Sheering TO Glissandi
Part of: The Upper Deck
By: ShinigamiForever
A/N: Ah, finally got past my 2-part line! Jeez, I'm almost running dry or something.
===
This is the rain on Mozart's grave,
Sheering to glissandi.
Where do you little lie, exhausted, whole,
and wholly done?
Sweet Amadeus,
When I sip my bourbon,
Weaving myself twoward pure abstraction-
The recollection
of emotion without the tired events,
I'd trade my part in this to bear your song...
- excerpt of "Lives of The Saints"
Jon Anderson
===
He swilred the wine in his cup, eyeing it almost suspicuously. The liquid crested and dipped, a million faceted jewels. It was a spring color, yellow in a cool sense, not warm and mellow. His aquamarine eyes were transparent and blank, a hint of aristocratic boredom and amusement.
His companion was almost his opposite, dark where he was fair, cold where he seemed warm, lethal where he looked harmless. While he possessed fair, sun splashed golden hair and pink kissed pale skin, his companion had brown chocolate colored hair and obscure azure-edged Prussian eyes. His light blue shirt and khakis contradicted sharply with the other's black suit and light grey trenchcoat. One seemed almost domestic, tame, doused with light. Another had feral grace, hiding his fascinating eyes behind small circular sunglasses that seemed to teeter off his nose, adding a balance to his features.
"You should really drink some of that wine," the latter said, lounging in a careless position that seemed to speak of hidden springs. The former smiled, a slow spreading curve of the lips. In the distance, the sound of piano music floated tentatively over the atmosphere, a simple yet elegant tune that spoke of beauty.
"Do you ever wonder, Heero," the blond said, dipping his finger meaningfully into his wine, "what the composer thought when he wrote that piece? Have youe ver thought, 'Listen, listen to that sentimental genius, that work which would be the magnum opus of us all, but just a fleeting stepping stone to the composer!'" His eyes were cast in a faraway dreamy expression, fixed on the distant fantasies of dead composers. He smiled again, a brash, daunting smile.
His companion Heero laughed, a rich deep sound full of sweet dark honey and melted caramel. "You think too much, Quatre," he answered, taking a small sip from his own glass. The movement was a subtle rearranging of limbs. Quatre laughed too, sliding a finger absently along the contours of the crystal cup he held.
"Do I,' he murmured rhetorically, leaning against a slender hand, eyelids fluttering slightly down. Without warning, Heero snatched the blond's free hand and wrenched it around, exposing a pale wrist. Nonchalant, Quatre continued to swirl his glass, a knowing look on his lidded eyes.
A little tremor rose up from his arm, caused by a flash of power from Heero's fingers. He knew what the Japanese was looking for. He heard a small sigh from his companion, and then the gradual release of his hand. "You joined them," Heero siad, almost sad, regret lacing his voice. Quatre looked up, surprised at the emotion in his friend's voice. Withdrawing his hand, he peered at the small symbol glowing on his wrist and drew his fingers lightly across the character, wiping its light away. Pulling down his sleeve, he watched his companion take another sip of his wine.
"I didn't know it meant anything to- uh..." he stopped, unsure of how to answer. Heero suddenly smiled, the same arrogant infuriating smile that sickened Quatre.
"Oh, it doesn't really," he answered breezily. Quatre felt a squeezing of his chest, a tightening that didn't hurt but stung. He sent an electrical spark towards Heero, who easily blocked with a shield. The Japanese gave Quatre a laughing glance. He knew there was no malice intended.
" I hate it when you lie."
"You must hate me often."
"Oh?"
Heero laughed, showing off sparkling white teeth, then leaned in closely, breathing warm air into his companion's ear. "'I take you as I take the moon rising. Darkness, black moth the lights burn up in.'" Remember that poem?" He leaned away, slnging an elbow over his chair.
"You never change, do you, my dear assassin?" Quatre asked, half in earnest, half teasing.
"Never. Now," Heero raised his glass, "be a good boy and drink your wine." The toasted, their crystal glasses clinking lightly together. When the bill came, they split it, then got up and left, leaving an air of vague uncomfort behind them.
~ To be continued, maybe....~
Part of: The Upper Deck
By: ShinigamiForever
A/N: Ah, finally got past my 2-part line! Jeez, I'm almost running dry or something.
===
This is the rain on Mozart's grave,
Sheering to glissandi.
Where do you little lie, exhausted, whole,
and wholly done?
Sweet Amadeus,
When I sip my bourbon,
Weaving myself twoward pure abstraction-
The recollection
of emotion without the tired events,
I'd trade my part in this to bear your song...
- excerpt of "Lives of The Saints"
Jon Anderson
===
He swilred the wine in his cup, eyeing it almost suspicuously. The liquid crested and dipped, a million faceted jewels. It was a spring color, yellow in a cool sense, not warm and mellow. His aquamarine eyes were transparent and blank, a hint of aristocratic boredom and amusement.
His companion was almost his opposite, dark where he was fair, cold where he seemed warm, lethal where he looked harmless. While he possessed fair, sun splashed golden hair and pink kissed pale skin, his companion had brown chocolate colored hair and obscure azure-edged Prussian eyes. His light blue shirt and khakis contradicted sharply with the other's black suit and light grey trenchcoat. One seemed almost domestic, tame, doused with light. Another had feral grace, hiding his fascinating eyes behind small circular sunglasses that seemed to teeter off his nose, adding a balance to his features.
"You should really drink some of that wine," the latter said, lounging in a careless position that seemed to speak of hidden springs. The former smiled, a slow spreading curve of the lips. In the distance, the sound of piano music floated tentatively over the atmosphere, a simple yet elegant tune that spoke of beauty.
"Do you ever wonder, Heero," the blond said, dipping his finger meaningfully into his wine, "what the composer thought when he wrote that piece? Have youe ver thought, 'Listen, listen to that sentimental genius, that work which would be the magnum opus of us all, but just a fleeting stepping stone to the composer!'" His eyes were cast in a faraway dreamy expression, fixed on the distant fantasies of dead composers. He smiled again, a brash, daunting smile.
His companion Heero laughed, a rich deep sound full of sweet dark honey and melted caramel. "You think too much, Quatre," he answered, taking a small sip from his own glass. The movement was a subtle rearranging of limbs. Quatre laughed too, sliding a finger absently along the contours of the crystal cup he held.
"Do I,' he murmured rhetorically, leaning against a slender hand, eyelids fluttering slightly down. Without warning, Heero snatched the blond's free hand and wrenched it around, exposing a pale wrist. Nonchalant, Quatre continued to swirl his glass, a knowing look on his lidded eyes.
A little tremor rose up from his arm, caused by a flash of power from Heero's fingers. He knew what the Japanese was looking for. He heard a small sigh from his companion, and then the gradual release of his hand. "You joined them," Heero siad, almost sad, regret lacing his voice. Quatre looked up, surprised at the emotion in his friend's voice. Withdrawing his hand, he peered at the small symbol glowing on his wrist and drew his fingers lightly across the character, wiping its light away. Pulling down his sleeve, he watched his companion take another sip of his wine.
"I didn't know it meant anything to- uh..." he stopped, unsure of how to answer. Heero suddenly smiled, the same arrogant infuriating smile that sickened Quatre.
"Oh, it doesn't really," he answered breezily. Quatre felt a squeezing of his chest, a tightening that didn't hurt but stung. He sent an electrical spark towards Heero, who easily blocked with a shield. The Japanese gave Quatre a laughing glance. He knew there was no malice intended.
" I hate it when you lie."
"You must hate me often."
"Oh?"
Heero laughed, showing off sparkling white teeth, then leaned in closely, breathing warm air into his companion's ear. "'I take you as I take the moon rising. Darkness, black moth the lights burn up in.'" Remember that poem?" He leaned away, slnging an elbow over his chair.
"You never change, do you, my dear assassin?" Quatre asked, half in earnest, half teasing.
"Never. Now," Heero raised his glass, "be a good boy and drink your wine." The toasted, their crystal glasses clinking lightly together. When the bill came, they split it, then got up and left, leaving an air of vague uncomfort behind them.
~ To be continued, maybe....~