Bridge Passed

Disclaimers: Cowboy Bebop belongs to Sunrise and Bandai Entertainment.

Warnings and rants: This is another fairly OOC piece of work... rather experimental. =_= I cried with pity for myself as I wrote it. Gren x Vicious.

Radishface

* * *

He's just staring at the end of the trench, you know, at the opposite side of it. The guy with the white hair. He's looking at something, I can't make out what it is from this distance. The guys are playing cards right now. I lost pretty much everything in the last game so it's not like I can play. I have nothing better to do. We haven't been in action for months and it's starting to smell around here. Not that it didn't smell in the first place. When was the last time we bathed?

Oh yeah. There's that purple-haired faggot. Okay, so maybe he's not a faggot. Just sensitive and gentle. That doesn't make him a faggot, but everybody else calls him one, so what the hell. That's what he's known as, anyway. Can't change first impressions. Tough dude in the corner with the muscles is probably a fuckin' homo, too. Tries too hard. He gives everybody that eye. I've seen him disappear with a couple of guys before. Like it matters. Hell, when you're in war, you have to do some of the things you do. But that doesn't mean you are what other people think you are.

God, fucking guy with the white hair got up. He's walking away.

* * *

It wasn't night, not yet.

The sun was still setting over the horizon, the mountains in the distance seemed black as the sky turned more and more dark blue as the flame settled, but it was still red. The ice on the peaks of the mountains glittered, diamonds in the coal, and down below, where the cliff dropped, seemed to extend out into a falling abyss, deserted, desert, and trees, all in one. The ocean from the other side of the camp was seen on the opposite side, the waves of violet and green thickening as white foam came splashing to the shore, staining the ashen sand, which was littered with gold.

The smell of the salt and the seawater was maddening, intoxicating, rotting fish and stinking coral and seaweed washed up on shore, the wind blowing in a faint smell of pine that only existed from an imaginary forest. The blackness seemed to have a scent of its own-- mysterious, sensuous, a proud lady with beckoning hands, reaching out to embrace. The smells enveloped, wearing a mother's cloak, warm, and cold, and refreshing, ensnaring.

Azure eyes blinked as they turned back to look at where the people were gathered, all of them stinking, laughing corpses, dying out here and not knowing it. They didn't respond, didn't notice as he stared at them, uncomprehending, wanting to know what, why they were here. His vision swirled, his eyelids felt heavy, like he wanted to sleep. His mind filled with unbidden images, all whirling in a myriad of confusion, and he couldn't tell if he was standing or if he was falling, the world seemed to have rushed on without him, leaving him behind. He smiled, a lopsided smile, drunk, and laughed to himself.

He was standing on the edge of that cliff, barefoot, shoes having fell off his feet long ago as he'd dragged himself up here, to look at this place, before they left again, to imprint it into his memory. And he looked down, feeling as if he were going to fall, sink quickly, into the ground, or off the edge, and be caught by the waves of scent and the sounds of things, the water below greeting him in a mass of arms, all reaching up towards him. And closing his eyes, he stretched his hand out to touch the last embers of the dying sun, the drunken smile not leaving his face yet.

Don't fall. Somebody said, but he didn't turn around, kept his arm outstretched, straining to touch gold, silver. He felt that if he put a foot out, to where there was nothing, there would be something, something to catch him, so that he wouldn't plummet.

I won't die if I do. He called back, and took a step out, only to be caught again, turned around. His head falling back, he observed the world upside down, the sun going up into the ground, the water above his head, and endless blue below him, all swirling, changing colors still. And then it was the ground that wasn't blue anymore, it was the ash of the sand, the sky was orange, and the sun setting was red, violet, and then green. He laughed faintly, not wanting to close his eyes. That's fucking strong.

What is? A hand brought his head up, clutching him by his hair, but it wasn't painful, it didn't feel like pain at all. He only smiled again, inquisitive, what was he being asked?

That shit. His eyes half-closed, he let his head fall back again, his body still supported by lean arms. I got it the last time we stopped over. He didn't hear any response, and stopped speaking, content just to feel tired, feel out of his body, and stay awake to witness it all. And he wasn't being dragged back to the place with the people and the bodies, he was just being set down, so that he stared up into the diamond-ridden sky. Oh, but it had felt like a long journey, hadn't it? From standing up to lying down.

He heard a scraping next to him, and turned his head so that he was looking at Vicious, who had sat down, was looking out to where he once had looked out.

What was in it?

Fucking everything. He heard himself murmur, letting his hand come up to trace a line between his eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose, over his lips. He suddenly felt as though everything were so compact, just around them, so that there were no mountains, there was no sky, no ocean, not even the person beside him, and he tried to anchor his thoughts, pull himself down and ask himself something, and he couldn't, gravity had seemed to lose its control on him. He pushed himself up on one arm, staring at the edge of the cliff, knowing if he would run, run over it, there wouldn't be anybody to stop him, and he shivered at the thought of that, at the pain of that, and rejoiced in it. To go over it alone. To go over it by myself. Just me.

His hand delved inside his pocket, searching for something, and then it closed on something, and he brought it out, brushing his hair out of his eyes, suddenly he was alert, he became aware of everything, and offered the white capsule, here, take it.

Eyes widened, and the world swam again, distorting everything except for them two, and then he said again, take it, not knowing what he was offering anymore, his voice a whisper, hoarse, and he put the capsule in his mouth, not swallowing it, shaking fingertips brushing over the curve of an ear, the touch dragging against his scalp, his breath drawing nearer to his face, brushing over his jaw, touching the side of his lips, and there was no response, nothing. He brought his lips to press against his neck, eyes half-closed and misted over, feeling the pulse there, the skin jumping slightly, with every beat, he knew the blood was flowing, running through, and he wondered if it was as red as the sky when the sun was setting.

The commander has three whores with him. Grey eyes regarded him with something unfathomable, as he reached his other hand out and traced a line over knitted eyebrows, down the nose, and over lips, and his fingers paused there, and they closed their eyes, and he felt lips part against his fingers, breath coming in erratic puffs.

What about them? He found himself saying, letting his hands leave those lips to hover slightly above them, and suddenly they were seized, hands crushing his wrists, and he was pulled up, forcefully. Hands gripped his neck, the collar of his shirt, clutching violently, one beat of motionless lips beneath him, and then it opened up into heat, hands sliding into his disheveled hair, yes, he thought, perhaps said aloud-- like that.

They drew apart, apart so that their noses were still touching, and he felt the absence of the pill in his mouth, knew that he'd taken it, and he smiled, breathing hard.

The whores. Grey eyes had stared, and then he'd swallowed.

What about them? He smiled, felt like laughing an insane laugh, felt like if he did, he wouldn't be able to stop, and then what? The stars winked back at him, their eyes empty, sockets empty, heads empty with no minds, and he felt just like them, felt like if he could, he could jump off now and there'd be somebody to fall with him, die with him, watch their death in fascination like he would. You never finished.

A figure appeared over him, blocking the sky, and his eyes were different now, the light had changed, there was a light, he wasn't dead, and he felt like laughing again, with satanic glee. They don't matter.

Is this what you want? He asked, speaking again, looking straight into his eyes.

His voice seemed lost to him for a moment -- Would you fall with me?

Yes.

He murmured something, something delirious,

It's not you speaking.

* * *

When he woke up, everything was plain again, the world was stationary, it didn't move. The colors remained as they were, they didn't change.

He sat up and got dressed, not feeling any trace of the haze he was in before, and he stared straight ahead of him, seeing the mountains, now grey instead of black, the diamond peaks shone gold in the morning light. The ocean's water splashed against the rocks and the sand below, and he caught a scent of a fire, something burning, something cooking, coming from the barracks. There was nobody beside him, he realized without surprise, and stood up, shakily, at first.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he checked his pockets for a skeletal object-- yes, the music box was there. It was all right.

He stood over the edge one last time, looking out, and then headed back to camp.

* * *