Words that we couldn't say

by Sireg

Gren's thoughts as he drifts off in space at the end of Jupiter Jazz, complete with Vicious and Titan flashbacks.

Author's notes:
This story was written end '05, beginning '06, and can also be found on deviantArt; http/ It was mostly insprired by the song Words that we couldn't say, which is why I included the lyrics.
Feedback always appreciated
Recommended listening:
Most songs from CB, Space Lion is a must. Actually, so is Memory. And Words that we couldn't say, of course ;

Words that we couldn't say

We couldn't say them, so now we just pray them
Words that we couldn't say
Funny ain't it, games people play
Scratch it paint it, one in the same
We couldn't find them, so we tried to hide them
Words that we couldn't say
It hurts don't it, fools on parade
Taint it own it, chase it away
We couldn't make them, so we had to break them
Words that we couldn't say
Sometimes baby, we make mistakes
Dark and hazy, prices we pay
I sit here on my shelf, just talking to myself
Words that we couldn't say
Someday maybe, we'll make it right
Until that day, long endless nights
We couldn't say them, so now we just pray them
Words that we couldn't say
We couldn't say them, so now we just pray them
Words that we couldn't say
Someday maybe, we'll make it right
Until that day, long endless nights
We couldn't say them, so now we just pray them
Words that we couldn't say

Everything seems so much calmer from space. Callisto just a colorful orb, nestled in the vast blackness, speckled with countless stars. The solar system a bag of glass marbles. Everything seems so simple, when you're looking out the windows of your pod, safely out of range of any human contact, looking down on the planets. It's so easy to just forget when you're floating, feeling weightless and so heavy at the same time, just forget and let all the difficulties of being human dissolve in the pretty scenery.

Gren closed his eyes and the image of Callisto dissapeared, shortly leaving an afterimage before his mind summoned views from a different time. He watched, detachedly, a scala of yellows and browns flash before his closed eyes. And then, silver, stained by the windblown Titan sands. An oasis in the sandstorm, the man made of angles, always serious, always silent. His eyes closed to slits in the harsh weather, his silver hair tuned dust brown. Titan, the hellish war they fought. The sandstorms they endured. The enemies they survived. The trauma's they suffered after. On Titan, they were all comrades.

Grencia Mars Elijah Guo Eckener cursed his ill fortune as he skidded down a sandy slope and hit a rock at the bottom. His army boots took the sudden jolt well enough, but Gren himself had been on edge the entire day. They were moving, and so was their invisible enemy, sketchy silhouettes between the sandstorms. He ran through the dunes, the figures in front of and behind him as clear as corpses on the bottom of a murky pond. He cursed again, this hell hole sure inspired macabre thoughts. A bomb exploded to the right, quite close, too. The shock sent more sand flying into his path, and into his face. Up another hill they went, and belly down into the sand. Gunfire and exploding bombs half deafened him, and the flashes of those same weapons left white spots on his vision. Gren could taste the dust, grinding between his teeth. It was everywhere. He wondered, sometimes, what were they fighting for? But then they were on the move again, and there was no time for thinking. Sometimes he thought of home, or his music, but the only thing that kept him from forgetting the sound of music between the rustling of the sand and the sound of bullets flying and hitting was the quiet tinkling of a metal musicbox. He dared not get it out during the day, from fear the dust would destroy the delicate mechanisms, but at night, in his tent, he turned the little handle and listened to it play. Another bomb exploded, even closer, and someone screamed. The hungry desert had claimed another poor soul's blood, undoubtedly.

And when they finally retreated, that man wasn't the only one left behind, to be buried by the sands, until someone would walk by and see the bones poking up from the endless dunes. They were herded back into the trenches, natural ravines of rock in the desert, narrow cracks, snaking though the sand. The wind howled above and from time to time, blew small waterfalls of yellowish brown dust onto their heads. Gren stumbled along, looking for a rock or ledge to sit on, occasionally greeting someone he knew, or had known but forgot in the endless game of killing and being killed that played the desert day by day. He rarely really recognised someone, their faces seemed to blend with those fallen in battle. There was only one person that really stood out from the sand blown, dusty, yellow and brown mass. His hair was lighter than that of anyone else, if it weren't for the eternal dust it would be silver. Gren sat down on a stony ledge, glad to get his legs a little rest. He pulled out a cigarette and searched his pockets for his lighter when a shadow fell across his face, a figure moving closer to sit next to him. Gren smiled as he saw a couple of locks of silver grey hair, visible beneath the many layers of sand stained cloth. Vicious pulled his hood down and held out his hand at Gren. This was their daily ritual. Without many words, Vicious would find Gren, Gren would give him a cigarette, and they would sit together until it was time to get moving again. Gren checked all his pockets for a third time, but all he could find was sand, and nowhere a lighter.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled. "I seem to have lost…"

He stopped as a tiny flame clicked on in front of his face. Vicious was calmly staring into the distance, his cigarette sending up a thin ribbon of smoke into the dusty sky.

"You should keep a spare."

Vicious' voice was an oasis in ages of screaming, raw voices, eroded by the sand. Vicious never spoke much, but when he did, it was soft, and deep. Gren smiled and took a deep breath of his own little nicotine stick. Moments like these he could almost forget where they were, when he closed his eyes he could almost imagine they weren't just waiting for the next slaughter. He closed his eyes and saw blue skies.

Sometimes, when Gren came face to face with the dead on the battlefield, he almost recognised a face. He projected his fears on the faces of the fallen, he'd seen his parents dead in the corner of his eye, but it turned out to be another nameless soldier, run out of luck. He'd even seen himself lying still in the sand, and it had made him feel a ghost, wandering on Titan because he didn't know he was dead. But that too, turned to be his mind playing tricks on him. The real shock came when he thought he saw a silver haired corpse. When he looked closer, it turned out to be blond, but in the half light of early evening it had seemed to him that Vicious was lying at his feet, in the endless rows of dead bodies. During the many days side by side, commiting crimes that were not crimes simply because they were soldiers, his silent comrade had gotten closer to him. A month ago, he wouldn't have seen Vicious in that silent blond haired shell of a man, it would have been just another death claimed by the desert. The realisation burned him, but it made sense. His one comrade he could always rely on for a smoke and a moment of companiable shared silence. That night, Gren listened to his musicbox and dreamed of the day Vicious gave it to him.

The next day, they were on the move again. From one endless dune landscape to another. They moved in small groups, to avoid any unwanted attention, but when the first sandstorms let their fury out on the groups of soldiers, they were scattered in the wind, until the only one Gren could see in the flying sands was a tall figure, silver hair visible under his many layers of clothes. Vicious was looking back at him, waiting for Gren to catch up. They walked together, finding their way between the dunes, better to keep moving moving than be a perfect target for enemy fire. Where one would usually stay where they are, in the desert of Titan that would not be safe. Besides the enemy, there was the desert itself. One would rather end up in the hands of the other side than to die of dehydration and join the dust and the storms. To the far right, there was a whirring of vehicles through the layers of flying sand, maybe a truck or an aircraft, travelling above the storm. Gren heard a soft whistling, and the shadows in the sand went wild. He looked up and saw it, something was coming down through the storm. His first instinct told him to scream, but in the storm, no one would hear him. So he ran up to Vicious and pulled him aside by his cloak. The bomb his the dune above them, and thanks to Gren they were yet unharmed. But then the impact caused the sand to start sliding down, pulling them along, falling over them, burying them in a wild cascade of yellows.

Gren felt arms circling around him, pulling him close to another body in the sands. They kept falling, until, with a shock that slammed Vicious' head back, they hit stony ground, the sand coming down only in small streams. Gren coughed and sat up. Thanks to Vicious, he'd come down unharmed. They had landed under a stone overhang, the storm and bombs raging on above them, occasionally shaking the sand and sending another small river of dust their way. He realised Vicious' arms were still wrapped around his middle and he looked down at a still and pale face, eyes closed. Gren almost choked on his own breath and reached for Vicious' throat. He was still breathing, but knocked out by the fall. Gren pulled the arms away from his middle and lay them down beside the body they belonged to. He sat for a moment, looking down at the unconscious man, while the storm had its way outside. The light was strangely muted in this cave like place, everything seemed paler, as if the color blue had been given this little place in the ocean of never ending yellows and browns that was Titan. Gren took out his little musicbox and watched it play, tinkling away happily.

A rustling of cloth and a soft cough woke Gren a couple of hours later to silent gloom and a parched throat. He turned around to see Vicious watching him, still lying on ther ground, with his arms folded over his chest. The desert had cooled down quite a bit, as deserts usually do at night. Gren noticed the musicbox was still standing on the rock, silent now. He picked it up, feeling the metal slowly warm in his hand. Vicious had a kind of absent look in his eyes, which was slightly worrying, but at least he was awake, and he seemed much more peaceful than usual, his eternal frown faded, one would almost say he was smiling. Gren crawled closer to him in the confined rocky space and offered a plastic bottle of water. A short silence later, Vicious looked up at Gren.

"Where are we…?" He almost whispered, he spoke so quietly.

"It's some kind of cave, we slid in here after that bomb exploded. I figured it's pretty safe." Gren had his gaze fixed on the darkening sky all the time he spoke, for some reason afraid to look Vicious in the eyes.

"I see." There was a moment of silence. "Are you hurt?"

The directness of the question and the memory it brought of Vicious' arms around him, made Gren blush, he was uncertain if it would show in the lessening light. He looked down at his closed hand, and felt the warmed metal of the musicbox in it.

"No." Vicious nodded.

"Then why are you still here?" Finally, Gren dared look in Vicious' eyes, just to see if he was serious.

"I couldn't just leave you here… You were knocked out. And you're too heavy to carry." The answer was clear to him, there'd been no doubt what he would do.

"You could've left to find the group… Who knows what's outside, now." Gren shook his head.

"No, I couldn't. We're comrades, right?" He smiled and looked back down at his hand, fingers playing over the surface of the small metal object. Vicious reached out and touched Gren's leg, sending a spark all through his body.

"Give me a hand here…" The silver haired man mumbled. Gren helped him sit up, his cloak falling away with a pool of sand.

"Are you alright?" Vicious nodded.

"You hit your head." He nodded again.

"I feel it, but it's nothing more than a headache." This time, Gren nodded, and turned his attention back to the musicbox, for the third time almost caressing the thing. He felt two fingers on his arm, moving down and closing his hand over the small box, then a hand on his shoulder and warm breath on his cheek.

With the sun and sudden dawn appeared a cloaked figure looking down under the overhang. Gren was glad they waited until day, it was not unusual to sleep together for bodywarmth now and then, especially when seperated from the main group, but usually that meant just what it said, sleeping. And sleeping usually did not involve taking one's clothes off. The light in the cave sharpened with day, and it all seemed a dream, with the blueish shadows the reality of the night faded away. The figure turned out to be a scout from their side, looking for those who'd been lost in the sandstorm and bombings of the previous day. They were taken back to the main camp, in the commotion of people coming and leaving, searching and finding, Gren lost sight of Vicious. They didn't meet again that day, but Gren listened to the musicbox that night, his musicbox.

To Gren, the rest of the war Vicious was a mixed blessing. During the day, nothing had changed, they were comrades, they stood side by side on the battlefield, they still shared their smokes and silences in the calm before the storm. But during the nights, Gren thought back of that one night, when he found a bit of blue in the desert, some hope after all the nameless corpses. He listened to his musicbox and knew his feelings would not go away. He dared not tell Vicious, not yet. Vicious had never mentioned that night, so Gren started to wonder if it might have been just because the man had hit his head. The doubt, however small, that Vicious had never intended it, convinced Gren to wait. The longer he waited, the more he doubted, and the more he doubted, the more he wanted to forget. But every night he listened to the tinkling tune from the musicbox, he rememberd, and wanted to tell Vicious all that he felt.

After a while feeling torn between the two choices, weighing the present against the possible futures, Gren found he could stay quiet no longer. The next time he saw Vicious, he pulled him aside. Everyone was tense, a select group had been sent out on a solo mission, that might just determine the rest of the war. The majority, left behind, was milling around the makeshift camp, waiting for the return of those chosen few. Gren pulled Vicious out from the mass with a short 'I have to talk to you', but when he faced him, the silver hair standing out in the surrounding colors, Vicious almost a full head taller than Gren, he felt he could not find the words. He opened his mouth, and tried to remember what he was supposed to say, but under those colorless eyes, he could hardly remember his own name. He was nervous, that was it, so he took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Vicious wasn't looking at him anymore, he was frowning, looking at something to the right, approaching fast. Someone yelled something. Gren was still looking at Vicious, finally ready to tell him everything, when he realised what the yell had been.

"We won the war! We won!"

Gren felt someone grab his arms from behind. He looked up into Vicious' face, not understanding what was happening. Someone mumbled,

"Sory, kid… Just doing what I'm told." And then, louder, "I found him, he's right here!"

Gren was still looking at that emotionless face, his eyes wide and trying to say it all, but no sound left his mouth, just a suprised gasp as he was pulled away, away from the only moment he had found his courage. He didn't know if he just imagined it, but it almost seemed Vicious looked… sad.

Gren was pulled and pushed, and shoved into a rather plain transport van. While the rest of the soldiers celebrated their victory with their friends or comrades, Gren sat in a cel, waiting for his trial. While the rest of the soldiers went home and told their tales of that desert war, Gren stood trial, recounting his days on Titan, and never did he stop thinking of Vicious. Until, like a pale ghost, he walked into the hall and calmly accused Gren of things he knew he never had done. Gren was sentenced to life in jail, stripped of his belongings and rights, and sent off to sit out his punishment. All the while, the image of Vicious testifying against him was burned onto his vision, the look in the man's eyes when he glanced Gren's way. He had looked, positively, sad.

Even when Gren escaped with his musicbox, running from the prison as far as his legs could take him, and then stealing a pod te flee even farther, he was convinced Vicious, too, had not wanted to let things end like this. Even when, years later, after hearing he didn't have long to live, he devised a plan to meet him one last time. Even when he finally had a gun aimed at the man that had haunted his dreams for so long, al he felt was was melancholic. Like meeting the ghost of his past, long gone but still here. Even when he fired when he did, killing that poor young man, but leaving Vicious unharmed, he couldn't hate the man. He could've sworn he saw some emotion on his old comrade's face. He could've sworn he felt the same, and that after all these years, they had finally set it right.

The Gren in the pod, drifting towards Titan, cradled in the welcoming dark arms of space, smiled, his eyes half closed, his body still like space itself, but still warm. The musicbox had finished playing, the tinkling sounds it had made were fading now, but space was, after all, only a bag of glass marbles, and all the tin soldiers on Titan, spilling eachother's blood, couldn't make the view from space any less spectacular.