Broken Melody
* * *
Okay, this is Trigun fic number 2. Standard disclaimer here.
And yes, if you haven't guessed by now, I like Midvalley. And no, I don't want to hear about it if you don't like yaoi. Just read something else.
I also realize the title sucks. Suggestions are welcome, as I'm sure that just about anything would be better than what I have. C&C also welcome.
* * *
The moons were not yet fully risen; only three had made their appearance above the horizon, shedding weak light through the dusty window of the bar. Their beams, muted silver, were diffused by the warmer glare of the electric lights, and the serenity they lent to the outside world was broken by the raucous noise of drunken idiots.
Staring out the grimy window, lost in his thoughts, Midvalley the Hornfreak might have sworn that something seemed profound in the moonslight that night, and perhaps that there was a touch of irony there, as well. By the time he'd decided as much, however, he shared his table with two empty bottles, and another that was only half full.
For a long moment he lingered, unmoving, gaze resting on the sky through the filthy glass, eyes sad and deep. Absently, his fingers traced the rim of his glass as he stared, lost in thought, toward the stars.
From the back of his mind he heard her approach; through the shouts and the laughter he heard her footsteps, and wished that it were anyone but her. He knew the way she walked, though, heard the subtle difference in the way she moved. And when she reached his table and spoke, the conversation was so familiar that it barely needed to be given voice.
"Hornfreak," she greeted him.
"Mm."
Reluctantly, he took his gaze from the window to stare up at her; fogged by alcohol, his mind took in the wide-brimmed hat, the dark curtain of her hair, and the single, piercing eye as though it was an uncommon sight.
"Drink with you?" she asked, reaching for the other chair without waiting for a response.
He surprised her with an answer, though, voice a little shaky from the drinks. "No... Not now."
Her hand paused, fingers closed around the back of the chair. "A bit ahead tonight, aren't you?"
"I've been trying," the player admitted softly.
She was silent for a long time, eye level and appraising. He didn't speak again, waiting instead to see if he'd be left alone as he wished.
"Good luck," she said finally, releasing the back of the chair.
Her sigh, barely perceptible, could have meant a hundred things... all of which he was too drunk to begin to guess. Her slender hand grabbed the bottle with practiced ease, pouring a healthy amount into the empty glass.
And then she was gone, her footsteps a steady fall in a crowd of drunks. When at last he heard the door close behind her, his eyes slid closed in relief.
The last thing he needed was for someone to see him like this. The last thing on the whole God-forsaken planet he needed was for his reputation to get ruined because the Cyclops saw him drinking himself into oblivion.
His hand closed around the glass, and he brought it to his lips, knocking the drink back easily. Eyeing the remaining liquor critically, Midvalley frowned. So far as he was concerned, he still had a few hours to get himself plastered... and half a bottle just wasn't going to be enough.
Calling the bartender over with a simple gesture, he tipped the bottle into his glass and filled it again.
* * *
The street was dark as he stumbled along, and the sheer quantity of alcohol he'd consumed was enough to make navigating the shadowed alleyways a challenge. The light of the fifth moon fell pale and weak onto the buildings of the sleeping city, not truly enough to guide anyone at the early hour. The other moons had long since risen and set, drowned in liquor and forgotten in the yellow light of the tavern.
Finally, his destination became visible at the end of one of the darkened streets: a hotel, more than a little worn down from the constant struggle against the wind and suns, as fast asleep as the rest of the town. Taking a calming breath, Midvalley left the shadows of the alley to approach the building, his footsteps more than a little unsteady.
A brief struggle with the handle served to open the door, and a few words exchanged with the night clerk informed him that his room was on the second story.
The stairs were a challenge all of their own- he'd outdone himself, part of his mind mused distantly as it noted exactly how uncoordinated his legs had become- and by the time he reached the room, he was outright praying that it would be empty.
He really did not need company right now. Especially not Legato's.
Reaching the door, he pressed the key into its slot, turning and pushing the door open in one not-so-fluid motion. He stood unmoving in the doorway for a long moment, heart doing double time, eyes sweeping the darkened room. A grin twisted its way onto his lips when he found it, to his extreme relief, empty.
He hadn't come. Or hadn't waited. It didn't matter which, so long as-
"You're late."
The voice, soft and cold, sounded behind him.
Midvalley couldn't stop the startled gasp that rose in his throat at the words, nor could he prevent himself from whirling to face the man behind him, even as he cursed his own actions. Perfect. All that smug bastard needed to know was that he'd been taken by surprise.
...Not that he wouldn't know -anyway-, but...
"You've been avoiding me." The words calmly severed his train of thought, forcing him to at last meet the gaze of his unwanted companion. Gold eyes stared piercingly from beneath a veil of cobalt bangs, and Midvalley doubted highly that the menace in the glare was a product of his imagination.
A threatening silence ensued, during which the player carefully considered his options. He only had two, he realized unhappily: to agree or disagree... And if he lied, Legato would know.
But the truth would quite possibly move the other man to violence, and so he began despite himself. "Nah... It's just easy to forget about the time when I'm out, and--"
"You can't lie to me," the man interrupted firmly, echoing Midvalley's thoughts with eerie precision. "You should know that by now."
Sensing that the situation was about to get worse, the player made as though to protest, but was cut off sharply by a mental command.
//Go inside.//
He complied, fighting off his own rising panic and the revulsion that came instinctively when he felt the other man's mind brush against his own. The effects of the alcohol, he realized unhappily, weren't going to be enough to make this any better.
The door slammed closed behind them seconds later, and Midvalley found himself pressed up against the wall, unable to move. His eyes stared into the eyes of a madman- glittering, golden eyes, cat's eyes, shadowed and dangerous in the darkened room.
And then Legato closed the distance between them, and the player's eyes squeezed shut as he wished fervently that he'd decided to spend the night in the bar.
The kiss was deceptively gentle in the beginning, slow and inquisitive. Midvalley remained unmoving as the other man licked softly along his lower lip, didn't react as a hand reached forward to stoke softly along the edge of his jaw. The other worked its way lower, deftly unfastening the buttons of his white coat and rubbing against him much more than was strictly necessary to get the job done.
In a different situation, the player might have relaxed into the touch, might have returned the caresses with more than a little enthusiasm; Legato was, after all, a very attractive man, and he had certainly never let gender get in the way of a good lay. But experience had taught him that the man currently holding him up against the wall was not to be trifled with. Had taught him quite painfully and repeatedly exactly how unpleasantly creative the telepath could be when he was frustrated.
And so, when the pain blossomed in his lip, and the blood spread thick and metallic on his tongue, he only drew further into himself at the confirmation of what was to come. A soft whimper escaped his lips unbidden as slender fingers traced their way down his jaw one more time, this time tearing the skin with nails that were surprisingly sharp.
Slowly then, the telepath drew back, golden eyes slit and focused solely on the player's dark ones. "You can't lie to me," he informed Midvalley in a soft, threatening tone. "And you can't hide from me."
As though to emphasize the point, Legato leaned closer, pressing himself fully against the man before him. Inclining his head slightly, he let his breath gust warm against the musician's ear, strands of soft blue tickling along the line of his throat. "You should know that by now."
The next words were a whisper, low and terrifyingly confident.
"...And if I want you," the telepath purred, voice the promise of a thousand different agonies, "I will have you."
* * *
The light of both suns was the first thing the Hornfreak saw when he woke, streaming as it was through the cracks in the shutters. Immediately, he cursed whatever had dragged him from unconsciousness; his entire body throbbed with pain, and his head felt as though it would split in two. Closing his eyes, he prayed softly that he would never have to move again, much less drag himself out of bed.
Through the haze of pain, though, it gradually became clear that the thing that had forced him into awareness wasn't ready to leave: from the doorway, a familiar voice was talking, telling him to get up, that it was already afternoon. Cautiously, he opened an eye and peered toward the entrance to his room, barely making out the outline of a certain preacher in black. "Everyone's ready to go," the man informed him in a relaxed drawl, leaning casually against the frame of the door.
"Then let them," Midvalley croaked in response, and the player was frightened to realize that he didn't recognize the voice as his own.
There was a startled pause in response to the words, and from his place on the bed, he could make out a change in the priest's posture. Leaning forward, the figure in the doorway turned on the light; a soft click proceeded the soft electric glare, and he could here the sharp intake of breath as light flooded the room.
For a long time, Chapel didn't say anything at all, simply staring. When he did speak, his tone was a bit more subdued, almost cautious. "...I'll tell them you'll catch up," he said softly. And with that, he was gone, moving out into the hallway but leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.
The player glanced up as he reappeared several moments later, face set in an unreadable expression, lips pressed together tightly. The black-clad man didn't speak a word this time, but instead entered the room with swift efficiency, setting a small basin on the bedside table, and a cloth down next to it. Then he was gone, disappearing from the doorway and out into the hall, the door swinging quietly closed after his retreating form.
Midvalley didn't move for a long while, attempting for some time to simply drift back into the darkness of unconsciousness. Words kept flickering into his range of hearing though, random snatches of conversation, and the nagging feeling that he was being left behind continued to persist, making sleep impossible.
Finally realizing that the effort was in vain, the player pushed himself into a sitting position, biting back a gasp at the sudden jolt of pain the action sent through him. Raising a shaky hand to smooth his rumpled hair, he carefully maneuvered himself to the edge of the bed, eying the state of the hotel room with mild distaste. Small wonder that the priest had been so quick to clear out, he reflected; with the current condition of the room, he was only glad he didn't have to clean it up. Vaguely, the player considered whether he looked as bad as the amount of blood on the floor and bedsheets would imply.
Putting those thoughts from his mind, he set about the task of washing himself up in the small washbasin that Chapel had left for him, carefully cleaning each of the myriad wounds he'd received during the course of last night. Gingerly, then, he turned his attention to the damage done his face and for the first time dared to look in the small mirror that hung on the wall nearby.
The appraisal was a simple one: he looked awful. There was no getting away from it.
His face, usually pale, was dead white, and the dark rings under his eyes did nothing to help the fact. Dark bruises rode high on his throat, accompanied by shallow wounds, a painful reminder of the times that Legato had gripped him a bit too hard. His lip was split and still bleeding, the skin around it cut and swollen. The deep red tracts that were very obviously nail marks were the perfect final touch, he mused darkly.
With a deep sigh, he began scrubbing at the dried blood, wondering if Legato could ever keep the damage to places it couldn't be seen. Questions were the last thing he needed. And showing so much obvious injury in his line of work was inviting trouble.
His clothes, Midvalley discovered, had remained miraculously unscathed. White was a bad color for blood, he'd determined early on, and while it was fine when he had a change of clothes, he was forced to make due with what he had for the time being.
Dressing himself, he smoothed as many of the wrinkles as was possible, and turned to face the mirror once more. Cupping a little of the water from the basin in his hands, he smoothed his dark hair into its usual style and regarded his reflection carefully.
Nothing had changed. He still looked like hell.
Suppressing a sigh, he retrieved Sylvia's case from the corner where he kept her and left the room behind. With measured steps he made his way down the stairs and through the door, coming to stand in the street under the burning heat of double suns.
Midvalley remained unmoving for a long time, staring down the weather-worn street as far as he could see, wounds burning in pain, saxophone case clasped firmly in hand. Beyond his vision, beyond the edge of the haphazard buildings of the little town, they were moving again, already on their way to the next mission. They were expecting him, he told himself, and was mildly surprised when the thought brought with it a dull flare of hatred.
He began walking, though, away from the bar and the hotel and the bloody sheets, setting his pace a little faster than usual to catch up with the others.
They were expecting him.
And Legato so hated to be kept waiting.
~owari~
* * *
Okay, this is Trigun fic number 2. Standard disclaimer here.
And yes, if you haven't guessed by now, I like Midvalley. And no, I don't want to hear about it if you don't like yaoi. Just read something else.
I also realize the title sucks. Suggestions are welcome, as I'm sure that just about anything would be better than what I have. C&C also welcome.
* * *
The moons were not yet fully risen; only three had made their appearance above the horizon, shedding weak light through the dusty window of the bar. Their beams, muted silver, were diffused by the warmer glare of the electric lights, and the serenity they lent to the outside world was broken by the raucous noise of drunken idiots.
Staring out the grimy window, lost in his thoughts, Midvalley the Hornfreak might have sworn that something seemed profound in the moonslight that night, and perhaps that there was a touch of irony there, as well. By the time he'd decided as much, however, he shared his table with two empty bottles, and another that was only half full.
For a long moment he lingered, unmoving, gaze resting on the sky through the filthy glass, eyes sad and deep. Absently, his fingers traced the rim of his glass as he stared, lost in thought, toward the stars.
From the back of his mind he heard her approach; through the shouts and the laughter he heard her footsteps, and wished that it were anyone but her. He knew the way she walked, though, heard the subtle difference in the way she moved. And when she reached his table and spoke, the conversation was so familiar that it barely needed to be given voice.
"Hornfreak," she greeted him.
"Mm."
Reluctantly, he took his gaze from the window to stare up at her; fogged by alcohol, his mind took in the wide-brimmed hat, the dark curtain of her hair, and the single, piercing eye as though it was an uncommon sight.
"Drink with you?" she asked, reaching for the other chair without waiting for a response.
He surprised her with an answer, though, voice a little shaky from the drinks. "No... Not now."
Her hand paused, fingers closed around the back of the chair. "A bit ahead tonight, aren't you?"
"I've been trying," the player admitted softly.
She was silent for a long time, eye level and appraising. He didn't speak again, waiting instead to see if he'd be left alone as he wished.
"Good luck," she said finally, releasing the back of the chair.
Her sigh, barely perceptible, could have meant a hundred things... all of which he was too drunk to begin to guess. Her slender hand grabbed the bottle with practiced ease, pouring a healthy amount into the empty glass.
And then she was gone, her footsteps a steady fall in a crowd of drunks. When at last he heard the door close behind her, his eyes slid closed in relief.
The last thing he needed was for someone to see him like this. The last thing on the whole God-forsaken planet he needed was for his reputation to get ruined because the Cyclops saw him drinking himself into oblivion.
His hand closed around the glass, and he brought it to his lips, knocking the drink back easily. Eyeing the remaining liquor critically, Midvalley frowned. So far as he was concerned, he still had a few hours to get himself plastered... and half a bottle just wasn't going to be enough.
Calling the bartender over with a simple gesture, he tipped the bottle into his glass and filled it again.
* * *
The street was dark as he stumbled along, and the sheer quantity of alcohol he'd consumed was enough to make navigating the shadowed alleyways a challenge. The light of the fifth moon fell pale and weak onto the buildings of the sleeping city, not truly enough to guide anyone at the early hour. The other moons had long since risen and set, drowned in liquor and forgotten in the yellow light of the tavern.
Finally, his destination became visible at the end of one of the darkened streets: a hotel, more than a little worn down from the constant struggle against the wind and suns, as fast asleep as the rest of the town. Taking a calming breath, Midvalley left the shadows of the alley to approach the building, his footsteps more than a little unsteady.
A brief struggle with the handle served to open the door, and a few words exchanged with the night clerk informed him that his room was on the second story.
The stairs were a challenge all of their own- he'd outdone himself, part of his mind mused distantly as it noted exactly how uncoordinated his legs had become- and by the time he reached the room, he was outright praying that it would be empty.
He really did not need company right now. Especially not Legato's.
Reaching the door, he pressed the key into its slot, turning and pushing the door open in one not-so-fluid motion. He stood unmoving in the doorway for a long moment, heart doing double time, eyes sweeping the darkened room. A grin twisted its way onto his lips when he found it, to his extreme relief, empty.
He hadn't come. Or hadn't waited. It didn't matter which, so long as-
"You're late."
The voice, soft and cold, sounded behind him.
Midvalley couldn't stop the startled gasp that rose in his throat at the words, nor could he prevent himself from whirling to face the man behind him, even as he cursed his own actions. Perfect. All that smug bastard needed to know was that he'd been taken by surprise.
...Not that he wouldn't know -anyway-, but...
"You've been avoiding me." The words calmly severed his train of thought, forcing him to at last meet the gaze of his unwanted companion. Gold eyes stared piercingly from beneath a veil of cobalt bangs, and Midvalley doubted highly that the menace in the glare was a product of his imagination.
A threatening silence ensued, during which the player carefully considered his options. He only had two, he realized unhappily: to agree or disagree... And if he lied, Legato would know.
But the truth would quite possibly move the other man to violence, and so he began despite himself. "Nah... It's just easy to forget about the time when I'm out, and--"
"You can't lie to me," the man interrupted firmly, echoing Midvalley's thoughts with eerie precision. "You should know that by now."
Sensing that the situation was about to get worse, the player made as though to protest, but was cut off sharply by a mental command.
//Go inside.//
He complied, fighting off his own rising panic and the revulsion that came instinctively when he felt the other man's mind brush against his own. The effects of the alcohol, he realized unhappily, weren't going to be enough to make this any better.
The door slammed closed behind them seconds later, and Midvalley found himself pressed up against the wall, unable to move. His eyes stared into the eyes of a madman- glittering, golden eyes, cat's eyes, shadowed and dangerous in the darkened room.
And then Legato closed the distance between them, and the player's eyes squeezed shut as he wished fervently that he'd decided to spend the night in the bar.
The kiss was deceptively gentle in the beginning, slow and inquisitive. Midvalley remained unmoving as the other man licked softly along his lower lip, didn't react as a hand reached forward to stoke softly along the edge of his jaw. The other worked its way lower, deftly unfastening the buttons of his white coat and rubbing against him much more than was strictly necessary to get the job done.
In a different situation, the player might have relaxed into the touch, might have returned the caresses with more than a little enthusiasm; Legato was, after all, a very attractive man, and he had certainly never let gender get in the way of a good lay. But experience had taught him that the man currently holding him up against the wall was not to be trifled with. Had taught him quite painfully and repeatedly exactly how unpleasantly creative the telepath could be when he was frustrated.
And so, when the pain blossomed in his lip, and the blood spread thick and metallic on his tongue, he only drew further into himself at the confirmation of what was to come. A soft whimper escaped his lips unbidden as slender fingers traced their way down his jaw one more time, this time tearing the skin with nails that were surprisingly sharp.
Slowly then, the telepath drew back, golden eyes slit and focused solely on the player's dark ones. "You can't lie to me," he informed Midvalley in a soft, threatening tone. "And you can't hide from me."
As though to emphasize the point, Legato leaned closer, pressing himself fully against the man before him. Inclining his head slightly, he let his breath gust warm against the musician's ear, strands of soft blue tickling along the line of his throat. "You should know that by now."
The next words were a whisper, low and terrifyingly confident.
"...And if I want you," the telepath purred, voice the promise of a thousand different agonies, "I will have you."
* * *
The light of both suns was the first thing the Hornfreak saw when he woke, streaming as it was through the cracks in the shutters. Immediately, he cursed whatever had dragged him from unconsciousness; his entire body throbbed with pain, and his head felt as though it would split in two. Closing his eyes, he prayed softly that he would never have to move again, much less drag himself out of bed.
Through the haze of pain, though, it gradually became clear that the thing that had forced him into awareness wasn't ready to leave: from the doorway, a familiar voice was talking, telling him to get up, that it was already afternoon. Cautiously, he opened an eye and peered toward the entrance to his room, barely making out the outline of a certain preacher in black. "Everyone's ready to go," the man informed him in a relaxed drawl, leaning casually against the frame of the door.
"Then let them," Midvalley croaked in response, and the player was frightened to realize that he didn't recognize the voice as his own.
There was a startled pause in response to the words, and from his place on the bed, he could make out a change in the priest's posture. Leaning forward, the figure in the doorway turned on the light; a soft click proceeded the soft electric glare, and he could here the sharp intake of breath as light flooded the room.
For a long time, Chapel didn't say anything at all, simply staring. When he did speak, his tone was a bit more subdued, almost cautious. "...I'll tell them you'll catch up," he said softly. And with that, he was gone, moving out into the hallway but leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.
The player glanced up as he reappeared several moments later, face set in an unreadable expression, lips pressed together tightly. The black-clad man didn't speak a word this time, but instead entered the room with swift efficiency, setting a small basin on the bedside table, and a cloth down next to it. Then he was gone, disappearing from the doorway and out into the hall, the door swinging quietly closed after his retreating form.
Midvalley didn't move for a long while, attempting for some time to simply drift back into the darkness of unconsciousness. Words kept flickering into his range of hearing though, random snatches of conversation, and the nagging feeling that he was being left behind continued to persist, making sleep impossible.
Finally realizing that the effort was in vain, the player pushed himself into a sitting position, biting back a gasp at the sudden jolt of pain the action sent through him. Raising a shaky hand to smooth his rumpled hair, he carefully maneuvered himself to the edge of the bed, eying the state of the hotel room with mild distaste. Small wonder that the priest had been so quick to clear out, he reflected; with the current condition of the room, he was only glad he didn't have to clean it up. Vaguely, the player considered whether he looked as bad as the amount of blood on the floor and bedsheets would imply.
Putting those thoughts from his mind, he set about the task of washing himself up in the small washbasin that Chapel had left for him, carefully cleaning each of the myriad wounds he'd received during the course of last night. Gingerly, then, he turned his attention to the damage done his face and for the first time dared to look in the small mirror that hung on the wall nearby.
The appraisal was a simple one: he looked awful. There was no getting away from it.
His face, usually pale, was dead white, and the dark rings under his eyes did nothing to help the fact. Dark bruises rode high on his throat, accompanied by shallow wounds, a painful reminder of the times that Legato had gripped him a bit too hard. His lip was split and still bleeding, the skin around it cut and swollen. The deep red tracts that were very obviously nail marks were the perfect final touch, he mused darkly.
With a deep sigh, he began scrubbing at the dried blood, wondering if Legato could ever keep the damage to places it couldn't be seen. Questions were the last thing he needed. And showing so much obvious injury in his line of work was inviting trouble.
His clothes, Midvalley discovered, had remained miraculously unscathed. White was a bad color for blood, he'd determined early on, and while it was fine when he had a change of clothes, he was forced to make due with what he had for the time being.
Dressing himself, he smoothed as many of the wrinkles as was possible, and turned to face the mirror once more. Cupping a little of the water from the basin in his hands, he smoothed his dark hair into its usual style and regarded his reflection carefully.
Nothing had changed. He still looked like hell.
Suppressing a sigh, he retrieved Sylvia's case from the corner where he kept her and left the room behind. With measured steps he made his way down the stairs and through the door, coming to stand in the street under the burning heat of double suns.
Midvalley remained unmoving for a long time, staring down the weather-worn street as far as he could see, wounds burning in pain, saxophone case clasped firmly in hand. Beyond his vision, beyond the edge of the haphazard buildings of the little town, they were moving again, already on their way to the next mission. They were expecting him, he told himself, and was mildly surprised when the thought brought with it a dull flare of hatred.
He began walking, though, away from the bar and the hotel and the bloody sheets, setting his pace a little faster than usual to catch up with the others.
They were expecting him.
And Legato so hated to be kept waiting.
~owari~