Disclaimer: Nope. Not mine. But you probably already knew that.
PG-13 for language and adult situations.
Excuses…er, I mean, Author's Notes at the end.
LOVE
She was only seventeen years old.
Of course, she thought she knew everything.
She sat at the bar, lilac hair long and attractively arranged, angles covering her right eye in what appeared to be a nod to current fashion trends. It wasn't her real reason, of course, but she let people think what they wanted. She smiled slyly at the barman, leaning forward and letting him catch a glance down her shirt. She had purposely gone bra-less this evening.
"Can't a girl get a drink around here?"
He grinned in reply. Of course she could.
"Scotch. Straight up."
She had never had a scotch before in her life but she liked the way it rolled off her tongue. It sounded very sophisticated and she so desperately wanted to be sophisticated. Like any real adult. It was the whole damn reason she came to the city in the first place. Here, she could be anyone she wanted, create any sort of image that she desired. And perhaps she could prove that she was more than just some freak little girl with eyes that didn't match.
A glass was placed in front of her and she accepted the drink with another grin and a shy giggle. She drank from the scotch and almost immediately choked on the bitter liquid. A glance from the barman straightened her up, lips curled even as her stomach rebelled against the alcohol.
Damned if she was going to let a bad drink get the better of her, though. She'd finish the entire fucking thing even if it killed her.
The first tentative notes of music began as she slowly – slowly, slowly – fought her way through the scotch. A brief warm-up, tuning, then a stop as men discussed what was to be played. And then…
Oh, and then…
It was beautiful. Low, mournful jazz, slow and melodious, it washed over her, sending chills down her spine. She turned, careful to keep up her veneer of icy distance but anxious to see where that incredible music came from.
The band was small, a drummer and guitarist the only accompanists. But it was the sax player that drew her attention. He was simply lovely, dark hair falling onto his pale forehead, eyes closed in a perfect face as long fingers caressed the keys of his instrument, concentration solely on and for the music.
She wondered for the first but not last time what it would be like to be touched by those fingers.
She sat enraptured by the performance, drink long forgotten and overtures by the barman ignored. The band played continuously for over an hour, the sax player leading them through song after song, never missing a beat, never dropping a note. When the set finally finished, his eyes (which it turned out, were just as gorgeous as the rest of him) fell on her and their gazes met ever so briefly.
She unconsciously licked her lips. He smirked and vanished off-stage.
She returned every night for a week to watch him. The barman had grown considerably cooler towards her as the days dragged on and it became obvious she had no intention of following through on her earlier flirting. She knew when it came time to pay her tab it would be far more difficult to wriggle out of it than she originally intended, but she didn't care. As long as she could see her sax player and imagine how it could be, nothing else mattered.
They completed another set and as they prepared to leave, she did the same. Then the voice came from behind her.
"Buy you a drink?"
She turned and, oh lord, it was him. Her knees wobbled and she felt an ache deep within her, but she would not turn into a gibbering idiot in front of him. Instead, she gave him her most dazzling smile and slid smoothly back onto her stool. And if her hand trembled slightly, so be it. "Well, it's certainly time you got around to it."
"Scotch, is it?" he asked, waving the barman over.
He knew her drink. She almost fainted. "Of course."
They talked into the early hours of the morning, speaking of nothing and everything. She told him how much she despised her hometown and of her mad dash to escape it. He confessed his love of the saxophone and his dreams of playing on the satellite one day, affecting the entire world with his music. She told him she loved to dance. He admitted, with a light blush, that he had named his sax. They whispered of fantasies and hopes, the world they dreamed of and the land they wished to escape.
And when he invited her back to his room, neither was surprised when she said yes.
She had a brief, momentary fright over her…abnormality, panicked thoughts of his reaction racing through her head. But when they arrived in his bedroom and he pulled her hair back, revealing her mismatched eyes, he smiled.
"Interesting."
He kissed her then and she had no more time for thinking.
When he thrust inside her for the first time, she screamed, the sudden loss of her virginity both welcome and unexpectedly painful. And when she climaxed, she screamed again. This wasn't how she imagined it.
This was far, far better.
The made love twice more and finally fell beside each other, panting, sweating, fulfilled. She rose on her elbows and leaned over him, simply admiring his form, happy to stare at him for the rest of eternity. "What now?"
He smiled, hand dancing playfully down her chest, magnificent fingers fondling her breast. "We make music together."
She should have known then it would never last.
***
In the beginning, they were amazing together. They traveled with the band, playing wherever a bar or tavern would take them in, living hand to mouth. It was romantic and thrilling, lovers' giggles filling their nights, music the only thing of worth in their days. She imagined spending the rest of her life with him, watching as the success he strove for was finally given him, their rootless existence settling into direction and focus. Girlish fantasies all, but she treasured them.
And then she found him in bed with two other women.
He was a fine-looking boy and there was no limit on the amount of young women that flocked to him both in public and on stage. It was how she had originally found him, after all. But she had had no worries, confident in her place by his side, knowing that when night came, it was her bed he came to, no one else's.
So naïve.
When the shock wore off and she could speak, the girls were gone and he was apologizing, promising that it was only a momentary lapse, a mistake, and it would never happen again. Maybe she was too young to know better, or too in love to pay attention, but she accepted his excuses and took him back.
Things changed afterwards.
Subtle at first, their relationship became something else. It was no longer choice that kept them together, but convenience. They ceased making love. Oh, they still came to each other every night, demanding gratification, desperate for pleasure, but it was only sex. A good fuck. Nothing more.
The arguments began shortly after. Yelling, screaming, they never held back, often ending fights with bloody nails and broken furniture. She even threw the saxophone at him once, rage giving her strength. He stared at her, shock and horror on his face as he picked up the instrument, actually calling it by name and infuriating her further.
"You can name that thing," she hissed. "But not me."
She had to leave then because she truly feared she would kill him. In her later years that may not have stopped her, but now she was just young and confused and needed to escape before she did something unforgivable.
She returned in the night, watching as the band played, noting he had found a replacement sax. It wasn't as good as the other one. Though the notes were still beautiful, she found them hollow, false. Or perhaps that was simply her perception of the man producing them. She stared at his face, captured once again by the perfection in it, noting the expression of utter peace and satisfaction on it as he lost himself in his music.
She tried to remember the last time he had looked her that way and couldn't.
She packed her bags and left before sunrise. It was a large planet, after all, and she certainly had no intention of running into him again.
***
She ran through the deserted city streets, hand clutching her eye, pushing back tears of pain and humiliation.
That man
…How dare he do this to her? How dare he reduce her to-to this helplessness?
That man
…And how could he possibly live with all his pain and still smile like that?
No, she would not wonder that. Those thoughts led down dark, dangerous paths and she could not afford to waste time on them.
A figure stood silhouetted by the street lamps. She stopped short as she recognized him, knees buckling like they had done so many years ago when he gave her that heart-stopping smirk.
They stood staring at each other for a silent minute, he cool as ever, she older but no wiser.
"You know the price for failure," he told her.
She closed her eyes and somehow found the strength to laugh. It was funny after all, the unique comedy that ruled their lives and brought them to this moment. "The least you owe me is to do it yourself."
Then the long, magnificent fingers that had always made her tremble closed around her neck. She opened her eyes to stare at him, one more time, his face the last thing she would take with her from this world.
Dominique sighed even as her throat was crushed.
Midvalley had always loved his music more than her.
FIN
Author's notes: So, why write a story about two characters that appear onscreen together for all of five seconds? Um…well, why not? ::Shrug:: The long look seemed to have a lot of meanings and I always felt there was more to their relationship than what was shown. The idea came about a while back but I've been lazy about writing it. Got bored yesterday and finally hammered it out. Still feels a bit underwritten, but hey, that's what constructive criticism's for, right?
Additional observations while writing: Are there *any* Dominique fics out there? I mean, yeah, minor character and all, but she's cool. I like her, yes I do. Also, Midvalley? Total player. So why should Legato or Wolfwood be the only people he sleeps with?
Yes, indeed. Just call me Irena, Mistress of Unconventional Trigun Couples. I'll be over here, on my recliner, as slave boys serve me grapes and fan me with feathers (weird? Me? Surely you jest!)