Falling Water
By LoneWolf
(kodoku na okami)
COMMENT: Today, 8 June, is Frank Lloyd Wright's birthday. I wanted to write a short piece with the boys visiting Fallingwater but was having trouble putting it together in my head. Kurai posted a note about a rainy morning and asked which of the G-boys would like it. I replied with Heero and Duo (of course <g>) and why I thought each would. A couple of days later, the rain and the waterfall connected.

WARNINGS: Mild shonen ai.

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I have seen old pictures of the house and have always wanted to see it for myself. I have researched it until I know where it must to be, within a few miles. When I show him my plan, he is surprised by my thoroughness and intrigued by the idea of something that could make me prepare so diligently. We set out on our little weekend expedition into the wilderness. I don't show him the pictures. I want him to see it for the first time untainted by expectation.

We are fortunate. The moon is half-way to zenith when our searching brings us to that breathtaking view that first captured my imagination. The pictures had always been in daylight. By moonlight it is better. The house's cream-colored decks, perched over the waterfall, glow softly, a series of terraces stepping down to the water from native stone and walls of rock taken from the site. The house looks as if it grew out of the surrounding rock. I know it is poured concrete and steel reinforcement, but that knowledge does not take away from the sense that it belongs there. The pale light flows down the glass shaft of windows that runs the height of the house, and ripples in the moving pool below before spilling over the edge, a lightfall merging with the housefall and the waterfall. Forgotten and neglected, the house still holds its dignity and grace in a way that only timeless things can.

In the silence, I look and see him standing beside me in open-mouthed awe. I have chosen well. He turns to me and whispers, "It's beautiful." Then, eventually, "Let's go inside."

We walk around the pool and the house to the entrance, buried among the rock and concrete, more a separation from the world than a connection to it. We slip quietly through the door and move through the rooms to the floor of liquid stone. The boulder where the family picnicked before the house was here remains, reaching rocky fingers through the floor into the fireplace, the heart of the house, binding them together and making them one.

I unroll the sleeping bags before it -- we are both tired from the long day and evening of walking. He ignores his, choosing to be held. "Thank you," he says as he falls asleep. I smile. I am glad he likes this place. Holding him next to me, listening to his soft breathing, feeling the faint whispers of cool skin beneath his clothes, I follow him.

I wake to the soft whisper of wind and rain and crawl out of the sleeping bag and stand. There is a pot of coffee in the fireplace, fresh. I pour myself a cup and walk across the waves of stone before me into the sitting room. I kneel among them at the window wall, sitting on my heels, watching him as he stands on the concrete deck that floats above the flowing water, under the concrete pergola that floats above the flowing deck, exposed to the elements.

I love windy, rainy mornings. Not for me. I don't like standing in the rain. But he loves it. I think the rain is what makes mornings like this perfect for him. The cool water from the sky washes away the million things that plague his mind every day and the wind blows them beyond his reach, leaving calm in its wake, and he is, for a short while, alone, quiet and, most importantly, feeling. I would brave the rain for him if it wouldn't destroy the moment, but I love seeing him peaceful like this. That is why I love windy, rainy mornings. This is how I share them with him. By leaving him alone to enjoy them. I smile as I see the wind catch in his jacket and lift him to his toes. My angel is flying.

I finish my coffee and set the cup down on the floor. The movement catches his eye. He turns, sees me watching, gives that tiny, invisible smile I love, knows why I am inside instead of beside him. I stand as he walks through the door and comes to me.

I push him away as he tries to hug me. "You're soaking." I smile, softening the mock rejection, and remember the thing that makes this place perfect. "Let me show you something."

I take his hand and lead him dripping across the river of stone to the staircase, its open, concrete steps suspended by a simple lattice of steel, dropping from the floor before us. We flow down them and stand, wavering as they end above the rocky pool that holds the stream for a moment before it plunges over the waterfall. Even though I knew this was here and what it means and have imagined standing here a hundred times, I am caught speechless in the resonance of this spot as we hang over the water.

He is confused by this Staircase to Nowhere, then he sees it. Just as the native stone reaches into the house before the hearth connecting it to the land, the man-made fall of stairs reaches out to the water to become the connection between the house and the waterfall it was built around.

"Beautiful," he says.

I take of my clothes and, naked, I drop from that last step into the water, completing the connection, becoming a part of the flow. A moment later, he joins me and we embrace.

"Good morning," I say.

"Yes." He kisses me.

Wind and rain aren't the only things that make him happy.