A/N: The genesis for this fic was completely random, based off of a terrible joke I concocted on an off day. Cookies to anyone who catches it.
Disclaimer: Trigun ain't mine, an' I ain't makin' no money off'n it neither. Hyaah.
Stats: One-shot (?? My beta wants to know where this is going but I don't know if I should have it *go*...you decide lol) Present-tense Wolfwood PoV with no real place in the storyline.
Warnings: shounen-ai (if you want to call it that), Spoilers like CRAZY
Reviews always welcomed ^.^
***
I wonder if I can keep my secret in the face of this, this recent development. I can't stop feeling any more; I can't stop smiling. And there are times I have to bite my finger to keep myself from cramming a certain wooden church model over my own head.
Cigarettes are a refuge, if only because I can close my mouth around the filter. If only because the smoke keeps me from being completely visible. Sunglasses, too, are a refuge. No one can find my eyes from straight on, not even him. Though he shines like the sun they were meant to keep out.
Drinking is something I avoid now more than ever, especially around him. He becomes a bipolar sap, at once in love with the world and mourning the smallest fleck of lint on his crimson clothes. But then he'll look at me and the blush will fade for just a second, if I've said something that makes him think. I never know how badly alcohol influences him, nor how quickly he can recover. If only for an instant.
I talk too much when I'm drunk, when liquor like motor oil permeates my body and greases locks normally fused shut. If he asked, I'd tell him everything.
But he never asks.
I could tell him how I run my hands over old bruise scars late at night when the only enemy to pounce is inside my own head. I could tell him about the first time I picked up a gun, the exhilaration of at once dropping a set of chains only to be unable to let go of another. He doesn't know how -good- I felt, how sick, how alive.
I could tell him why I picked up a gun in the first place, but he never asks.
I could tell him how I hate looking at children because they remind me of the ones waiting for me. I could tell him about every last one, what makes them laugh, which ones are still young enough to be afraid of the dark. He doesn't know how much they mean to me, how much of myself I wish I could see in their wide-eyed innocence, how their nightmares are the source of my own.
I could tell him why I love them, but he never asks.
I could tell him how, the first time I saw him, he at once reminded me of those children. I could tell him that I see the world differently because of him, that he has become most of my reasons to wake up in the morning, that I'd do anything to see a genuine smile brighten his face. He knows I don't regret anything I've done, because that's who I am, because that's made me the man he knows. But he doesn't know how I hope my future is more like his vision.
I could tell him why I need him, but he never asks.
Times like these, these silent, painful revelations, I engage the others more frequently in conversation, if only to put up the least pensive façade I know. And Milly always smiles, diving right in to be my saving grace. And Milly always smiles, keeping the ground level beneath my feet with a comment at first brushed off as inane. But such ignorance haunts me later on, when I have too much time to think, and I find wisdom in her. I'd love Milly if I could, if the voice in the back of my mind would let up and let me need her like I need Vash. If the voice in the back of my mind would let up and let me live.
I could tell him about the voice, so smooth like honey with nails in it, splayed to draw blood every time I breathe. I could tell him how it echoed down metal hallways in greeting on the first day I came to understand the power of Millions Knives. He doesn't know Legato is always with me, keeping tabs, murmuring orders.
I could tell him how Legato lets me hear every terrible thing he thinks. How Legato screams his name to force a transplanted arm to tremble and keeps me awake at night. How such perversion has me associating rapture with big, green eyes and a sweet, guarded smile. But he never asks.
I could tell him how I ache all over at the thought of the end of our travels. I could tell him that I want us to run away, to lose all sense, to elope with the girls and never be seen again. He doesn't know what awaits him, what I gladly agreed to do, what I kick myself for allowing to continue.
I could tell him why I'm always jumpy, but he never asks.
He never asks because somehow he trusts me. I don't even trust myself, and yet he trusts me. He never asks because he figures I'll tell him if I need to. I'll never tell him, because I need to be asked. He never asks because he understands a man needs to keep some things to himself.
I wonder how many secrets I truly have, and if focusing on one could make any of the others easier to keep. Milly gives me a questioning look and I realize I have been silent too long. I put my sunglasses on, only able to face her through shaded lenses. But I still can't force myself to talk.
"Mister Wolfwood, what's wrong?"
Disclaimer: Trigun ain't mine, an' I ain't makin' no money off'n it neither. Hyaah.
Stats: One-shot (?? My beta wants to know where this is going but I don't know if I should have it *go*...you decide lol) Present-tense Wolfwood PoV with no real place in the storyline.
Warnings: shounen-ai (if you want to call it that), Spoilers like CRAZY
Reviews always welcomed ^.^
***
I wonder if I can keep my secret in the face of this, this recent development. I can't stop feeling any more; I can't stop smiling. And there are times I have to bite my finger to keep myself from cramming a certain wooden church model over my own head.
Cigarettes are a refuge, if only because I can close my mouth around the filter. If only because the smoke keeps me from being completely visible. Sunglasses, too, are a refuge. No one can find my eyes from straight on, not even him. Though he shines like the sun they were meant to keep out.
Drinking is something I avoid now more than ever, especially around him. He becomes a bipolar sap, at once in love with the world and mourning the smallest fleck of lint on his crimson clothes. But then he'll look at me and the blush will fade for just a second, if I've said something that makes him think. I never know how badly alcohol influences him, nor how quickly he can recover. If only for an instant.
I talk too much when I'm drunk, when liquor like motor oil permeates my body and greases locks normally fused shut. If he asked, I'd tell him everything.
But he never asks.
I could tell him how I run my hands over old bruise scars late at night when the only enemy to pounce is inside my own head. I could tell him about the first time I picked up a gun, the exhilaration of at once dropping a set of chains only to be unable to let go of another. He doesn't know how -good- I felt, how sick, how alive.
I could tell him why I picked up a gun in the first place, but he never asks.
I could tell him how I hate looking at children because they remind me of the ones waiting for me. I could tell him about every last one, what makes them laugh, which ones are still young enough to be afraid of the dark. He doesn't know how much they mean to me, how much of myself I wish I could see in their wide-eyed innocence, how their nightmares are the source of my own.
I could tell him why I love them, but he never asks.
I could tell him how, the first time I saw him, he at once reminded me of those children. I could tell him that I see the world differently because of him, that he has become most of my reasons to wake up in the morning, that I'd do anything to see a genuine smile brighten his face. He knows I don't regret anything I've done, because that's who I am, because that's made me the man he knows. But he doesn't know how I hope my future is more like his vision.
I could tell him why I need him, but he never asks.
Times like these, these silent, painful revelations, I engage the others more frequently in conversation, if only to put up the least pensive façade I know. And Milly always smiles, diving right in to be my saving grace. And Milly always smiles, keeping the ground level beneath my feet with a comment at first brushed off as inane. But such ignorance haunts me later on, when I have too much time to think, and I find wisdom in her. I'd love Milly if I could, if the voice in the back of my mind would let up and let me need her like I need Vash. If the voice in the back of my mind would let up and let me live.
I could tell him about the voice, so smooth like honey with nails in it, splayed to draw blood every time I breathe. I could tell him how it echoed down metal hallways in greeting on the first day I came to understand the power of Millions Knives. He doesn't know Legato is always with me, keeping tabs, murmuring orders.
I could tell him how Legato lets me hear every terrible thing he thinks. How Legato screams his name to force a transplanted arm to tremble and keeps me awake at night. How such perversion has me associating rapture with big, green eyes and a sweet, guarded smile. But he never asks.
I could tell him how I ache all over at the thought of the end of our travels. I could tell him that I want us to run away, to lose all sense, to elope with the girls and never be seen again. He doesn't know what awaits him, what I gladly agreed to do, what I kick myself for allowing to continue.
I could tell him why I'm always jumpy, but he never asks.
He never asks because somehow he trusts me. I don't even trust myself, and yet he trusts me. He never asks because he figures I'll tell him if I need to. I'll never tell him, because I need to be asked. He never asks because he understands a man needs to keep some things to himself.
I wonder how many secrets I truly have, and if focusing on one could make any of the others easier to keep. Milly gives me a questioning look and I realize I have been silent too long. I put my sunglasses on, only able to face her through shaded lenses. But I still can't force myself to talk.
"Mister Wolfwood, what's wrong?"