White Crow
Disclaimers: Cowboy
Bebop belongs to Bandai and Sunrise. What would we do without our wonderful
animators and marketers?
Warnings: Implied
shounen-ai, Gren to Vicious.
Radishface
*
"You see that star, my child?" An old, wrinkled
hand stretched out and pointed at a star, winking furiously in the distance.
"Yes, grandfather." A little boy answered, his eyes following an imaginary dotted line from his grandfather's pointed finger to the said star. "I see it."
"Every person is represented by their guardian star." The old man said, letting his hand down and staring into the fire. "This particular star does not seem to know what to do with itself."
"I don't understand." The little boy said, chewing on his nails. "What do you mean?"
The old man didn't look up. "You see how that star blinks?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't know whether to keep shining and living or whether to disappear and fall." The old man sighed. "That's why it's blinking so. It's on the verge of deciding."
"Do you know what it's going to do, grandfather?" The child asked, staring up excitedly.
"Do not speak as if it were a game." The old man said, shooting a reprimanding look at the little boy.
The little boy was silent, still chewing on his nails, making his own decision on whether the star would continue to shine or whether it would fall.
"I think it'll shine." He said, decision made, verdict reached. "You told me life is a precious gift. Not many people would want to throw it away." He nodded, mostly to himself, pleased with himself.
"Sometimes they cannot help it." The old man said, closing his eyes. "Sometimes they will be blinking like that forever."
*
"Thanks." A dark-haired man stepped out of a grey, faded, rusted bus, staring up at a faded sign that he could barely read-- "Blue Crow." A few of the choice birds looked down from the sign, cocking the heads toward each other, as if asking who the newcomer was.
"I'm still telling you, if you wanna get lucky, there's no luck for you. There are no women in that town--"
"Thanks." He repeated.
"You don't care, you mean?" The bus driver raised an eyebrow. "Then you're gonna get--"
"Look..." The dark-haired man said, with infinite patience. "Do you know where I can... well... get a hotel room for the night?"
"No." The bus driver shook his head. "I've never stayed in this place before. All I know is that there are no women--"
"You've said that already." He laughed, hands tightening around his saxophone case. A backpack was slung over his back and a duffel bag hung over his shoulder, and he carried a portfolio-looking binder scrunched up in his hands. His coat was wound tightly around him, because after riding on the bus through the middle of nowhere for more than two hours, he realized that Jupiter was kind of cold. Colder than Titan, at any rate. There were more people at Titan. All those soldiers created a lot of body heat. That was probably why Titan was warmer than here.
There was nobody on the bus besides him, the bus driver, and some fat old snoring guy sitting way in the back who didn't look like he was going to get off anytime soon.
"Well." The bus driver stroked his unshaven chin. "There are the Orlando Blue Apartments... can't miss 'em." He shrugged. "Then again, most of the buildings are dark blue or light blue or something, courtesy of the name of the town." He pointed to the sign that they had stopped in front of. The crows perched on top it looked inquisitively back.
"Thanks." He stepped off the bus, saxophone case and backpack and duffel bag and even the portfolio all weighing his frail body down as he stumbled onto the street.
"Sorry I can't send you all the way in." The bus driver smiled apologetically. "You'll have to walk a mile or so before you get into the outskirts of town." He straightened his cap and started the engine to the bus up again. "They'll be all over this thing to get out of here. I don't even see why you wanna come here in the first place."
"I don't know myself." The dark-haired man weighed down with the weight of all three luggage items sighed to himself. "I guess it was just because I wanted to get out of Titan."
"I see." The engine rumbled, coughing and spluttering. "Well, I'll be back in two hours if you decide to change your mind." The bus driver pointed vaguely somewhere off in the distance. "I'm making a round trip back south to Ellington."
"It's okay." He shrugged. "I'll be fine here."
"What's your name, by the way?" The bus driver asked. "I never got it."
"It's Gren." The younger man nodded, and caught the bus driver looking at his saxophone case, dangling from his fingers.
"You know..." The bus driver pursed his lips as he stared at the saxophone case Gren carried in his hands. "If you wanna play that thing, you might wanna try at heart of Blue Crow. A couple correspondents told me they had a piano and a bass and maybe a drums guy playing there, but no saxophone. So you might wanna give that a try too if you need some money." The bus driver laughed. "Although everybody gets the impression that foreigners are rich."
"I'm not rich." Gren shook his head. "Far
from it, in fact. I've got no place to go."
"Mars is a nice place." The bus driver called, before shutting the bus doors. "You should go there sometime."
Too many people there. Gren thought, but smiled and waved at the bus driver, who sped off, leaving a comical trail of dust behind.
Then he turned around, and smiled up at the sign, and the birds, who were all still there, looking down at him with their dark button-eyes. Crows were black, he thought. But the skies were cloudy here and the sun barely streamed in-- only faintly. Not that he had ever seen much sun. But without the sun, the birds did look blue, in fact. Their glossy feathers gave off a sort of blue shine. Squinting his eyes, he could see a lot more of the same birds, flocking on the grounds, and circling in the air, and flying towards the city.
He ran his hands over the portfolio, as if to make sure it was still there, and then started walking, staggering into the Blue Crow.
*
Gren thought the bus driver said that there were no women on Blue Crow. But a couple of women were standing right in front of him, dressed in sleazy outfits, fishnet stockings, and they all were smoking and giggling. One was blonde, one was a redhead, and one had a scarf wound around her head. They looked social enough-- maybe he should ask, since he had been wandering around Blue Crow for some time now without a clue as to where the Orlando Blue Apartments were.
"Excuse me, ladies..." He said, a slight bit hesitantly. His hands fumbled on his saxophone case. They turned to look at him, and he blinked repeatedly, not quite comprehending. They were men, though. The stubble on their chins clearly said so. Either they were crossdressers or women with hormone problems. They waited expectantly, with almost mischievious glances on their faces. "Well... I was wondering where the Orlando Blue Apartments were..." His voice trailed off, and Gren was left even more nervous than before. They'd probably laugh at him. He was a stupid foreigner, after all.
"Honey, honey," The blonde one broke away from the crowd and started towards him. Gren instinctively stepped back, almost falling over with the weight of his luggage. "If you need a place to stay, you can come stay with us." The blonde neared him, his breath washing over over Gren like the putrid stink of the bogs on Titan. "My name's Julius." He introduced himself. "What's yours, pretty?"
"Um..." Gren managed a feeble smile. "Can you just tell me where the Orlando Blue Apartments are?"
The blonde looked pissed for a second, then stood back up with a good-natured smile on his face. "You straight?" He laughed. "Then you're not going to--"
"That's what the bus driver said too." Gren muttered under his breath, hoping the transvestites would leave him alone. "Can you tell me where the Orlando--"
"It's by 'Chez Moi,' honey." Julius nodded, taking a puff on his cigarette, and looked off to the side. The redheaded transvestite was smiling and talking to a man in a business suit, and then walked off, and Gren noticed that a card was pushed into his hand. Julius noticed Gren staring. "The customer pays beforehand, darling." Gren averted his eyes, embarrassed. Julius only smiled. "It's usually after the job is done we get the pay, but here on Blue Crow, the system is different." He blew some smoke into the air, and Gren watched as the grey tendrils vanished into the air.
"Where's this... 'Chez Moi?'" Gren asked almost warily. "It's not a--"
"'Headquarters?'" Julius chuckled. "No."
Gren's lips curled up slightly. "You're pretty open about the whole... business... aren't you?"
"No use in pretending, darling." Julius took another puff on his cigarette and then threw it down, crushing the embers under one high heel. "Sex is sex, business is business."
"I see." Gren looked away, back at the sky. It still hadn't changed-- it still was a dirty grey. But then again, why had he expected it to change?
"'Chez Moi' is a couple blocks down that way."
Julius pointed to his left. "Three blocks down. You can't miss it--
there's a big pink of neon lips that distinguish it from the rest." The
blonde-haired man looked curiously at Gren and all of his bags.
"Just came here." Gren said, shrugging his duffel bag strap back up his shoulder, which was falling off. He clutched his portfolio almost possessively. "I'm planning to stay, though."
"Really?" Julius made it sound more like a statement than a question. "You'd wanna come here on your own free will?" He smothered a laugh behind his hand. "Are you a fugitive, by any chance?"
Gren's eyes widened and he took a step back. Seems like he'd been doing a lot of that lately. "You--"
"This is a fugitive colony." Julius shrugged and pulled out another pack of cigarettes, and said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "If you're not a bounty hunter, you're welcome." Julius narrowed his eyes and considered the thought. "Well, you don't look like a bounty hunter." He pulled out a lighter and lit a cigarette, stuffing it in his mouth before offering Gren one from the box. "Want one?"
"No." Gren shook his head. "I quit a long time ago."
"I see." Julius raised an eyebrow. "Well,
you'll never get warm if you don't have sex and you don't smoke. It's always
freezing here, sunny or not." He took a deep breath in and blew out,
watching the white puffs of air disappear into the sky. "And believe me
darling, it's never sunny."
"I'll dress warmly." Gren shrugged, and started off in the direction that Julius had pointed him in. "And thanks for the directions. And maybe I'll see you again."
"I'm not talking about that kind of cold, necessarily." Julius called after him.
Gren made the voice fade away in his head. He never felt cold... didn't feel cold...
Maybe that 'Chez Moi' place was the place that bus driver was talking about. The one where they needed a saxophone player. He eyed his black saxophone case and his hand tightened around the handle. Maybe he'd be able to get a job there. Maybe he'd be lucky and they'd hire him.
He pushed open the door and immediately all eyes were on him. They were narrowed and shrewd and calculating, and once they saw his bags and his bewildered expression, the cold gleam in their eyes immediately turned predatory. Gren tried to ignore it, and headed straight for the bar and sat down on the bench furthest to the left, furthest away from the people. Casting a glance to his side, Gren saw that there was an abandoned piano and a bass lying on it's side where the supposed stage platform was. Perhaps they were on a break. Well, then, he couldn't talk to them for the time being about getting that job...
How unreliable. In the military, everything was much more reliable. Everybody was there whether they wanted to be or not. You wanted something, you either got it or you didn't the time you asked. It was a straightforward business. Yes or no. There was no waiting involved. But there could be waiting if you wanted there to be waiting. It could be nice to wait, sometimes. You could wait and wait and wait for something good to happen to you and then it'd never happen. Yet you wouldn't be disappointed because you were only waiting, that's all. You could get your life back on track. You didn't have to be cold.
"Can I get you something?" The barwaiter asked. Gren looked up, startled out of his reverie. The words didn't seem to form in his mouth. They seemed to be mixed up and scrambled and no matter what he did, they wouldn't come out. He didn't want them to come out. But they came out, and it wasn't what he wanted to say. Or rather, he might have wanted to say them at one point, but really, really, he didn't want to say them anymore. It made him sound pathetic, it made him sound weak, it made him sound like he wanted something he didn't want. But he had wanted something...
He smiled. "D'ya have anything hot drinks?"
*
The real estate agent who was sleeping in the lobby of the apartments had gladly welcomed him in, after eyeing his backpack and duffel bag and saxophone case and his portfolio. He asked if he was an musician and Gren just laughed and said he wasn't good enough to even be called by that name. He only played the saxophone as a sort of hobby in his spare time. The real estate agent wore a cheap, molting suit that was brown and an off-white shirt that was off-white not because it was made that way, but because it was yellowed with age. His trousers were wrinkled from having been slept in, and he was generally a very untidy man, his face unshaven and his hair uncombed. He had a sharp, pointed face typical of a car salesman and a small, pointed nose. He had rubbed his hands together and then led Gren up to his room, saying that rent was paid every two months and that he would like to accept the payment now.
After paying the ratty man and watching him strut off, counting the bills in his hand gleefully, Gren had set all his bags down, and glanced around the room. It was furnished sparsely, a two couches in what he assumed was the parlor, a coffeetable in the middle. The kitchen had a small fold-away table and three chairs, and there was even a piano, as the man had promised after commenting that there was an 'artist's' room up for rent. The bathroom was small but clean, and the bedroom had one window that looked to the outside along with a bed that squeaked when you sat on it. The walls were bare.
His portfolio slid out of his hand as the pictures inside it fell out. They were all old, the colors faded away with age, leaving them yellow and crinkled at the age just like that man's shirt in the lobby. Up went that one when he was sitting in a chair with his mother. Everybody had said he looked like his mother. As he grew older, he grew even more like his mother. His face was long and narrow and pale, his eyes as blue-azure as hers, his hair as dark-raven and as thick and long as hers, and his hands-- they were artist's hands. Slim, pale, long-fingered hands. Graceful hands. Girlie hands.
Gren nailed the picture into the wall with a thumbtack.
Up went the picture of him and everybody back in high school. He stood out, for some reason. They all looked so happy and cheerful and so full of life and he looked almost drained. But he was still smiling. That was the group he used to play jazz with. They played for the community and the clubs and the bars together. This was after their last concert. The one before the drummer went off and got married, the one before the basist jumped off a building. The one before he had gone and signed up to fight in Titan. Their faces were all flushed and they looked happy and he looked tired. It was a mistake to go fight there. It was a mistake to go fight on Titan. It was a good mistake.
Gren nailed that picture up on the wall with a thumbtack too.
He was staring up at the first two pictures while his hands
absently picked out another photo from the pile on the table. He brought it up
to his eyes. This was another one of when he was a little boy, running
around
Gren hesitantly put that one up too.
His fingers searched for another photo as his eyes were glued to the wall, almost mesmerized. He knew he didn't have enough photos to cover all of his walls... but this wall would be enough. They were his memories. Even though everything was gone now, he still had these. It didn't matter if nobody else cared. He cared. And he put another photo up. This one was a picture snapped quickly at one of the camps in Titan. He just wanted a memory. He was dressed in the turban and the fatigues and the cloaks and carrying around a big gun that went rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat when he pulled the button. It wasn't a saxophone, Gren always had to remind himself. It felt just like one and it was about the same size but it wasn't a saxophone.
Gren nailed the picture into the wall with a thumbtack.
His hand delved into the unorganized stack, pulling another one out like a lottery ticket. Memories of a lottery ticket, Gren laughed. He didn't think he had a photo of that. He had never won any lotteries before. He had gambled, yes, but he had never won, really. He had just about a memory for everything. Everything that happened in his life, that is. Gren felt around in the pile, and his hand brushed upon something. It wasn't smooth like the rest of the edges on the photographs, it was jagged and ripped. And his eyes widened as he pulled it out.
He thought he had thrown that away. A wild look crept into his eyes. He thought he had thrown that away. Away in denial, away in repentance, away so he wouldn't be reminded of the cold and the hurt and the memories. Even today, he refused to look at him. Even in his memory, his face was turned away from him. Turned away, cast down, away. Throughout all the waiting, and waiting, and waiting, all he had ever done was gotten himself colder and colder and more far away and far away from reality. He was always floating in the grey, never sure of a yes and never sure of a no. And maybe it was better that way. Maybe it was better to be kept in secret. He wouldn't face the joy and he wouldn't face the hurting and he wouldn't face reality.
Where was the other side? Why had he ripped it? He had ripped it because he was angry, and frustrated, and torn, just like the photograph. He was torn even before tearing it. Gren turned around, breathing hard, and frantically searched through the photos, and they flew up in the air as he threw them this way and that, fluttering back down to the ground like pigeon's wings, like feathers, like leaves returning back to their roots. The leaves were all black and white. There was no color to them. There were all a jumbled mess of memories, all the same to one person. Worthless, worthless, worthless...
And there he was. The edges were ragged, worn, and faded, and there he was, smiling like a dolt, like a clown. The turban shaded his eyes, the gun was comfortable in his hand, and Gren shakingly brought the two parts of one photo back together and stared at the both of them, him the fool and Vicious the king. The edges didn't match up exactly because they had both been worn away. But there was still the faint contour lining the both of them that once said, we matched, we matched, we were a part of one thing, we shared a common thing and even though our edges are ripped it doesn't matter and it doesn't matter so don't get upset don't get upset don't get frustrated and don't cry...
The entire war was a game. It was a game to him. He knew he ran out there onto the front lines, and he had a gleeful expression on his face as he pumped everybody full of holes and it was the best way to rid himself of his feelings, because out on the battlefield there were no feelings, no emotions, because there wasn't any room for that. He always felt them fade and melt away and vanish before he carried his gun outside, and he was ecstatic for that reason, because then he felt stronger and he felt like he controlled himself. But it wasn't him controlling himself, because he had no self-control. It was the war manipulating him. And once the battles were over, the rush of emotions would always come back ten times as strong and then he wouldn't be the strong one. He hated to look up to Vicious. Wasn't he just as special as Vicious was? Wasn't he just as...?
His hands trembled, their hold on the photo tightening and loosening all at the same time.
Fumbling around in his backpack, his hand grabbed a roll of scotch tape and messily taped the two halves together, and he didn't know why he was doing it. He had to be strong. He could throw the thing away. Why not just open his window and let it fly out there and land somewhere out where anybody or nobody could find it? Why not do that? Then he wouldn't see it and just like in the war, his emotions would fade away and they'd vanish and then he wouldn't have to feel them again, feel them making him weak.
His hand trembled on the taped photograph and he stared straight ahead, his vision clouding and he almost tore the thing to pieces again, but he knew if he did, he wouldn't be able to piece it back together because the pieces would be too small. He should rip it up. He shouldn't. He couldn't.
Gren stuck the tack through the picture through the wall and
it stuck there, the edges curling up slightly as he let his tight grip go. His
fingers brushed over the picture and lingered to the left and he pulled his
hands back, like he had been burned.
And Vicious was still looking away.
*
The radiator in the corner of the room was humming away but it only gave off heat within a two-feet radius. The warm air would then somehow disperse and nobody could feel it, unless they were in that two-feet radius circle. But then again, you could still be cold, even if you were standing right next to the machine. There were two people in the room at the moment, and neither of them were caring whether the radiator was on or not. They were just looking—at each other, at the ground, up at the ceiling, and they were quiet. The radiator hummed and gave off heat.
"I'm sorry." She said. "It's just that..."
"I know." Gren said, his hands clenching at his sides. "But it's too late, anyway."
"You can move somewhere else." She said, leaning forward. The dim light fell over her hair and shoulders and when she leaned back the light fell on her face. "You can get out of Blue Crow."
Gren shook his head. "I can't." His fists clenched again. "I..." He was ashamed to admit it. "I... don't..."
I don't want to.
She shook her head, biting her lip. "I'm almost glad... though." She said, her voice diminishing. "I haven't heard that song for so long."
"It's a small world, isn't it." Gren said, almost smiling. "I've met the woman the music box was singing a serenade about." He stopped, staring at the tall glasses on the coffee table. The hot water made the steam that continually wafted out of the cups and disappeared into the air. Like the cigarettes everybody smoked. Like people. People started out as somebodies and nobodies and then as they rose to the top they disappeared. It didn't make any sense. The music box didn't make any sense. Why Julia? Why him?
She was just sitting there at the corner barstool, the one all the way to the left-- the one he had sat in the first day he had come to Blue Crow. And they were all playing 'the music box song.' He had never brought the music box in but they all knew that it was a music box tune because he had let it slip one day. They had laughed at him for keeping such a thing and then they'd let it go. It was a pretty song, they had said. What was it called? 'Julia,' Gren had responded. Then they had opened their eyes wider and asked him who 'Julia' was. Who is she? They had asked. Some woman you left? Gren had laughed. 'No.' He had said. 'Women aren't my style, you know that.'
They all eyed him curiously because they had never seen him with anybody else, any man, in the city before. But they let it go. They never cared enough to keep asking questions.
Julia had sat there while they played, first not listening, then listening, and then she seemed to have stopped breathing. All the eyes in the bar were on her-- a woman foreigner-- but she wasn't paying any attention to them. Gren was too absorbed in the melody to care. The melody was everything to him. It was his melody. It was the music box melody. Vicious had handed the music box top him with those artist's hands. And he had caught it, with his hands. It was a transaction. He thought it mattered.
Julia had went to Jake, who played the piano, and asked how he knew the song. Jake had shrugged, and then pointed at him. "He composed the thing." He said good-naturedly. "The guy's a genius when it comes to making up his own tunes."
"Damn right." said Neil, who played the drums. He was chewing on the end of his drumstick again.
Gren had laughed and shut his saxophone case, shrugging his coat on. It was seven-o-clock and therefore time for a dinner break. He planned to go with Jake and Neil and Syd who played the bass to the cheap fast-food place across the street. They could leave their instruments here. It wasn't as if anybody would take them. Nobody knew how to play the things besides them anyway.
"I didn't make the thing up, you know that." He smiled, a sad, secret smile. "I got it from that music box. And call it 'Julia.'" He chuckled, buttoning three buttons on his coat and leaving it at that. "That's the name of the song."
Julia's had given a barely audible gasp, and she had given it so that only he could have heard it. "Something wrong?" He had asked.
"Can I..." Julia let her eyes flicker around the room. "Can I talk to you?"
"Well, I--"
"You know Spike." She had said. "Do you know where I can find him?"
Gren had shaken his head, scratching the back of his head. Jake and Syd and Neil were waiting patiently at the door for him. "Hey guys, I'll be back for the next session at seven-thirty. Just go without me." He sighed. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't know any Spike, but I think I know a Steve--"
"Never mind, then." Julia shook her head, resignation in her eyes. "Then you must know--" She stopped and turned away, seating herself back on the corner barstool, a faintly reminiscent look in her eyes.
"Know who...?" Gren asked, curiously. He signaled the bar waiter. "Can I have a light whiskey, please?"
"Sure thing." The barwaiter said, setting the glass he was polishing down. "Do you want me to refill that for you, ma'am?" He said, pointing at the cup in front of the blonde woman.
She shook her head politely, managing a slight smile, and the bar waiter nodded in acknowledgement, turning to pour Gren's drink.
"What were you saying?" Gren asked, sitting down himself.
The bar seemed oddly quiet without the music, without the melody. There was the rise and fall of the voices but nobody knew what anybody was saying. It was just a bunch of oddly jumbled words.
"Only three people have ever known that song." Julia smiled sadly, mysteriously. "Now four, five, six... maybe all of this city knows the song now, so it's not special anymore." She swirled the ice cubes around in her cup, watching them bump into each other, making clinking sounds. "It's not special anymore." She laughed to herself, darkly. "Not that it was special in the first place."
Gren didn't know what to say. It was an awkward moment.
"Before, though, only three people knew that song." Julia looked up at Gren, watching his expression closely. "Me, Spike, and Vicious." Her voice faltered on the last name and she watched the ice cubes in her glass cup melt into water, disappearing, just like everything else.
"Vicious--" The name had stopped on his lips. It was rusted from unuse and unthought and he couldn't bring himself to say the word. It had been totally eliminated from his vocabulary, even though the picture was still up on the wall.
And here they were.
Julia had told him to open the music box as soon as she heard it was a 'gift' from Vicious. And when he had done it, with shaking hands, artist's hands, girlie hands, they mechanisms had all popped loose and there were tiny gears rolling around on the table he had opened it on. And inside was a solar transmitter. A tiny computer chip the size of the gears. It had fit snugly into the music box and it never interfered with the sound. He had stared at the thing in his hand and Julia stood on the other side of the table and he stared at it in wonder, wondering if it had really worked, if Vicious really knew where he was at this very moment, here, on Blue Crow. And like a fool, he didn't know how he should feel, because he felt angry and betrayed and hopeful all at the same time. Hopeful because Vicious knew where he was, and he might-- he might--
Gren threw the solar transmitter across the room and it smashed into three pieces. It was a fragile thing, wasn't it? Like the pieces of black-and-white paper up on his walls. He could tear those photos up into little pieces and let them fly out the window. The leaves could return to their roots, right? They could fly out the window and never come back. He could forget. He could never forget. He could forget. He couldn't forget. And his mouth was twitching in what promised to be a laugh but he couldn't laugh because he had forgotten how to. He had forgotten how to do a lot of things after taking that gamble on Titan. He couldn't even ridicule himself. He couldn't even laugh at himself and get on with his life. He was stuck in one place forever. He was stuck in one time forever. He was stuck in his own, damned, memory, and he was loving and hating every moment of it...
Julia was watching him. She was watching him take big gulps of air to keep the stinging out of his eyes. She was watching his lips twitch in malformed laughter and she was watching his hands shake on the table and she was watching him make a complete and utter fool out of himself. He was living in his own pathetic soap opera. There was something aged in her eyes, like she had seen this before. This sort of betrayal. Maybe, Gren thought cynically, maybe she was the type of woman who liked to watch soap operas like that. Maybe she liked to watch people hurt other people even though nobody deserved to be hurt.
"Gren." Her voice came from far, far, away. "Gren."
He wanted to hide away from her. He was humiliated. It was like he had written a love letter to someone and it had been posted up on some bulletin board for everybody to read. He could feel his lips quiver and twitch with an unreleased smile. He wanted to smile, shrug it off. He wondered if he could.
"I'm okay." He said, the laugh he was going to laugh stuck in his throat. But Julia would have known he wasn't going to really laugh, anyway. Julia, with her blue eyes and yellow-gold hair and her serenity would have known, of all people.
She watched him breathe, and shake, and she watched, sympathetically and unsympathetically.
"Let's go, Gren." She said, smiling a quiet smile at him. Her smiles were never loud, or brash, or faked. Julia never smiled unless she meant it.
Gren looked up, everything he felt shown in his eyes. His blue eyes. His mother's eyes. He hated his eyes. He hated his mother and his father for bringing him into this world and he hated his face and his hands. He hated his hands the most. They had taped the photo back together and they had put it up and they had broke the music box. He couldn't wind it up anymore. Just a few minutes ago, it had been working perfectly. And now it was gone. It had disappeared. The melody in the music box had disappeared like the ice cubes and the steam in the cups and the smoke in the cigarettes.
"Yeah, let's go." He said softly, not knowing why he was going. He was only going back to the bar to play that damned song. Julia's song. Vicious' song. His song.
"It's seven-thirty, Gren." Julia said, standing up.
"Yeah." Gren said, picking up his jacket and slipping it over his shoulders, heading towards the door like a blind man. "Yeah. It's seven-thirty."
The radiator turned itself off.
*
Julia always came home with him. The other men at the bar always whistled and catcalled and a few of them didn't pay any attention at all, but it was almost an unspoken agreement between them that she should stay with him. It was a small world. They both knew Vicious, after all.
Gren was drinking coffee and staring out the window. It was snowing. Here on Blue Crow, it snowed all year around, providing the perfect mopey, droopy weather for pessimistic artists to thrive in. The snowflakes looked silvery-blue as they fell from the sky and Gren knew they were all different, that every single snowflake was different, but they all looked the same from afar. It was difficult to comprehend that. It was difficult to understand how there could be so many people living, how there could be so many snowflakes falling, and that each and every one of them were different, unique.
"Who's this?" Julia asked, and Gren turned around in his seat, tearing his eyes away from the fall of snow. He squinted, and then, realizing he couldn't see any of the pictures that Julia was looking at from afar, he got up and walked over.
"That's my mother." He said, with an absurd pride. "And that's me." He pointed at the small child cradled in the woman's lap. They were both smiling, and they both looked happy. That was so long ago, Gren thought. And now that he thought about it, it didn't seem like so long ago. It seemed like yesterday.
"I was going to say," Julia smiled. "You look so much like your mother, I was going to ask you if you had ever had a kid." She pointed at the child in the picture. "So that's you?"
"That's me."
Julia continued to stare at the pictures in fascination, and Gren looked at them too. They were old, and he knew that he had seen every single one of them more than a hundred times, but there was always something new to note. Like those snowflakes that fluttered outside his window.
"And that is...?" Julia pointed again.
"That's me on Titan." He said, and he could almost feel the sand in his mouth again, the gun in his hand, the excitement and anxiety coursing through his bloodstream...
"Who won?" She asked.
"I don't remember." Gren said, his mouth suddenly dry. "I think we did."
"This was also on Titan?" He suddenly realized Julia was watching him closely. He didn't respond. He forced and willed himself not to react.
"Yeah." He said casually. He struggled to look away. He was still turned. Vicious was still not looking at him. Even though Julia was here-- even though the music box's dedication was here, he still was not looking at any of them. His presence was still absent from the picture. Those dead eyes refused to even grace him with a passing glance. He wasn't supposed to care about that sort of thing. Yet he found himself keeping his eyes open on the picture and he looked at it, and he wouldn't be looking at himself. He'd be looking at the insignificant little speck in the corner of the picture. And he loved and hated to look at it, because it was just a speck. A nothing. An everything. It ruined the picture. It didn't ruin the picture. It was beautiful. It was a dead sort of beautiful, and a hopeless sort of beautiful.
Gren found his hand clenching and unclenching at his sides, wanting to reach out and touch it like the thing like the millions of times before he had done so. But he wouldn't allow himself to. He turned away.
Julia knew, though. Julia saw everything.
"You know..." Her voice trailed off. "Even though he's done so many things to you, you still..."
Gren willed himself not to reply. He sat down on the couch, his head in his hands and his sane mind sinking into a depth he hoped it couldn't come back from.
"The way you look at that picture..." Julia said, her eyes not on Gren but the picture itself. "It's kind of like the way Spike looked at me, sometimes..."
She was lost in her own world, Gren could sense. And he was just as lost…
"By the way, Julia." Gren said, forcing cheer into his voice. He pretended he hadn't heard any of the words before. No, he hadn't heard them, he had only heard 'Spike.' That was why he was asking this question. "You always talk about Spike. Who is he?" He managed a feeble smile and managed to make it strong.
Julia's eyes misted over and a faint smile appeared on her face. "Spike was a strange person..."
Gren sat there, almost interested but still not.
"If you looked into his eyes for a long time, you'd get this strange feeling."
Gren looked up. Julia was still standing there, in front of his wall of pictures, looking at them but not looking at them. It was like she was replacing the faces with something more familiar to her.
"You see, his eyes were two different colors."
"Oh." Gren said, not knowing what else to say. "Oh."
There was another silence, but this one wasn't awkward like the many silences preceding it.
"It's a small world, Gren." She smiled, almost sadly. "I'm sure you'll meet him someday."
"Yeah." He replied, knowing there was a
one-in-infinity chance that he'd meet this guy someday. But somehow, Julia made
it sound believable, for some reason.
And Spike's different colored eyes seemed to justify the fact that every snowflake was different.
Gren stared out the window again, this time from afar.
The snowflakes really did seem different, somehow...
Julia always came home with him. The other men at the bar always whistled and catcalled and a few of them didn't pay any attention at all, but it was almost an unspoken agreement between them that she should stay with him. It was a small world. They both knew Vicious, after all.
And one day, when Julia went out, she didn't come back.
*
He set his saxophone case down on the worn carpet, and dropped his jacket on the couch, and stopped in front of his wall, eyes scanning over all the pictures and stopping on one. He let it linger there, and then sat down, suddenly tired. His hands reached out towards the music box, ruined, on the table, and he snapped it back together, the two parts connecting just like the picture had. He remembered when it had been dropped into his hands. It was a transaction. He thought it had mattered.
It did matter.
And Gren wound the handle a million times and a million times more and he watched it sit there, not spinning, not playing any melody, it would just sit there, a dead thing, and he would smile.
He could hear it.
*
"Hey, grandfather..." The little boy stopped biting his nails and stared up at the sky. "I think that star stopped blinking."
The old man looked up at the sky, then looked back into the fire, contemplating.
"It still may fall." He said softly, and the little boy looked at him, confused and not comprehending. "When the time comes..."
It will fade away, just like everything else.
*
- owari -