NOTE: This is NOT set in pre-colonial America. I know too little about Native Americans and their culture, and I don't want to offend anyone. This takes place in a different world entirely.
Anyway, this is something I wrote one night after discovering A Tribe Called Red; you can google their album, which is native american music mixed with electronica.
Not beta'd, though proofread. Constructive criticism welcome.
Fai had never seen anything like it. The spirits of the Native people were captivating, beautiful. Having been in Piffle only a few nights ago, a city filled with the shuffling of people going about their singular lives, he was in awe. The land was wide, endless, flowing and green, like the spirits of the people who inhabited it.
The girls had let their braids out, their hair billowing in silky waves as they danced, adorned with headbands and feathers and jewelry. They wore ornate dresses made from animal hides and decorated with tassels, bells, brightly colored beads, shells, and stones that rattled in movement. Some carried fans made of tail feathers or shawls that, when outstretched and billowing in dace, reminded Fai of birds. The men made just as much noise, though some were adorned with full animal pelts, head and all, as if they were pretending to be the beast itself. Fai noticed that, while none of them wore shoes (as if to be closer to the land), many had their faces painted with colors that shown brightly against the light of the bonfire. And the music – oh, the music. The heavy drums and tribalistic vocals made him want to dace with nothing but the moon to watch. The atmosphere trilled with pure liveliness, a certain kind of untamable electricity created by people who did not wish to tame it as long as they were free themselves. Or maybe it was just the contents of that pipe he'd been handed kicking in.
Earlier he'd been eyeing the big war bonnet one of his new acquaintances had laying around and, in an act of friendly kindness, they had let him barrow it. Adjusting the fluffy sidepieces, Fai was able to glance sideways at Kurogane, who was sitting next to him. On the other side of the ninja was the Kid (who was not much of a kid anymore), probably taking mental notes for future reference. He wrapped the shawl he had been given a little tighter around his shoulders.
Kurogane wore an ornate chest piece made of shiny white bone strung into columns, bright beads, tassels and feathers. His pants (which showed so much ankle they mite as well be capris) were a dark chocolate color, compared to Fai's lighter ones. The blonde also had a breechclout over his own. Kurogane was downing some sort of drink, and it was then that Fai noticed that they had painted his face, too, with red pigment. He blamed his lack of observance on the contents of his cup and the communal pipe.
Suddenly, an idea struck him. "Kuro-pon, dance with me!" the blonde squealed, jumping to his feet.
Of course, he protested. And glared. And snapped. But since when did Fai loose their game? How could he not win, with endless intoxication around them? In no time he was grabbing Kurogane's big calloused hands and dragging the annoyed man to his feet as he handed off his drink to Syaoran, who only smiled kindly. Sometimes, Fai wondered how lonely the Kid felt in times like those.
He dragged the ninja all the way into the thick of the dancing, avoiding bodies as he went. Behind him, Kurogane dragged his feet only enough to look protesting.
And then, he let go of his hand.
The steady beat of the drum rang through his lithe body like a bell, the distinct sound of the rattle echoed through his head, electric, and he let the vocals carry him. The intoxicated part of his mind vied for his attention and he allowed it to creep through him until it was the only part of his brain alive. His feet moved without thought, his body arched and sang all on it's own. He let himself go, to be as a free as the rolling grass and it's kind-eyed people. All he remembered was Kurogane's piercing red eyes that drove him forward, and the way his tanned body looked in the dim light. Tassels swam, feet pounded, and decorations were tossed against each other. Time seemed to stop.
Kurogane could distinctly recall the feeling of the a long-fingered pale hand slipping from his grip. He stood in the midst of music and dance and electricity for a long moment, pride fighting intoxication. Suddenly, someone pushed him and Fai pulled him and a man that was not a man, but an antelope-like animal, pranced past. He found himself too close to the fire, and had to skip away yet again only to almost fall into a girl, though thankfully Fai had pulled him away again, though off balance, and after that his numbed brain had stopped comprehending. Turning, skipping away, leaping, avoiding, advancing on the captivating magician and having the blonde skirt away. He didn't know when he had started to dance.
He could remember the way Fai's pale skin looked against the fire and the moonlight; the way his ribs looked as his body twisted and moved. The shawl he had brought was fanned out about his shoulders now, less ornate than those of the other dancers, but still giving him the effect of a proud, free brid. His eyes shown bright blue in the night, intoxicated, unthinking. He was forever in movement, forcing the ninja to be without protest. Sometimes there was touch, but mostly they were void of it, moving in a whirlwind of beat and dance.
A blonde eagle and dark haired wolf, somehow in perfect harmony, both proud in their own way.
Neither of them remembered how, but at one point they found themselves tripping into the tall grass by a big tree, Fai's laughter floating in the night as he landed on the ninja.
Kurogane looked at the pale, blue-eyed blonde for a long time, though his perception of time had left him long ago. Fai didn't bother to move from Kurogane's lap as they sat up.
No matter how many worlds they visited, Kurogane was always amazed by how clothing changed a person. Tonight Fai was a proud fighter, capped in his exotic war bonnet and deerskin clothing. His eyes followed the flow of the magician's pale hair; somewhere during their travels, it had grown past his collarbone and his chest, and now it fell even with the bottom of his sternum.
Before he knew it, Kurogane was wrapping his big tanned arms around the magician's smaller, pale shoulders. Fai truly was a warrior, in a different sense of the word, in all the ways the ninja wasn't; there wasn't one clear way to be strong.
For a long, lingering moment they simply breathed in each other's scent. Their foreheads met, their eyes closed. Fai could feel hands moving back along his neck, reaching up to push the feathers away from his head, pulling fingers through hair. The touch itself always took his breath away, intoxicated him and left him helpless (only when it didn't and everything was reversed, and he was in charge). All he could do was shiver and lean into the touch, coveting the ninja. With the corners of the shawn still clutched in his hands, Fai's fingers traveled across Kurogane's back and across his ribs.
Neither of them remembered if they kissed; they surely could have, and not remembered it. Syaoran told them when they woke up in the next world that he had found them in the grass that morning, just before Mokona had whisked them away. Covered in dew and with the birds chirping prissy comments in the tree above, they had been peacefully unaware in each other's arms. Thankfully, they had been fully clothed.
Fai still had his war bonnet.
