Notes: i have no clue where this came from, i swear to you. O_O;;; it's... weird? random? introspective? yeah, all that and more. and you thought i was crazy before.
I feel like I'm watching him through a window hundreds of years old. The glass is no longer completely clear, and there are several minute cracks running up and down, left and right, generally obscuring the image. And no matter how much I rub at it, the stains are there to stay. So wearily I press my eye up to a tiny clear patch and look outside.
And he stands there dancing. I can never get enough of the vision of him dancing. Day or night, hot or cold, rain or shine: he dances. The music is in his mind but sometimes, rarely, I can hear the strains echoing through the recesses of my head.
Every time, I reach out, trying to step through the weathered window, in which the viscosity has given up to gravity and the bottom is much thicker than the top. It tints everything green and amber, and I've swept countless cobwebs away. The curtains are heavy and thick with ages old dust and mothballs, I'm sure. The windowsill tells a story of a time long ago, when this design was considered beautiful and important. Now it only hinders me from the dancing.
The snow falls. The snow fell. On the day of our celebration, the day we for the last time had to fight, the snow fell. And he danced in the snow. His violet eyes glittering in the sparkle of frozen water flickering around in the air. Held his arms up in exultation, in glory, in fascination that the world could celebrate with him.
And I scorned him then. Winter is no celebration, I told him.
But he answered with such an earnestness, such a truthfulness. 'Everything is a celebration if you want it to be, Heero. Winter is Nature's beauty, just as Summer is, just as Spring is, just as Autumn is.'
In all the times I spent with him, none were like these. As the seasons passed, he would dance. Whether physically or mentally or verbally, it never mattered. The springtime found him nurturing life in the ground, coaxing up flowers and, eventually, a beautiful garden. Grounds and seeds courtesy of Quatre, but love and time courtesy of him. Every soothing word, every tender watering - I saw a part of him that he was finally allowing to blossom. Allowing to dance.
And he offered me a bouquet once. He proffered us all a carefully hand-picked array of flowers. As an offering of friendship and everything he hoped to maintain.
I kept mine in a vase until they began to wilt, then I pressed them. I have them yet. Their scent has since left me, but the thought behind it is still there. And I gaze at them longingly, sometimes. They, too, had the chance to dance. When will I?
And he can even dance as the birds and beasts scurry to find mates and make love. He learned can smile in situations I would feel my heart bleed in.
And he and Quatre have found in each other best friends. In everything the rest of us lack in showing emotion, they make up for it. They dare to laugh, dare to smile, dare to make jokes, even as the dreariest of days could pass us by. They bring in the sunshine, and make it stay. I - I cannot venture even the smallest of smiles or laughs.
But he dances. Often alone, sometimes surrounded by the world. As the summer whirls by, he is happily pulling us all to pools he has found in the river, inviting us all to sun on the rocks, making plans with Quatre to surprised us all with random parties.
I wish I could dance like he does. Flitting around, knowing that truth is bleak and smiling nevertheless.
What is it about him that makes me try valiantly to clear away the darkness and the opacity of the window, to shove open the bolts and throw myself through? What does he do to me that makes me want to catch a snowflake on my tongue, or to run after the squirrels, laughing as they scold?
His soul takes the steps of life and makes it into a waltz, a ballet, a musical that I cannot resist. But I don't know the steps, so I hold back, hide in the wings, and merely content myself with watching the dance.
And he's dancing now.
There's something about him that lifts my heart and makes me want to smile. That obliterates anything and everything dark in me and replaces it with light. And I know it's not because he it pure himself. He, too, has seen the terrors and the brutality life can deal. He simply accepts and moves on. Moves on in a way that only he could do.
I sigh and move onto another window, and the season changes again. The breezes stir up and the treetops become a brilliant array of golds, reds, and browns. He laughs and runs through the trees, shaking down the fall fruit, silhouetting against the setting sun, and making love to the world with his dancing.
That lithe hand grasps a russet apple, dark red and tawny. And I long to taste it as he does, to be able to pick them as he does, to be able to be free as he wants to be. And he often succeeds, where I always fail.
Just from his smile I can see that the apple was wonderful, that the taste of the autumn air is wonderful, that life can perhaps be wonderful.
He climbs the trees and waves to us all, inviting us, urging us, to join him. And we, except Quatre, all decline. And the two fey boys cry out in happiness as they clamber from limb to limb, from tree to tree, and smile at the moment of perfection they try to find. And we three stand there, watching.
Watching them dance.
Another swirl of wind and a few leaves quiver, then fall. Another wind and a wave of leaves fly around, wrapping him and Quatre in a blanket of amber. And the brown head and the blond head are perched on top, playing like children.
Somewhere, deep inside of them, they still maintain the innocence of children. I think it's the child in him that allows him to dance.
Another moment passes and they are jumping from piles to leaves to more piles of leaves, reveling in the spray of color they create every time they leap. And I watch from my tiny window space, heart aching to be able to dance like they, to be able to dance like he.
And then it's him alone, sighing contentedly, staring straight up to the sky. The air is still warm and I can see he fully intends of spending the night out there.
I can almost hear his voice. 'Isn't it beautiful outside, Heero?'
Oh, but it is, and you only make it more so. You dance with the seasons and you dance with the world. Winter, spring, summer, autumn, you dance. And in that dancing I am mesmerized, even as I am frustrated in trying to shatter the glass that stands between you and I. Trying to shatter this impenetrable wall, while in agony I can steal glimpses of you and yours. The ebullient ecstasy you manage to create, from your surroundings and from within you.
And then I freeze. Because you turn and you catch my eye. Catch my eye, from within this mass of opaque glass. And you nod, and I find myself reaching up and opening the latch. Letting the free breeze ruffle through my hair, letting myself see you dance without the dull glass in my way. You reach out your hand and I step through that old wooden window frame, uncaring if it shatters by my step. In taking your hand, I'm taking your world. In your eyes is a promise to teach me how to dance. Teach me how to dance, Duo.
And the leaves are falling around us.