Posted: 10/29/00
Title: Deep Inside You
Author: Jay / carboxylated@yahoo.com
Archive: All those with prior permission are welcome (and hugged profusely) to archive this.
[Note: all fics accessible @ http://www.oocities.org/fenris_wolf0]
Category: Songfic (Trowa introspection)
Timeline: During the length of the episode(s) that spanned Heero and Zechs' battle in Antarctica. With minimal tugging at the fabric of time by yours truly to allow for the following events to take place.
Pairings: 3+4
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is quite sadly not mine, but in fact the property of Bandai, Sunrise, and other large corporations and companies I have no affiliation with. (Again, quite sadly.)
"Deep Inside Of You" is a song by Third Eye Blind off of their album, Blue, and the lyrics
and title are used without permission. I heard this on the radio a while ago, and it screamed 'songfic' at me... both spiffy and disturbing, I suppose.
Rating/Warning: PG, if only because it's a little angsty. Otherwise, it's very sappy and again, despite the tinge of angst that colors the piece, it's a happy ending. Or at least alludes to a very happy ending. Or... er... just reading. ;-)
Feedback: Hit me!
Note: This took about an hour total to write; unfortunately, that hour sort of... er... took up 11 days. This is for all the 3x4 fanatics amongst us (::winks indiscreetly at Ash::) and, er, I hope you enjoy. If there are tons of mistakes (argh! I'm not stupid! At least in the
grammatical sense! Um, 'grammatical' *is* a word, right? Yes, yes it is... wait... ah... yes, it is!) can be blamed on the fact that this was written while I was also watching a cartoon where killer eggplants kidnap a granny-type figure. Yes, _eggplants_.
[...When we met light was shed / Thoughts free flow you said you've got something / Deep inside of you...]
The memory was distant-- obscure, then lucid, pooling into a liquid recollection that lurked somewhere in the back of his eyes, and all the rest of the world was a haze, a blur of slow and quick activity. Right then there was the visible puff of his breath in the icy air, as he gazed out at the ice and snow and shivered, remembering heat waves rising from the sand, vast dunes, the smell of spices, and the color of the sky that matched someone's eyes so perfectly. Delicate hands-- he remembered those so well-- hands that he stared at, wondering how the owner of that milky skin could ever be fighting; how those sparkling sapphire eyes could have ever seen war; or how that voice could have ever poured forth anything but golden laughter.
Trowa stared at the world of ice around him, uncomprehending the coldness, as his heartstrings were plucked by the silent duet that played in his mind.
The last notes faded, strains of a violin disappearing.
[...A wind chime voice sound, sway of your hips round rings true / Echoes deep inside of you / These secret garden beams / Changed my life so it seems...]
He paced, indefatigable and uncertain, pausing now and again to cast luminous green eyes towards the ceiling, searching for salvation or mere explanation. His stomach churned, heart skipped successive beats, and there was a sudden gnawing feeling, a nibbling at the corner of his heart.
The world became blurred and indistinct at the edges, and all Trowa could see was a shimmering haze of gold and tan.
[...Fall breeze blows outside / I don't bring stride / My thoughts are warm, and they go deep inside of you / Oh yeah / And I never felt alone / All right, alone, alone / 'Till I met you...]
It seemed so simple before: wake up, roll out of bed with rumpled hair, take a lukewarm shower, towel off, brush his teeth, dress, eat (clinking silverware), finish off a mug of black coffee, leave for mission, and accomplish mission, all with the same impassive expression and weary yet graceful gait.
Now, there was Quatre. There was Quatre when he slept, there was Quatre when he was awake, and there was Quatre when he fought, when he thought, and when he breathed.
Quatre, somewhere on the Earth he had somehow failed to significantly consider in the scheme of things. Quatre, somewhere with his milky skin and incandescent eyes and light laughter, staring at the stars or the moon or the vastness of space, was waiting.
[...Friends say I've changed / I don't listen 'cause I live to be / Deep inside of you / Trying his best, shouts in darkness / I'm so alive I'm / Deep inside of you...]
The harsh light of indifference in his expression had softened, and his usual nonchalance had almost dissipated into sudden compassion and depth of feeling. He felt grief as sharply as joy under the still intact mask that he wore, but Quatre had torn enough of it away so that he could feel the sun on his skin; torn enough away so that the streak of apathy was marred by new sentiment, like a choir of devils and angels on his shoulder.
He was all at once keenly aware of his mortality, of the flesh covering nerves, of the beat of his heart, and acutely sensitive to the passage of time and overwhelming distance, of separation, of loss-- these new emotions flooding through the medium of his mind as easily as an electric current through water.
[...You said boy make boy feel good...]
He felt alive.
Trowa was suddenly conscious of himself as something beyond an extension of a machine of war, with myopic purposes and goals, and he was suddenly aware of the world-- the earth, the universe-- in a breathtakingly profound way; aware of what the sky like from above and below, and was strangely stirred by the remembrance.
[...But still / Deep inside / Still / I've never felt alone/ 'Till I met you / I'm all right on my own / 'Till I met you / And I'd know what to do if I just knew what's coming...]
At the same time, the sheer volume, the influx of feeling left him drowned... Trowa felt like he was nerves and bone, feeling, experiencing, on a level that he had never known before. He fell from the heights of being in the most encompassing sense of the world, to the abyss of singular longing.
[...I would change myself if I could / I'd walk with my own people if I could find them / And I would say that I'm sorry to you / I'm sorry to you, but I don't want to call you...]
He lit a candle; taking a few, scant moments to appreciate the warmth, light, and scent. It was strange for him to take time to consider such a thing, something he would have in the past neither categorized as a trivial pursuit nor crucial, but merely with faint surprise and disinterest. He basked, for a minute, savoring the sensation of feeling.
Trowa withdrew a few folded papers with a hesitating air. He carefully smoothed one out, eyes tracing the beginning lines of, 'Dear Quatre...'
He began burning his letters.
[...But then I want to call you 'cause I don't want to crush you / But I feel like crushing you and it's true / I took for granted you were with me / I breath by your looks...]
They burnt easily, and he thought, silently, Ashes to ashes, with mingled regret and the omnipresent yearning. Blacked scraps of paper floated to the desk, and blew off as he breathed. Trowa stared at the last letter, his scrawling, black script still fresh in his mind. Discounting the introduction and his unsteady signature, it contained only a few restrained lines.
His hand lifted it up before the flame.
[...But we were broken and didn't know it / But we were broken and didn't know it / But we were broken and didn't know it / But we were broken and didn't know it...]
Tears began to form, his green eyes becoming verdant pools of color. His hands trembled as he watched the last letter disappear, flames licking at his fingers for another sacrifice.
[...Something's gone you withdraw and I'm not strong like before I was / Deep inside of you / I can go nowhere I burn candles and stare at a ghost / Deep inside of you...]
Somewhere beyond the single flame, Trowa thought he could perceive a glimmer of blue eyes and a flash of blond hair, beckoning, murmuring promises of a desert paradise and an idyllic life.
Symphony. Harmony.
His knees wobbled a little in his crouch, and slowly, he crumpled to the floor.
[...And some great need in me / Starts to bled / I've lost myself there's nothing left / It's all gone...]
The candle flickered out, wick drowning in melted wax.
Somewhere...
He stared, emotions playing across as his face like a film across a screen. He had to remember-- memories were what he mainly subsisted upon-- remember the sun, the heat, the warmth that radiated from the slight body that stood, facing him on an elevated platform strangely like the one he himself stood upon. Their respective constructed metal personas were gleaming in the sun behind them. His hands were raised in defeat, in submission, in surrender.
Trowa glanced at his palms, turning them over wonderingly, eyes tracing the rough and calloused hands. Fingers that had played a melody on a flute, fingers that had known war, loss and defeats.
He picked up a pen and pulled out a piece of paper.
[...Deep inside of you / Deep inside of you...]
/Dear Quatre.../
He took a deep breath, pen poised over the paper.
/I'm coming./
The End
Quatre: [dancing happy jig]
COME ON!! I have Quatre doing a *jig*... surely you'll respond? ;-)
Jay