by StarWolf
4/10/2005
Title:
Six of SevenAuthor: StarWolf (elendraug at yahoo dot com)
Fandom: Metal Gear Solid 3
Genre: Romance, I guess.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: The Fear x The Sorrow
Warnings: Canon death
Summary: Not yet a week.
Author's Notes: Title was going to be something of a Beatles reference, but I changed it. I'm probably incorrect about the invention dates of alkaline batteries.
2:00, Monday
The Sorrow's been sitting in the same chair for hours, only accompanied by torn, dusty pages poorly illuminated with a glow from dying batteries. Yawning but seemingly unaware of it, his eyes drift increasingly slowly across the lines of text; for some reason, the words seem to be getting very blurry. As he tilts his head down to check on the flashlight that's somewhat uncomfortably wedged between his sweater-clad chest and arm, his glasses almost slide off his nose. Fortunately, he's very much aware of what's going on.
When he finally wakes up, he's lying on a cot and covered with a blanket; his glasses are safely on a table within arm's reach. They must've fallen off, afterall.
It isn't until he looks at the floor that he finds a crossbow balanced carefully atop his book.
7:00, Tuesday
"I brought you some food."
The Fear had heard his footsteps long before he'd spoken; he just liked to indulge him and pretend that the other soldier had effectively snuck up him.
"What kind?"
"It's a rat, but I have some salt to go with it."
He nods and takes the proffered meal, studying it as if its very existence solidified something he'd been wondering about.
"Thank you."
12:00, Wednesday
It's been raining rather heavily lately, and the water likes to form miniature torrents that zigzag through trampled grass and pool in the footstep-shaped mud.
The Sorrow's raincoat hasn't kept his glasses from becoming fogged up and haphazardly dotted with droplets. The hood is useless; he let it fall a while ago. Soaked and relatively blind, he doesn't expect to feel lips press against the damp skin at back of his neck.
Later, he'll wonder if he'd misinterpreted the crash of a flying insect.
13:00, Thursday
"You know what I've always wondered?"
"What?"
The Fear smiles and stares into the distance.
"What it's like to be a vine growing on a very tall tree."
15:00, Friday
The Sorrow left thirteen hours previously to check for any threats in the immediate area.
He's not back yet.
18:00, Saturday
The ground has dried up; his boots stir clumps of dirt and dislodge assorted small plants when he deliberately kicks the loose soil.
The Fear shoots a poisoned arrow at the sky and waits for the sun to fall down.