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drabble roundup - Misc
How to Start Again
Vash/Wolfwood . 446 words . written for flynn_boyant
If I had the chance to start again
Then you would be the one I'd come and find
If you'd asked him, Vash would tell you, with a wide smile, that he didn't believe in reincarnation. And maybe the subject would drop, and you'd move on to other things, like politics or the world cup or Lady Gaga. He has an opinion about everything. Sometimes more than one.
It isn't that he believes in reincarnation, you see. It's a fact, like the sun rising in the east (or the earth spinning around it) or the constant of gravity (on this planet, anyway). Reincarnation is something that happens whether he believes in it or not.
He does believe that some people are destined to meet, over and over again. He's met Ren three times now, and Knives always laughs because it never changes, does it?
But he's still searching.
Like a sum the mathematician cannot solve
Like me trying my hardest to explain
He's played the scene out a hundred times in his head - and out loud too, sometimes, though his brother shakes his head and Ren 4.0 - her name's Anna, and she's the first one since Meryl who's known everything - tells him to just stop worrying about it, that if it's meant to be, planning won't make a difference. But he doesn't really believe in destiny, and that's why he tries so hard.
It's really just a matter of regret. Vash has come a long way in his time on earth, but this one thing has always been unresolved.
It's all about your cries and kisses
Those first steps that I can't calculate
In the end, Anna's right. He isn't expecting it anyway - and he should have known, that nothing with Wolfwood could ever be expected. He doesn't have any defenses, has no idea what to do when he reaches into his back pocket and finds one of those horrible little missionary cards, condemning their readers and insisting that Jesus is their only savior.
But this one has edits in red pen. This one has a curly mustache drawn on Mary's face. This one is signed in black sharpie with the name 'Jethro' but Vash knows who it is.
He starts hunting.
Take all your chances while you can
You never know when they'll pass you by
I know I because I can't calculate
How to respect you
How to start again
Beautiful Disaster
Harry/Perry . 522 words . written for danse_amore . sequel to All I Ever Wanted
So they're at the beach.
Harmony's got her top undone and she's face-down in the sand, fast asleep. The last time they were at the beach it was January - and Perry wasn't going to forget that day, not in a lifetime. It was the day that everything changed, or maybe that was the party, watching this cheap little lie of a kid getting brained on a point of honor. Maybe it was somewhere in between.
He can watch them both with ease, now, because Harmony's got a boyfriend (for longer than two weeks, and he's a doctor), and, well. Harry does, too.
So it's with fondness that he sees them, now, rolling about like kids in the sand. Harry putting on Harmony's sunscreen with a sort of reverence, and Perry knows they care just as much, though maybe in different ways. Harry isn't going to turn down an excuse to touch her, after all, and she gives him that. They give so much of each other. Perry loves them both, probably too much.
"Are you going to tan your ass, too?" he remarks, when Harmony finally blinks bleary eyes and mumbles something about sand in weird places.
"Huh? No. Maybe. Should I?"
At Perry's side, Harry snickers. "I say yes."
"No," Perry cuts in, his tone irritable but he's really not and they all know it. "Here, let me." He does up the back of Harmony's swimsuit, taking great pains to make both sides of the bow even.
"Thanks, honey," she purrs, and Harry laughs. Harry's always laughing and smiling and reacting, he's everything they're all feeling all at once, all laid out in the open.
"Hey," he says. "We should get a watermelon."
Perry raises an eyebrow. "Where the fuck are we going to get a watermelon? And, more importantly, why?"
"You have to get a watermelon! And split it open with your manly strength. I mean, I would but I don't have any so it really has to be you. Unless Harmony wants to."
She laughs. "I didn't bring my bat."
"Oh my god, the-"
"With the-"
"You still have that?!"
Perry still has no idea how to translate when they start doing that twinspeak thing, but he doesn't much care, really. "I am not splitting a watermelon with my 'manly strength', Harry."
Harmony laughs. "But you have to! We'll get the watermelon and everything. Oh, and you have to be blindfolded."
Dear Mother. This is why I will never have kids. You know, besides being gay. "No."
"Perry."
He gives her a tight, exasperated look. "Harmony."
But Harry's already leaping to his feet and holding out his hand, and within seconds, he's skipping off towards the boardwalk with Harmony in tow, like the really are lovers - or just overexcited children, which is the more accurate image.
Perry stares after them for a long moment, then curses the air blue.
Fuck me running, he sighs, inwardly. I just can't say no to them, can I.
He follows.
Macedonian Morning
Vincent Valentine/Kuja . Alexandrian-era AU . 533 words . written for hey_giffy
Vincent hadn't actually intended to be at this particular feast; he didn't care much for carousing and carrying on, and raucous evenings like these were perfect times for assassins to sneak into the palace.
But somehow, he'd ended up seated between Alexander and General Hephaistion - how he managed that, he'd never know, but he was stuck fast as surely as a stick in a sinkhole.
It really wasn't that he didn't like watching the Persian dancers. Well, the girls - he could take them or leave them, and it was usually leave, but -
He liked watching the Persian boydancers. He liked it too much.
It was a difficult political situation, and another very good reason to avoid banquets in general. He had a job, and he did his job. He protected the King, organized his team of bodyguards, and made sure whatever hellish living arrangements he was throwing himself into were secure. But, being close to the King, people expected politics out of him, and he would have just as soon shot the lot, as long it meant that Alexander was safe.
"Vincentius," the King whispered, his voice only just slightly slurred by the heady wine. "Bagoas tells me there's a new dancer in town, a fantastic beauty."
Vincent didn't respond, though he did lift the man's hand off of his shoulder.
"Will they be dancing for us tonight?" Hephaistion, as always, picked up the conversational slack.
"Yes. Any minute now, they'll..."
But he trailed off, for the torches had been extinguished and the braziers shuttered to almost nothing. All that was left were the candles, illuminating the dance circle in a solemn, flickering ring.
A breathy flute began to play, and the most beautiful man Vincent had ever seen stepped into the clearing.
He was white. Not the ruddy pale of the Nothern tribes, or the smooth light gold of his Grecian people - this man was the color of bone china, of milk. The hair that fell down past his hips was similar in shade - colorless, moon-pale, shimmering and utterly unearthly.
Vincent came to an awareness that his jaw was hanging wide open. He closed it.
And all this before the man (for it was a man, very distinctly, though the shape of him was feminine - in the ancient, archetypal way, not the offensive curves and overblown sexuality of actual females) had even begun to move.
When he did, oh, when he danced, it was like liquid, like silk over bare skin, the motion crawled down Vincent's spine and lodged firmly in his groin, rendering him speechless and incoherent.
Alexander leaned close, and when he spoke this time, it was much steadier, much more himself and much less drunk than he appeared. "I can introduce you," he murmured, and it was without rancor - without any hint at all of condescension. There was empathy in his tone, and Vincent remembered - Bagoas. Of all the people in this room, Alexander truly could understand.
"I'll take that as a yes," he said, and Vincent could only nod.
Vash/Wolfwood . 446 words . written for flynn_boyant
If I had the chance to start again
Then you would be the one I'd come and find
If you'd asked him, Vash would tell you, with a wide smile, that he didn't believe in reincarnation. And maybe the subject would drop, and you'd move on to other things, like politics or the world cup or Lady Gaga. He has an opinion about everything. Sometimes more than one.
It isn't that he believes in reincarnation, you see. It's a fact, like the sun rising in the east (or the earth spinning around it) or the constant of gravity (on this planet, anyway). Reincarnation is something that happens whether he believes in it or not.
He does believe that some people are destined to meet, over and over again. He's met Ren three times now, and Knives always laughs because it never changes, does it?
But he's still searching.
Like a sum the mathematician cannot solve
Like me trying my hardest to explain
He's played the scene out a hundred times in his head - and out loud too, sometimes, though his brother shakes his head and Ren 4.0 - her name's Anna, and she's the first one since Meryl who's known everything - tells him to just stop worrying about it, that if it's meant to be, planning won't make a difference. But he doesn't really believe in destiny, and that's why he tries so hard.
It's really just a matter of regret. Vash has come a long way in his time on earth, but this one thing has always been unresolved.
It's all about your cries and kisses
Those first steps that I can't calculate
In the end, Anna's right. He isn't expecting it anyway - and he should have known, that nothing with Wolfwood could ever be expected. He doesn't have any defenses, has no idea what to do when he reaches into his back pocket and finds one of those horrible little missionary cards, condemning their readers and insisting that Jesus is their only savior.
But this one has edits in red pen. This one has a curly mustache drawn on Mary's face. This one is signed in black sharpie with the name 'Jethro' but Vash knows who it is.
He starts hunting.
Take all your chances while you can
You never know when they'll pass you by
I know I because I can't calculate
How to respect you
How to start again
Beautiful Disaster
Harry/Perry . 522 words . written for danse_amore . sequel to All I Ever Wanted
So they're at the beach.
Harmony's got her top undone and she's face-down in the sand, fast asleep. The last time they were at the beach it was January - and Perry wasn't going to forget that day, not in a lifetime. It was the day that everything changed, or maybe that was the party, watching this cheap little lie of a kid getting brained on a point of honor. Maybe it was somewhere in between.
He can watch them both with ease, now, because Harmony's got a boyfriend (for longer than two weeks, and he's a doctor), and, well. Harry does, too.
So it's with fondness that he sees them, now, rolling about like kids in the sand. Harry putting on Harmony's sunscreen with a sort of reverence, and Perry knows they care just as much, though maybe in different ways. Harry isn't going to turn down an excuse to touch her, after all, and she gives him that. They give so much of each other. Perry loves them both, probably too much.
"Are you going to tan your ass, too?" he remarks, when Harmony finally blinks bleary eyes and mumbles something about sand in weird places.
"Huh? No. Maybe. Should I?"
At Perry's side, Harry snickers. "I say yes."
"No," Perry cuts in, his tone irritable but he's really not and they all know it. "Here, let me." He does up the back of Harmony's swimsuit, taking great pains to make both sides of the bow even.
"Thanks, honey," she purrs, and Harry laughs. Harry's always laughing and smiling and reacting, he's everything they're all feeling all at once, all laid out in the open.
"Hey," he says. "We should get a watermelon."
Perry raises an eyebrow. "Where the fuck are we going to get a watermelon? And, more importantly, why?"
"You have to get a watermelon! And split it open with your manly strength. I mean, I would but I don't have any so it really has to be you. Unless Harmony wants to."
She laughs. "I didn't bring my bat."
"Oh my god, the-"
"With the-"
"You still have that?!"
Perry still has no idea how to translate when they start doing that twinspeak thing, but he doesn't much care, really. "I am not splitting a watermelon with my 'manly strength', Harry."
Harmony laughs. "But you have to! We'll get the watermelon and everything. Oh, and you have to be blindfolded."
Dear Mother. This is why I will never have kids. You know, besides being gay. "No."
"Perry."
He gives her a tight, exasperated look. "Harmony."
But Harry's already leaping to his feet and holding out his hand, and within seconds, he's skipping off towards the boardwalk with Harmony in tow, like the really are lovers - or just overexcited children, which is the more accurate image.
Perry stares after them for a long moment, then curses the air blue.
Fuck me running, he sighs, inwardly. I just can't say no to them, can I.
He follows.
Macedonian Morning
Vincent Valentine/Kuja . Alexandrian-era AU . 533 words . written for hey_giffy
Vincent hadn't actually intended to be at this particular feast; he didn't care much for carousing and carrying on, and raucous evenings like these were perfect times for assassins to sneak into the palace.
But somehow, he'd ended up seated between Alexander and General Hephaistion - how he managed that, he'd never know, but he was stuck fast as surely as a stick in a sinkhole.
It really wasn't that he didn't like watching the Persian dancers. Well, the girls - he could take them or leave them, and it was usually leave, but -
He liked watching the Persian boydancers. He liked it too much.
It was a difficult political situation, and another very good reason to avoid banquets in general. He had a job, and he did his job. He protected the King, organized his team of bodyguards, and made sure whatever hellish living arrangements he was throwing himself into were secure. But, being close to the King, people expected politics out of him, and he would have just as soon shot the lot, as long it meant that Alexander was safe.
"Vincentius," the King whispered, his voice only just slightly slurred by the heady wine. "Bagoas tells me there's a new dancer in town, a fantastic beauty."
Vincent didn't respond, though he did lift the man's hand off of his shoulder.
"Will they be dancing for us tonight?" Hephaistion, as always, picked up the conversational slack.
"Yes. Any minute now, they'll..."
But he trailed off, for the torches had been extinguished and the braziers shuttered to almost nothing. All that was left were the candles, illuminating the dance circle in a solemn, flickering ring.
A breathy flute began to play, and the most beautiful man Vincent had ever seen stepped into the clearing.
He was white. Not the ruddy pale of the Nothern tribes, or the smooth light gold of his Grecian people - this man was the color of bone china, of milk. The hair that fell down past his hips was similar in shade - colorless, moon-pale, shimmering and utterly unearthly.
Vincent came to an awareness that his jaw was hanging wide open. He closed it.
And all this before the man (for it was a man, very distinctly, though the shape of him was feminine - in the ancient, archetypal way, not the offensive curves and overblown sexuality of actual females) had even begun to move.
When he did, oh, when he danced, it was like liquid, like silk over bare skin, the motion crawled down Vincent's spine and lodged firmly in his groin, rendering him speechless and incoherent.
Alexander leaned close, and when he spoke this time, it was much steadier, much more himself and much less drunk than he appeared. "I can introduce you," he murmured, and it was without rancor - without any hint at all of condescension. There was empathy in his tone, and Vincent remembered - Bagoas. Of all the people in this room, Alexander truly could understand.
"I'll take that as a yes," he said, and Vincent could only nod.