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Ah,
Yurikitsune, you're my greatest fan! (prostrates self, kisses
feet) I'm hoping that you like this story, as strangely AU as it
is. (li'l smile) Doesn't compare to Mellon Collie, but this is
more like a distraction from the plot-of-doom. :)
Disclaimer: I in no way own Gundam W. Don't sue me; I'm simply an E-5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.
Story warnings/notes: Massively AU, placed in modern times. 4x1, 4x3, 1x2 planned for later on. Hope you enjoy.
-BEGIN FIC-
It was summer in Osaka.
The trade capital of the ancient nation of Japan was abuzz with life and activity as the sun's round body burned below the edge of the land, its brilliant light that still struck towards the dragons' skies sinking slowly into its earthen grave to rest for the night and give the moon her chance to illuminate the heavens.
I would never forget that night.
A grand tournament was being held near the center of Osaka. Three dojos, my own included, were competing for honor and recognition within the small and frowned upon martial arts community by setting their most proficient warriors against one another. I had the esteemed distinction of being selected by the establishment at which I trained to represent their interests in one of those prestigious battles.
I'd planned to utilize the competition as an opportunity to attempt a selection of new techniques I'd been practicing. My master had told me they would be ineffective, my focus being so instilled upon my body and balance that I'd lose sight of my foe. What he did not understand was that those moves did not steal my focus from me, but rather reinforced it, harnessing unity between all aspects of myself to drive my efforts towards the focus of my inevitable attack.
It was not a gathering of fighting moves that I utilized. No, it was an art.
Art… now that'd an interesting topic.
In some ways I suppose I can be considered vulgar and crude by others who are more socially involved than myself. My view of what my culture considers precious is somewhat biased and base.
Daintily painted scrolls? Some invoke appreciation and fascination. But most garner no emotion from me, being overtly simplistic and ridiculously chaste with the touch of ink brushes.
Sculpture? So much of it is lifeless and bland, simple relief carved from simple stone, unattractive to its nonexistent depths.
Architecture? Bluh. It has never invoked anything in me. Some people proclaim that the grand Palace that was being erected in the newly capitalized and renamed Edo was a proclamation to the levity of the new spirit of Japan, but all I could see were the heavy lines of earthly humans, in no way risen to the Dragons' Heavens as everyone thought.
Music? A pretty conglomeration of notes. So much of what is written by my culture's musicians is done to appease a crowd. If only those composers would instead put their spirits instead of their emptied wallets' wishes into those works, it might be spectacular.
The martial arts were the only art form I recognized as beautiful at all times. A simple move, a simple touch, a simple glance and corresponding response, all timed to perfection, all harnessing every aspect of the performer's body, mind and soul. Requiring discipline beyond what any of our hasty artists who produced their paintings and their songs possessed, requiring time beyond the scope of a human's life to perfect, it was an impossibly flawed collection of dreams and possibilities in all of its forms. Whether it be kendo, budo, aikijitsu, jujitsu, karate… all are beautiful. All contain such incredible potential for that master who discovers his art's hidden secrets, its shadowed avenues for ultimate harmony and in it undefeatable power.
It wasn't the potential power that captured my attention. It was the beauty of the fighter in action. Graceful and lithe, body sculpted to such extravagance that the sculptors' statues were shamed by their envy, the practitioners of the martial arts possessed feline smooth movements and balance unattainable by normal men. To become a proficient artist, one has to know every aspect of their body, to know how every stimuli of the environment about oneself – a gust of wind, the pull of gravity, the shifting of gravel beneath the toes – would affect one's position and potential. He has to know every potential held within his own frame, his strength, his weakness, his agility, his speed. He has to know and love those aspects of himself, accepting both might and fault equally and weaving it into the web that is his whole being.
Knowledge of the body was but the first aspect. Knowledge of the mind meshed with it, as knowledge of the body's abilities was first thrust upon it. The mind's abilities to focus upon the body's actions, the abilities to focus upon the enemy's actions, was irrefutably as important as knowing one's own body. To perform, one had to think. What move was to be next, where next would the foot fall, which hand would be curled into what configuration to be utilized to land a blow, how balance would be affected and whether or not following with a roundhouse kick offensive would be to one's benefit or simply leave one open to attack. What the enemy was capable of, whether he had the room or ability to dodge or retaliate, what art he could be capable of utilizing, what his stance was suggesting his next move would possibly be. Whether or not it was wise to be on the offensive, the defensive, or present at all.
And finally, spirit. The soul of the fighter, the true beauty behind the entire machine, which bound body and mind together with determination and devotion. The heart of the fighter, dedicated towards honor, driven to attain the perfect harmony between all aspects of oneself and in that harmony discover the perfection inherent in the human creature that so eluded us all.
The tournament was the perfect place to introduce a new aspect to the art all of us who practiced it longed for, a new avenue to take to reach that trinity's union that escaped the scope of mortal man.
My master was upset when I simply glowered at him and blandly stated my intentions with a snappish, "I'll do it my way."
His eyes widened as he stared at me, black brows all but vanishing under raven-pitched bangs that loosely hung their tips over his expressive, dark eyes. "What? Yuy-kun, I told you. Stick to normal techniques. You will be victorious with your strength."
I resolutely ignored him as I pulled my towel from its comfortable place across my shoulders and stretched, preparing to enter that circle drawn upon the park's ground in the dirt.
"You gaijin dog! Listen to me!"
Stopping for one moment, I glanced over my shoulder, my blue eyes narrowing even as my brown eyebrows furrowed. One huff of breath escaped my nostrils before I turned back towards the circle that awaited my presence, refusing to dignify my instructor with a response.
As my opposition's champion entered the ring, I closed my eyes and sighed. I had been riled and angered by my instructor's words. I needed to calm down, to find my center and neutralize my roiling emotions to rediscover the peace necessary to be effective.
Taking slow, steady breaths, I let my frame slump. I resolutely turned my focus not on the aghast stares of those who watched me, who saw my brown hair and my tall frame as something reprehensible, but rather on my own desires, my own heart. I would prove that the techniques I had been practicing for these last fifteen years of my life were viable, even if they were performed by the body of a foreign man.
My father would have wished it.
My mother would have cheered me on.
Deep within my soul, I prayed that they were witnessing my deeds from whatever afterlife they had met when they'd perished during the battles and raids of Bakumatsu. That my father resided in whatever glory awaited those who'd died defending their charges when he'd fallen defending the Shogun as his duty called upon him to do. That my mother, sweet foreigner stranded in this harsh and unforgiving culture years ago, dwelled in the Heaven she always preached to me about.
I opened my eyes.
My opponent, to my pleasure, did not wear the distaste that was reflected in some of the hissed criticisms breathed by our audience. His black eyes were focused on me with seriousness, never wavering, shining with the wisdom of at least two if not three decades of life. His frame, shorter than my own but far more broad in the shoulders and heavy with muscle, was sturdy and planted, giving no hint as to what he was capable of other than incredible might. He was apparently taking me to be a serious contender, even with my leanly muscled body and my youthful looks granted by my mere nineteen years of existence.
That pleased me.
Slowly circling one another, we watched one another's stances and movements, studying footfalls and breathing patterns. His frame was loose and relaxed, not tensed and rugged as I had thought it would be – he would be depending not on strength as I had originally suspected, but rather on grace and fluidity. His eyes studiously grazed my own presence.
The moment of attack came within a heartbeat.
He launched towards me with surprising speed and agility, prompting me to immediately sway to my left to avoid the punch that was aimed for my head. As his foot lashed towards my sternum, I handily ducked, rolling with ease upon my back to come to my feet again a body's length away from him.
He sprang forward again, both fists balled, both eagerly aiming for my torso. My eyes absorbed the sight, my mind disseminated the proper response, my feet shuffled my body away from his murderously quick assault.
My ears rang with the stunned silence of our audience. Apparently they'd expected this 'gaijin dog' to fall with my opposition's first attack.
We danced about the circle we'd been given as our arena, him pressing his attack and me artfully dodging every blow. I was waiting for him to tire, but he apparently had more stamina than I had given him credit for – he was hardly slowing, even as my legs began to feel the strain of so much movement being forced from them.
I had to take the offensive.
Taking a step to my right rather than my left as instinct and training told me to, I swept dangerously close to his kick, catching his heel with the locks of my bangs that swept before my face. He was as stunned as I was at my own motion, taking a critical moment to put himself back at his center and regain his balance.
That critical moment was all I needed.
My center balanced upon my toes, I took a single step forward and plowed my strength and spirit into my hands, thrusting them forward as one to connect with his side. I felt a slight smirk turn my lips as I felt a delicate rib crack beneath my touch.
He winced and backed away, his feet staggering without grace.
I pressed the attack, my next move taking me from one foot to the other and slipping me into a simple spin, my foot aimed towards his head. He ducked as I expected – I had already anticipated that inevitability, and lashed with the other foot, spinning in air as the whirlwind does through dusty plains.
My other foot cleanly connected with the crook of his neck below his jaw, dragging him to the ground as I fell. The difference between our tumbles was that mine was most certainly planned. His was not.
My foot remained under his jaw, dragging him with ease towards the crevice of my other leg's knee (or more appropriately, dragging my own lighter body towards his to get his head into the position I desired it to be in). Once there, I lashed with my uppermost hand, my other keeping my body from contacting the ground, and gripped a handful of his dark hair to keep him steady.
My foot released his jaw. My leg slammed into the tender spot between his Adam's Apple and chin, pinning his head between my legs.
"One twist of my legs and I will snap your neck," I calmly informed my opponent.
With a resolute sigh, he realized that the single moment he had for retaliation would be the single moment that brought his death; he slapped his hand upon the dust of our arena's ground as his show of resignation and defeat.
The tournament grounds were silent in stunned surprise. The favored combatant had lost. My instructor's face was a priceless cross between hateful displeasure that I had disobeyed him and not maintained the techniques I had been taught, and smug satisfaction that I had shown his establishment's superiority.
We simultaneously rose and bowed to one another, our bends at the waist deep with respect for one another's abilities. Silence followed us both as we turned our backs to each other and strode from the dusty circle that had been our fighting grounds.
One set of hands very quietly applauded my efforts.
That was the first time I'd ever laid eyes upon the man who was to be my benefactor.
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I'd watched four other battles play themselves to their completions within that circle, my worn frame seated upon the ground and maintained warm under the towel was loosely draped over my shoulders. My instructor was busily lavishing in praise and glory thanks to my victory and the superior performance of another of his pupils.
The one who'd applauded my victory had not left. He patiently waited the conclusion of the evening's martial art display before turning his attention to something other than the circle and its encased warriors. He'd approached me after the tournament had come to its termination, his hands lightly falling upon one another with soft claps. "Bravo," he stated, his oddly accented English speaking of some foreign nationality I was unfamiliar with. Odd, I found that; I'd had many dealings with the Dutch who traveled to our lands to trade, and with English and Norwegian persons. His accent was implacable.
I arched a brow in reply, wondering why he had wandered towards me even as my eyes glanced over him, sizing him up as if he were a potential foe.
He was short in stature, perhaps six inches shorter than my considerable five feet and seven, and almost painfully thin as was obvious from the skinny design of his neck. His business suit, crafted of soft white fabric (obviously from over the oceans), encased his body comfortably, hiding his true build with expert grace. Small feet clad in shining white leather dress loafers carried him to stand before me. A golden watch chain dangled from his pants' left fore pocket. Golden rings and golden cufflinks glistened in the starlight and that orange tinge cast by the newly lit street lamps. A bright gold buckle held a white leather belt in place about the waist of those fitted pants, visible for brief instances as the front of that suit's jacket opened with his light claps and minor movements. A soft blue satin kerchief poked its folded head from his left breast pocket. A decorative royal blue cravat wrapped around that tiny neck, holding in the center of its folds a sizable diamond that sparkled with its own life as the stars do in the heavens.
Such a flamboyant display of wealth was not enough to hold my eye. No, what captured my attention was the boy who wore this ostentatious ensemble.
His skin was as pale as alabaster, shining without flaw in whatever light dared to grace him and be humbled by his perfection. Glistening platinum blonde hair, a shade I'd never had the pleasure of viewing before, fell in rolling waves about his face, tussled and wild, untamed and free. A round cherub's face smiled pleasantly at me, the soft cheeks and small chin eluding to a youthful age; I was guessing he was fourteen, perhaps fifteen years old.
Most incredible of all, though, were his eyes.
With the touch of lamp fire, they shone nearly as green as dark, fine jade or emeralds from over the seas. In the soft white light of the moon and the stars, they were blue, dark as the fathomless waters that surround Japan.
And those eyes were focused entirely on me, their amazing depths regarding every aspect of my person. In an instant my victory seemed nothing – indeed, nothing about my insignificant world seemed to amount to anything – as I felt so very tiny under that heavy gaze.
"Congratulations on your triumphant display," he said, switching his language from the English he had earlier greeted me with to my native tongue.
I was stunned. So stunned, in fact, that I let my mouth gape open.
A soft laugh erupted from his throat. I lavished in the sound; it was like soft ringing bells, pleasant and distant. He shook me from the sensation a moment later by simply stating, "Yes, I know your tongue. Please, accept my praise for your show of talent."
"Oh," I clumsily replied. "Thank you."
"You're quite welcome," he continued, his lips turning with a bright smile. "Truly, I've never seen fluidity to that level before. I'd not expected to see such grace in something so very primal."
I simply arched a brow as I stared at him. "Hn," I replied. Indeed, what was I to say? I'd never seen a foreigner attend one of our tournaments. I'd never heard of a foreigner who appreciated the finer aspects of the martial arts, and indeed recognized the strive for beauty and perfection in their depths. I'd witnessed gaijin tournaments. Paired fighters who attempted to knock one another silly with blows to the head, dancing gracelessly and roaring in rage, was nothing compared to the exquisiteness of our bouts; this, however, seemed to be preferred amongst those who traveled to our lands.
"Might I have your name?"
"Yuy. Heero."
He seemed to mull over the information I'd given him for a moment. "Ah yes, family name before the proper. Of course, of course…"
"And you?" I questioned, arching a brow.
"Winner. Quatre Raberba."
Nodding, I rose from my seat. "It's been a pleasure."
"Indeed, Yuy-san," the blonde teenager replied, a small smile lighting his pale lips. "Thank you for the pleasure you've given me. It's been quite some time since I'd seen Art that I could appreciate."
That stopped me. I had intended to return to my instructor's side, to bow my thanks to him for his permission to enter the tournament and return to the dojo for the night to rest. However, this boy – Quatre – had borne witness and recognized that what I took pride in was actually my Art.
"What do you mean?" I pressed, turning slightly to face him. My brows furrowed with a dire scowl upon my lips, my curiosity and suspicious nature making me irritable.
My glower didn't dim his spirits any. Instead, his smile deepened into something that wasn't so shallow and false, almost being reflected in those amazing eyes of his. "It's Art. I can recognize it. Good Art is something I've always been able to recognize, whether it is in paint or stone or music or form. It hasn't mattered to me for so very long; yours is the first I've been able to connect with in years."
I blinked stupidly as he closed his eyes.
Continuing, he drew a soft breath. "Most art is such a frivolous waste, anyway. Many artists have no belief in what they put on canvas or chisel into stone or play on their instruments. All they desire is the money and recognition, not the release of their souls. And those who do pour their hearts out… their methods are so repetitious. So bland. So pointless and lopsided and damned chipper."
I watched as his lips turned with a frown.
"They don't see the true nature of this god-forsaken world. They would never survive reality if they were forced to fully experience it. Their souls would be crushed beyond recognition."
"You sound bitter," I observed.
He laughed softly. "I suppose I do."
Quite a quizzical figure, this Quatre. For some odd reason, his soft loathing, the small glimmer of darkness that radiated from the perfect little boy before me enticed me. I wanted nothing more than to learn more of this curious, unearthly beautiful child.
"Perhaps you'd like the opportunity to explain yourself?" I asked, my voice carefully monitored to hide my eager intentions.
"Come again?" he questioned, arching a brow.
"I… am off to eat dinner. Perhaps you would accompany me," I said, stumbling gracelessly over a simple invitation.
He tilted his head slightly, a small smirk taking those lightly colored lips. "Hm. I accept. However, I can't be too late."
"Your parents would worry?" I questioned, immediately beginning to peruse the area for his guardians.
A sharp laugh burst from his frame. "Parents? Heavens, no. I've got business clients I must meet with before dawn, dear Yuy-san." Giggles shook him slightly even as he shook his head, lifting a finger to wipe hidden tears of mirth from his eyes. "Parents."
I stared at him. "Business clients…? But…."
Smiling still, his soft giggles upon his lips, Quatre Raberba Winner waved his finger before my eyes. "Lesson number one. Appearances can be deceiving. Never trust your eyes."
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I'd taken him to a casual restaurant with reasonable fare for earthly prices – I simply went where I had intended to go for my dinner on my way to my instructor's dojo, and had him accompany me. After all, I am a pupil. My allowances are granted only with my victories in tournaments, and though I win my earnings aren't spectacular thanks to my rather lowly station within my dojo's infrastructure.
I'd taken him there rather than somewhere spectacular and outrageously expensive for two reasons. First off, I wasn't expecting him to pay (he offered to anyway, greatly alleviating me). Secondly, I wanted to be somewhere comfortable so I could relax and more thoroughly observe this beautiful creature I was escorting about.
As our first sampling of dinner was delivered to us, his tako laying lightly over rice and my udon steaming warmly, he cast a dazzling smile at me before beginning our conversation even as he lifted his chopsticks with surprisingly natural ease. "So, what drew you into the martial arts, Heero-kun?"
I started at that. Being referred to as a youngster by one who appeared to be no older than his fifteenth year of life? Was he attempting to insult me?
But then I remembered his words – 'Appearances can be deceiving. Never trust your eyes.' Certainly he would grant me an explanation later. Best to simply converse with him and discover what I could, I rationalized.
Clearing my throat, I lifted a plethora of noodles to my lips. Slurping them down hungrily, I chewed and swallowed before replying, "My father encouraged me. He recognized that I had potential and enrolled me in my dojo for instruction."
"Quite an insightful man," the boy softly replied.
"Aa."
"Is he proud of your accomplishments?" he questioned.
"I hope so," I answered with a small nod.
He tilted his head slightly, his soft bangs brushing over his lightly colored brows. "I see. Are you proud of your accomplishments?"
I arched a brow, focusing on his face as I chewed a piece of tofu I'd just placed in my mouth. Swallowing, I frowned and focused on my bowl.
"Why not?"
"I am not perfect," I simply replied.
A soft laugh flowed from his sculpted lips. "No one's perfect, Heero-kun. It's human nature to lust for perfection, but it's unobtainable within the span of mortal existence. Realization of that fact is wisdom. I take it you're not striving for wisdom?"
Blinking, I turned my attention from my bowl to his lips. Now whatever did he mean by that? It was almost insulting. Or complimentary, depending on how one looked at his statement.
Scooting his tako about on his plate, he turned his attention to his food even as I lifted my cup and took a sip of the sake we'd been served without answering his strange question. "Wisdom is highly overrated, in my opinion. It's never made great men. The great men of history are those who've ignored the quest for wisdom and strived for perfection, ignoring the fact that it's impossible to achieve during the course of a simple man's life. Michelangelo, Beethoven, Mozart, Donatello, DeVinci… none of them sought wisdom. They were radicals, crazed lunatics of their ages, looked upon as flawed or flooded with folly or maddened by the touch of inspiration's angels. Manic. Madmen. Idiots. Now they are legends, praised for their revolutionary accomplishments inspired by their very lack of wisdom that drove them to create the inhuman, the impossible."
"I concur."
"Eh?" the blonde child asked, blinking once as he was drawn out of his reflection by my simple statement.
"With what you're saying," I clarified. "Better to seek perfection than to give it up."
"Hm," he breathed with a smile taking his lips. "That's an attitude I haven't seen in years."
"Pardon the question, but I've got to know," I started after taking yet another sip of sake. "You're not as young as you look."
More of a statement than a question, I confess. I was fairly confident in my suspicions.
"Correct," he simply answered. "And you are as you appear? I am supposing nineteen, perhaps twenty?"
"Nineteen," I stated blandly.
"Mixed blood, too."
"Obviously."
He smiled vaguely. "Natively Japanese?"
"Yes. Why are you asking me all of this?" I snapped as I gripped my bowl, preparing to sip the liquid that rested within it that I'd been steadily depriving of vegetables and noodles over the course of our conversation.
Shrugging slightly, he let his smile fall. "I didn't mean to pry. I'm simply curious about you. It's so rare to meet persons devoted entirely to their Art to the extreme that you are. So few throw their lives and souls into what they believe in during this era. It's refreshing. Call it my inquisitiveness about a person who believes as I once did – that, with determination and a lust for completion, one can accomplish the perfection that all humanity proclaims is impossible to achieve."
"Hn," I snorted quietly. "Then you'd not mind if I returned the favor."
"Why would you question me?"
"Call it my curiosity about a foreigner who's so interested in the martial arts that he would follow a practitioner of them to a sushi restaurant."
A light laugh shook him. "Is that all?" he questioned, quirking a slender brow.
I restrained myself from speaking the true thoughts that danced upon the surface of my mind. That I wanted to know more about the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen in my life. That I was curious as to what measurable history such an intriguing person had that would give him such an air of mystery and dark sadness.
That I was entirely infatuated with him. That I considered him the most exquisite person I'd ever laid eyes on. That every aspect of my person – body, mind and soul – desired him in ways both pure and filthy. That it was taking every last shred of self control that I contained to not reach out and curiously touch him, to test the suspicion that such a perfect being could not truly exist and see if he would wink from reality the moment he was in contact with something corporeal. That I could sense his shallow bitterness and his coyly covered misery, seeing those dark emotions as clearly as I can see the technical expertise of a fellow martial artist. That my heart terribly hurt to see such an angelic boy tainted by such black feelings and fervently wished to alleviate his pain.
His smile was vague as he stared at my eyes. For a moment, I wondered what exactly he was staring at – those abysmal depths leant me no clues as to what he was thinking. Was he reading those emotions that laid buried within me from my gaze? Was he seeing my longing?
With a light shrug, he nodded. "I concede. Ask what you will."
I blinked, startled by his quick acknowledgement and his simple grant of permission. A moment passed as I gathered my thoughts.
"You asked me of my heritage. What of yours?"
"Oh for Christ's sake, you had to start with the hard one," he helplessly laughed.
"You said your name is… Quatre Raberba Winner," I carefully said, pronouncing the name as foreign cultures would. "I don't recognize the nationality. Your enunciation also doesn't lend any clues. You don't have a distinct accent."
"I suppose not," the boy softly breathed. "When a person travels a lot, a person tends to lose that distinguishing mark. I've been traveling for so long that it's no surprise that my heritage would be difficult to determine."
"How long have you been traveling?" I asked as I lifted my bowl and sipped.
"You'd not believe me."
"Try me," I replied.
"How old do you believe me to be?"
"Fifteen."
He bowed his head slightly, a weak laugh flowing from his lips. "As said. You'd not believe me."
"I still want to know," I pressed.
"Why?"
"I just do."
"I'll not tell you," he quietly sighed.
"Why not?"
"Because. It would violate everything."
I frowned.
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I stumbled slightly as I was assisted towards the futon.
I'd had more than my share of sake and was feeling the pleasant effects more strongly than I'd suspected I would. Quatre had to assist me to the nearest hotel we could find – there was no way I could feasibly be expected to make it back to my instructor's dojo, to find my way to my bedroll.
I sank onto the thin mattress he had guided me to. Looking up at him, my vision hazed and my head pounding, I faintly smiled. "Thank you," I muttered, wanting to rest my head upon the roll he'd kindly rented for me for the night. "I'm sorry…" I started, halting as I stumbled over my words. I needed to apologize for inconveniencing him, but thinking about how to say it was rather difficult.
"You're not inconveniencing me," he said softly as he sat beside me, his hand lightly resting upon my shoulder in an attempt to help me maintain my balance.
"Business clients?" I slurred clumsily.
Quatre's soft laugh met my ears. "They can wait for tomorrow night," he answered. "I've got to make certain that the champion who enlightened me tonight is cared for until he can watch over himself once more."
"Too much," I partially blurted. I realize I sounded like a fool. However, my mouth wasn't cooperating with my sluggish brain and speaking the words I wished it to say. I'd intended to tell him that he was doing too much for me, and that I didn't' require so much attention. Especially from the beautiful angel that was he.
"I don't believe so," he quietly replied, his smile tender.
I don't know what exactly arose in me that encouraged me to make such a bold gesture. Indeed, I don't' want to know what I was thinking. All I know is that suddenly, my head was cleared of the pounding sensation granted by overindulgence and screaming at my body, questioning its actions even as my body refused to reject what it was doing.
I had leaned forward and laid my lips upon his.
To my surprise, after but a moment's hesitation he was eagerly returning that gesture.
This was one aspect of myself that I'd never shared with anyone. Not my parents while they'd dwelled in the world of the living, not my instructor, not my fellow pupils, not those I dealt with in the marketplace every day nor those individuals, scant as they were, that I considered to be friends. I'd never confessed to a living soul that my preference revolves about those of my own gender. It's not that I feared the rejection or humiliation – I feared nothing from others. Rather, I found such confessions distasteful and unnecessary. I simply maintained my solace, preferring the solitude I enjoyed during meditation and practice to flaunting myself and my burgeoning sexuality with another in frivolous display and needless waste.
And here I was, kissing a compete stranger that I'd met but a few hours and a bottle of sake ago.
To find that the perfect angel at my side did not reject my gesture but rather returned it in kind made my heart flutter helplessly like a cage-trapped bird between my ribs, feeling ready to burst free of its prison.
Pulling back, he smiled shyly. "Heero-kun… really. You don't even know me."
My mind, cleared by that touch, realized the reason in his statement. "I want to know you," I replied, lightly tracing his delicate chin with a thumb. "Tell me. Please."
He kissed me once again.
This time, as his touch lingered and his tongue lightly dipped into my mouth, I realized something I should have noted the first time we'd made physical contact – he was horribly cold. Even that thick muscle that lightly ran over my tongue and teeth was chilled.
Gripping his shoulders, I pulled him close, my feverish body hardly caring about the odd sensations my mind was thrusting into reality. Quatre obeyed my urgings, slipping without breaking our kiss onto my lap, straddling my hips and wrapping his slender legs about my waist without care to how wrinkled he was causing his suit to be. His slender body pressed solidly against mine, his lank frame nestling with natural ease against the curves of my own muscled length even as his arms slid about my torso and held me solidly, his fingers curling into my thin shirt and pulling sharply upon it, his manicured nails nearly digging through the fabric of my clothing to scratch at my back. I could barely contain my excitement at that sensual feeling, my desire roaring through my blood, driving my body to helplessly respond.
Pulling his lips from mine, his eyes dark and shining in the faint light that skittered from the lamp resting upon the lone table within the small hotel room he'd paid to rent (the lone window had a drape drawn across it, blocking the light from the sky's moon – those eyes were darker than the most exquisite emeralds rather than black as rolling sea waves), he pressed himself more firmly against me, rubbing himself over my aching lust. His fingers slid down my back, edging their way under my shirt and pulling it towards the ceiling.
I obediently lifted my arms, allowing him to shed that piece of fabric from me. As he laid his hands upon my chest, his thumbs lightly rubbing over my nipples, I groaned in shear delight before setting myself to the task of figuring out his confounding western clothing.
Soon enough I had him bereft of his suit's jacket and his tie, his shirt and his cravat, laid upon the futon and freed of his shoes, his socks, his pants and his undergarments. I found myself staring at a veritable work of Art. His body, perfectly proportioned in every way, covered by porcelain skin that was without flaw, was a living and breathing sculpture of loveliness, a veritable representation of an angel of my mother's Heaven resting upon that simple thin mat.
So very perfect….
He serenely smiled at me before rolling onto his stomach, presenting me with my inevitable destination.
I ignored the chill that surrounded my heated phallus, focusing instead on desire and fulfillment.
I hardly remember the rest of that night. The only things that stand out from that cloud of bliss, that event of beauty, are the shudder that took me when I came into him, the shivers that ran through my skin when he rested his arm across my chest while I lay beside him after weariness took my drained frame, and his soft whisper that I make certain to keep the drapes drawn across the window when the sun rose in the morning or he'd be forced to leave me.
I didn't want him to leave. Those drapes would stay shut.
They would stay shut forever.
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I'd awakened not to a pounding headache as I had dreaded I would – in fact, my head was suspiciously clear – but to the simple notes of a lonely violin.
Sitting up slightly, my nude body shivering slightly in the cool air of the hotel room, I let my eyes open minutely to peruse the room and seek out the source of the sound that was touching my ears. I spotted him in the shadows, leaning lightly against the thin wall of our room, situated as far from the faint light that slid through the drapes covering the small window that would allow our space access to the sun's warming rays as he could possibly be.
My eyes slid shut as I listened to the tender strains pouring from that instrument in my host's delicate hands.
It was then that my heart shuddered, moved so that tears formed upon my eyelids.
I'd never heard such perfection, such mastery! It was impossible – inhumanly precise, alien in its ability to open a person's ears, irrefutably forcing those who could listen to focus and comprehend.
And it was flooded with emotion. So flooded with emotion that my own soul was overpowered with what it conveyed, sympathizing and bleeding with every note that caressed it.
That simple music from that singular instrument revealed so much more than any words in any language ever could – in those notes was brought forth every aspect of the small violinist's spirit.
Slow steady notes dripped from the bow that slid over the strings of that caressed instrument, each with the slightest shiver of vibrato cast upon them by his delicate fingers. Each note carried its message to my ears.
Soft arrogance in the knowledge of his skills.
Pleasure in the feel of the strings below his fingers, a faint smile cast knowing that another was hearing their message.
Perfection garnered from years beyond measure of familiarization with that tool.
Those soft notes burst into a volatile crescendo, screeching free of the soft lull they'd lured me into. Jumping manically over strings, the bow skittered skillfully from one wire to the next upon the violin's raised template. Precise, sharp, harsh notes bit viciously rather than falling gently to softly permeate the air; these notes sought to shred the atmosphere, tearing into it with sharp talons with every staccato hit.
Violent memories.
Horrifying nightmares.
Witnessed to war, terrorism, hatred, discrimination.
Causing murder.
Bearing death's scythe.
A whimpered trill, drawing a close to the fierce beast that roared mercilessly from those worn strings.
Tiredness.
Sadness.
Soft resolution, a miserable sigh of defeat, terminating in silence.
His quiet exhalation met my ears as he lowered the bow. A few tense moments passed.
"Heero. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," he mutely apologized.
"I don't mind," I stated, still stricken by those emotions that had flooded the room but moments ago. My heart pounding with the realization that now, perhaps, I had a vague idea about what his tormented soul looked like, I closed my eyes. "Your music. I thought you said that perfection was unobtainable."
A defeated laugh oozed from those shadows. "Unobtainable in a human's life, yes. Are you proclaiming that was perfect?"
A simple nod was my answer.
"Heero… you're…"
Lifting a finger, I wiped an offending tear from my lashes. I hastily blinked them away. I was a strong martial artist. I shouldn't be so moved!
Yet I was. His music touched me to my base, moving me as nothing could. It had spoken not only his story, but also my own, drawing those hard and cold memories I had to light and giving them musical accompaniment that made the emotions that plagued me during those horrible events (the deaths of my parents, the Bakumatsu, the loneliness I'd experienced afterwards being an orphaned son of a gaijin woman trapped in Japan) more crisp and real than they'd been even when those events had been present reality.
"I'm sorry if I recalled bad memories," he quietly stated.
Rising from the futon, I joined him in the shadows and sat at his side. "It's alright. You were telling your own story?"
"Yes."
I arched a brow. "Perhaps you could tell it to me in words?"
"Heero… I told you last night. I can't-"
"Please."
His shoulders drooped as he seated himself and laid the violin down at his side. "You'd not believe anything. And it's best that you not know."
I scowled slightly before lightening my expression and shrugging. "Then tell me when you got the violin."
"Last night, after you'd fallen asleep. I decided that it was a decent time to meet with my clients rather than making them wait for tonight."
"So you've not slept at all?" I pressed, even as I seated myself beside him.
"A little," he said with a shrug. "Lack of sleep doesn't really bother me much."
"You look tired, though. You ought to rest if you're to optimally perform."
He laughed outright at that, his bell-toned giggle dulled and tarnished that morning. "Optimally perform, eh?"
"You aren't taking me seriously."
"Heero, what nationality was your mother?"
Ah, back to this again. I shrugged, deciding to entertain his questioning and answer him. After all, maybe if I pleased him with the quantity and quality of my statements, he'd finally reveal something of himself. "She was from the main body to our West. Not Dutch, though. I recall her speaking of Romania. She said it was near a great sea."
"Ah," he uttered with a nod. "What tales did she tell you?"
"Many. She spoke of her God and Heaven and Angels, mostly."
Arching a pale brow, he leaned closer to me, his soft voice tingling in my ear. "What about the darker aspect of her lands?"
"The Devil and his servants? She used to tell me those tales as well. Mostly to scare me to clean my room, obey my parents and get to sleep."
"Hm. How about other monsters of the night?"
I blinked a few times. Why was he so curious? And what was he pressing for? Cautiously I approached the question, drawing memories of Mother's tales from the darkest recesses of my rusted memory. "I recall that she spoke of demons. Ghosts. Werewolves. Vampires-"
"Did you ever believe her?" he interrupted.
I stared at him. "When I was a child. I grew out of that."
He glanced away, nodding once. "And so does everyone. Heero," he said, turning towards me suddenly, his eyes nearly glowing in the darkness, "what if you were to discover that your mother's stories were true?"
"What are you saying?" I softly breathed, my heart beginning to pound nervously in my chest.
Leaning forward, he pressed his chilled lips to the naked crook of shoulder and neck. I shivered uncontrollably, the reaction induced from the sudden chill upon my flesh, the memories of what we'd done during the past night, and the lust to repeat last night's activities at that simple touch.
I gasped, both in surprise and in pleasure, as he lightly bit down upon my flesh. Closing my eyes, I wrapped my arms around his small, slender frame, tugging it close to me.
I barely felt the prick of something penetrating my flesh. What I did feel, though, was wet blood welling upon my skin and his mouth eagerly sucking upon the wound that vitae leaked from. I couldn't move to push those lips away, though; instead, I laid my hand upon his blonde head, holding him in place, groaning as pleasure coursed my veins while as my life was being sipped delicately from my body.
Even as I was beginning to feel a bit light-headed, he pulled away. My mind oddly protested his movement – I wanted him back where he was, sucking upon my flesh, nuzzling my nape with his perfect little nose.
I blinked, staring as his pink tongue darted from between his lips to lift a droplet of blood from his lower lip. Reaching with a shaking hand, I lightly touched that area where he'd been suckling. It was moist, but I could locate no wound.
He kissed me. I tasted blood – my blood – upon his lips.
Suddenly I understood.
As much as my rational mind screamed against the possibility, as much as my brain tried to disprove what I was tasting and what I was feeling, I knew it was truth.
The blush upon his cheeks, made possible by my blood coursing through his veins, was lovely.
My mouth opened and shut a few times, words eluding me.
Finally, I was able to make a statement.
"No wonder you wanted me to keep the drapes shut."
His faint smile was my answer.
I was not at all shocked now to see elongated fangs, previously hidden by his lush lips, now brought to light.
tbc...
