In a Rut. (Would that be 'Enrutted'?)
Dec. 13th, 2007 04:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lukon_ideinSo, I haven't written anything in over a month. It's been weird. I've wanted to, sometimes so badly, but nothing formed beyond the blind need to express myself. And now that it's the holiday season and everyone is coming up with festive, light, happy, playful fics all I can come up with is this. It's like someone killed my sense of humor and stashed the body in the root cellar. It used to be that I could find humor in almost everything and it buoyed me up. Not so much lately. All I can say is, thank heavens for Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me. It still hasn't failed to make me laugh.
So please forgive my self-indulgent blues. Hope everyone out there is doing well and having a happy holiday season!
Title: Traces
Author: Lukoni
Characters: Trowa/Quatre
Word Count: ca. 850
Summary: Trowa hasn’t been sleeping, and it’s time to do something about it.
Rating: G
Warnings: Angst. Pointless rambling. It's like a songfic, without the song! (Oh great, we can hardly wait...)
Traces
Trowa let his head rest on his folded arms on Quatre’s desk. The bedroom was long since abandoned. He had a song playing on repeat. It was mellow and dissonant and made something hurt in his chest. He’d never bothered to notice the lyrics.
He couldn’t sleep anymore. He was terrified of sleep. It was too close to death. He’d fled at last from watching Quatre’s chest rise and fall, slowly, calmly, so far away from him. The warmth of his breath against Trowa’s outstretched fingers a token struggle against the inevitable. Sleep would get them all in the end and forever. It was always waiting, in the darkness of closed eyes, ready to strike.
He stared aimlessly at the closest object. Quatre’s keyboard. The keys were black and some so worn they were shiny and missing the identifying letter. The song started again. A frown creased its way between his eyes. Against the shine of those certain keys he could see fingerprints. Quatre’s fingerprints, traces of his life, of his work, of his precious fingers. Dangerous traces. Some instinct so old he didn’t recall when he didn’t have it told him to get rid of them. Someone might know Quatre had been here. What keys he’d pressed. Never leave tracks.
He sat up, hunched over, eyes close to the plastic, and began to rub his fingers over the keys, smearing, smoothing, erasing the tell-tale marks. E. R. T. H. O. U. S. D. N. M. Over the keyboard and back again. Just to make sure. A. S. E. R. T. T. T. T. T. His name started with T. Was that why this was so worn? But the W still had most of its original matte finish. Better wipe it clean anyway. And the Q since he was there. Tab. Shift. Space. Shift. Enter. All betraying Quatre’s presence. The song started again. Backspace. 0. 9. O. I. U. J. K. L. Cascading down in a soothing pattern along with the wistful strains of music. Period. Comma. M. N. H. B. G. V. F. D.S.WERTYUIO. The function keys looked barely touched, but still, it didn’t hurt to be careful. F4. F3. F2. F1. Again. F5. F6. F7. F8. Dust on that one. And the next four as well. All clean. Just like new.
“Trowa? What are you doing?”
Trowa froze. He could picture Quatre standing in the doorway, rumpled from sleep, hair sticking out at odd angles, mazily rubbing sleep from his eyes. But he didn’t look up. Couldn’t face the invasion of his meditation. The shiny black keys glared at him accusingly. “What are you doing?” they seemed to ask.
The soft brush of bare feet on carpet warned him of the impending approach. A warm hand on his shoulder. The song trailed off in an ethereal chord of whimsy and pain. There was silence. Trowa held his breath so as not to break it. The song began again. And he continued breathing. The hand caressed his shoulders. He didn’t want to have this conversation.
“Trowa, you have to sleep.”
“I can’t,” he mumbled.
“I know. I can feel you,” said his empathic lover softly, reluctantly, accusingly.
“I’m sorry,” said Trowa, for the fourth time this week. He knew, he knew, he knew. He kept trying to stop the restless feelings the swirled through him, that bled into Quatre’s consciousness, invading his lover’s nighttime universe, but it never seemed to help. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
“I know you aren’t doing it on purpose. But I don’t understand why you won’t get help.”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“There is,” insisted Quatre gently but firmly.
He tried ignore the cold feeling those words gave him. Knowing that he was flawed hurt. That he was ruining this for Quatre. That Quatre was right. He was breaking apart. Fucked up. Useless and paralyzed.
“It’s almost time to get up,” Trowa murmured. “I’ll make you breakfast.”
“Don’t change the subject, Trowa.”
Trowa cringed at the iron firmness in Quatre’s voice. He stared intensely at the wood grain of the desk, his mind a turmoil of panic, anger, fear and resignation. He knew it couldn’t keep going on like this. On and off for months. It was as tiring to Quatre as it was to him. It wasn’t fair.
“I...” he began, framing his words carefully. “I’ll do something about it. I promise.”
Quatre’s lips pressed slowly against his temple in a reassuring kiss. “You’ll get help?” he pressed, not trusting Trowa’s words, and rightly so. They hadn’t been together for so long for nothing.
“I’ll... figure something out,” he said vaguely. Quatre didn’t seem entirely satisfied by this, sensing his ambivalence, no doubt, and he knelt beside Trowa, embracing him quietly.
“We’ll get through this, honey. We will.” Trowa let himself believe it, knowing Quatre would feel it if he disagreed. What was not to believe? People got through things, whether they wanted to or not. Until Sleep came to claim you forever. The song started again.
“Breakfast,” Trowa said, placing a kiss on top of Quatre’s head.
“Nag, nag, nag,” Quatre said fondly.
And so Trowa made omlettes, and Quatre showered, dressed and ate, and they kissed goodbye, and Trowa changed the sheets, packed his things, wiped down every surface in the house, and left.
And when Quatre returned there wasn’t a single trace that Trowa had ever been there at all.
~ Fin ~
So please forgive my self-indulgent blues. Hope everyone out there is doing well and having a happy holiday season!
Title: Traces
Author: Lukoni
Characters: Trowa/Quatre
Word Count: ca. 850
Summary: Trowa hasn’t been sleeping, and it’s time to do something about it.
Rating: G
Warnings: Angst. Pointless rambling. It's like a songfic, without the song! (Oh great, we can hardly wait...)
Traces
Trowa let his head rest on his folded arms on Quatre’s desk. The bedroom was long since abandoned. He had a song playing on repeat. It was mellow and dissonant and made something hurt in his chest. He’d never bothered to notice the lyrics.
He couldn’t sleep anymore. He was terrified of sleep. It was too close to death. He’d fled at last from watching Quatre’s chest rise and fall, slowly, calmly, so far away from him. The warmth of his breath against Trowa’s outstretched fingers a token struggle against the inevitable. Sleep would get them all in the end and forever. It was always waiting, in the darkness of closed eyes, ready to strike.
He stared aimlessly at the closest object. Quatre’s keyboard. The keys were black and some so worn they were shiny and missing the identifying letter. The song started again. A frown creased its way between his eyes. Against the shine of those certain keys he could see fingerprints. Quatre’s fingerprints, traces of his life, of his work, of his precious fingers. Dangerous traces. Some instinct so old he didn’t recall when he didn’t have it told him to get rid of them. Someone might know Quatre had been here. What keys he’d pressed. Never leave tracks.
He sat up, hunched over, eyes close to the plastic, and began to rub his fingers over the keys, smearing, smoothing, erasing the tell-tale marks. E. R. T. H. O. U. S. D. N. M. Over the keyboard and back again. Just to make sure. A. S. E. R. T. T. T. T. T. His name started with T. Was that why this was so worn? But the W still had most of its original matte finish. Better wipe it clean anyway. And the Q since he was there. Tab. Shift. Space. Shift. Enter. All betraying Quatre’s presence. The song started again. Backspace. 0. 9. O. I. U. J. K. L. Cascading down in a soothing pattern along with the wistful strains of music. Period. Comma. M. N. H. B. G. V. F. D.S.WERTYUIO. The function keys looked barely touched, but still, it didn’t hurt to be careful. F4. F3. F2. F1. Again. F5. F6. F7. F8. Dust on that one. And the next four as well. All clean. Just like new.
“Trowa? What are you doing?”
Trowa froze. He could picture Quatre standing in the doorway, rumpled from sleep, hair sticking out at odd angles, mazily rubbing sleep from his eyes. But he didn’t look up. Couldn’t face the invasion of his meditation. The shiny black keys glared at him accusingly. “What are you doing?” they seemed to ask.
The soft brush of bare feet on carpet warned him of the impending approach. A warm hand on his shoulder. The song trailed off in an ethereal chord of whimsy and pain. There was silence. Trowa held his breath so as not to break it. The song began again. And he continued breathing. The hand caressed his shoulders. He didn’t want to have this conversation.
“Trowa, you have to sleep.”
“I can’t,” he mumbled.
“I know. I can feel you,” said his empathic lover softly, reluctantly, accusingly.
“I’m sorry,” said Trowa, for the fourth time this week. He knew, he knew, he knew. He kept trying to stop the restless feelings the swirled through him, that bled into Quatre’s consciousness, invading his lover’s nighttime universe, but it never seemed to help. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
“I know you aren’t doing it on purpose. But I don’t understand why you won’t get help.”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“There is,” insisted Quatre gently but firmly.
He tried ignore the cold feeling those words gave him. Knowing that he was flawed hurt. That he was ruining this for Quatre. That Quatre was right. He was breaking apart. Fucked up. Useless and paralyzed.
“It’s almost time to get up,” Trowa murmured. “I’ll make you breakfast.”
“Don’t change the subject, Trowa.”
Trowa cringed at the iron firmness in Quatre’s voice. He stared intensely at the wood grain of the desk, his mind a turmoil of panic, anger, fear and resignation. He knew it couldn’t keep going on like this. On and off for months. It was as tiring to Quatre as it was to him. It wasn’t fair.
“I...” he began, framing his words carefully. “I’ll do something about it. I promise.”
Quatre’s lips pressed slowly against his temple in a reassuring kiss. “You’ll get help?” he pressed, not trusting Trowa’s words, and rightly so. They hadn’t been together for so long for nothing.
“I’ll... figure something out,” he said vaguely. Quatre didn’t seem entirely satisfied by this, sensing his ambivalence, no doubt, and he knelt beside Trowa, embracing him quietly.
“We’ll get through this, honey. We will.” Trowa let himself believe it, knowing Quatre would feel it if he disagreed. What was not to believe? People got through things, whether they wanted to or not. Until Sleep came to claim you forever. The song started again.
“Breakfast,” Trowa said, placing a kiss on top of Quatre’s head.
“Nag, nag, nag,” Quatre said fondly.
And so Trowa made omlettes, and Quatre showered, dressed and ate, and they kissed goodbye, and Trowa changed the sheets, packed his things, wiped down every surface in the house, and left.
And when Quatre returned there wasn’t a single trace that Trowa had ever been there at all.
~ Fin ~
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no subject
on 2007-12-14 08:44 pm (UTC)