.it wouldn't be bad to live in the darkness.

gintama fic: the dead girlfriend wins!

Thu, 14 Aug 2008 05:52:37 GMT

Title: five ways of coping
Author: fainn
Rating: Uh...I'll say PG to be safe.
Pairings: Hijikata/Mitsuba, Hijikata/Mayo.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warning: ...uh...mayo-angst?
Written for: paako//Prompt: Toshi, thoughts on Mitsuba.

.one.
The first thing he does is eat. First are the senbei crackers (super hot!), then the Tabasco omelets, then the black-bean chili-flavored salsas, the jalapeño-wasabi chocolate bars, and the pickled peppers. He eats nonstop for hours until he is sick to his stomach and tears his throat choking. Everything is bitter—bitter and spicy. The spiciness is temporary; when it fades, it is the bitterness alone that leadens his grief. So he keeps eating, until all the sensations blend together into one that doesn’t stop, but somehow it is never enough, and for some damn reason he can’t stop and

That’s when he remembers to add mayo.

.two.
There is a funeral, but he doesn’t attend. Instead, he lingers outside, breathing slowly and willing himself over the threshold. Just one foot in front of another, step inside, pay your goddamn respects to the corpse and go.

He hasn’t the strength.

When it is over Sougo finds him—intentionally or not—leaning against a tree and smoking. Sougo stops, and glances for a moment at the blood seeping through the bandages. They meet each other’s eyes and in that moment are exposed as cowards—Hijikata for running away, Okita for that stony face.

They simply don’t have the courage to face it. They will wake tomorrow morning to the sight of the Commander’s swollen, devastated face, still openly mournful after so many weeks, and make themselves sick with envy.

.three.
He lies on his futon and recovers, albeit slowly. There aren’t many quiet moments in his “convalescence”—Kondo makes sure of that, so Hijikata’s room is so frequently noisy. On most days it annoys the shit out of him because goddammit there are times he needs to be alone, even when being alone makes it worse.

He didn’t love her.

Not really. There isn’t much of his younger days worth remembering, after all, and she shouldn’t be an exception. That’s because his younger days consisted of acts upon acts of dire stupidity. Falling in love...would have been one of them.

There were moments, of course. There was this once, that Sougo fell asleep in the dojo, and couldn’t get home when he was supposed to. Kondo had gotten this soft look on his face, had asked Oi, Toshi, why don’t you take him home? He was really looking forward to this, and—

She was there when he arrived—late at night. The moon hadn’t even been shining. He’d walked to her door with a kid on his back and she’d smiled, there, without moonlight. No, maybe there was moonlight. Her smile had been glowing.

He’d had a vision, in that moment. A flash—an intuition. A small glimpse into what could have been the future. He, on his way home from work. Her, her arms outstretched exactly the way they were then. Welcoming, and warm. Something constant. A woman, waiting...

...for him.

It was in that moment that he knew. From that moment on he would know cruelty, the cruelty of having something you shouldn’t, of wanting to destroy what makes you happy. It was that dream that later gave him strength, to leave what he thought he wanted behind and in pieces. As many pieces as there were promises in those eyes at the moment he wanted to kiss her—and would have, had Sougo not stirred and at that moment, wakened.

He didn’t love her.

But she made him happy.

And maybe that’s why they compliment how well he’s coping. This isn’t a new loss he’s feeling—he’s had years to recover. He missed her before she was gone. She’s been dead to him ever since they abandoned her by the side of that path towards Edo, when she wanted to call his name but he wouldn’t turn around.

So why, for the first time now, does he feel like crying?

.four.
“...Kondo-san. Oi, Kon-do-san. What the hell is this, Kon. Do. San??!!”

The Demon Vice Commander of the Shinsengumi, one Hijikata Toshirou, wakes the third week after the Incident to find no fewer than six scantily-clad bunny-eared girls with “Made in the U.S.A” tattooed proudly on their round, splayed asses. While he understands Kondo’s desire to distract him from his injuries Hijikata doesn’t actually consider spending time with females so intent on testing the healing progress of said injuries relaxing, so he spends the next few minutes trying to kick them out until one of the bunny-girls targets his solar plexus with a well-concealed (but high deadly) dagger.

He disarms her, of course, and does manage to kick them out after an hour or so, namely by doing something unspeakable with Yamazaki’s back-up racquet. But he’s not angry when it’s over, and it speaks to how fucked up the Shinsengumi’s made him when he leans back against his pillow and smiles.

It’s Sougo’s first assassination attempt since Then, and its creativity has even Hijikata somewhat (grudgingly) impressed.

.five.
It’s a while before they meet again, but really not that long. A considerable amount of time passes before the Directors can logically use the Shinsengumi again in an episode, so it surprises Hijikata when he meets the yorozuya again just over a month after the Mitsuba arc. Theoretically, there isn’t much time to dilly-dally and chatter, as Hijikata is trying to arrest one of the yorozuya’s clients for running an underground amanto-themed peep-show that competes with the Shogunate’s own underground amanto-themed peep-show, and as Hijikata doesn’t give a shit what kind of sob-story’s behind this one the yorozuya’s just baggage that’s in the way.

“Oi oi oi, I come to your rescue under life-threatening peril so you can reunite with your dying girlfriend and this is how you repay me? Have some heart, Oogushi-kun. Have some heart for y—”

“She’s not my girlfriend, you curly-brained moron,” Hijikata snarls back, swinging at and missing the yorozuya’s torso. The entire bar has come to a stand-still, watching them. Except maybe Sougo, who the background noise seems to indicate is tying an amanto girl to an electric chair and laughing.

“Oh? Really, Oogushi-kun? Do you really think so, Oogushi-kun? ” The other man’s face is contorted into some kind of shape that looks startingly like an orangutan.

“And I suppose all that heroic dashing off into the heat of battle to avenge her honor was just for fun, hmmmm?”

“No,” Hijikata says, changing the angle, aiming for the yorozuya’s head.

There’s something unreadable in the Vice Commander’s face that makes Gintoki pause. Hijikata looks up, catches it, and stops. The edge of his lips quirk up in what he will insist later is a smirk, but to anyone else would look like a smile.

“But she was...special.”

fin.

Ouran Fic: ABOUT THE COFFEE APHRODISIAC

Tue, 26 Feb 2008 00:53:27 GMT

Written for and Requested by aimaru. SO BLAME HER, NOT ME DX

Title: Monkeys, Hokkaido, and Coffee Aphrodisiac
Author: Fainn
Rating: Hard R. OH MY GOD MY FIRST PORN D’:
Pairings: Kyouya/Kaoru
Disclaimer: Not mine. I wish I could say the fic wasn’t, too DX
Warning: AAAAH CRACK

Prompt: Kyouya/Kaoru, Coffee aphrodisiac.

Granted, when Hikaru’d come back from the Super-Special Host Club Excursion to the Forbidden Incense Houses of Burning City, moaning and groaning about the “weird shit” some wrinkly old woman made them drink, Kaoru never thought it’d hit the fan this hard and soon. In retrospect, he should have known better than to trust anything the King came up with, but over time they all had acquired some kind of immunity to Tamaki’s ridiculousness.

The most obviously affected had been Haruhi, whose slim, pale face was tinged with a rose-like blush from her cheeks down her neck. Hunny-senpai had about him a certain heavy idleness. Mori-senpai too had such a sluggishness about his limbs that his grip on Hunny’s ankles kept slipping. They’d eventually settled for lounging about on the other bed, Hunny’s body draped inelegantly over Mori’s lap as they stared off into space. Even Tamaki, whose idea it had been to spend a day touring the most exotic opium houses in Hokkaido, was listless and dull. He kept rubbing at his eyes and his arms and his legs, as if willing the feeling back into them. Only Kyouya remained standing, staring weakly at the black pen he held, as if willing it to move across the clipboard.

Kaoru knew he should feel grateful to have been spared from the treatment. A cold he’d caught from one of his and Hikaru’s regular customers excused him from the event. He’d spent most of his time here, in his thirteenth-story room in the hotel, watching re-runs of old dramas and game shows.

To be honest, he wasn’t even that sick—only a sniffle or two every half-hour or so, and a mild headache and muscle soreness. But one look at his brother’s face, nervously anticipatory and reaching for Haruhi’s hand, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to go. Only Kyouya seemed to notice anything wrong, his stare cold and calculative as he searched Kaoru’s face, so much so that Kaoru had to feign a rather theatrical sneeze and coughing fit to be let off the hook.

Some people, really.

“What did you drink, anyway?” Kaoru asked, simply to fill the silence. The air seemed somehow hot and heavy and humid, which was strange considering the air conditioning.

“Weird shit,” Hikaru said informatively.

Kaoru rolled his eyes.

“Coffee,” Haruhi said with an uncharacteristically sultry whisper, “Except, it had a weird taste…like vanilla, maybe? Or—”

“Jalapenos,” Kyouya said. “And definitely some trace of an Indian curry spice.” His eyes seemed weirdly unfocused behind his glasses.

“Right.” Kaoru fought the urge to make a lame joke and rolled over onto his stomach.

Things only got weirder during the next half-hour, and as insane as it sounded Kaoru could swear that the room only got hotter. Tamaki’s fidgeting became more and more pronounced, and Haruhi’s eyes gained a strange luminosity that reflected Hikaru’s increasingly appreciative gaze.

By the time Hunny began tracing patterns on Mori’s thigh with his tongue the tallest member had apparently decided to take a walk, hauling Hunny roughly up by the waist and slinging him over a shoulder before walking straight out the door. Immediately after both Tamaki and Hikaru had made a simultaneous grab for Haruhi, who giggled at the touch before snatching their wrists and dragging them outside. Kaoru and Kyouya were left alone.

Inexplicably, uncomfortably, terrifyingly alone.

Silence.

Kaoru continued to stare out the open door, watching it slowly swing and shut as the automatic sensors in the room clicked in. Well, he supposed it could be a good thing that Hikaru was finally comfortable enough with other people to leave his twin brother alone in their shared hotel room with the sadistic Shadow King without so much as a single word or gesture of warning.

Bastard. Not that Kaoru cared, of course. Not. At. All.

So what if the whole situation reminded Kaoru eerily of the soap opera he’d watched this morning with that group of teenage girls who had an orgy with their P.E. teacher after downing aphrodisiac hot chocolate? Hikaru could have all the orgies he wanted with Haruhi and Tamaki, and Kaoru wouldn’t care, nope nope.

Seriously.

“What. The hell. Was that?” Kaoru huffed, looking over his shoulder to Kyouya, “Looks like we’re left al—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

He was staring at Kyouya’s crotch.

Which, granted, he had done before, but never like this because sometime during Kaoru’s mental rant Kyouya’s clothes had gone missing.

Naked.

Kyouya Ootori, naked, in Kaoru’s hotel room, smirking and without clothes on and—oh my god, he really was bigger than Tamaki.

“Oh. My. God.”

Kaoru automatically leapt up and tried to scramble towards the door, but Kyouya was apparently faster than a three-year-old cheetah on roller blades and crack, ‘cause it only took three seconds for the megane to pounce, stop, and pin Kaoru face-first into the bed with nothing but his hands and lower body. Terrified, Kaoru concentrated on not breathing too heavily into covers beneath him, fearing the noise might rouse some sort of weird reaction from Kyouya.

Well, weirder than what he was doing already.

Calm down. Calm down. Don’t think, don’t make any quick movements, uh…run in zig-zag formation? Except…I can’t really run. Not like this, anyway. And—ohgod, please please PLEASE tell me he’s not feeling me up, ‘cause I really don’t think I can take this kind of crack anymore.

“Calm down.” Kyouya’s voice was low and predatory and far too close to his neck for comfort. His breath was warm and moist and dripping arousal. Kaoru’s breath hitched and stopped for a minute when Kyouya’s tongue dipped down and started licking down Kaoru’s neck and between shoulder blades. Just as Kaoru was starting to enjoy it, Kyouya made a weird sort of growling voice in his throat and before Kaoru knew it, he was being flipped over and his shirt suddenly and painfully torn from his body, buttons scattering everywhere onto the bed, the floor, and even one onto Kaoru’s eye.

“Hey, watch it!” Kaoru sputtered, or at least tried to sputter. His voice sounded too weak and choked to be truly sputter-ful, anyway.

Kyouya answered with another fierce smirk. Then he just growled again and in an instant, discarded his glasses, which hit the wall with a sharp, protesting sound. Kaoru gulped at the look in Kyouya’s eyes—obstructed by glass, it had seemed less…well, dangerous. And less…hungry.

“You’ve upset me quite badly, Kaoru.” The voice was silken and playful and went straight to Kaoru’s groin, which by now was throbbing to match with Kyouya’s own insistent package. Kaoru recognized that voice—it was the one Hikaru and he and laughed at watching those cheap pornos on Saturday nights, back when they’d still been close enough to do so. It was the voice the man used before punishing his partner.

…shit.

“I’m not a masochist,” Kaoru said as calmly as he could. “I’m not a masochist, and I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t know what kind of freaky coffee aphrodisiac it was that you guys drank, but frankly I don’t have any part in this, and don’t exactly want to.”

He paused.

“And, uh, just ignore Reginald down there. ‘Cause he’s really quite tragically stupid, and none of his decisions turn out right anyway.”

Kyouya blinked, momentarily confused.

“…you named your dick Reginald.”

Kaoru flushed, “Whatever man, I’m going through a phase.”

Kyouya’s smirk filtered back, “That doesn’t excuse the fact that you’ve been a very bad boy, Kaoru. Excuses won’t work for me—not this time, anyway.”

“What the hell?”

“A very, very bad boy, Kaoru.”

“Kyou—ah! Shit—”

Kaoru wondered numbly why Kyouya didn’t at least have the decency to kiss him first, ‘cause as easily as his sense faded away with Kyouya’s hands down his pants and around his ass, there were better places than around Kaoru’s nipples that his mouth could be, and it’d just be lame to have his first homosexual experience without at least getting a first homosexual kiss out of it. After all, Kaoru had no reason to keep doing things in halves. Not anymore, anyway.

“Be quiet,” Kyouya warned, his grip tightening suddenly and painfully around Kaoru’s cock. Kaoru had to suck in a breath and bite his lip to stop the indignant yelp from escaping. Later, Kaoru will suppose that he was even lucky to have gotten a warning, because as Kaoru’s words get less and less coherent Kyouya’s silence gains a fervent violence that could no doubt be lashed out at far less pleasurable targets than he. He forgot to protest and concentrated instead on just that contact—his cock and Kyouya’s, slotting into the spaces between their thighs and groins and grips, and before long both he and Kyouya groaned against the hard, sweat-sloppy smoothness, bodies frantic and rubbing.

It took only minutes for them both to come, muscles seizing and spasming against each other, and Kaoru’s mind was clear enough only to note with annoyance that even with Kyouya mouth open and panting into his they still hadn’t had a hot gay makeout session to go with the hot gay sex.

…………………………………………….

He woke up a half-hour later to the sight of half-dressed Kyouya on the ground, graceless and fumbling for his glasses. Kaoru rolled his eyes and picked the abused spectacles from where Kyouya’d thrown them, hidden under the covers that they’d scattered as they fucked. When Kyouya didn’t thank him, he huffed.

“You know, when people choose to walk around half-naked, they usually pick the more important half to cover,” Kaoru drawled, staring pointedly at Kyouya’s still-exposed lower half.

Kyouya glared.

“Oh yes, I’m well aware of your qualifications to judge ‘normal’ behavior, Kaoru. After all, you are the one who named your ‘tool’ Reginald.”

“It’s a phase!”

“I’m well aware of that, too,” Kyouya said with a strangely solemn expression. Before Kaoru could ask, however, it was gone.

Kaoru sighed, “And I suppose we’re never to speak of this again?” At Kyouya’s startled expression, he added, “After all, it is statistically bad for businesses for their C.E.O.s to be found having wild wild gay sex in strange hotels with minors.”

Kyouya scoffed, “Not necessarily. It’s a rather common practice among executives, actually.”

Kaoru stared. Kyouya paused.

“As long as it doesn’t become a regular practice, I see no harm in wide and varied experimentation in sexual matters.”

At Kaoru’s alarmed expression, his gaze intensified. Looking deeply into Kaoru’s eyes, he added, “Within reasonable limits, of course. And occasionally the consent of the other party.”

...

...For moment, they simply stared at each other, Kyouya at Kaoru’s eyes and Kaoru at Kyouya’s crotch. Kaoru had never been particularly good at reading body signals, but there were just some that you couldn’t ignore.

Really, really couldn’t ignore.

“…crazy coffee aphrodisiac,” Kaoru said numbly.

“It seems its initial impact has worn off, but there are…lingering side effects,” Kyouya said blandly.

“…crazy, crazy gay-inducing coffee aphrodisiac,” Kaoru said.

“Were I not so aroused at the moment, I could find this drug interesting. Within 45 minutes of ingestion and upon absorption it seems to induce in the subject a desire for wild, kinky monkeysex for an indeterminate amount of time.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“I hate life,” Kaoru remarked lightly.

“I think I’d like to see you tied up against that bedpost,” said Kyouya. “Good thing I found my belt from that pile.”

“This is wrong on so many different levels,” said Kaoru.

“Call me Daddy,” added Kyouya.

“And—oh, fuck it,” Kaoru groaned and buried his face into a pillow. “I can’t beat this shit.”

“Get on your knees and crawl to here,” Kyouya demanded.

And so Kaoru did.

“Kiss me,” Kaoru said, “And while you’re at it, you’d better blow me too, ‘cause I haven’t ever had a gay blowjob before either.”

Which was true.

And so Kyouya did.

S/B Fic: 5½ Months in Havenport, Part 2

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 01:12:24 GMT

Title: 5½ Months in Havenport
Author: fainn
Rating: PG-13 (Mild slash.)
Pairings: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Number of Words: 3,561 in this part; 9,961 total.
Disclaimer: Own it I do not.
Warning: ...

5½ Months in Havenport

…………………………………………………………………………………………

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding a little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us.

—T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland

…………………………………………………………………………………………

When Bruce wakes Clark is half a world away and a note is on the desk. It says nothing—only a short thank-you for allowing him to stay for the two nights that he did, and an apology if he caused too much trouble. Ironic how he seems to understand Bruce enough not to leave a trace of evidence of what transpired; no tangible reminder of the kiss even to ritualistically burn.

Everything is as it should be. J’onn sends a message requesting his presence in the Watchtower. Alfred’s serving whole-grain waffles with yogurt for breakfast, but Bruce shakes his head as he gets out of the shower, saying that it would be best if he suited up directly and grabbed some food in the Watchtower.

Alfred stiffens in a way that is all too unusual for the normally calm butler, and Bruce is forced to remember exactly how intimidating Alfred’s Withering Stare is any time of day. He straightens.

“With all due respect, Master Wayne, you do not always know what is best—not for others and especially not for yourself.”

And just like that, Alfred walks away.

The waffles are delicious.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

— See here? They’ve lined up their best defenses. They don’t want him there.

Bruce scoffs.

—Of course not. It’s Superman they’re up against. Not even the kids are stupid enough to go into a fight like this unprepared.

Diana ignores him.

—Kal isn’t there to fight.

—Does he have a choice?

—Yes. All he needs to do is disarm them. Wally’s got the rescue vehicles; they’re going to good homes.

—Those kids don’t want salvation. They want revenge.

—We still have to try.

Bruce sighs.

—Fine.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

(I don’t want to hurt you)

Superman’s no worse for wear and no one’s hurt. The brown girl with the AK-47 shrieks as the bullets bounce off, as if she wasn’t aware they could actually hurt.

This is as close to immortality as they will ever get.

The boy with the brown hair and blue eyes is grim, fiercely scratched face and eyes shouldering the burden of the group with terrible practiced ease.

Those are the eyes of someone who has lost everything.

(You can’t even hear me)

Fire burns, but what was dry just gets drier and the weather is such that it really doesn’t feel that much hotter. The entire scene is painted in reds and oranges and yellows, and then blue like the boy’s eyes and the man’s suit.

¡Dejarme ayudarte! ¡No puedes encenderse como esto!

The boy spits.

¡No puedes decirme qué hacer, traidor! ¡No necesito su ayuda!

(I don’t want to hurt you)

Superman’s expression falters between stony and obviously pained, as if he can’t make up his mind just who to be.

Dejarme ayudarte, por favor.

(I won’t hurt you)

It doesn’t take much to disarm the weapons. No matter what they do they can’t hurt him, not physically. Most of them are crying, quietly.

¿Tus padres desearon esto para ti? Escuche. Tus padres no quisieran que mataras.

Anastas is crying too, albeit more silently than the rest.

¡Mis padres no desearon morir!

(Never hurt you)

He takes the gun from the boy, gently at first, then hesitating as the boy snarls and yanks it away, initiating a strange and painful game of tug-o-war.

Let go!

Superman stops but doesn’t let go, momentarily mesmerized by the two twin blue eyes glaring angrily at him through fire and smoke and dust.

So like someone else’s.

(Because it isn’t that simple. Wounds aren’t so easily healed. Hearts are broken everyday, dreams die, planes crash.

How do you teach forgiveness to people who’ve never seen it?

How do you save a people who cannot be saved?)

You’re hurting yourself, Superman says yet again as the boy tries to punch him, yelping sharply as his fist strikes stone. The other children are on him at once, biting, scratching, pulling at him and his battered cape and desperately fighting this one last unknown, this stranger that they can no longer trust.

Please listen.

You’re not one of us.

And suddenly Kal’s tired, too tired, in fact, of this charade, this firmness, of being a Superman who can’t save lives, who can’t change the past, who preaches happiness to others even while he himself can’t say for sure that he’s found it. He’s tired of being unreachable, of being worshipped as a savior when he’s really quite powerless to stop evil and wrongdoing at its root. He can’t say he hasn’t wanted vengeance himself before, can’t say that he is all that good or has done nothing wrong. There’s so much crime and pain in the world that honestly saving lives doesn’t always help, and Kal is tired of feeling like he chose wrong.

He wants to help, wants to be good and do good, but things have changed since those best years in Smallville, and morals and choices are not always so clear-cut. He’s in a brooding mood and wants to lie down, wants to be smothered and kissed and told it’s alright and I love you over and over until he completely believes it, until that holiness absorbs him and purifies him until there’s nothing but light left.

(Because truthfully, he’s getting desperate, desperate and cold. There’s a void in him where there should be someone else, but Kal is Kal and duty is duty and he almost feels that at this rate, nothing in Havenport can be saved.)

Coward. You’re supposed to do something, not let everything that’s wrong in the world go free! I…I thought you were supposed to make things right…

Kal breathes.

Breathes, grabs, and holds.

Holds.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

John’s bagel misses its mark and drops onto the keyboard. No one notices.

—…

—What in hell is he doing?!

—Shh, be quiet, I can’t hear what he’s sa—

—The boy’s just gone into shock.

—Well, at least they’ve stopped shooting him—

Kal’s saying something, but the thunder hasn’t stopped and they simply can’t hear him. After J’onn’s statement about the boy he falls silent, Martian eyes wide with something that’s starting to look like alarm.

The boy on the screen keeps his eyes wide, and tears burst out like liberated waters from a floodgate. His eyes begin to close and he’s screaming something, half-burying his face in one blue shoulder and drowning. Bruce notes the shade of those eyes.

So this was why the case affected Kal so.

If only forgiveness were so easy.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

The boy stops shaking in his arms, gradually stilling to a quieter stream of tears. The other kids have gathered ‘round, clinging to Kal with something that feels so utterly lost.

He closes his eyes against the smell of fire, against the heat that can’t—won’t—reach these children now.

It’s okay. It’s going to be alright.

You’re…safe.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

It’s a week later and Diana has the television on. Kal’s due to make a speech later regarding the Havenport Restoration Project, and Bruce Wayne will present his donation. The week’s been good to the Man of Steel—not that he would have felt much fatigue to begin with, but still. She had been genuinely worried about him for a while there.

The so-called Crisis, messy as it was, cleaned up nicely. With the world aware of the region’s illness and the true extent of the war’s damage there, it hadn’t been hard for the children to find support and solace in the millions of sympathetic citizens worldwide. Of course, there were still a few kinks to work out; Anastas—Kal made sure they all knew his name—still might go to trial, despite Superman asking he be given special consideration. Bruce of course insists the kid be put on trial and given jail time, insisting that lenience will lead to escalation. There has been a good deal of tension between the two the whole week because of this.

She sips her mocha as Kal walks to the podium, all unknowingly charismatic smile and optimism. There’s the faintest trace of something like tiredness on his face—hopefully the good sort of tiredness. The tiredness that comes with something you’ve fought long and hard for and conquered.

If only she could say the same for Bruce.

Superman finishes his statement to thunderous applause, applause that falters just a bit as Bruce Wayne walks onto the stage. His smile is all fake and empty, his cheer more wrong than usual, even. Even the carefully mispronounced declaration can’t hide the intensity of his gaze, and Diana wishes he would get over himself already.

Superman flinches as they shake hands, though not very visibly.

Diana wonders if she’s the only one who notices.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

—I don’t remember thanking you for all you’ve done for me this past week.

—You’re welcome.

—No, really. Without you, I might never have done anything.

—You’re too modest, Kal. I may have tried to inspire you a bit, but the doing? That was all you.

—…well. I tried.

—You did. And it worked. Good job.

—It’s not over yet!

—I know, I know. But still. You deserve a celebration.

—Ah…maybe.

—I’ll make you dinner sometime.

—Princesses from Themyscira can cook?

—Of course.

—I’ll be sure to remember that one.

—You do that.

—…

—…Kal?

—Yeah.

—…Kal, this thing with Bruce—

—is under control. It’ll be fine, Diana.

—…

—It’s not the first time we’ve disagreed on something. It’ll pass—you know it will.

—…if you say so. Just…well. We both know how Bruce can be sometimes.

—Yeah.

—…

—…oh, J’onn told me something about…

—About me staying in Havenport to help with the rebuilding efforts?

—Yes.

—It’s best this way—the place is too much of a mess for a lot of the equipment. I’ll probably stay awhile, clear the place out a bit so it’s easier—

—Are those kids planning on going back to live there?

—…well, some of them wouldn’t go back for anything, too many painful memories. Others, well…

—Anastas?

—He wanted to help with rebuilding so badly. Took me quite a while to convince him to do otherwise. The officials still think he’s dangerous.

—Is he?

—…I don’t think so. He’s…just a normal kid. He needs someone to care about him.

—You?

—Well, he needs all the care he can get.

—…of course.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

—Is there a reason I’m the last to know?

The voice is sharp and sudden and so utterly full of betrayal that Kal winces.

—It’s hardly news.

—It is to me.

Kal watches him and wonders how exactly Bruce manages to keep track of them all. Batman. Brucie. The Bruce Wayne who smiles at Alfred and builds Batcaves. The father who lives with Tim and before, Dick. The strict mentor—the no-nonsense detective. The bad pianist, the brooding man haunted by memories, the strong one who accepts pain as “normal” and moves on. Somewhere along the lines he’s forgotten exactly which one he kissed the Friday before last, back when he thought he discovered the key to dispelling his and Bruce’s loneliness in a move that would kill two birds with one stone.

—It’s only temporary, Bruce. Havenport needs me.

—Metropolis needs you. The world needs you. And I don’t see you flying off to Africa to stay for repairs.

That strikes a nerve, but Kal ignores it.

—I just…need to be there. And we discussed the Africa issue before.

The eyes behind the white lenses narrow. He doesn’t need his X-ray vision to tell.

—If you’re doing this for the boy—

—Anastas has nothing to do with this. This is symbolic: proof that the Justice League is here for more than just fighting. We’re here for peace.

Batman says nothing.

—Temporary, Bruce. And I’ll still come up for the monthly meetings. You know where to find me.

He turns around and leaves. It’s less painful than he thought it would be.

Maybe Bruce was right. Maybe he could do this. Maybe…he could not need.

—Wait, Clark—

A black leather gauntlet grabs his arm in a move that’s more Bruce than Batman, and Kal starts to hope.

Bruce stops.

There’s a bit of an awkward silence, and Bruce finally lets go. Kal feels a breath go out of him in disappointment, but doesn’t turn around.

—…never mind.

Kal leaves, hoping to go silently. Still, he can’t resist one last attempt to change Bruce’s mind.

You know where to find me.

But Bruce is gone.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

All in all, four months pass.

Reconstruction goes spectacularly with Superman’s help. From the cameras the place is almost completely unrecognizable. Complex irrigations systems have been built using Wayne funds, and those priceless smiles of Kal’s are drenched in sunlight and water when they’re caught on film. Shelters have been built, now houses, and some of the lots are already going up for auction.

Havenport’s future is coming spectacularly together, just like everything in Bruce Wayne’s head is falling spectacularly apart.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Bruce has this one dream where he’s in Havenport again, the way it was before. Everything’s green and bright and appallingly innocent in the way only dreams can make it, when suddenly a giant bat flies by and drops a bomb. He runs and runs and again there are faces on the ground, and there’s always this one rock that looks like Clark with his back turned. He wakes up from this every time with his eyes and throat dry like he’s never known water.

You know where to find me.

This is not a good coping mechanism, Bruce admits, but he is not a good person.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

—What is this?

—I do believe a certain Ms. Diana sent it over yesterday. She mentioned something about this being traditional in her homeland.

—I see. Did she say anything else?

—Only that she was sorry you had to miss the Saturday meeting, what with your prior engagements and all.

—…

—Your injuries, Master Bruce.

—Oh, right. Thanks.

—You’re quite welcome.

—…

—…Alfred? What are those?

—Peonies, sir.

—Did Diana send those over too?

—Yes. Said someone told her you would like them.

—…

—…remind me to ask her out to dinner sometime.

—Noted, Master Bruce.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

They dine in a surprisingly inexpensive restaurant tucked away in the outskirts of Gotham, a place where no one would care or notice the sight of Bruce Wayne acting like an intelligent human being in the presence of a beautiful female.

Neither of them are eating their sandwiches, forgoing sustenance for staring intensely at each other’s eyes. There is nothing less romantic.

—I thought we went over this already.

—We did. But we’re going over it again in case you didn’t understand me the first time, and I think it’s pretty obvious that you didn’t.

—I won’t compromise justice to make Kal feel better about his little Spanish boy.

Diana slams her fist onto the table, startling.

—That’s not what I’m asking, Bruce! You know it isn’t!

Bruce’s eyes narrow.

—Then what are you asking?

Blue clashes, and not for the first time Bruce wonders just why the Justice League is filled with the color.

—You need him, Bruce. You know you do.

Bruce’s eyebrows twitch and the glare is shattered, leaving only surprise. Diana takes it as a sign to keep going.

—You’ve been distracted—don’t tell me it’s not true. And even Wally’s noticed how distant the two of you have been. You go out of your way to avoid him, and he’s only here once a month! I’ve talked to Kal about this, but he says there’s nothing wrong.

Nothing wrong. That’s right—nothing. Nothing wrong at all.

—You have to get over this, Bruce! It’s starting to disturb our performance together as a team; the other Justice League members look up to you two, deny it as you might. You need to work it out together.

Diana sighs, lowering her gaze and searching the table as if for an answer.

—I don’t understand what’s going on, but whatever it is, it needs to be fixed. You know…the two of you are different when things are going well. Stronger. Less irritable, in your case. Less lonely, in Kal’s case.

That catches Bruce’s interest.

—Lonely?

Diana nods.

—Kal’s one of the loneliest people in the world. He feels it like we do—maybe more, sometimes. You of all people should know what it feels like to want happiness: to want to belong.

Hesitant pause.

—You want happiness, don’t you Bruce?

No response.

—Bruce?

He exhales—was he holding his breath?

—It’s just—

—Diana.

—yes?

—…I’ll try.

She looks at him carefully, tired.

—You will?

—…yes. I’ll…try.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Tim tries several times to talk to him, and Alfred shows him the same patient indulgence he has shown when Bruce was going through other comparatively difficult periods of his life.

Only, this isn’t difficult. Or, at least, it shouldn’t be.

Bruce’s mind works in ways that only he understands. He hasn’t had nightmares for a week, which would be normal if not for the fact that this is so much worse. His mind chooses the moments when he’s defenseless and asleep to hurt and hone his resistance to fear and regret and everything else that lives in shadows.

You know where to find me.

Proof: lately he’s dreamed of nothing but red. Red and red flowers and the memories and promises made to him by that hesitant mouth on his.

He wakes from the dream wanting, and that would be fine if he had a way to satisfy the void. Bruce is used to wanting things he can’t get; it’s part of his training to deny himself those things, one by one, until he is strong enough that no disappointment is too big for him.

What he’s not used to is wanting things he can have, because that tests his self control and he ends up regretting no matter which way he chooses.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

It takes him another two weeks to get tired of thinking, of spinning around his head in circles in search of answers. In the end, he makes a decision.

Bruces spends an hour packing because he makes two piles: one for Brucie, one for Batman. He spends another half hour deciding which one to bring. He doesn’t plan to stay for long, but even though Tim can take care of Gotham for the time he’s planning to spend in Havenport he still feels as if he should bring the Batsuit along. He’s almost hesitant to face Clark at this point without the professional distance—who knew what would happen, now, like this—but that was stupid.

Clark is the last thing he needs to be afraid of.

Brucie would be like a slap to the face. Hello, Clark—I am the stupid, watered down version of Bruce Wayne because he doesn’t want to talk to you right now. He snorts to himself thinking of Clark’s expression but doesn’t discard the pile.

Or, maybe…

…he could just be Bruce Wayne.

Problem:

Who the hell was Bruce Wayne?

…………………………………………………………………………………………

There’s too little time in the world to spend it waiting, but that’s a small matter in this place at this moment, where time is standing still.

Clark lays on the newly planted grassy portion of the bluff, eyes closed and almost entirely invisible. Waiting suits him, the way it’s warmed the pale skin and brushed it with moist gold. The lilacs are in bloom, but their scent is in no way cruel now that the land can once again fulfill the promises it makes to its children, nourishing. Protecting.

Waiting.

The gentle rustling noise is the only sign of life. Then footsteps, padding softly against the sand and the grass and the remnants of dust against the shoe soles, but they fall silent with the wind.

Waiting.

—You came, he breathes, as if he’s forgotten he’s the only one with super-hearing.

—You came.

The other’s breath catches, still not sure if the moment’s fragile enough to break.

—…yes, I did.

Clark’s eyes open, but don’t go searching for the other set of blue he’s sure to find.

—Does that…

—I don’t know, Clark. It might mean something today, but it might not tomorrow.

Hope springs eternal.

—Still afraid?

This time, no hesitation.

—…no. Not really.

No one else takes so long thinking. Maybe that’s why Clark needs him, no matter what mask or form.

—Just…well, you don’t need me to tell you that I’m one screwed up bastard.

Clark laughs, a sound more real and three-dimensional than any facsimile. It wins him a short, clumsy chuckle from one always so graceful.

—But…until you regain your senses…

He can wait forever.

—…we’ll just go with what we’ve got.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

The last three days have been terrifying for Bruce, what with the novelty of such a relationship and the uncertainty of their future. For once, he has nothing planned, nothing to brood on, and no dreams but of white and healing. Their time in the wasteland ends with benediction, the words etched into Bruce’s skin ward against the past. As a reminder that these are actions he’s never taking back.

Clark is waiting. His smile tastes like rain.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

S/B Fic: 5½ Months in Havenport, Part 1

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 01:06:33 GMT

Unlike most of my other work, this one has a definite inspiration. T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland. My god, that is a work of art. I fell in love with the disconnectedness of the poem, how the words come together in a collage in your head of pictures. No one has ever written despair--or the human struggle for happiness--better than Eliot, at least not that I know of.

Anyways, I've always wanted to do some more experiments in styling my words. And since I've been completely taken with the Superman/Batman pairing, why not? *-* I had fun, though I had issues making this fic come together in the end. Ah, well...I tried, at least.

Title: 5½ Months in Havenport
Author: fainn
Rating: PG-13 (Mild slash.)
Pairings: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Number of Words: 6,394 in this part; 9,961 total.
Disclaimer: No claim to it.
Warning: The usual. For me. Which means slash.

5½ Months in Havenport

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Summer surprised us.

—T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland

…………………………………………………………………………………………

The last three days have been terrifying for Bruce, what with the novelty of such an attack and the uncertainty of the future. For once, he has nothing planned, nothing to counteract his growing dread, and no dreams but of red and neglect.

Their time in the wasteland starts with drought.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

—Why now? Kal asks, the first one to do so. And there are many things that Kal does first, like sitting down and laughing, like giving second chances. But this time is bent unusual because of circumstance.

Diana frowns.

—I don’t know, Kal. Maybe it’s because of the weather. The fact that this is the region’s fourth consecutive year without rainfall, and now this. Droughts devastate, plain and simple.

—So does war, Bruce’s voice cuts in, quiet. What should be scathing and bitter is quiet for once, as if its echoes can somehow shatter old memories of ruin.

—The area’s never recovered from the bombings. We should have done better than to overlook the situation.

—No one’s heard of Havenport. Not for years, at least. None of us thought to look there, it had been evacuated—

Diana shakes her head—No, that wasn’t it. We took all that we could and brought them over to Capetown, and that’s nearly fifty miles away.

—But we never thought they’d go back.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

Clark Kent sits at his desk in the Daily Planet, twirling a pencil around and around and around his forefinger and thumb until it snaps in half with an odd crunch, then sets the pencil down. Lois glances over, concern narrowing tired eyes. She opens her mouth to ask, but suddenly Clark is sighing and throwing his newspaper down, grabbing his coat and walking out towards the door.

It isn’t like Clark to be so distracted. She watches him step towards the elevator and disappear through steel sliding doors; still, she can’t help but peek over her shoulder one last time before going over to his desk and flipping through the small stack of newspapers that’s accumulated over the past week. Clark is usually such a fastidious person; there has to be some significance to those papers, if she can find it.

Lois checks the obituaries first, finding nothing. Good thing; she should hope that Clark would trust her enough to tell her if some relative or close friend died. Heartened, she goes through the major headlines: the front page section she knows Clark always reads. She’s glad that everyone’s too busy with their own work to notice her in what must be a very odd scene—Lois Lane, ace reporter, madly stripping newspapers of their Sports and Entertainment sections like some obsessive-compulsive mantis.

EU CONSTITUTION “CAN BE SIMPLE”

U.S. CONFIRMS MISSILE SHIELD PLANS

UN ENVOY SCORNS MID-EAST QUARTET

FUEL PUSHES UP U.S. PRODUCER PRICES

HAVENPORT MILITANTS ADVANCE THROUGH SHAFTTOWN

MAN-OF-STEEL YET TO MAKE STATEMENT ON HAVENPORT CRISIS

Nothing, nothing, nothing. She notices an editorial she hasn’t read, and stops to skim over it. The Havenport Crisis. The latest and breaking news from the Spanish-Atlantic coast: a group of idealistic teenagers had decided to take the law into their own hands and had begun a mass murder of anyone and everyone with half a criminal record. Armed with guns and some kind of radioactive crap left over from World War II, they’d decided their own town of Havenport wasn’t enough and opted to “cleanse the world of evil and despair.”

What interested the world was not the fact that a group of vengeful teenagers were on a massive killing spree. No, this issue had caught the interest of media companies worldwide because of one particular detail.

The group’s leader had been saved by Superman.

Now, he wanted to give back to the world and save it as a certain Blue Boy Scout had saved him.

Lois flipped a page.

A Spanish terrorist group inspired by Superman.

What were the odds.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Sunshine outside, pulsing heavy, hot. The weatherman had said it’d be cooler today, less stifling; the temperatures disagree.

Gotham was unbearable in heat; her grace lay in dark-fold seduction, not in this brilliantly unsubtle embrace. But even in days like this Bruce can’t find it in himself to hate this city.

It might surprise his colleagues to know how hard he’s tried, actually. To hate Gotham. There’s quite a lot to hate about it; he made a list way back in his school days, back when he was afraid of too much responsibility and playing God. A top ten list, complete with a labeled ground map of the city and health statistics about the pollution in the air and exactly how much grime on your shoes it’d take to be considered a malignant carcinogen. Rough sketches of some dead homeless kid he’d found on the streets that morning—ah, yes, that’s what sparked it.

Just another one of those moments he would always remember with startling clarity: him, tuxedo, tie, flowers left after some charitable function. The clingy, almost smoky smell of old blood, escaped into the late evening fog, an advance warning of the scene before him. The grimy corpse of a young child—boy? girl?—beaten unrecognizable into the pavement.

Flowers. Red, musky-sweet flowers.

Hyacinths, actually.

He’d left the flowers with the corpse, crude tribute to one of many strangers that passed through and from his life. One corpse out of the many he’s seen, the many that he will probably see in the future. He remembers the moment, and it’s almost sad how human he is. All in all the scene didn’t affect him much, just one more dead body on the streets. He actually felt better about that death than a lot of others he doesn’t remember, because he was tired and after all, he did leave something.

Red hyacinths.

What were the odds.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

—You’re not blaming yourself for what happened, are you? Diana sets the glass in front of him, stern.

—None of us thought this would happen. You can’t read minds, you know. And even J’onn can’t predict where the human heart will go.

Kal closes his eyes against her words. Diana’s eyes are soft in contrast; he’ll focus on those.

A light touch on his shoulder.

—Either way, Kal. You have to do something. You don’t need me to tell you that the entire world’s waiting for a response; hero-worship or not, those kids need to be shown that what they’re doing is wrong. Even criminals have the right to a trial—you’ve been the strongest advocate for that. They’re using your name for something other than justice; they need to be stopped.

Kal’s eyes glare open.

—They’re kids, Diana! Kids who lost their loved ones and homes and possibly more in a senseless grownups’ war masterminded by homicidal maniacs! You don’t understand—they’re not bad kids, Diana. They don’t know any better—

—They should know better than to be senselessly executing hundreds of criminals each day! Diana’s eyes are flashing now, all hard sapphire and edges the way they always look in the name of justice.

—No one—no matter what they’ve done deserves that kind of death! They’re delivering the same fate upon petty thieves as they are murderers! No one, Kal!

And the thing about this is that it’s not a thing, just an everyday group of terrorists inflicting horrors upon the population. And yet there’s pain in her eyes, pain in his eyes, and Diana understands how hard this must be for Kal, because he’s just so good and kind and undeserving of the kind of pain that comes with taking away something you’ve always given. Maybe she’s been too harsh with him. They could easily send her or Green Lantern or anyone of the Justice League and have this issue out of the way by dawn, but Diana knows that to Kal that’d just be worse, so much worse. Even more of a betrayal than if he deals with it himself; at least, this way, he’s not turning his back on them.

Because when push comes to shove, this is something Kal has to face, and sometime in his too-long future he’ll see this again, and will need to be able to deal with it without this pain and self-blame.

There’s a long, awkward silence between them until Diana breaks it.

—Drink up, she says, pushing the glass of spiced milk in front of him. Just a little something her sisters in Themyscira made for her when she was little.

—Drink up, and it’ll be better in the morning.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Bruce has been in an oddly brooding mood all afternoon, so it’s just as well when Diana calls, telling him that Kal might drop by sometime, seeing as he’s been circulating around the members of the Justice League like some lost puppy, needing reassurance for what he’s about to do. Bruce wonders if he should tell her that her reminder’s too late, seeing as the Man of Steel’s been flying in circles around his office building for two hours. Bruce has been pretending not to notice when Kal stops in midair, peering nervously inside as if waiting for something.

He thanks Diana for the reminder and goes back to dissecting Wayne Enterprise’s annual reports for missing items, mistakes.

No need to rush things.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

An hour and seven phone calls later, Bruce Wayne has enough of this ridiculous charade and marches up to his window, opens it, and sticks his head out long enough to growl IF YOU WANT SOMETHING YOU COULD ALWAYS COME IN, YOU KNOW.

Kal floats closer, shifting left and right until he finally says with an embarrassed shudder—I can’t get in.

Bruce blinks, momentarily distracted, before he realizes that oh, right, just because he’s the Man of Steel doesn’t mean he can fly through Class A Kevlar-enforced windows without breaking something.

—I could try crawling in, Kal offers helpfully, examining the narrow opening, But I could still break something and ‘sides, it’d be painfully awkward and undignified.

There’s something about the moment that makes Bruce want to laugh, and he almost does before shifting his vocal cords and turning the sound into a frustrated cough.

—I don’t suppose you could—oh for God’s sake, just walk in the normal way, Clark.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

—I was waiting to see if you were busy.

—Does it matter?

—Yes.

—…Diana warned me.

—…Ah. That makes sense.

—…

—Still, I’m sorry to just show up here, like this.

—I’m used to it.

—John was at some kind of reunion, and I didn’t last three seconds with Wally.

—…

—…like I said. If there’s something on your mind, you can say it. It’s getting late and I have

—patrol, right.

—…

—How’s Tim?

—…fine. He’s over at Dick’s for the weekend.

—Trouble?

—No. A friend of his is getting married.

—Really? Who?

—No one you’d know.

—Still.

—…

—Mind if I stay at the Manor for the weekend?

—…what.

—Can I stay over at your place…just for the weekend.

—…

—…why.

—…

—…no reason.

—…

—…alright.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Clark’s still not sure how he managed to convince Bruce to let him stay over. He’s been in the Manor before, even stayed for a night or two, but not like this. Not when even he can’t pinpoint the precise reason why he nee—wants to stay. He looks over at Bruce, wondering if he should tell him the truth. That he doesn’t trust himself to be alone at this hour, that he still isn’t sure what he’s going to do about the Crisis. That he goes to bed at night awake and silently terrified of losing what he’s got, of being blind to the pain of others and becoming a monster whom everyone, including his loved ones, fear.

Instead, he beams down at his soup.

—Hey, this is delicious!

Bruce looks over at him, gently disdainful.

—You have no idea what it is, do you, Clark.

Clark shakes his head. Bruce looks at him and smirks.

—…do you want to know?

—Not with that look, not really, no.

Clark focuses on the food, grateful for the distraction, knowing Bruce knows that something’s wrong, and silently thanks him for playing along.

Bruce looks as if he’s about to say something when he suddenly stops and stares at something on the table. Clark follows his gaze and his eyes settle on the vase of flowers. He looks back at Bruce, almost waiting for an explanation when he sees Bruce’s expression and freezes.

Silence.

Slowly, the ice is broken, and the corner of Bruce’s eyes crinkle in a way Clark has learned over the years to recognize as terrible personal irony.

—Hyacinths, Bruce breathes, turning to Clark with a small, mocking smile.

—Special meaning? Clark blurts out before he can stop himself.

—Not really,—Bruce says quietly, turning back to his food—just a flower I used to like.

—Used to?

Another thing Clark’s learned over the years: even the smallest of meaningless gestures hold dark meaning for the Batman. Being with Bruce in times like this always makes him feel like he’s breathing underwater, with ghosts of old memories and latent nightmares passing over his head like bubbles to the surface.

—They’re beautiful, Bruce says, as if carelessly.

—I just wish I could enjoy them.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

The much-abused cogs in Bruce’s head have not stopped turning since Ka—Clark’s request.

Logically of course, he understands why Superman needs company at the moment. Bruce plans to ask him directly after dinner, but more likely than not Kal already has a plan for what he is going to do in Havenport. And knowing Clark, Kal already has some idea of how his plan is going to turn out.

If the Big Blue Boy Scout thought his plan would work, he probably wouldn’t be here now.

—I forgot if you could play the piano, Clark says, fingering the white keys. They’re in the study, the warm room with the dark lighting, wallpapered by books and secret doorways.

Bruce ignores the reflex tightening of his spine at the sight of someone so close to his secret (three keys from the Batcave).

—A little. I’m not very good.

Pause.

—Alfred used to think I could channel my hatred through there; you know, play your heart out and your anger would go away.

Clark raises an eyebrow, staring pointedly at a few of the broken keys.

—I see.

Bruce shrugs.

—This isn’t the original, is it? Clark could be using his X-ray vision, what with the intensity of his examination.

—No. I just had someone replicate it. Exactly the way it was, down to the last crack in the hull.

—Play something, Clark smiles lightly, as if he isn’t going to analyze Bruce’s response afterwards.

—No.

—Why not?

—I’m not interested, Bruce snaps, then stops. This isn’t supposed to happen.

—You can’t bury the past forever, Clark says solemnly. Bruce wishes he wouldn’t say that so seriously.

—Why bury something that never died? Bruce tries not to snarl.

Clark.

—I don’t know. You don’t even hate your past all that much. Personally, I don’t think you hate it at all.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

And it’s ironic how true it is, if only Bruce hadn’t reached that conclusion himself a while ago. Bruce’s relationship with his past is so ambiguous it brings the term “love-hate relationship” to a level that’s painful. He’s spent considerable time analyzing himself—know thy enemy and know thyself—and has long reached the conclusion that the death of his parents sparked many of the qualities that could be considered his best. His will was forged from his anger which was forged from his guilt which was forged from his grief, and the courage he carried in the beginning and perhaps even now was brought on by the feeling of I can’t lose anything I’ve already lost it lost everything I don’t care. He wishes his parents never died because then he might be able to feel happiness without shadows, because ignorance is bliss and he’d have remained forever idealistic, firm in his beliefs that no ends completely justify the means, firm in loyalty and the stupid selfish happiness that never comes with a life bound to darkness. He wishes his parents never died because he wouldn’t be the over-cunning over-thinking thoroughly sadistic masochistic bastard he is now, running around in a cape performing theatrics that would have been found in a bad horror show before, acting like he knows exactly what he’s doing and lives exactly how he wants to. He wishes his parents never died because maybe, maybe he’d still like hyacinths now, and maybe he wouldn’t accept this life in which nightmares are so completely normal that he doesn’t think anything of the pain anymore.

He realizes how thoroughly selfish his wishes and desires are, but can’t hate himself for wanting happiness. Bruce wishes he were a bigger man than he is, one that can genuinely be glad that his life is this screwed up because the world is just that much safer, and his talents are too good to be wasted on something other than true justice, anyway.

Then again, screw a life with no responsibilities, he is who he is because of his past, and since that isn’t going to change so long as Superman doesn’t go crazy and blow shit up that causes the dimensions to swap and his parents to be resurrected, Bruce can be glad for the world that he’s Batman.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

—Bruce?

It’s less of a confrontation now that Bruce has lost, but that doesn’t make his glare any gentler.

—Fine, he growls, Batman in Bruce Wayne’s suit sitting down on the piano, shoving Clark Kent aside so he can sit in the center.

—But don’t get it in that head of yours that you can just ask me to do whatever whenever you feel like it. Because you can’t.

Clark smiles.

—Wouldn’t dream of it.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

—You’re going to have to talk about it sooner or later, you know.

—Later, then.

—…look, Kal. I didn’t let you stay just so you can run away from this thing forever.

—I’m not running away. Just…thinking.

—What is there to think about?

—…

—…have you been to Havenport before, Bruce?

—Once or twice. Wayne Enterprises had me attend a few conferences there, back when Fox had it in his head that the place could be good for raw development.

—...what was it like?

—Like any other seaside town. Beautiful. Lots of flowers and hills with real grass on them. Old-fashioned.

—You haven’t gone back since the war, have you.

—No, I haven’t.

—…

—You go there every day now, I imagine.

—…

—The group’s been wondering how come all of their weaponry keeps disappearing. Haven’t got it in their heads yet to blame someone with superspeed.

—You’ve been tracking my moves?

—No. It’s obvious enough from the look on your face. Besides, the casualty count hasn’t gone up since the day before yesterday.

—You don’t know what it’s like over there, Bruce.

—I know enough to tell you it has to be done. The world won’t wait much longer for you, Kal. People are starting to think you support them. They’re all waiting for you to prove them wrong.

—…

—…I’m flying over tomorrow and confronting them. I’ll find Anastas—that’s the boy’s name—and try to convince him to stop.

—...but?

—...it won’t work, Bruce. I know it won’t.

—Figures. Do you know what you’re going to do after?

—I was hoping you could help me with that part.

—What makes you think I can help?

—I trust you to choose what’s right—what’s best for the long term.

—…

—You…you wouldn’t let me get…get ahead of myself. Or…let me do anything terrible without proper retribution.

—…Kal—

—And I do know you’re not always right, that you don’t always trust yourself not to give in to demons either. But after all that’s happened, I still trust you more to do the right thing for the world in general. So humor me, alright?

—…

—…you want me to go with you tomorrow.

—Actually, I wasn’t going to ask—

—I’m not going to bite your head off for no reason, Kal.

—…right. Right.

—Personally, I don’t think you need backup, and Diana’s much better with the whole “emotional support” deal—

—I’m not a child that needs to be taken care of—

—but if you want me there, so be it.

—…what?

—I’ll be there, Kal. So whatever funny notion you have in your head about not trusting yourself to do what’s right with those kids, ignore it. You don’t need to prove anything, and you’d better hope that with the two of us to stop those monsters in your head everything will be alright.

—…oh.

—Good night, Kal.

—…

—…good night, Bruce.

—…

—…oh, and Bruce?

—what.

—…thanks.

—…

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Havenport really has changed.

There is nothing left of the quaint seaside town Bruce remembered. Only a dead mountain mouth of decayed teeth that can neither spit nor speak. Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit for all the rubble and shrapnel lying everywhere. There is nothing, not even silence in the mountain-hills where grass once sang and old shepherds tended their flocks as had their ancestors before them. There’s dry sterile thunder without the rain, and not even solitude in the mountains full of red sullen faces that sneer and snarl from the rotting mineral slush on the ground.

Your shadow at morning striding behind you.

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

He tries not to stumble in the cracked earth, ringed by the flat horizon only, making his way to the city—is that a city?—over the mountains. Germany did a good job with this one—a good job destroying Havenport so not even leftover pieces remain. Bruce is strangely reluctant to leave the Batplane, as if once he gets too far and turns around he’ll find it gone, vanished and decayed into the background of this total wasteland.

Where’s Kal?

Superman should have arrived awhile ago; Batman told him to go on ahead while he searched for a good landing spot. He'll catch up with him later.

Agony in stony places, he thinks to himself as he reaches the bodies. He stops, examines briefly the sweaty faces burned torchlight red from dust, wonders where all the water from the rich soil had gone. Here, there is no water but only rock. Rock and no water and the sandy road. Nowhere to stop and think and most definitely no beauty.

He is lost.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Footsteps.

His own?

Closer.

No.

He hasn’t been moving.

Closer.

—…Señor?

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Bruce turns, too late, there is already someone there. He mentally curses himself for getting caught off-guard; he should know better by now. Know better than to be bothered by the sight of an entire city bombed to oblivion.

— Señor?

It’s a little girl—well, not so little anymore, not from her eyes. Her build is rake-thin and stilted, but her eyes carry age far beyond her eyes. The eyes of war. The eyes of hope.

He says nothing, and counts to ten hoping she will disappear.

She doesn’t.

If anything, her eyes have gotten brighter.

—You shouldn’t be here, señor. It’s dangerous around here—Anastas and his gang aren’t here for the moment, but there’s plenty of others around—

She stops, as if just noticing his lack of response, as if just noticing he could be a foreigner. Truthfully, it’s just lucky that he understands Spanish.

Bruce waits.

A few moments later, she seems to make up her mind.

—Here, Señor—she takes his hand without hesitation, as if he weren’t Batman in costume and as if the edges of his arm blades did not just scratch her arm.

—We have to get out of here, quickly. There are better places to be than here—much better places, you’ll have to take my word for it, sir. There’s some shelter over by those caves, this way.

He should really be going to find Superman, he knows. Bruce should growl and speak and shrug her away, but he can’t right now, not when his interest is caught and he’s wondering exactly how a frail girl like this can survive here. It might be useful to follow her, if only to better understand the region and what it’s going through.

—This way.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

—I know you! She says suddenly and brightly, her eyes lit by what must be the sun’s rays in the darkness, voice echoing three times in the caves and causing her to flinch, momentarily, in fright.

—I know you! She says again, this time quieter, eyes wide and face leaning in and closer, amazed.

—You came to Havenport some years ago…dressed in that funny suit!

Bruce blinks. Meeting Batman usually constituted a more memorable event than this girl seemed to have in mind. Then again, who is he to say what should be memorable, after the horrors this girl has seen. Bad memories resonate more clearly than the good, after all.

Still…he doesn’t remember meeting her. Sure, he had operated as Batman in this city before, but that was only once, and solely for the purpose of testing out the new material for a more complicated wings system that Lucius Fox recommended he use. He didn’t recall—

—I sold you flowers! I never forget a customer—well, not completely, anyway. I saw you in that field, coming home. I sold you flowers!

He flips through his mental archive of Strange Incidents despite the fact that Batman doesn’t engage in civilian activitiy in costume, no matter what the circumstance. He should remember a breach of conduct such as this…

She chews on her thumb, grimacing as she tastes the dust under the broken nail.

—Color, color...

What color? What color?

—…red! Red flowers! Are you sure you don’t remember?

…wait. Wait…

—Hyacinths. You gave me hyacinths first six years ago.

Her eyes brighten, as if finally grasping onto something.

—They called me the hyacinth girl!

Bruce nods numbly. She smiles.

—My sisters were with me, then. I wanted to be a bird, back then. And they told me I could not, that humans don’t fly, we can’t because we’re being punished by God.

Spirit. Something words cannot break.

—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, I was crying because they were so mean back then…and we saw! This great black bird, only it wasn’t a bird, it was…it was…

Her eyes shine.

—It was you.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

It didn’t work. Kal knew it wouldn’t, but kept hoping. There were tears in the boy’s eyes as the man who saved his life told him that everything he was fighting for was wrong. He hates too much to understand that even criminals deserve a second chance, even if his parents and five little sisters aren't going to get one.

It broke Kal’s heart to do it.

(Blue eyes)

The boy refused to see him, after that. The other kids tried to push him away, take him away from their leader, but he couldn’t honestly fight back without hurting someone else. So he had let himself be towed back to the outskirts of the city, near the vast and somehow still beautiful ocean, and he sits there now, waiting.

(Blue eyes)

Batman is around—he can sense it. He doesn’t bother searching for his heartbeat, thinking it better for him to gather himself before seeing his friend again. Instead, he focuses his super-hearing around and about, listening for a bird or a bee or a butterfly. He hears none.

Only later does he notice the lilacs.

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

Life in the midst of all this no-life, more beauty concentrated in a single one of its petals than in the whole of this bloodied soil.

(Blue eyes)

Is he strong enough to do this? Of course he is. He knows that.

Anastas—the boy with the brown hair and blue eyes.

He’d been so sure of himself, so eager to have his idol reward him for his courage and resolution in ridding the world of the evil his parents couldn’t escape.

No. Even that was wrong.

So eager to have someone tell him that what he was doing was right.

(Blue eyes blue eyes blue eyes blue eyes)

What if things had been different?

What if he was the one who had lost everything here? Or Bruce, perhaps.

What would Bruce have done if not only his parents, but all of Gotham was destroyed beyond any hope of repair?

What would Clark have done if this had been where he had landed, instead of in Smallville, Kansas? Would he have been able to move on and forgive? Was letting go of your anger always the right choice, if possible?

How much can you forgive? The world is caught up in so much anger, with neither side being right. The families of the criminals Anastas killed…they were filled with so much grief right now. And grief leads to anger, to revenge.

It’s the people who matter. And yet, if you count up each blow from two sides, count up all the casualties and say this side is justified for wanting revenge and the other side’s anger is justified for this—

—nothing came out even at all.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Alfred informs him that Mr. Kent arrived about half an hour ago, and mentioned something about going out for a walk before supper. Bruce nods dizzily, his exhaustion allowing him to take this strangely domestic behavior in stride, and goes up for a shower before Clark gets back, needing water, water, water.

With the dust and smell of lilacs gone he can clear his head and think of more important matters. Things like stopping terrorist groups and patrolling Gotham, and definitely not like wondering why the hyacinth girl refused to accept his help or take him up on his offer to get her out of Havenport.

There’s people I need to care for. Pero, gracias por su ayuda. Yo no te olvidado, nunca.

He dresses and goes downstairs to read for about an hour, occasionally checking the clock or wondering where the hell Clark is until he finally gives up and makes for his umbrella—it’s raining outside, much to his pleasant surprise.

Bruce leaves without a word and makes several rounds around the Manor before spotting a figure silhouetted against gray sky and rain drops, a figure much too tall and stupid to be the gardener.

—What the hell do you think you’re doing, Cla—

Clark turns, except he’s not Clark, because he can’t wear his glasses without being effectively blind in the rain. Kal’s lips are bent upwards in a quietly nostalgic smile, and his eyes were closed against the rain but he’s looking over at Bruce now, all wet and exhausted and—

—red.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

—…what is this?

—Flowers. Hyacinths, actually. Yours are blooming a little early—they’re supposed to open in fall.

—You’re vandalizing my flower garden.

—Hardly, Bruce. You mentioned them before and I wanted to see what was so special.

—Vandalizing my flower garden all the same. I could have you arrested for trespassing.

—I’m not trespassing; you invited me.

—Not this time I didn’t. Why did you pick so many, anyway?

—Sorry—lost track of time. I can plant new ones, if you like.

—I have the gardener for that. All money and no brains, remember?

—…

—Look, if you needed a bouquet for Lois that badly—

—Lois hates flowers.

—Not if I remember correctly. Lois loves flowers.

—I meant that Lois hates flowers from me.

—Right. Sorry.

—…

—Is there any chance of you getting your head out of the clouds long enough for us to get out of the rain? Steels rusts, you know—

—I did some reading on hyacinths. The myth—you know it?

—as I was saying—

—Apollo, the god of the sun. Falling in love with a young boy named Hyacinthus before accidentally killing him in a game.

—…

—Never knew you were a romantic.

—I’m not.

—Of course, I like peonies better. What with the gods turning their physician Pæon into a peony so as to save him, and all that. It’s a good story, if you haven’t read it—

—of course I have.

—Of course.

—…I don’t…I don’t normally like things on whims, Clark.

—Of course not.

—…let’s get in.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

It’s late, very late, and had Clark not convinced him to stay for a bit and talk Batman would already be gone. Bruce is sitting on a couch, reading the news he missed today because of his trip, and Clark’s looking over the contents of Bruce’s impressively fake bookshelf.

He pulls out a book of poems.

—I never knew you were a fan of T.S. Eliot.

Bruce snorts.

—Never been a fan of poetry. Poets are all talk and no action: useless.

—Spoken with inordinate vehemence, —Clark smiles knowingly—methinks the bat doth protest too much.

This time Bruce does smile, looking up.

—You’re terrible, he says honestly.

Minutes pass in silence, and Bruce notes wryly how ironic it is that it’s here that he doesn’t feel alone, here that he doesn’t feel self-conscious. Kal is one of the few people in the world he can count on to understand him without getting too close. He can focus on business or pleasure, and the silence here is one of mutual peace, rather than hostility. Even the secrets don’t matter as much when they know each other well. Batman knows that Superman failed in Havenport to convince the teen terrorists to change their minds the same way he knows that it’ll all come together eventually, for better or for worse.

And if it was for worse, well. Kal has some time like forever to figure it out.

—"I am always sure that you understand my feelings, always sure that you feel, sure that across the gulf you reach your hand. You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles’ heel. You will go on, and when you have prevailed you can say: at this point many a one has failed. But what have I, but what have I, my friend, to give you, what can you receive from me?"

Bruce starts, then recognizes the lines from Portrait of a Lady by Eliot, and smiles.

—What indeed?

The words are barely out of his mouth when he feels it, hears it. The quick disturbance of super-speed, the gentle brush at the corner of his mouth. A miscalculation has him turning just as Kal turns, lips warm and sudden and gently making their way from corner to corner, mouthing his upper lip in a way startling incongruent with steel. More like petals, dabbing their way across his mouth.

There’s a nudge and a minute movement, and Bruce closes his eyes so as not to see Kal. He doesn’t want to smell the rain or taste the wet red on Superman’s lips, nor see the consequences of their actions in this moment too soon.

—Don’t do this, Kal—he says rationally and yet not rationally, because Kal is still too close and the foreign nose is warm against his colder skin.

—Kal.

Kal sighs, shifts slightly so he’s a little more comfortable and less on top of Bruce than he is now. Bruce starts to speak but Kal beats him to it.

—I’ve been listening to your heartbeat for hours now, he says simply, looking Bruce straight in the eye but Bruce hasn’t opened his eyes.

—I’ve been listening.

—That’s unfair, breathes Bruce, but it isn’t working because Kal is still exhaling his air.

Kal laughs a little and shakes his head.

—I’ve listened for a while now.

Bruce finally opens his eyes, looks straight into that expression that isn’t star-struck, that isn’t dewy and wide with pouring infatuation. Looks into those eyes that simply know, and realizes with quiet anger that he isn’t the only one with masks.

—We can’t, Kal.

—Why not?

And now there’s obvious confusion, confusion and hurt there. Bruce forces himself to watch, watch and remember.

—For one thing we’re colleagues, Kal. Clark and Bruce, Batman and Superman.

—Would that stop you?

Almost accusing now, but not quite. Not fear, nor disappointment.

Ah. Disbelief.

He sighs.

—No, I suppose it wouldn’t.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

(Rather, it wouldn’t stop me if I cared a little less. Cared less about how you think of me and what we could do. If I cared less I wouldn’t care about the risk, wouldn’t care about making myself your vice rather than your strength.

Just a few hours, Clark. Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither living nor dead, and I knew nothing, looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer. Waste and empty is the sea without you.

But you’re vulnerable to this, Clark. More than to kryptonite. We’ll grow old, Clark. You couldn’t even deal with me then. I don’t age gracefully—I die. And you—you wouldn’t age at all, die at all. There’ll come a time when you’ll need not to need me. You need normalcy, stability—not this thing that can and will knock you off-balance, off-balance and into despair.

I trust you, Clark. But not so much as to trust you not to put me above everyone else, not to care for me more than the world. Because humans—and you can be human—are selfish. You’ll want happiness more than justice. I’ll want happiness more than justice. I don’t even trust myself.

Hyacinths. We could kill what we love most. We can’t. Risk this.)

But all this he kept to himself.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Ouran Fic: Drabble Requests

Mon, 12 Feb 2007 04:03:10 GMT

Title: Random pairing Drabble Series
Author: Fainn
Rating: PG-13 (Shounen-Ai all.)
Pairings: 1 Kyoya/Kaoru, 1 Kyoya/Mori, 1 Mori/Kaoru
Disclaimer: I politely decline.
Warning: Ew.

Drabble 1: Mori/Kaoru

Drabble 1: Kyoya/Kaoru

Drabble 1: Kyoya/Mori

Ouran Fic: Disturbing Drabble Whim

Mon, 12 Feb 2007 04:02:05 GMT

Title: Drabble Whim 101
Author: Fainn
Rating: PG-13 (Shounen-Ai. Implies sexual activity. All in all disturbing?)
Pairings: Read and guess. (Hint: DISTURBING!!!)
Number of Words: 200
Disclaimer: ...
Warning: ...heh.

Happy now, Takashi?

Ouran Fic: Burlesque Giocoso

Mon, 12 Feb 2007 04:01:42 GMT

Title: Burlesque Giocoso
Author: Fainn
Rating: PG-13 (Shounen-Ai. Notice the rating!)
Pairings: Pretty much everything you can think of: mainly Kyoya/Tamaki with references to Twincest and Mori/Hunny
Number of Words: 9460
Disclaimer: Would I be here if it was mine?
Warning: THIS IS PURE CRACK! Really, seriously, this is crack. Can't say I'm proud of it, but it sure was fun ^.^

Enter if you dare...

Title: So What Really Happened with the Swedish Breakdancer?
Author: Fainn
Rating: PG-13 (Shounen-Ai. Same as above.)
Pairings: Kyoya/Tamaki with one reference to the twins.
Number of Words: 2817
Warning: Crack!

So What Really Happened with the Swedish Breakdancer?

Ouran Fic: Twice a Dream

Mon, 12 Feb 2007 04:01:11 GMT

Title: Twice a Dream
Author: Fainn
Rating: PG-13 (Shounen-Ai.)
Pairing: Hikaru/Kaoru
Number of Words: 7090
Disclaimer: YES! YES IT'S MINE. No, fine, not really.
Warning: Uh...did I mention it's twincest?

Do you dream of me...?

Ouran Fic: It's in his blood

Mon, 12 Feb 2007 04:00:39 GMT

Title: It's in His Blood
Author: Fainn
Rating: PG-13 (Shounen-Ai. Pretty mild.)
Pairing: Mori/Hunny
Number of Words: 1093
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warning: Probably very bad -.-;; ::heh::

When the world seems perfect...

POTO Fic: Phantom Poetry

Mon, 12 Feb 2007 03:58:57 GMT

I wrote this quite awhile ago, even before I wrote my Ouran fics. I was (and still am, to some extent), completely obsessed with Phantom of the Opera--not so much for the musical, but for the book and the story. At the same time, I was also incredibly cynical about the creation of OCs, so when the idea popped into my head, I rejected it right away. Still, Finals do strange things to people, and before I knew it, I'd written it anyway T__T

Surprisingly, it turned out to be one of my favorite pieces. Stylistically, I consider this my best work--it was raining outside when I wrote it; consequently, I experimented with all sorts of formatting and layouts with it. Maybe I'll do something similar in the future, but I'm not sure I can duplicate the same effect again. Maybe.

Title: How the Phantom Became the Poet
Author: Fainn
Fandom: Phantom of the Opera
Rating: PG.
Pairings: None, really. None requited, that is.
Disclaimer: I politely decline.
Warning: OC. No romance, though.

His world had, quite literally, fallen into pieces.

The days after Christine left had been empty, devoid of the music that had filled life before. Stripped of the opera of which he once held claim, without a steady source of currency, and without refuge from the light that burned his eyes, he felt quite like an ant that had been washed away by the tide, left on some foreign beach to dry and suffocate. He had been to the oceans before, seen the dying creatures struggling towards water, aching to quench the thirst that wracked their bodies. Some reached their destination, and lived. The ones that didn’t, died. And he was dying.

He drifted from place to place—almost floating. He once fancied the notion that he could follow Christine, trail after her stealthily, sustained by chance glances at her face once in a while. That was a life he could be happy with, but he had made his promise and had vowed not to bother her or her lover again. If there was one value he had kept throughout the years, it was to honor promises. Sometimes he performed magic tricks for audiences in local bars—wherever he was staying the night, that is. Being a talented ventriloquist and magician helped sometimes, and he found himself able to support himself with the steady trickle of money flowing in on a daily basis. It was enough to afford living in inns for the majority of his time, and to indulge in a French pastry every so often—not as lavish as his life before, but nothing was as it was before anyway.

-----------
The first time he met her was in that little inn in Ancona. He had overheard her asking for a room, and noted the astonishing likeness she had to Christine—from the backside, anyway. When she turned around, however, he found that the two were nothing alike at all. Where Christine had generous curves and brilliance, she had straight lines and plain features. Simple brown hair, tied up in a bun, normal-looking nose with large doe-like brown eyes did nothing to enhance her thin frame, and after that he had stopped paying attention to her. Her kind did not interest him.

He was stumbling up the stairs at late midnight when he felt a gentle hand on his arm. He turned to find the girl, dying candle in hand, offering to help him up. No one had touched him in so long that he was startled, and slipped halfway down the stairs, bringing the girl with him. Her candle slipped out of her hand with a quiet hiss, leaving them in total darkness. She burnt her hand from the hot wax, and after escorting him to his door dashed quickly to the sink to cool the wound.

After supper the next evening, she accompanied him to his room for tea. She told him she was the Duke’s only daughter, and how she was journeying home after a winter with her relatives in Greece. She had stopped here to rest for a few days, seeing the lovely view and had painted a few landscapes in the morning. She was doing all the talking, that quiet, collected voice of hers, and occasionally stopped to pour tea, always making sure his cup was full and not a drop was missing. He himself was empty and as he listened felt his heart grow fuller.

She came everyday for the next three days, and had taken him out on one of her painting excursions once. She’d told her handmaids he was a friend and that had surprised him, seeing as he hadn’t said a word the past few days. He watched her paint, and found as he watched that her limbs, long and thin, gained their own kind of grace as she painted, smooth and liquid against the sky. Seeing this beauty he thought of Christine, his beautiful Christine, how she had shone against the walls of the dungeon and the sweetness of her touch when she was unafraid. The memory brought tears to his eyes and the handmaids must have thought him mad, a grown man sobbing, tears trickling down the face of the mask and stinging his face.

At the end of the week she had offered to take him home with her. The manor had many rooms and it really wouldn’t be so much of a bother if he would—

No.

He had stood everything, everything until this moment, and now his heart was aching and the music he thought he’d forgotten rose angry in his ears. He had screamed no, NO! until the walls shook with fury. How dare she take apart the carefully soulless existence he had created, once independent and unheeding, and try to take from him his mourning? To leave behind this misery was to leave behind Christine, Christine his obsession, the one thing he needed and couldn’t have and didn’t want to part with.

No. Simply no.

She had stood, the stupid cow she was, staring at him quietly until she asked

Why?

There was no why, never had been a why, couldn’t she see this because there had always been a THIS:

He tore off his mask in one powerful stroke and threw it to the side.

He watched her eyes widen, slowly traveling over each twisted feature, from the chalk-white brow to the black hollowed eyes, but she did not scream as Christine had nor did she flinch like the Persian. She simply looked, nodded, and turned her back.

You know, you don’t have to feel ashamed.

What?

She shrugged.

You don’t need the rest of the world if you have yourself.

What?

I can make sure no one sees you, if you like. You could still live the way you want. You wouldn’t be leaving anything behind.

Now it was his turn to stare.

Why would you do that?

Your presence makes me happy. I enjoy your company, mask or without. I like to keep the things that make me happy—

She paused.

— don’t you?

-----------
He left with her on her coach the next day. He needed time to ponder what she said, and like any great puzzle, he longed to understand. Besides, there had been something in her eyes that had promised redemption, and if he’d atoned long ago for his sins Christine might’ve come back.

He stayed in the attic, the exact opposite of the dungeons he used to dwell in, but he found that if he drew the curtains closed in the morning the place could be just as dark. She brought him all his meals, along with some newspaper clippings and pieces of music. She brought him an organ too, once, but he told her to take it away in favor of some books. Along with material possessions she brought with her conversation, little tidbits of what had happened throughout the day and her thoughts. After a while he found that her thoughts really weren’t that mundane at all—she considered each word carefully before speaking, and once he thought he saw a spider on her tongue, weaving the words together before she could speak. Christine had never wanted to talk about opera matters; as long as he could remember she had stayed silent and kept her eyes on the ground, just like the deathly-cold bride he’d always imagined he would have. This new girl, Cynthia, as he later found she was called, spoke as if each were her dying words and he her long-lost lover.

After a few weeks he found himself speaking to her, and the attic filled with two voices: the soft voice of a girl and a low, somewhat cracked baritone. At first he just told her about the Opera, his creations, architecture…but one stormy evening he told her about Christine and Raoul and obsession and when he was done expected her to hate him. Instead she was laughing and said:
Are you going to kidnap me like you did Christine?

I’ve killed and I’ve plundered and I’ve stole. Is there anything I couldn’t do?

But then he fell silent and added:

But somehow I feel disinclined to do so to you.

The girl fell silent and they sat there, listening to the howling winds and thinking.

-----------
One day the girl grew hysterical and came to him the perfect picture of a broken woman. He’d asked what was wrong and she told him about her father, whom he thought was a very good man. Not his type of man, but a good one by society’s standards.

A good man doesn’t always care for his daughter.

Is your father unkind?

She laughed a little, tone tinged with bitterness.

No. He is never unkind. But he never loves.

He can’t say anything because the only person he’s ever loved is Christine, and since Christine never loved him back he wasn’t sure how to advise the girl. It was alright at the end, since she continued on herself:

Never loves…never loved me. I am his daughter, his primary asset. An asset is all I am. I was raised a proper girl, a decent girl, in hopes of obtaining a marriage to some high-ranking noble who’d want me.

She wept, mainly at herself, wiping away tears as she said

Did anyone not think, that a plain girl like me, could dare to dream of wanton and romantic things? To dream of her fair prince and her golden castles? Did anyone not think, that because I am the Duke’s daughter, that I deserve to have a happiness as full and true as any other woman’s? How I envy your Christine, your beautiful Opera dancer who found her prince! How I envy her position, one without responsibility, one without any worry but that of the amorous kind!

She bit her lip.

I’ve been made bitter, so bitter over my fate. It’s no different from that of any other nobleman’s daughter, I suppose, but you’d think, that after all these years, at least one of us could have a chance.

A chance? What for?

I don’t know—anything, I suppose. A chance to live happily ever after. A chance to die in peace and serenity. A chance to die a dramatic, noteworthy death. A chance to be reborn—a-anything, I guess…anything that could make a difference in the world, like a in a book, or something of the sort.

It was in this way she talked, for maybe hours before her tears ran out and her handkerchief soiled. Her face became composed once more, and as clearly as he could feel his own he saw her slip on her own mask, one of dignity and pride, and with the least amount of stuttering possible bid him good night.

-----------
One day she had simply come to him and said she had a fiancé. Strangely enough, there was no emotion in the words, and congratulated her even as his heart beat a strong no no no. Both of them had known this was coming, and she wished him sweet dreams and left him with his thoughts.

The next few days they talked, but not for long. She was always busy with wedding arrangements, helping her father negotiate with the decorators, the caterers. She went to night parties and extravagant balls, and when she came home smelled like champagne and expensive powder and perfume. She paid more attention to her appearance, the once drab brown hair shown with a light oil and skin flushed and scented with rose water. Her eyes were colored and outlined and her arms powdered an even whiter shade of pale. She shown and reminded him of Christine and he told her that. Their conversation was awkward for a few days, but it was soon forgotten. Whenever they talked, now, her eyes always seemed to be searching…searching…and her eyes lit up with hope more often than they used to. She smiled more, laughed more, but subsequently dark rings appeared below her eyes and he realized it was all a façade, a simple façade to keep him happy. He insisted that she not visit him for a few days and she agreed.

The days without her grew lonely. A serving girl brought him food each morning, and other then a few careless notes scribbled on the back of handkerchiefs he received no contact from her for about a month. He missed her conversation, for it was a distraction from the pain in his heart and drove his thoughts away from Christine. He’d taken to writing poetry, but he still had a long way to go before he could match up to the mastery of Donne or Keats. He’d taken to learning Latin, so he could speak something besides Hindi, French, English, or Italian (the languages he picked up throughout his many travels). Daytimes were devoted to study, nighttimes to Christine.

As always, it was nighttime when she came back. He looked up to find her in a tattered robe, quite soaked from head to toe. Her brown eyes sparkled with a kind of foreign energy, all scars from society washed away with the mud and rain she’d been running through.

May I sit down?

Yes.

She sat down, reaching for the tea cup set on the table. She peered into the tea box.

Why, it’s almost empty.

Yes.

I hadn’t noticed.

She searched the cabinets for more tea, and filled the box again. She’d always kept it full. Tea cups were always full when she was around.

They drank, she much more quickly than he, so that she was on her third cup before he had finished his first. It was unlike her to be so hurried.

At the third cup she spoke.

I’ve met my fiancé. He is the Earl of Shaftesbury, a very high-ranking social position.

He said nothing. She continued:

He’s very young. No older than thirty, I believe. His father died young and he was left with the fortune at age ten. He’s very handsome.

Still nothing.

Everyone says he is very charming. He is exceptionally kind as well—he’s the sponsor of three orphanages here in France. The children adore him. I’m very lucky, I suppose, to have secured him.

He feels like he’s choking. Why?

We are to be married next Sunday.

Why hadn’t she told him? Would that have changed anything?

There’s silence. The rain should be soothing, yet he’s drowning, drowning in the silence. Every breath is audible, every sigh is heard. And still she says:

This is your last chance.

He doesn’t understand.

Your last chance to kidnap me and take me away.

The words are beating themselves against his skull, yet he can’t make sense of them. She’s crying, he feels it, and he realizes the water streaming down his cheeks isn’t rain at all, but tears…

We could run away together. I manage about half of the family’s finances, I’ll simply withdraw my dowry and inheritance and we could live on that. You could be a magician, and I could sew, or embroider. We could have a fairy tale ending.

Something’s begging in her voice, but it’s not her voice he hears. Christine’s crying…crying…why are you crying?

I love him. Don’t take him away from me.

I won’t.

Is that a promise?

Kidnap me. Please.

(I love you.)

She loves him. She’s never wanted to leave him, never. She was never his, her heart long captured by the childhood friend and her long-dead father.

(I love you.)

Everything was a lie. He knew it, too. He’d forced this upon the girl, and now she hated him.

(…can you hear me?)

He should have known better then to love. The Devil’s children were never meant to find happiness.

(ERIK, I LOVE YOU!)

The world was wrong, wrong because of him. He couldn’t do it.

Promises should be kept.

It didn’t sound like his voice.

You’ve promised him your hand. Keep it.

The world has stopped. He watches as her teacup falls slowly to the ground, splattering the contents onto the bed, onto the floor, the little droplets sinking into the wood and never to return again.

There are no tears left. There never will be. A broken heart cannot feel, and he sees himself in her as she picks up the broken pieces, one last tear struggling to stay on her face, before the gravity is just too much and it’s

falling

fallen

With the last drop of her soul gone he finds an empty shell, and not knowing what to do with it, says good night.

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He’s living in a house in Florence, now. It’s not too far from the market, and close enough to the vast public libraries. Sometimes he goes to the church and plays the organ there; the Sisters in the Coventry admire his music and sometimes let him attend Sunday service. Having lost his last attempt for forgiveness, he now tries bargaining directly with God.

He’s reading the morning newspaper. The headline reads “Earl of Shaftesbury and Wife Tend to Drought Victims.” Cynthia wasn’t lying at all—the Earl is handsome. Dashing black locks and perfect features grace the front page, and standing beside him she almost looks beautiful. Sometimes he wonders if Christine could ever manage the grace and poise she wields so carefully.

He puts the paper away and pulls out his notebook. He writes poems in daytime now. Somehow the sun makes the page brighter and fills him with memories of paintings and laughter and bitter tears in the rain. He keeps a full teacup on his table, and takes a sip from it now.

He tests his pen against the parchment, the ink stain like blood, and begins to write.