence and actually care if they succeed in something or not, these people are only those he is closest to. These people are only those who have earned his trust and love over the years.
I suspect I am not one of them.
He beams as he nears me, and motions for his foreign cousin to follow. He walks up to me, and shakes my hand warmly, leaning forward to kiss me for a brief moment. He's taunting not only Rashid with his flirtations, but provoking Trowa. But that is how to keep Trowa close, isn't it?
Quatre is careful enough to give Trowa enough to stay with him, but also taunts him by flirting with others.
He breaks the kiss soon enough, and I taste the sweet tea he insists on drinking in his limousine.
"This. . ." he motions to Trowa as he speaks to his foreign cousin in English, ". . . is my lover, Trowa."
His cousin blinks, glancing at me uncertainly. He grins a little, "Those strange little French ways musta worked off on you!" He shifts his backs more securely on his shoulder before holding out his hand, shaking Trowa's hard, "Hi! My name's Duo Maxwell! Nice to meet you!"
I feel my lips curl with disgust at his accent, he's American. He comes to this small town with his presumptions of France, and already I feel my stomach recoil. Quatre smiles, taking this all in his stride. I see in his eyes already that he will not bed with me tonight, his mind thinks only of Trowa's smoky dark green eyes, and lanky body.
He turns to me, and introduces me as his lover, Heero Yuy. Duo blinks at this; again confused by the usage of 'lover' he shakes my hand with a broad grin, again telling me it's nice to meet me. I glare at him coldly. Quatre quickly moves on, motioning Wufei. Once more Wufei is also Quatre's lover.
Duo is thoroughly confused, as Quatre quickly moves around the end of the bar and starts to pour drinks for them both.
"How many lovers do you have?" Duo asks half jokingly, Quatre smiles. It is a wicked little smile, one a cat might give to his victim before pouncing.
"I have as many as I need." He hands Duo a tall glass of beer, and sips at his own glass of iced tea. Duo drinks his warily, and glances at Trowa, then me and finally Wufei in quick succession. "You sleep with them all?"
"Naturally." Quatre replies as if he is discussing the state of the weather. Or more like he was talking about fine wines. He glances up as Hilde begins to usher out the customers. Already it has grown very late. Soon, it is only the five of us. Duo watches Hilde as she waves goodbye.
"Do you sleep with her as well?"
Quatre's mouth quirks in one corner, his lips are pale pink, he is almost feminine in his features. "No." He replies smoothly, he raises a hand, and touches Trowa's arm as the taller man swipes the bar top clean. "I find I cannot ride a woman as well as I would a man."
Duo chokes on his beer slightly, his eyes bulging. I raise an eyebrow as the dim lights finally catch enough of his eyes to light them. In the mood lighting of this little French café, I finally see that Duo has violet eyes, how peculiar.
"Perhaps these strange ways of the French are rubbing off on me as you say . . ." Quatre smirks slightly, "I don't remember being quite so blunt before I came here." He glances at Wufei as the young man begins to collect his books. Like I have, Wufei has seen that Quatre has yearnings only for Trowa tonight.
"Leaving so soon, Wufei?" Quatre calls over, and I turn to see the man nod his head. I see the luminance of his mobile phone fade, and know that Wufei is going to sate his cravings in the arms of another man. Perhaps the Baron and the Mayor will welcome him.
"Ah, more the pity, come back tomorrow!" Quatre bids him goodbye, and locks the door after the Chinese man leaves. Quatre presses his back against the door, and stares at the three remaining people in his bar. Trowa removes his apron, and walks around the bar. He is clearly intending to remind Quatre that he is here. A lavish glint appears in Quatre's eyes as he smirks ever so innocently, "I fear Heero, that I will not be able to entertain you tonight." He glances at Trowa, "I've other more pressing plans. However . . ."
He motions his cousin.
"Perhaps you could enjoy my cousin as my proxy."
As we go up the stairs to the guest room, Duo is very quiet. I am also so quiet, but only because the Nausea is upon me. To bed this American? I have spent all of two hours in his company, and already I can tell he is the complete opposite to me. I can tell by the way he smiles all so easily that his thoughts are as deep as a puddle. As he shyly takes my hand in the darkness and leads me to the bed, I know instantly why he has escaped from America to France, why he has moved to be here with his cousin. In America, his pimps would give him nothing, would be careful to inflict pain without bruises or scars. Here in France, with Quatre as his pimp, he would be given a good bed, plenty of food, and he would be given only to the best customers Quatre could arrange.
Our first time together is unremarkable; he is a slight difference from Quatre. He is more submissive, quieter; his long hair proves to be an item of mild interest. He doesn't come, but I do. I wouldn't have expected it since he was so tired afterwards that he fell straight to sleep with my soft dick slipping from his body.
The Nausea came to me hard as I stared down at his features, it as striking how the moonlight caught half his face, his eyelashes – far too long for a normal man – fluttered against his rosy cheeks. I felt sick as I stared at his soft features. I had to get up and leave him before he awoke, I left some francs on the pillow, and left.
The second time we were together was better, he was more comfortable with France, with the people he had to serve and he was more passionate. He pleasured himself until he came, and I followed, triggered by the expression he had on his face. He stayed awake as I lit a cigarette and smoked, pulling out my laptop and making some new notes to the story I had thought of as we had been fucking. He lay stretched out on the bed like a cat, his long hair was slightly dishevelled and his violet eyes were warmed, staring at me like he'd not gotten enough.
"Must you work so hard?" He asked in Americanised French, it made me swallow bile.
"Yes." I reply, not really interested in him at all as he pulls himself off the bed and slinks to my side. He stares at the text of my latest story, "Are you Chinese? Is that Korean?"
I glare at him for his ignorance, "I'm Japanese."
"Oh . . ." he says, he is very much like Quatre, he only asks because it is polite, not because he actually cares for me. He pulls my cigarette from my mouth and smokes on it, wrapping plump red lips around the end and sucking lightly. He knows I am watching him.
The third, the fourth, the fifth . . . the next times we are together my tolerance of him increases. His accent changes, and you could almost say he was born a French man, he learns what pleases me most, and what doesn't. He moves more sensuously in bed, and I find I'd rather stay in bed with him than turn to my computer.
The sixth time we are together it is in my own bed.
Quatre has never been here. In fact no one has ever been in this bed since my wife died. Duo stares at her picture as we lie together, as I light my cigarette and pull my laptop into my lap. He frowns slightly, looking up at me, "Who is she?" He asks, pointing at my late wife's picture with a long finger. He has exceedingly long fingers; they are slim, and extremely nice when he is jerking me off.
I glance at him, "Relena, she was my wife."
"Did she die?"
"Yes."
He glances at her, "She died asleep, didn't she?"
I blink, "Yes. How did you know?"
He shrugs a milky shoulder as he sits up in bed, pulls my cigarette from my mouth and picks up the picture. "I just can tell." He puffs on the cigarette, "She died the most beautiful way to die."
Again, in the same space of two minutes he surprises me.
"What do you mean?"
"Drink deeply from the River before Hades, to go to the arms of Morpheus and sleep the eternal sleep." He smiles, "Yes, it is the most beautiful way to die . . . there is no grimace, no make up needed when they lay you in the coffin . . . you may have an open casket, so when people come to see you they can say, 'Aye . . . there is a handsome corpse'."
I stare at him as he puts her picture back on to the desktop. For the first time, as I watch him stub out the fag, lie down and nap in my bed, I realise I do not feel anything of the Nausea. Instead I wonder if perhaps I have too had presumptions.
The seventh time I slept in his arms, listening to his heartbeat and marvelling in the fact that I had found someone who did not provoke the Nausea in me. When we fucked I made sure that his pleasure came first, and it brought on my own to see him pant and moan my name. As we rested later, he pulled the cigarette from my lips, and I felt warmth spread in my heart as I watched him smoke it. I took him again when he stubbed it out.
Soon, I took another forbidden step.
I showed him my stories; I printed them and gave them to him to read. He stayed over night now at my home for our encounters, often with him having dinner, and then we fucked before going to bed, then again in the morning where I would give him breakfast, and pay him. He would read my stories curled up in my armchair, and then if he liked them he would suck my dick, if he thought he could help to improve them he would do me with his hands as he talked.
It was a comfortable arrangement, one we both grew into.
I rarely had Quatre entertain me anymore, and I found more and more of Duo's things turning up in my home. When I went to the café, Hilde would tell me first where Duo was then what his mood was.
Trowa stopped glaring at me so, and Rashid actually nodded to me when we met. It wasn't until one night I realised how close Duo and I were, how much he had done to make my Nausea go away until one night the Nausea came back.
Duo was talking with his cousin about moving the last of his things into my home, and I was sat at the bar in my usual place. I was tapping away at my laptop, when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder and turned me away from my fantasy world. I stared into the unpleasant features of Tsubarov, the local chess set maker. He was well renown for his intricate pieces, but the man stank, he drank too much and smoked too much tobacco. His teeth were yellow with age, and his face was disgustingly wrinkled. Small hairs waved from his nose at the small hairs growing from his pimples. The Nausea struck me hard, and I felt I would vomit the delicate lunch Duo had made for me.
"How much?"
I stared at him, unable to take my mind off the sickness the man caused in my stomach. He frowned and wheezed deeply, "I said how much?"
"For what?" I asked, my lips curling. Behind me, I felt Trowa's dark green eyes turn toward up and the tall bartender move closer to my assistance. Tsubarov, drunken to the point his eyes were bloodshot, snorted, "For a pretty trick. The Patron says that Maxwell is no longer his concern, that if anyone wishes to partake of him should ask you . . ."
He stumbles over his words, his Russian accent making his French seem unintelligible. I find myself holding my breath, this man reeks. How I long for Duo's arms!
"Duo is not serving anyone anymore." I hiss at him, disgusted that this thing once had contact with my lover. I look around, the Nausea strikes me as I see other men and women look up at this statement, how many of them has Duo had to submitted for? I push the heavy man away, and look around for Duo. I want to take him away from this place, before the Nausea spreads to him too.
My vision fades in and out, my stomach rolls too much. I feel myself stumble as the Nausea punches me too hard. I hear shouts, but what I hear clearest is my name from Duo's voice.
I awaken to Duo's voice humming softly.
My vision clears, and I find myself in Duo's room above the café. It is morning, and the sunlight streams in through the window. Duo is dressed simply in a black vest and dark slacks. He helps me to sit up. His hands are soft, completely different from the chess set maker. He smiles, his breath is fresh, his eyes are bright. His very being banishes the lingering traces of the Nausea.
"I heard that I am to give up my job." He says simply, lighting a cigarette. He smokes on it for a few moments, "Quatre has offered to let me work in the bar, as a waiter."
I nod, "Good." I pull the cigarette from his lips and stub it out; I don't want his teeth to turn yellow. "You shall give up smoking."
He smiles as he clambers onto the bed, "I suppose so . . . but what shall I do with all the left over energy it leaves me? I've waited tables before, it's not so exhausting for me."
I smile, my first real smile since waking up and finding my beautiful wife dead, and reach out to hold the only person I've ever met who I can bear to touch. Duo presses his lips against mine, and we make love in the warm sunlight.
His soft moans banishing the Nausea from my soul forever.
----------------
And Now It's Time To LEAVE IT TO DOCTOR MEGALOMANIA!!!
DrM: [eye twitch] what the . . .?
Wing: What in the hell was that all about?!
DrM: [scratches head] I'm not entirely sure.
Wing: Then why the hell did you write it?!
DrM: [shrugs] I dunno.
Wing: okay, let's take it from the top . . . what were you doing before you started this?
DrM: I was reading one of my favourite philosophy books . . . Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre . . . when the first line of this story kinda leapt of the page and slapped Brian. . .
Brian: [really deep voice] Hi.
DrM: [shrugs] and well, you know Brian, he just can't resist it when ideas jump him . . . so I started writing this . . . even though it's four AM . . . I know I'm on holiday but FOUR AM?!
Wing: DrM. . . You need therapy.
DrM: I need sleep, that's what I need! This is the product of sleep deprivation. And if it wasn't so weird I wouldn't post it, but the fact it's FOUR AM is just one reason for it's posting. [Walks off, muttering] I can't help what I write, something just demand to be written, I could be dreaming of Yaoi but no . . . I'm up writing weird stuff like this . . . hell, I don't even know what time this thing is set in!
Brian: [really deep voice] Please R&R, thank you.