Watchmen Kink Meme 3. Weeeeeeee.
Rules of the meme:
1. Anonymously post a pairing and prompt you would like to see written. Since this is a kink meme, there is supposted to be a kink involved, but normal well-written prompts should work just as well.
2. Anonymous will respond to your post and write it for you! Art and such is also acceptable/awesome. Multiple people may respond to ( Read more... )
Figure I'd de-anon since half of you guys have already guessed who's writing this. ;) Enjoy!
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Red is well-read for a (and Deng makes himself forget the word "mere," makes himself forget to be surprised) worker. He's not sure how Red knows or even has gotten his hands on half the literature he references-- Rosseau, Friedman Ricardo, Shaw, and Malthus. He has his theories (gossiping beetles in his head: foreign devil-fathers and their literature, an education entrenched in Western classics at home) but he doesn't ask. Asking would be a betrayal, and Deng-- doesn't-- never-- has been a traitor, by his own actions.
Memories of the days assault him when he sleeps, small and large, minute and epic all the same in the space his brain governs; the way Red's bones crack when he stretches in the morning, the aqua-green scent of their swimming, the stiff, wiry way Red holds himself at the square, as if the ground were electrified. This has grown past him, further than Deng would have expected.
But in forgetting that Red is a worker (or once was, he's missed too many days to still have a job, these days), and in forgetting his assumptions about-- others, he's also forgotten how to feel afraid. This upswell, this soaring feeling, gliding on the backs of towers and the possibility of possibilities everywhere, how could it leave?
They ride Deng's bicycle to the square. Red's unfastened the collar of his shirt and it flaps in the pedal-sped wind. To anybody else, it would be natural, but to Deng, he knows that it's the only concession Red gives to the heat. The other man sits behind, one sinewy arm wrapped low around Deng's belly and the knock of his chest, sometimes, against Deng's back when they bump over imperfections in the road, makes Deng want to throw his head back and sigh until the sound of it winds and fills the maze of hutongs, humanity breaking the urban relentlessness.
At the square, Deng is almost out of breath, but not quite.
On governance, he says, pushing packets of air across the top of the crowd, throat compressing and expanding:
Of all tyrannies, a tyranny exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end, for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.
Of the markets, he says: What kind of society isn't structured on greed? The problem of social organization is how to set up an arrangement under which greed will do the least harm; capitalism is that kind of a system.
Of corruption, he says: In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.
The sun sets later and later these days, they glow of dusk reflecting off their skin, an alchemy of tallow to gold. Red's eyes are sharp as ever but softer on him, these days, a flickering of ambiguity. Deng wants to tell the truth, a Red truth, but it feels blasphemous to do so. There is already enough revolution in the air, enough protest and high spirits and Deng would not want to betray the times with his little feelings, his insignificant wonderings.
In his dreams, Red asks him what he wants. Deng replies quite simply, in a mix of a child's voice and something otherworldly, that he wants to be as free as his own dictation, to love one thing more than all the other things.
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Deng tells Red about his dreams for the future. China is the most populous nation in the world, he says. It's natural that someday, the world will be dominated by Chinese politics instead of Soviet-American ones, that the news media will be filled with tales of triumph of the people. American analysts have predicted that with the reforms, the national economy will exceed even America's by the twenty-first century.
--Government propaganda, Red grumbles, but looks pleased, too.
--But you haven't heard the rest of it, Deng continues. At the rate of these reforms, of the opening to the west, democracy is inevitable. Like Deng-- the current Chairman, that is-- says-- it doesn't matter if it's a black cat or a white cat, as long as it catches mice, it's a good cat.
--Underestimate the reactionary tendencies of the old guard.
--We've been here for weeks and they haven't done anything to us, really--
--'s the problem, hisses Red. Haven't done anything.
Silence, for a beat.
--The time will come, Red's voice says when they'll fall under the accumulation of their lies and corruption. All the officials and smooth-talkers will look up and shout, save us.
--Would you say no? Deng asks, but he already knows the answer.
Red bristles. Look down upon their kind, Deng. Politician's just a different kind of actress, a different kind of whore. Should let people decide for themselves. Would always say no. Not worth saving.
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He walks up and out of the dorm, probably to use the bathroom, perhaps to time his exit with the weight of his words. Deng sits there in silence, tries not to feel stunned. But it's like a blow to the stomach, the air is knocked out of him. He moves to his bed and lays down. The mattress squeaks, complains under his weight, and Deng thumps his foot impatiently against the side. His teeth grind in his head and there is a hotness behind his eyes that he hides by casting his forearm over the bridge of his nose. There are things he wants to say, Red truths. One of them is that Red is a stupid, incorrigible basta--
Red comes back, turning the light off behind him. Sits down at the edge of the bed; the mattress groans again. Red tells him, suddenly,
--Didn't know who my father was. Never asked.
That's all he says, but he keeps sitting there, long after the breath is gone from the last of the words. Deng sits up, careful not to bump his head against the top bunk, and scoots to the edge of the bed. He reaches over, puts a hand on Red's shoulder, which is jumpy and skin-electric under his fingers.
--When I was little, Deng says, I used to build model airplanes. All kinds. My favorite one was named Fenghuang-- you know, "phoenix."
He turns Red around so that they are side-face to side-face, their breaths running parallel in the damp of the night.
--I still want to. His voice catches, he's aware that his sentences are growing unwieldy. That is, build things. Machines that will help people. Flying ones, maybe. Like airplanes.
--Like a child, Deng. The tone is not unkind, but it is unsteady.
--Yes, a little bit, Deng laughs, a warm puff of breath against the side of Red's face. Deng nudges off the top clip of Red's shirt, always buttoned to the hilt except for sometimes. There is no wind now, and no excuse, and Deng is not asking, but his every touch is an implicit question.
--American firms in this country now, Red shudders. His hands are useless at his sides, and this close, Deng can see every speck on Red's flushed, red-tipped face. Foreign direct investment only helped by releasing final stronghold on mercantalist policy,
--Yes, yes, Deng says, exaltation more than an agreement and his own fingers are moving of their own will, twisting on each button, slowing his pace as he moves south. Red's stomach ripples under his touch, and he inches his face into the juncture of the other man's neck and shoulder, holds there, in as much as out, ghost-breaths belying the frantic shuddering of his own heart and the possibility of things.
The shirt is gone but they are still there, frozen. Moments pass like this, Deng watching from his position the rise and fall of Red's chest, the way the undershirt clings to the curve of his muscles, drenched in sweat. They both smell of dust and the salt-savory particles of old skin, woody and deep.
He presses back on Red's shoulder until the other man lies down, still as rigid as a statue, breathing to the quick.
I-- Deng's voice catches. The first time in weeks. Usually it's so strong. But confronted with this, he can't-- he doesn't-- We don't have to. He doesn't know what he's saying, really. He's never done this. A good boy since he was little, the pride of the Deng family, red envelopes at New Year's always stuffed full of money and White Rabbit candies, always the first in his class and never one to fail what anyone thought he was, could be. His father wants him to go with the times, to work behind hallowed, moneyed halls and carry on the wealth that made him this man today.
Blasphemously, he thinks that he wants to be a different man, now.
Little by little, their shakes subside and the crickets outside sing of luck and good fortune and the bright, changing times. The optimism of earthly creatures is what lulls them to sleep, in the end.
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Inaction was not to persist forever: the students may not realize it, but the last of the moderates in power have been ousted by the ongoing power struggles within the Party. This is as evident as day when the General Secretary Zhao Ziyang steps up onto the podium in the middle of the square, tears floating at the rims of his eyes as he proclaims in a trembling voice, don't do this to yourselves. Don't do this to your lives. Please move on, and change will come. Eventually. You must be patient.
Always, eventually. Deng wonders if he is tired of waiting-- but he has always been patient.Red, on the other hand, is as agitated as ever. "Old guard will be mobilizing soon," he growls, and shys away from Deng's touch that night.
Red's promise, seemingly tied to the world's fate: truckloads of soldiers arrive in the city, dressed in military greens and shading their eyes with hands and the brims of their hats. The crowds in the streets, millions strong, prevent them from ever reaching the Square. One woman implores of them, don't you know what we're doing? don't you know what we're fighting for? please, don't be the tools of a small handful. there was a time when the soldiers were of the people. we are those people.
Tears stream down her cheeks, and Deng feels a pinch of emotion at her words. He quickly pushes it away, faint remnants of dream-speech echoing in his ears.
The stalemate pushes the soldiers back to the suburbs; a temporary armistice between the people and their Army settles uneasily over the Square, and the marching is more like wandering now. Sure enough, that night, a single, armored vehicle rumbles full speed into the square. The barrage of citizen-hurled wick-and-kerosene stuffed bottles does nothing to stop it. The armored vehicle charges on, patchwork flames on its shanks, all mechanical groans and ground-shattering judgment and fury. Minutes later, the behemoth's denizens are speaking, repeating from the center, voices amplified by megaphones and the success of their lone campaign, that everyone must return to their homes, immediately. Everyone must return.
Each one of Deng's classmates leaves, in couples, until only the two of them are left in the wake of this desertion. Sirens screech and the megaphone from the center is no longer leading the crowd in rhythm-full, sing song catechisms: Red's grip on the signpost handle wears thin in his hands. The Time Is Now. They stand there until the first hints of the morning sun arise, dew chilling both of them to the bone, nature's cold apathy spread in damp sheets across the Square. Dew-frost glimmers on Red's skin, a slow, magnifying dance against his freckles, and his hair filled with ladybug-beads.
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Deng reaches out and tugs at Red's shoulder, hand curling around the bone and muscle and tugs him horizontally until the other man's head is flush against his shoulder. The signpost falls to his side, and Red lets out an ennk of displeasure at the contact, or disappointment in himself for failing his vigil, this symbolic night of the protest's capitulation, even if it's--
"Just for a moment," Deng whispers (or does he implore it? for which one of them is he asking?). Red's eyes are closed now, silent acquiescence, eyelashes a dark smudge against his cheeks, an unforgiving black against the pale pink of the morning's reflection. It feels like a dream, cold and relentless, the soreness in Deng's legs building up and they're still keeping watch here, their stronghold breached, and yet, his heart still swells with compassion and something that dares not speak its name, yet.
"Come on," Deng says. "Let's go back. Just for a bit. We'll come back, first thing in the morning. We can pick up some food for everyone else, too."
He's not sure if it's an entreaty or an imperative or a simple, factual statement when Red says, "stay here."
He wants to give in, but Red is about to fall over, the sign post dragging on the ground, now, and Deng knows that time is running out.
"This way," he says, and his grip on Red's shoulder is dense and he can be uncompromising, too. "I promise. First thing tomorrow."
His legs ache on the bicycle pedals, and Red is heavy against his back, the side of the other man's face pressed into the nylon of his jacket and beyond that, the knobs of his spine. They sleep pressed against each other, Deng's limbs a hollow around Red's, his nose buried in the quiet moss-red of the other man's hair. This thing like joy that Deng feels mixes itself with fatigue and the everywhere-ache of his body, and Deng cannot disambiguate one thing from another, need and requirement weighing heavily on his eyelids and everything else is sinking, too, into a deep, dark cradle where the light doesn't reach. Deng is so close, on the cusp of heartache and the realization of something vital-- that Red would allow him these things, yet--
Yet...
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They've arrived.
Deng is hyper aware, as if a fog has been lifted from his eyes, yet his mind refuses cohesion, rejects comprehension. His fingers are tight around the plastic bags-- this is the heart of the protest, and protest requires carbohydrates and protein and liquids just like any other human endeavor. Red is shaking with rage next to him, the bags in his hands rustling with his body's vibrations, tremors of sheet-white sound.
A girl somewhere in the crowd proclaims, a little too loudly over the hush, they're really doing this.
They roll in, gears crunching the ground beneath them and the Square is still resilient against their weight, the Square only another platform now, another blank slate for anyone to write on. The final barrier of interlinked arms and fingers and all the blood of Man stitched together can offer no promise against these dark, faceless, metal behemoths and the trail of their oblong track-tires scrape against the concrete, shrill with the promise of reclamation.
Red's hands, still wound tightly around those shopping bags, knuckles turning white and it's like he can't let go. Vibrating like a strung wire, the seconds ticking by and then the click of a bomb-catch unfastening-- Deng's voice is broken when he says, "don't," but he knows it's too late.
Always has been. Always will be.
Red has forced his way past the crowds, has crawled over the metal railing that seals off the road, marching into the middle of the unshakable path.
The crowd buzzes with the hollow whine of so many people whispering, so many murmurs, channels of wind. The humming inflates slowly, high-pitched edges of mainstream sound, then they balloon suddenly in great heaves and waves, a tsunami of cheers, the tide crashing in Deng's ears. The tanks, so many gears spinning and twirling and Red standing there in the middle of it all, and Deng cannot look away, just like everybody else.
He wants to shout, to call him back, but common sense stops him, how dangerous would it be to say his name now, to give him away. He prays that nobody else in the crowd remembers Red's speech the other week against the Heroes' Monument, that everybody else will have the propriety not to name him.
The tanks stop, go, and Red follows them, side-stepping and skirting around them. He drops the bags, (noodles, green beans, onions and scallions, you too are a part of the movement, the food of the last stand) and climbs up the iron mammoth, fingers scrambling for purchase against the sharkskin exterior, all rough, unrefined metal and camouflage green, and hoists himself up.
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Each step taken back toward the crowd is ten years, the agony of a hundred lifetimes, and when Deng meets Red in the crush with one of his own (and he must have pushed his way to the front of the crowd, too, and his glasses have been knocked off somewhere in the fray), his arms envelop Red in something protective and desperate, trying to hang onto that motion blur pure, wildly oscillating energy, as much as he can. He can still feel the echo of sun-soaked metal on Red's hands and knees, where he had climbed, sprawled, and stood--
"God," he chokes, and there's a shifting under his hands, maybe-- Red's own arms coming up to meet him, "I--"
They're ripped away from each other and Red is hoisted up on the shoulders of many, infinite rounds of salutations and cheers like lead in his ears but Deng bears it all.
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...*speechless*
Ok. This? This is going onto my list of things to reread over and over again when I'm sad, because it makes me so damn happy.
Please accept my incoherent squee in place of an intelligent comment.
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But really, I'm a-ok with whatever you do. Angst followed by happiness *hinthint* is always better than the other way around.
Forgot to say this earlier, but GAH THE SHIRT REMOVING SCENE. Oh, the repression! The tension! Which all adds up to being really hot despite nothing actually happening.
And the way you wrote the dialogue without quotation marks - reminds me of how the French do it in the few French books I've read. It kind of makes the dialogue meld together with the narration, and all the mixing up really adds to the mood. If that makes any sense. *wishes to have your articulation skills*
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Other things I love, y'know, beyond the entire thing: the way Deng's feelings for Red are tied into the politics, working in lines/idea directly from the GN, shirt removal nnrgg.
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The shirt removal part was definitely really fun to write. I almost had them go... well... further along, but Chinese people circa the 1980s are still pretty repressed (in contrast with their Western/American counterparts). Not to mention Ror is repressed no matter what universe he's in.
the way Deng's feelings for Red are tied into the politics
I find the Dan/Ror relationship is always tied to politics one way or another--standing up in the face of gov't corruption, immorality, and other timeless sorts of political/social evils. But it's fun to play with the China concept, since the spirit of the times is so focused on symbolism and martyrs and grand gestures (that's just the way Chinese history seems to work), and Dan has always been susceptible to his environment, being a sort of natural empath and all...
I'm glad this has sparked your interest in the student protests of 1989! "The Gate of Heavenly Peace" is an AWESOME dramatic documentary that I've been using as source material for this fic-- definitely not your usual, dry, stodgy stuff-- there's are lots of interviews with crazy students and hilarious footage of the crazy old coots that run the Party.
ugh. rambling again. sorry. *sheepish*
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This is my favorite paragraph here:
--Yes, yes, Deng says, exaltation more than an agreement and his own fingers are moving of their own will, twisting on each button, slowing his pace as he moves south. Red's stomach ripples under his touch, and he inches his face into the juncture of the other man's neck and shoulder, holds there, in as much as out, ghost-breaths belying the frantic shuddering of his own heart and the possibility of things.
It's so delicate, just like that whole scene.
The very ending part here is so moving, as if he feels now that this is going to take them both apart.
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And CAN I SAY HOW EXCITED I AM to sink my teeth into your Western!AU? I've not been very diligent about scouring the old KMs for fic but I am so glad that you made a masterpost for it! xD xD
Okay, going to post the next part to this now...
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