DISCLAIMER: The world of /Cowboy Bebop/ and its inhabitants don't belong to me.
NOTE: / /'s denote italics. The quote referred to by the title is from Shakespeare's /King Lear./
FEEDBACK is always appreciated, of course. Tell me if my quasi-romantic angst totally sucks, since I'm, uh, sure it probably does.
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Like Flies to Wanton Boys
By Mimarin
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"Like flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport."
I quietly shut my book and lift my gaze to the approaching figure before me. You're in a sardonic mood tonight, moreso than usual. The slow, deliberate rhythm of your gait, footsteps ringing more heavily against the thin wood floors than they regularly would, belie anger. Your jagged grin, twisting like a fresh wound upon your white face, all but screams it.
That smile still scares me, sometimes.
You halt several feet from me in the doorway, arms slack, head tilted down now so rain-wet hair covers your face except a sliver of that brittle smile. I remain curled on the bed, long-forgotten book lying dead in my hands.
Countless other phrases teem in my brain and rise like bile in my throat, well-worn words of comfort, assurance. Words gathered into nice, sweet sentences like /I'm sorry/ and /It's not your fault/ and /The Syndicate elders don't understand/ and /Leave it alone/ and /Goddammit Vicious why do you do this to yourself every day every fucking day and God it hurts GOD IT HURTS let's leave this let's leave this hellhole life for somewhere for something anything anywhere I don't care if you slap me hard so hard the skin bruises just don't think about the hurt any more please don't because I I love you so much Vicious/
I seal my lips shut, and soon the flickering, swirling words wither on my tongue, undetonated. What I do say, as my fingers lightly touch the top button of my shirt, is this:
"I see."
For a moment, you stand utterly still, and for a moment I wonder if you heard me at all. Then you take a small step in the room, shutting the door with a hushed click as you come in. I watch as the trademark Syndicate trenchcoat crumples to the floor, a dark skin shed for now.
Far away, I hear the dull thump of a book striking the ground.
I can't ever reach you, can't ever stop you or save you.
Fingernails dig into my flesh, harder and harder. The still-damp ends of your hair brush against my face, trailing raindrops down my cheeks.
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Later on, in the darkness, I idly trace the contours of your bare back, turned towards me.
You're shaking.
NOTE: / /'s denote italics. The quote referred to by the title is from Shakespeare's /King Lear./
FEEDBACK is always appreciated, of course. Tell me if my quasi-romantic angst totally sucks, since I'm, uh, sure it probably does.
--------------------
Like Flies to Wanton Boys
By Mimarin
--------------------
"Like flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport."
I quietly shut my book and lift my gaze to the approaching figure before me. You're in a sardonic mood tonight, moreso than usual. The slow, deliberate rhythm of your gait, footsteps ringing more heavily against the thin wood floors than they regularly would, belie anger. Your jagged grin, twisting like a fresh wound upon your white face, all but screams it.
That smile still scares me, sometimes.
You halt several feet from me in the doorway, arms slack, head tilted down now so rain-wet hair covers your face except a sliver of that brittle smile. I remain curled on the bed, long-forgotten book lying dead in my hands.
Countless other phrases teem in my brain and rise like bile in my throat, well-worn words of comfort, assurance. Words gathered into nice, sweet sentences like /I'm sorry/ and /It's not your fault/ and /The Syndicate elders don't understand/ and /Leave it alone/ and /Goddammit Vicious why do you do this to yourself every day every fucking day and God it hurts GOD IT HURTS let's leave this let's leave this hellhole life for somewhere for something anything anywhere I don't care if you slap me hard so hard the skin bruises just don't think about the hurt any more please don't because I I love you so much Vicious/
I seal my lips shut, and soon the flickering, swirling words wither on my tongue, undetonated. What I do say, as my fingers lightly touch the top button of my shirt, is this:
"I see."
For a moment, you stand utterly still, and for a moment I wonder if you heard me at all. Then you take a small step in the room, shutting the door with a hushed click as you come in. I watch as the trademark Syndicate trenchcoat crumples to the floor, a dark skin shed for now.
Far away, I hear the dull thump of a book striking the ground.
I can't ever reach you, can't ever stop you or save you.
Fingernails dig into my flesh, harder and harder. The still-damp ends of your hair brush against my face, trailing raindrops down my cheeks.
----------
Later on, in the darkness, I idly trace the contours of your bare back, turned towards me.
You're shaking.