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31_days2005-08-04 12:05 am
starlighter.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-08-04 12:05 am
[August 3rd] [Gundam Wing] In hoc signo vinces
Title: In hoc signo vinces
Day/Theme: August 3rd/ Like Hamlet
Series: Gundam Wing
Pairing: Quatre Raberba Winner/Trowa Barton
Rating: R
(I swear on my soul that this would have been on time if not for Xjournal quitting on me multiple times.)
August 3rd - Like Hamlet
In hoc signo vinces
===================
Quatre dreams, again, of the Zero System. Everything is both brilliantly clear and simple, and at the same time, massively complex - the constant influx of data, threat assessment and re-assessment, the gauges flickering behind his eyelids nearly too quickly for him to read, sparks of meaningless light like stars, registering only in the space between conscious and unconscious, his fingers twitching to commands not of his own making - or perhaps, they are more his than any he has ever made in his life. They melt into the glittering ice-dust of an asteroid field, solar flares like the heat of re-entry, fading, falling - not towards a planet, but into the impossible cold and nothing of space. He remembers the sound of his own breathing, loud and echoing in his helmet, the sudden startling crackle of radio static as fire blooms in space, radiant and slow and completely silent (he must be imagining the roaring in his ears; there is no sound in space). The readouts stab at his eyes now (for they, too, are burning); fatalities, damage, dangerous debris. Mission accomplished. They still on this, the System collapsing in on itself, going into standby, and Quatre wakes up on the inhale of a deep breath.
He slows his heart rate, which has risen too quickly during his dream, adrenaline waking him up better than any drug his doctors can supply, and lets out the breath slowly. He feels cleansed, refreshed, absolved - his father's face, smiling down at him, flashes through his mind (a good memory, from when he was six or seven; he holds it close; everything else is dross). Quatre rolls over, props himself up on his elbows and watches Trowa work, all the way across the room behind a massive desk that used to be Quatre's. Now, it is covered with reports and spreadsheets and folders Trowa has yet to go through; his head comes up at Quatre's motion and his face relaxes into what, for Trowa, passes as a smile. "Good morning," he says over a sheaf of papers about to fall completely out of their straining pelican clip, brushes a couple of manila folders aside in search of a pen to mark his place. Quatre smiles sunnily back and crawls off the bed to pad over the thick antique Persian carpets to the desk.
Madness, he reflects, is very liberating. Fewer reports reach his desk, dinner and party invitations can be refused without excuse or explanation; his life, in general, is simpler. He does what he wants, and he has Trowa here, with him; he sees, with absolute clarity, that this is all he will ever need, and he sees, with equal clarity, that he will kill anyone who tries to take this away from him. These are the basic precepts of his life; the rest is unnecessary and undesirable.
"You mustn't give in," he tells Trowa, who looks up at him in confusion, his attention having been drawn back to the report. "They just want us to lower our prices on water shipping - tell them that our price is the best offer they are going to get, and the subsidies they're paying on the food shipments are non-negotiable - it's part of the deal." Quatre leans over to kiss Trowa, who has gone suddenly sharp-eyed and wary, good morning, stretching slowly and surely over the table, his feet arching like a cat's. With one lazy hand, he sweeps the paper storm that litters the table onto the floor. He deepens the kiss; out of the corner of his eye, he sees the door open; a Maguanac poking his head in to check if Master Winner has not yet completely lost it and retreating hastily. He laughs against Trowa's mouth; he should have done this months ago. Years. His amusement bubbles up inside him like champagne; his hands are already pulling at Trowa's turtleneck in a celebratory mood, drawing his face up to meet Quatre's. It is the greatest strategy he has ever devised, the best battlefield ruse in his new post-war world of business and corporations and industry, of people he can't simply shoot on sight and reports he cannot just blow up into confetti.
He gets Trowa's shirt off and his pants undone, straddles the soft leather armchair he bought years ago and in which he has spent so many exhausted, aching, fruitless hours working and working and needing Trowa to just be here, drawing closer and closer to a breaking point he began to hope would come, if only to bring him release - truly, only the mad are free.
Quatre's mood is infectious; soon, Trowa's hands are running like water down his back, sliding under Quatre's hips to help him lift, and as he slides down, down, his mouth open in a cry, a scream, a supplication, silent, he tells himself, this is my victory.
Day/Theme: August 3rd/ Like Hamlet
Series: Gundam Wing
Pairing: Quatre Raberba Winner/Trowa Barton
Rating: R
(I swear on my soul that this would have been on time if not for Xjournal quitting on me multiple times.)
August 3rd - Like Hamlet
In hoc signo vinces
===================
Quatre dreams, again, of the Zero System. Everything is both brilliantly clear and simple, and at the same time, massively complex - the constant influx of data, threat assessment and re-assessment, the gauges flickering behind his eyelids nearly too quickly for him to read, sparks of meaningless light like stars, registering only in the space between conscious and unconscious, his fingers twitching to commands not of his own making - or perhaps, they are more his than any he has ever made in his life. They melt into the glittering ice-dust of an asteroid field, solar flares like the heat of re-entry, fading, falling - not towards a planet, but into the impossible cold and nothing of space. He remembers the sound of his own breathing, loud and echoing in his helmet, the sudden startling crackle of radio static as fire blooms in space, radiant and slow and completely silent (he must be imagining the roaring in his ears; there is no sound in space). The readouts stab at his eyes now (for they, too, are burning); fatalities, damage, dangerous debris. Mission accomplished. They still on this, the System collapsing in on itself, going into standby, and Quatre wakes up on the inhale of a deep breath.
He slows his heart rate, which has risen too quickly during his dream, adrenaline waking him up better than any drug his doctors can supply, and lets out the breath slowly. He feels cleansed, refreshed, absolved - his father's face, smiling down at him, flashes through his mind (a good memory, from when he was six or seven; he holds it close; everything else is dross). Quatre rolls over, props himself up on his elbows and watches Trowa work, all the way across the room behind a massive desk that used to be Quatre's. Now, it is covered with reports and spreadsheets and folders Trowa has yet to go through; his head comes up at Quatre's motion and his face relaxes into what, for Trowa, passes as a smile. "Good morning," he says over a sheaf of papers about to fall completely out of their straining pelican clip, brushes a couple of manila folders aside in search of a pen to mark his place. Quatre smiles sunnily back and crawls off the bed to pad over the thick antique Persian carpets to the desk.
Madness, he reflects, is very liberating. Fewer reports reach his desk, dinner and party invitations can be refused without excuse or explanation; his life, in general, is simpler. He does what he wants, and he has Trowa here, with him; he sees, with absolute clarity, that this is all he will ever need, and he sees, with equal clarity, that he will kill anyone who tries to take this away from him. These are the basic precepts of his life; the rest is unnecessary and undesirable.
"You mustn't give in," he tells Trowa, who looks up at him in confusion, his attention having been drawn back to the report. "They just want us to lower our prices on water shipping - tell them that our price is the best offer they are going to get, and the subsidies they're paying on the food shipments are non-negotiable - it's part of the deal." Quatre leans over to kiss Trowa, who has gone suddenly sharp-eyed and wary, good morning, stretching slowly and surely over the table, his feet arching like a cat's. With one lazy hand, he sweeps the paper storm that litters the table onto the floor. He deepens the kiss; out of the corner of his eye, he sees the door open; a Maguanac poking his head in to check if Master Winner has not yet completely lost it and retreating hastily. He laughs against Trowa's mouth; he should have done this months ago. Years. His amusement bubbles up inside him like champagne; his hands are already pulling at Trowa's turtleneck in a celebratory mood, drawing his face up to meet Quatre's. It is the greatest strategy he has ever devised, the best battlefield ruse in his new post-war world of business and corporations and industry, of people he can't simply shoot on sight and reports he cannot just blow up into confetti.
He gets Trowa's shirt off and his pants undone, straddles the soft leather armchair he bought years ago and in which he has spent so many exhausted, aching, fruitless hours working and working and needing Trowa to just be here, drawing closer and closer to a breaking point he began to hope would come, if only to bring him release - truly, only the mad are free.
Quatre's mood is infectious; soon, Trowa's hands are running like water down his back, sliding under Quatre's hips to help him lift, and as he slides down, down, his mouth open in a cry, a scream, a supplication, silent, he tells himself, this is my victory.