Wallowing as usual
Aug. 5th, 2005 11:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lukon_ideinWell, it's August already. I'm sitting around brooding again. Fucking loser. I try to get myself to do something productive and useful, but then I just think 'why bother' and end up sitting at my computer reading more fucking fanfic. I wonder if there's some sort of support group for fanfic addicts. I think I need it. So many ideas and scenarios and emotions. It's such an endless world of possibilities. Don't like the way a series ends? Just write a new one. Aya bleeding his life out by a mailbox in New York City? No problem. Friendly neighborhood cops Dee and Ryo find him and take him to the hospital. Voila. Life saved. And possibly a nice threesome can ensue, like the cherry on top of the sundae. Everything's right again. (Though I'm not sure I can see Ryo doing a threesome... but I'm sure someone out there could figure out a way to get him into it.) Imagining the possibilities is fun. Gorging on melodrama so satisfying. But so bad for me. It makes it harder and harder to accept reality. Where people really die and are blowing themselves up in order to kill others. Oh fuck it. I'm so bad at keeping a journal. I'll probably go back and read this in two days and die of embarassment and then come back as a ghost just to delete it.
I even wrote a story where I projected all my angst on some poor unsuspecting character who was minding his own business and not bothering anyone. But I guess I'll post it anyway. Until shame overwhelms me and I trash it. But that is one of the good things about having a journal that nobody reads. There's no worry about being flamed or ridiculed. It reminds me of the song Sad Songs and Waltzes - a great song made even greater by Cake's straightforward and therefore strangely ironic take on it. It has the fabulous lyrics:
I'm writing this song all about you
A true song as real as my tears
But you've no need to fear it
'cause no one will hear it.
Sad songs and waltzes aren't selling this year.
Love that song! So anyway, in the aftermath of Half Blood Prince, I've been wandering around some of my other favorite fandoms to see what's up (why can't I find a good Saiyuki fic, dammit? They're all so OOC dammit), and have revisited the wonderful world of one my first fanfic obsessions - Gundam Wing. Oddly, I got hooked on the fic before I'd even seen the show. After a few stories I finally had to go lookup pics of the characters so I could at least picture them in my head. Then I did break down and rent the whole thing. It was awesome in its own inexplicable way. All that talk about the glory of battle that made no sense whatsover. (My roommate and I laughed our asses off at the Gundam Wing drinking game. And the Treize Kushrenada 'Got Milk' ad - fucking brilliant. And whenever Heero stated he was going to kill someone was pretty much a guarantee that the someone was going to live a long and happy life.) But of course with all those hotties running about with their guns and their angst, who cares what's supposed to be going on. The best hunk of wisdom about the show I ever read was from some fansite that was giving a rundown on all the characters, and I think it was under Heero where it said something like "But then Gundam Wing wouldn't be nearly so much fun if all the characters weren't marginally insane." So true.
And my favorite insane psycho was Trowa. Sure Duo had the hot hair and all, but I'm always drawn to the quietly brilliant ones who know what they're doing and don't have to say anything about it. Sure Heero was like that too, but he was more of a machine. Trowa managed to be sensual at the same time. And of course the VOICE - oh GOD - that voice is AMAZING. The Japanese one, I mean. So low and gentle and creamy and perfect. (Speaking of which, does anyone else find it hard to believe that Toshihiko Seki who voices Duo also voices Genjo Sanzo in Saiyuki??? Talk about no way! They're at least an octave apart and one is perky and the other is sex on wheels. I just can't reconcile it. Does not compute. {Error} {Error} {Error} *smoke puffs out of ears*) Sorry. Random digression. So Trowa is my fave. I'll read him in any pairing. Quatre, Heero, Duo, Une, Zechs (mmmm), Treize, Tsubarov (yes, there is at least one out there). He's so fucking hot. I'd probably even read one with him and Relena. Maybe. *shudders* Anyway, he was the unwitting receptacle of my latest bout of angst. So I wrote this.
Title: Dry Rot
Author: Lukoni
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Summary: Trowa, on his life after the war
Author's Notes: Completely lame. I apologize to anyone who reads this.
Trowa Barton was no one. That had even been his name at one time – Nanashi. No Name. No Designation. Nothing. It was like he was missing a soul because it did not have an address it could call home.
They’d told him to keep the name Trowa after the wars. It was what they were used to calling him. The other pilots. His friends. But where were they now? He hadn’t seen any of them for two years. Except Quatre. On an occasional news program. Still out to save the world in spite of its reluctance to be saved, the blond Arabian had worked tirelessly to make Winner Enterprises a voice for reform and reconstruction throughout the colonies and on earth. The others? He had no idea. Wufei had intended to join the Preventers as far as he knew. Heero was probably still guarding, or perhaps stalking, Relena. He wondered if Duo had gone back to his scrapyard with Hilde to raise a brood of kids, or if the ghosts of all those he had killed had driven him elsewhere, never allowing him to be comfortable long in one place. Well, that was a bit dramatic. Trowa felt his right eye twitch once. He was laughing at himself. But he never laughed out loud. Or smiled. Or sneered even. Just the occasional twitch. His eye, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. The first self-mockery, the second self-disgust, the third, more a tightening than a twitch, was reserved for when the world did not go as he wanted it to and he didn’t know what to do about it. He hadn’t used it since the day they had destroyed their Gundams, when he had said a friendly good-bye to Quatre and watched his back disappear into a Winner Enterprises shuttle. Empty promises to “keep in touch” rang in his ears and echoed through his nameless, soulless body. What would they have to talk about now? Trowa knew nothing of peace. Of how to live in a world without war. In a world that didn’t need him to spy or infiltrate or kill.
He’d gone back to the circus. Not a difficult choice. Catherine had wanted him to come back. His entire life had been spent following someone else’s orders, a mission plan, a directive. Catherine’s insistence that she needed him to continue the act was the closest thing to a mission he could find in this strange world. A world where survival was no longer the first thing on one’s mind when one woke up or the last thought before one slept.
And now here he was in bed in a trailer behind the lion cages staring at his feet. Or rather the lump his feet made under the blankets. He’d managed to feed the lions at their usual time of 6 AM. And instead of going to the main tent to practice on the trapeze he’d gone back to bed. Again. He’d done it first about a month ago, inexplicably nauseous at the thought of entering that giant tent. Catherine asked if he wasn’t feeling well. He’d simply nodded and disappeared into his room. And the earth didn’t stop. No one starved. No one was hurt. No one was disappointed. Nothing happened. His performance that night was fine. It had not suffered in the least from a missed workout.
A dozen times. It had been at least a dozen in the last month that he’d done it again. The nausea hadn’t recurred. It was more just lethargy now. He’d get up, get water and food for the animals, and trudge back to the trailer without even looking at the big top. Catherine had cast him many worried glances, but stopped trying to ask him about it after he’d given her a Heero-Yuy-style death glare when she stood in front of his door demanding answers. She’d shaken her head and stepped away, letting him escape to his solitude.
He stared at the lumps of his feet now and remembered the hurt look on her face. He knew he should talk to her. Should get up. Should get back to his normal schedule. But here, in this room, he was warm, he was sated, he was content. There seemed to be little need to go to the effort of practicing a routine he knew inside out and backwards even in his sleep. What was the point? The performances had been going fine. He’d rather stay in bed and enjoy the comfort of the blankets and the darkness and that welcoming pillow. His mind could wander where it wanted. To thoughts of the friends he’d once had, who, he supposed, he missed. But there was no point in looking them up and contacting them. They all had lives to live with no room for a shiftless old wartime comrade. And what would he want from them anyway, if he saw them? He did not know. A cup of coffee and a chat about old times? A few hours of reminiscing over the good old days when they were killing people almost daily and were the most feared people in the galaxy. Only to quietly pay the tab, and come back to the circus and put on another 8 shows a week. 8 shows a week, fifty weeks out of the year made 400 shows a year. How many years left in his working life? Even if he grew too old to tumble, he supposed he could stay on working with the lions or some such thing. Say 40 years. That would be 16,000 more shows to perform. 16,000 more costume changes. 16,000 more attempts to be flawless. 24 million strangers to please. And then he’d be old and pathetic and people would look at him and wonder how anyone could possibly have feared him. And he’d be alone and waiting to die. Just like he was now. Why did he have to survive the war? He wasn’t made for a world like this.
He had known it before the war had ended. Knew he was fighting for a world that would hold no place for him. But he hadn’t minded. It was worth it. To keep people from being slaughtered. To help make a world where a 6-year-old boy wasn’t expected to create a diversion at the front gate while the rest of the team slipped in the back to kill an entire clan. A soldier with no war to fight was no one. He’d always known that. It had been easy to comprehend in the abstract but to live it was another story. Forty more years. Two had been hard enough. Not hard in the way most of his life had been hard. Rather it had been soft. With nothing to fight for, no struggle to survive, he felt himself decaying from the inside out. An empty, abandoned house with dry rot. That was what had become of that frightened child taking aim at another human for the first time in his short life. That was what had become of Pilot 03, The Silencer.
A knock at his door. “Trowa?” He glanced coldly at the door. “Trowa? Are you going to get up today? We really ought to practice at least once this week.” Orders again. He could relate to that. He silently slipped on his shirt and went to open the door.
Catherine’s worried face looked up at him. She put a hand on Trowa’s arm and squeezed it gently. “What is it, Trowa? What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” he answered calmly. “Nothing is the matter.” He brushed past her, heading to the main tent. A nameless empty thing. He considered changing his name to Golem. And his right eye twitched.
~OWARI~
It's probably completely OOC since Tro-man is way too cool to brood. But still. I like the idea that it is easy to accept the idea that one's skills are no longer needed and that's good, yet the reality is harder to live with. I suppose it's really the issue that Wufei was going through in Endless Waltz. But not everyone can get into a Gundam and trash the hell out of the planet when they feel useless and lonely. And that's not Trowa's style.
Well, I'd better wrap this drivel up for now. Sorry to be such a whiner. I've been going a little mental down here in the middle of nowhere with no friends and no supervision at work. Idle hands and all...
Sayonara!
I even wrote a story where I projected all my angst on some poor unsuspecting character who was minding his own business and not bothering anyone. But I guess I'll post it anyway. Until shame overwhelms me and I trash it. But that is one of the good things about having a journal that nobody reads. There's no worry about being flamed or ridiculed. It reminds me of the song Sad Songs and Waltzes - a great song made even greater by Cake's straightforward and therefore strangely ironic take on it. It has the fabulous lyrics:
I'm writing this song all about you
A true song as real as my tears
But you've no need to fear it
'cause no one will hear it.
Sad songs and waltzes aren't selling this year.
Love that song! So anyway, in the aftermath of Half Blood Prince, I've been wandering around some of my other favorite fandoms to see what's up (why can't I find a good Saiyuki fic, dammit? They're all so OOC dammit), and have revisited the wonderful world of one my first fanfic obsessions - Gundam Wing. Oddly, I got hooked on the fic before I'd even seen the show. After a few stories I finally had to go lookup pics of the characters so I could at least picture them in my head. Then I did break down and rent the whole thing. It was awesome in its own inexplicable way. All that talk about the glory of battle that made no sense whatsover. (My roommate and I laughed our asses off at the Gundam Wing drinking game. And the Treize Kushrenada 'Got Milk' ad - fucking brilliant. And whenever Heero stated he was going to kill someone was pretty much a guarantee that the someone was going to live a long and happy life.) But of course with all those hotties running about with their guns and their angst, who cares what's supposed to be going on. The best hunk of wisdom about the show I ever read was from some fansite that was giving a rundown on all the characters, and I think it was under Heero where it said something like "But then Gundam Wing wouldn't be nearly so much fun if all the characters weren't marginally insane." So true.
And my favorite insane psycho was Trowa. Sure Duo had the hot hair and all, but I'm always drawn to the quietly brilliant ones who know what they're doing and don't have to say anything about it. Sure Heero was like that too, but he was more of a machine. Trowa managed to be sensual at the same time. And of course the VOICE - oh GOD - that voice is AMAZING. The Japanese one, I mean. So low and gentle and creamy and perfect. (Speaking of which, does anyone else find it hard to believe that Toshihiko Seki who voices Duo also voices Genjo Sanzo in Saiyuki??? Talk about no way! They're at least an octave apart and one is perky and the other is sex on wheels. I just can't reconcile it. Does not compute. {Error} {Error} {Error} *smoke puffs out of ears*) Sorry. Random digression. So Trowa is my fave. I'll read him in any pairing. Quatre, Heero, Duo, Une, Zechs (mmmm), Treize, Tsubarov (yes, there is at least one out there). He's so fucking hot. I'd probably even read one with him and Relena. Maybe. *shudders* Anyway, he was the unwitting receptacle of my latest bout of angst. So I wrote this.
Title: Dry Rot
Author: Lukoni
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Summary: Trowa, on his life after the war
Author's Notes: Completely lame. I apologize to anyone who reads this.
Trowa Barton was no one. That had even been his name at one time – Nanashi. No Name. No Designation. Nothing. It was like he was missing a soul because it did not have an address it could call home.
They’d told him to keep the name Trowa after the wars. It was what they were used to calling him. The other pilots. His friends. But where were they now? He hadn’t seen any of them for two years. Except Quatre. On an occasional news program. Still out to save the world in spite of its reluctance to be saved, the blond Arabian had worked tirelessly to make Winner Enterprises a voice for reform and reconstruction throughout the colonies and on earth. The others? He had no idea. Wufei had intended to join the Preventers as far as he knew. Heero was probably still guarding, or perhaps stalking, Relena. He wondered if Duo had gone back to his scrapyard with Hilde to raise a brood of kids, or if the ghosts of all those he had killed had driven him elsewhere, never allowing him to be comfortable long in one place. Well, that was a bit dramatic. Trowa felt his right eye twitch once. He was laughing at himself. But he never laughed out loud. Or smiled. Or sneered even. Just the occasional twitch. His eye, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. The first self-mockery, the second self-disgust, the third, more a tightening than a twitch, was reserved for when the world did not go as he wanted it to and he didn’t know what to do about it. He hadn’t used it since the day they had destroyed their Gundams, when he had said a friendly good-bye to Quatre and watched his back disappear into a Winner Enterprises shuttle. Empty promises to “keep in touch” rang in his ears and echoed through his nameless, soulless body. What would they have to talk about now? Trowa knew nothing of peace. Of how to live in a world without war. In a world that didn’t need him to spy or infiltrate or kill.
He’d gone back to the circus. Not a difficult choice. Catherine had wanted him to come back. His entire life had been spent following someone else’s orders, a mission plan, a directive. Catherine’s insistence that she needed him to continue the act was the closest thing to a mission he could find in this strange world. A world where survival was no longer the first thing on one’s mind when one woke up or the last thought before one slept.
And now here he was in bed in a trailer behind the lion cages staring at his feet. Or rather the lump his feet made under the blankets. He’d managed to feed the lions at their usual time of 6 AM. And instead of going to the main tent to practice on the trapeze he’d gone back to bed. Again. He’d done it first about a month ago, inexplicably nauseous at the thought of entering that giant tent. Catherine asked if he wasn’t feeling well. He’d simply nodded and disappeared into his room. And the earth didn’t stop. No one starved. No one was hurt. No one was disappointed. Nothing happened. His performance that night was fine. It had not suffered in the least from a missed workout.
A dozen times. It had been at least a dozen in the last month that he’d done it again. The nausea hadn’t recurred. It was more just lethargy now. He’d get up, get water and food for the animals, and trudge back to the trailer without even looking at the big top. Catherine had cast him many worried glances, but stopped trying to ask him about it after he’d given her a Heero-Yuy-style death glare when she stood in front of his door demanding answers. She’d shaken her head and stepped away, letting him escape to his solitude.
He stared at the lumps of his feet now and remembered the hurt look on her face. He knew he should talk to her. Should get up. Should get back to his normal schedule. But here, in this room, he was warm, he was sated, he was content. There seemed to be little need to go to the effort of practicing a routine he knew inside out and backwards even in his sleep. What was the point? The performances had been going fine. He’d rather stay in bed and enjoy the comfort of the blankets and the darkness and that welcoming pillow. His mind could wander where it wanted. To thoughts of the friends he’d once had, who, he supposed, he missed. But there was no point in looking them up and contacting them. They all had lives to live with no room for a shiftless old wartime comrade. And what would he want from them anyway, if he saw them? He did not know. A cup of coffee and a chat about old times? A few hours of reminiscing over the good old days when they were killing people almost daily and were the most feared people in the galaxy. Only to quietly pay the tab, and come back to the circus and put on another 8 shows a week. 8 shows a week, fifty weeks out of the year made 400 shows a year. How many years left in his working life? Even if he grew too old to tumble, he supposed he could stay on working with the lions or some such thing. Say 40 years. That would be 16,000 more shows to perform. 16,000 more costume changes. 16,000 more attempts to be flawless. 24 million strangers to please. And then he’d be old and pathetic and people would look at him and wonder how anyone could possibly have feared him. And he’d be alone and waiting to die. Just like he was now. Why did he have to survive the war? He wasn’t made for a world like this.
He had known it before the war had ended. Knew he was fighting for a world that would hold no place for him. But he hadn’t minded. It was worth it. To keep people from being slaughtered. To help make a world where a 6-year-old boy wasn’t expected to create a diversion at the front gate while the rest of the team slipped in the back to kill an entire clan. A soldier with no war to fight was no one. He’d always known that. It had been easy to comprehend in the abstract but to live it was another story. Forty more years. Two had been hard enough. Not hard in the way most of his life had been hard. Rather it had been soft. With nothing to fight for, no struggle to survive, he felt himself decaying from the inside out. An empty, abandoned house with dry rot. That was what had become of that frightened child taking aim at another human for the first time in his short life. That was what had become of Pilot 03, The Silencer.
A knock at his door. “Trowa?” He glanced coldly at the door. “Trowa? Are you going to get up today? We really ought to practice at least once this week.” Orders again. He could relate to that. He silently slipped on his shirt and went to open the door.
Catherine’s worried face looked up at him. She put a hand on Trowa’s arm and squeezed it gently. “What is it, Trowa? What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” he answered calmly. “Nothing is the matter.” He brushed past her, heading to the main tent. A nameless empty thing. He considered changing his name to Golem. And his right eye twitched.
~OWARI~
It's probably completely OOC since Tro-man is way too cool to brood. But still. I like the idea that it is easy to accept the idea that one's skills are no longer needed and that's good, yet the reality is harder to live with. I suppose it's really the issue that Wufei was going through in Endless Waltz. But not everyone can get into a Gundam and trash the hell out of the planet when they feel useless and lonely. And that's not Trowa's style.
Well, I'd better wrap this drivel up for now. Sorry to be such a whiner. I've been going a little mental down here in the middle of nowhere with no friends and no supervision at work. Idle hands and all...
Sayonara!
