Posted: 10/19/00
Title: Blood Roses
Author: Jay / neophyte@snet.net
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. Angst/darkfic.
Pairings: 13x6
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.)
Warning/Rating: R. Severe angst, self-injury, mildly graphic sexual descriptions.
Feedback: Hit me!
Note: This was supposed to be for Angel Ikari's birthday. Tori Amos and a Gundam Wing Zechs-centric fic. Only I chose this song in a burst of inspiration, so it's less than uplifting, and more disturbing than anything. But I lay this before you, Angel, with promises that if you're horribly depressed afterwards, I'll write you something happier.
Otherwise, the song beckoned to me this morning at approximately 6:40 a.m. when I was listening to the last two lines and decided it would make a wonderful 13x6, given Treize's penchant for roses, after all. It kind of follows the "Little Girls" and "Mirrors" style, but it's not necessarily a continuation. I'm not the most original author (duh), so I recycle elements like *mad*. Expanded upon further after the fic.
[.Blood Roses / Blood Roses / Back on the street now / Blood Roses / Blood Roses / Back on the street now.]
A glint, harsh in the low light of the bathroom-- peeling a petal away, letting it drift to the floor; soaked crimson into crisp linoleum. All this in a silent ballad, mouthing, He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not-- smile just slightly askew-- combing through blond tresses that fall like bleached silk. The light hums, insistent, a dull monotonous throbbing as steady and as tedious as the steel-clad organ that pumps inside my ribcage. The refrain shifts, changes into sudden agony, unexpected elation, as I sink to the floor and another petal is scraped away, pinched with infinite care between my thumb and forefinger, dropped, fluttering downwards to meet cold tile.
[.Can't forget the things you never said / On days like these gets me thinking /When chickens get a taste of your meat / When chickens get a taste of your meat, yes.]
Rewind. Play. Click. Pause.
Incandescent in his afterglow, bathed in a sheen of glorious sweat, I was draped beneath his arm-- firmly muscled, swung across my chest, curling around my ribs-- murmuring sweet nothings in dying candlelight: the waning fervor of the moon (a place slice of ivory set against a velvet blue); voice reverent; eyes radiating the specific uncertainties that mark the lovelorn, lust-struck, heartsick; fingers tracing the creases of his palm like lifelines.
A petal falls. I grin, whisper: He Loves Me.
Acquiescing, with a twist of my wrist.
[.You gave him your blood / And your warm little diamond / He likes killing you after you're dead.]
Like the sudden jilt of his hips, locked against mine-- offering him the meek and petty gifts I have with a submissive shrug, an eloquent flash of tender flesh-- face as beautiful as a blooming bruise-- tasting my blood in his lips as a querying mouth roams from the slope of my jaw to the corner of my eye, slick tongue a salve for all wounds.
Blood, dark against his teeth, dark against my skin.
A sick kind of resurrection, through union of flesh.
Petals, dark against the floor.
[.You think I'm a queer / I think you're a queer / Said I think you're a queer / I think you're a queer.]
Tasting the salt of my skin on his lips, the pang of blood and cum, in a swirling concoction that coats his tongue, slides down his throat.
Offering bloodless smiles.
[.I shaved every place where you been, boy / I said I shaved every place where you been, yes.]
Scraping the petals away.
I Love Him.
To fall to the floor, thin scraps, tinted red.
He Loves Me Not.
The memory is so intense it burns me away.
[.God knows I know I've thrown away those graces / God knows I've thrown away those graces / God knows I know I've thrown away those graces.]
The lascivious feel of skin on skin-- the catch of breath-- entangled limbs-- calves, looped over a strong shoulder-- lips, biting down-- blood-- the catch of skin in skin-- fluid grace-- the iron taste-- the decadence of satin sheets against my back.
He Loves Me.
Petals so fine, translucent, light shines through. Throwing my graces away like a bride's bouquet.
[.The Belle of New Orleans tried to show me once how to tango / Wrapped around your feet / Wrapped around like good little roses.]
He Loves Me Not.
The delirious repetition, facing the mirror: I'm blooming, efflorescent under the faltering light.
Always ready to fall at his feet.
Petals, gathering around mine.
[.Blood Roses / Blood Roses / Back on the street now / Blood Roses / Blood Roses / Back on the street now, now, now.]
The candor of the bathroom light and the deception of the empty bed.
He Loves Me.
[.Now you've cut out the flute / From the throat of the loon. / At least when you cry now / He can't even hear you.]
Tears.
Hot against my cold cheek, slick against my fingers. Taste it. Brushing against my arm-- one plush tongue darting out, tasting blood before it clots. He called me a rose.
Petals falling: blood roses.
Never as comforting as his kiss, never as comforting as his arms. Needing him on some primal level, regressing to base instinct.
His pretty little rose.
Raw, bleeding, measured by the pound.
Setting the razor down.
Freshly cut. Pre-packaged.
Picking the razor up.
A rose by any other name.
Slicing flesh-- thin plates of skin-- He Loves Me Not. An uneasy vertigo.
[.When chickens get a taste of your meat / Come on, Come on, Come on, Come on / When he sucks you deep / Sometimes you're nothing but meat.]
Setting the razor down.
Peeling the petals, exposing flesh. Pulling back skin-- a swift tear, a quick cut-- that falls to the floor. He Loves Me. The light is choking, the erratic beat of my heart, the ring of steel in my hand. Leaning downwards, hair cascading over my shoulders.
Treize comes to the door.
"Zechs."
A whisper. A prayer. An Amen.
And I open my palm, offering him blood roses.
The End
Fic Notes: I always put them in the bathroom, I know. I have no idea why, actually. And I notice that I generally start out descriptive and then taper off into sentence fragments. ::scratches head:: Well, you folks can provide the rest of the literary criticism.
Well, Angel, happy pre-emptive birthday. My offer for something not quite so. brutal still stands.
Jay