PULLED BACK
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Indicating Hours
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A/N: 9x3, death, dark-fic, Noin's POV. Big thank-yous go out to Killraven and Crary, who gave me an idea.
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I did love you once.
Once.
A single moment in my life when my vision blurred and everyone I saw was you, every voice belonged to that slim throat of yours, every mouth that I traced with my fingers took on the shape of your lips...
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Say my name
Whisper it
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The crinkling plastic they pulled back had my breathing lodging itself against my throat, kept my hands trained to my sides...and so blood leaped to the surface, ashen hair tangled across his face; skin discoloration indicating hours...
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"After viewing the report it appears..."
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From
the cut of your uniform, to the width of your shoulders, I wanted all
of you. I loved the ease of your hands along the curve of a violin, the
bow of your head, the bend of your arms. The rigidity of your posture
when you found yourself
compromised.
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that the body was submerged
"...for nearly an hour."
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...Don't say a word, the sky has worshipped you...Black, its artificial sound, its starkness in the dimmed steel of the room, the bed so much like a tomb. Steps had to be taken. Forward. One in front of the next, Preventers boots timid on the tile because I knew you were not just resting, laying on that white linen.
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There was
"...not much..."
that could have been done.
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When you slipped out of bed, stepped out of a searing shower, I wanted to be the first to smell the warmth of your skin, to stretch out in order to meet your face with something like a kiss. The tone of your muscles was slim, long legs nearly too thin for your frame...I'll pull you forward, hands possessive at your hips, just to see the knowing smirk fall on that face...
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You should come...
"He had a 6000cc lung capacity..."
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Falling, muffled by the examiner's monotone report, these tears longing for you to wake up again. Standing beside the table, I glanced down to supposedly identify you. But how was I to forget? The softness of your cheeks, the straight line of your nose, the high-arches of your eyebrows that once knew the awkward touch of my fingertips...
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"I am ruling it an accidental death."
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...Of course it would be.
Incidental.
That you would have drowned.
You.
Trowa Barton.
I turned away. Hand shaking, I gripped that black plastic and dragged it over your face once again.
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"Please, I just need your signature here and here on the duplicates beside Mr. Yuy's."
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The paper was crisp, a white yet to be smudged by ink or through the process of passing into unknown hands.
Print here. Signature below. Date. Print here. Sign...sign here...
As my hand held the pen offered to me, as the pen slid across that pristine paper...I remembered listening to music with you, remembered that for every half-rest my foot lay flat for, your hand lingered atop my thigh, fingers tapping out the rhythm of music. Even in the short silences, the pauses, you would lowly hum out the following measure...
The silence now was much too light, without your hand, your voice to fill it.
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"Thank you, Lieutenant Noin."
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Nodding, I bit my lip, staring back at you laying there so still.
I loved you once.
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Shouldn't that have been enough?
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This was written a while ago for the livejournal community gw500. Interpret as you wish.
Apologies for the godawful formatting, but there isn't much I can do about it since established their ridiculous new spacing and character policies. If you'd like to read it in the manner in which is was meant, go to livejournal(.)com(/)users(/)teinte(/)7160(.)html