5-04-01

Title: Another cross

Author: Sunday

Notes: I dunno.  Anyone remember when I returned to my mother country? Well anyway, I spent a lot of time wandering around and seeing the sites of a rather small mining town.  All in all, some of the areas left quite the impression on me, and I think that a lot of them are going to get written on, because, I dunno, the whole of the trip kinda influenced my ways of thought, and I wanted to spread that around? Actually, this has more to do with the fact that my hard drive is over flowing with ideas, and they need to kinda go somewhere.  My hard drive being my brain…yadda yadda…ok, the notes section is digressing as we speak, so I will just leave it be.

This fic is in the wrong season, because I write better winter scenes when I am very warm.  If you want the logistics of that, e-mail me.

Warnings:  I do not own Gundam wing, I do, on the other hand own this story.  Fortunately, I am making no money for this, so please do not sue.

Pairings:  I guess this would be a 1+2, tho Duo does not seem to realize.

Comments or criticism would be nice, because I am never sure if people don’t respond because my stories are so bad that they stop reading after the first sentence, or if they are ok, and don’t merit commenting, because they fall back into the gray of background plots and ideas.  Feedback is always appreciated, and I love replying…now that my net is BACK!! YAY!! It was gone all of last week, so I have had to reply form my University account…which sux.

e-mail: all_in_leather@ayhoo.com

 

Someone once told me that I had a flair for the dramatic, others have mentioned that I abuse it.  I think I do, and maybe that is why I asked him to meet me here.  I smile, perching away upon the cold marble. A woman walks by, frowns, and shakes her head, before heading off.  Her white leather trench-coat blown around her lanky figure by a frozen wind.  It howls past her, hitting me square in the chest, like some sort of lifeless punch. I watch her, as she struggles against the wind, her short hair pulling itself out of a bun, and blowing in wisps around her face.  Nothing special, she is notthat pretty.  I gaze past the bare trees, and up into the steel sky that their knobby hands seem so desperate to reach, to pluck that cold and heavy oblivion.  It seems that the clouds are pregnant with moisture, and the sky seems so low, yet, still so out of reach.

The wind picks up, and the candle that had been sitting beside me flickers violently, the small green glass surrounding the fragile flame no longer enough. It blows out, joining the rest of the cold stalagmites of wax, in their yellows and blues and reds.  All the colors muted by the cold wind, and the colder sky. All of them pointlessly bleeding their hues into the surroundings, as if their small sacrifices would bring life back to the yellow grass, or the cold marble slab.

“excuse me.”  The accent obscures her words, as she attempts to speak to me.  The ugly girl, with the long dry fingers and the cracked leather coat.  “do y’ave matches?”  her ‘s’s seem elongated, like those of a snake. 

I grin up at her, before rummaging through my coat’s pockets, allowing the biting air to hit my exposed neck.  I hand her the box. “How did you know that I spoke English?”  She takes the box.  Looking lost.  I repeat the question, staring into her dull watery eyes.  A smile flickers across her lips, before she whispers something that I cannot comprehend, and I do not care enough to inquire again. She walks away, smiling, to light to candles upon the grave of someone that she had decided to spend her free time mourning.

“You really should not sit on a grave like that.” Another accent, although this one is familiar.  He leans back upon a lean tree, gazing at me dispassionately, all the while smoking a cigarette. His lanky body covered in muscle, and that covered in jeans and a bomber jacket.  All the while the smoke is blown from his lips, and carried upon the starved wind. He looks like a fucking idiot.  A damned teenybopper, without a care in the world, except for the small bubble of warmth underneath his jacket, and the cigarette between his callused fingers.

He trains a cobalt blue eye on me, before allowing his sight to travel over the cemetery, taking in the sights, talking in the ugly sad girl, and her candle collection, before flitting to the assortment of wax stubs that serve as mine.

“Fuck you, Yuy.  I’m not here for a lesson in manners, if I want one I can get it from Quatre.   I need to know where I can drop off my crap and when we are leaving.”

He shrugs, before taking another drag.  Finally, pissed off I grab the thing from between his lips and crush it to the ground.  What is this?  His attempt at rebellion?  It is a little too late for that.  He signed away his free will to Satan, when he first got into the metal cage he calls a Gundam.  Wing.  My ass. Wings suggest freedom, suggest an escape, and the last thing that any of us are doing is escaping.  He looks at me calmly, before staring at the cigarette butt. “I don’t have anything from J.  Where did you stash your supplies?”

I shrug.  “Under us.”  I point to the grave’s vault. “The wonderful thing about the Slavs, is that they build us nice little rooms in which to leave all of our stuff.  Isn’t it grand?”

“The walls have caskets in them.”  He states it in his usual monotone.  Suggesting, in his way, that I had not realized this, and would now, on finding out, be disgusted.  Well here is one for you to ponder buddy, I realize, and no, I do not care.

“Yah.”  Silence follows, and we stare at each other.

His face cold, and expressionless, like that of the damned stone angel attached to the tomb’s head.  The cherub, with her hands outstretched to the sky, and her eyes upturned.  Her long granite robes frozen within their free-movement, and her wings unable to pull her from the offering table of the tomb.  Her alter, from which she, the sacrifice, cannot escape, nor see any other way out.  I grin, looking at the disfigurement of the limestone, where the acid rain had eaten away her nose. Yuy clears his throat, and I find my eyes drawn to him once more.  He is a pretty little angel himself, I’m not going to bother listing his good points, you’ve probably seen or heard of them already…so I’ll just say that he would be quite the catch.  Too bad I’m too bored to be interested at the moment. He pats his pockets, probably looking for the cigarette pack he usually has on him, before giving up.  His eyes travel to his left, staring past Ugly girl, and to the graves beyond her.  So may dead people, and here we are adding to the numbers.

No, I have no problems with killing.  I mean, take a look at this place, tombs on tombs, places where bodies are buried six men deep, marked by the crooked iron crosses.  The new ones are red, covered with rust, and decay, whereas the old ones, barely standing, tripping one another, or falling upon the earth, are reaching with their broken limbs towards their brothers.  That is all there is, only the dead and their kindred, also dead, and buried on top of their ancestors. So what am I adding?  A few thousand to billions upon billions upon billions? Nothing.  I’m adding a grain of sand to a beach, or a star to the sky, no one notices.  Or at least, no one will notice in centuries hence.  I mean really.  Other then the statistics in the history books…does anyone really remember the names of those dead in the Napoleonic wars?  Hell, does anyone even remember the STATISTICS?  Well here are a few statistics for you: crosses, upon crosses, falling into crosses, their thin bodies black and twisted like burned out matches, and their sibling all the same, all reaching upward, like the cherub, and the trees.  None of them ever touch that sky.  Do they?  No matter how pregnant with water, and whatever the hell else there is up there, none of that touches them, except to break their pathetic bodies more, or to decay them.  Hell, at this rate, give it a few more centuries and anyone walking here will only see the dead grass, and maybe a few more persistent metal spikes sticking from the ground like the bones, long decayed, that they where supposed to represent.

A warm hand brushes against my cheek, and I am briefly overwhelmed by the tangy scent of mandarins, with a hint of tobacco. “You are cold.” A whisper, and he gently pulls me off of the marble slab. “Quatre will get your stuff. It should be safe.” I nod numbly, as we start walking down the gravel path between the graves, the trees poking up here and there, giving some dimension to the otherwise flat landscape. Everywhere among the candles sit the plastic flowers, never fading, never dying, the only immortal things in the area, poking out from within the catacombs, innocently nestled between the graves. The fake daises, and plastic posies, shifting stiffly in the freezing wind, all the while brightly standing out against the otherwise dead landscape. Somehow, they seem the most dead things out here. Lightly, Heero places a hand against my shoulder, guiding me out of the gates, and past where the wind carries the tinny tune of an opened Christmas card. Yah.

Merry Christmas.

 

So once more, I am going to ask...please comment if you have the chance.

Three words is great, really it is...for example:

“I hate it.”

“It was OK”

“Write more, k?”

“Please, write less."

Etc… you could even copy and paste one of the above responses all_in_leather@yahoo.com

Sunday