[gw fic] Phantom Kiss #2
Phantom Kiss #2
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: G
Ship: Trowa/Quatre
Summary: Trowa has a little time to think, while he drifts through space. 780 words.
It's like a dream he had once when he was much younger. He is alone, surrounded entirely by darkness punctured with stars. Soundless explosions go off to his left and right; he trembles at their silence. It is very cold; the stars, for all their crystalline beauty, give off only an austere light, not nearly enough to see by.
In the dream he stumbled through the darkness on tired, frozen feet, until someone found him.
Now he floats, on his back, limply, as though he were in water. No one is going to find him here, he knows. It's possible to be rescued from a dream, but from this?
Heero and Quatre will think he died in the explosion. The chances of surviving a direct hit, in his already damaged suit, from so powerful a beam cannon, had to have been one in a thousand. They'll think he died and they won't come after him.
He tries to think: how far was he from the nearest colony when Quatre, in Wing Zero, shot him? And in what direction is he going? And how quickly? He does not want to think about his odds for surviving now.
The stars hang over him like snowflakes. As the cold seeps into his body and his vision blurs, they seem to melt before his eyes. Will they fall around him, pierce his spacesuit, and kill him? Or will he slip by death one more time?
He thinks about cold sleep. In the old days, before the invention of more expeditious methods of space travel, people were put into cold sleep and revived at the end of their journey. His limbs are heavy as stone. If he falls asleep now, will he die, or will he simply continue to float through space, alive but unable to wake?
Who would wake him? He thinks about the mercenaries, chuckling as they throw cold, rancid water in his face, telling him to hurry up and get his gear; the Alliance forces know their position and they're moving out in five minutes.
About Catherine, with her burnished auburn hair, her flashing lavender eyes, her slender hands nudging him gently awake. Sweetie, it's time to get up. Breakfast's ready, our first show starts at ten, remember, and there's a few things I want to go over...
The stars fall through space and rain around him like withered petals. Some of them tangle in his lashes. It hurts to breathe, and the air that does make its way into his lungs tastes stale. So, not much time left.
In the end, it's Quatre who wakes him, as he'd secretly hoped. Quatre who comes to find him, who gathers him up like a lost child and brushes the sleep from his eyes with a tender kiss.
I didn't think you'd come. How did you find me all the way here?
I knew I would. That was all I needed to know.
A kiss like snow melting. Like calm water full of sunlight. Like warm rain. Like waking to see the sun shining.
Hands on his face, in his hair. Eyelashes tangling with his own.
And then all that ripped away, savagely--
No!
Pressure on his chest, gone for a few seconds, then back again, harder. His heart shrinks against the assault. His head wrenched back, mouth covered, air forced into his starved lungs--
Voices: “Pulse's stronger. Keep--”
Quatre!
It's time for you to wake up, the beloved voice echoes back. I'll find you again. Wake up.
“Wake up, kid,” a new, rough voice grates against his ear.
“He's breathing--”
He opens his mouth to speak, but the word never leaves his lips. His chest hurts; his head feels as though it's been cracked in half.
“Easy now,” says the voice he does not recognize. To someone else: “Dim the lights.” To him again: “You're safe, kid. I don't know how long you were out there, but you're real lucky we found you when we did.”
He opens his eyes. He does not know this place. He does not know these people. “Who--?”
“You're on a cargo shuttle,” the woman says, smiling gently. “En route to Colony .304. Couldn't help noticing the insignia on your spacesuit. Don't worry; we're apolitical. Just tell us where you belong and we'll make the call.”
“You'll--what?”
“What's your name, kid?” a man asks.
What's your name, kid? says the man who found him in his dream, which might not have been a dream.
A word rustles in his memory, but he's too tired, too cold to grope for it. He says, as he did in that old, old dream that might have been real, “I don't know.”
12/18/02
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: G
Ship: Trowa/Quatre
Summary: Trowa has a little time to think, while he drifts through space. 780 words.
It's like a dream he had once when he was much younger. He is alone, surrounded entirely by darkness punctured with stars. Soundless explosions go off to his left and right; he trembles at their silence. It is very cold; the stars, for all their crystalline beauty, give off only an austere light, not nearly enough to see by.
In the dream he stumbled through the darkness on tired, frozen feet, until someone found him.
Now he floats, on his back, limply, as though he were in water. No one is going to find him here, he knows. It's possible to be rescued from a dream, but from this?
Heero and Quatre will think he died in the explosion. The chances of surviving a direct hit, in his already damaged suit, from so powerful a beam cannon, had to have been one in a thousand. They'll think he died and they won't come after him.
He tries to think: how far was he from the nearest colony when Quatre, in Wing Zero, shot him? And in what direction is he going? And how quickly? He does not want to think about his odds for surviving now.
The stars hang over him like snowflakes. As the cold seeps into his body and his vision blurs, they seem to melt before his eyes. Will they fall around him, pierce his spacesuit, and kill him? Or will he slip by death one more time?
He thinks about cold sleep. In the old days, before the invention of more expeditious methods of space travel, people were put into cold sleep and revived at the end of their journey. His limbs are heavy as stone. If he falls asleep now, will he die, or will he simply continue to float through space, alive but unable to wake?
Who would wake him? He thinks about the mercenaries, chuckling as they throw cold, rancid water in his face, telling him to hurry up and get his gear; the Alliance forces know their position and they're moving out in five minutes.
About Catherine, with her burnished auburn hair, her flashing lavender eyes, her slender hands nudging him gently awake. Sweetie, it's time to get up. Breakfast's ready, our first show starts at ten, remember, and there's a few things I want to go over...
The stars fall through space and rain around him like withered petals. Some of them tangle in his lashes. It hurts to breathe, and the air that does make its way into his lungs tastes stale. So, not much time left.
In the end, it's Quatre who wakes him, as he'd secretly hoped. Quatre who comes to find him, who gathers him up like a lost child and brushes the sleep from his eyes with a tender kiss.
I didn't think you'd come. How did you find me all the way here?
I knew I would. That was all I needed to know.
A kiss like snow melting. Like calm water full of sunlight. Like warm rain. Like waking to see the sun shining.
Hands on his face, in his hair. Eyelashes tangling with his own.
And then all that ripped away, savagely--
No!
Pressure on his chest, gone for a few seconds, then back again, harder. His heart shrinks against the assault. His head wrenched back, mouth covered, air forced into his starved lungs--
Voices: “Pulse's stronger. Keep--”
Quatre!
It's time for you to wake up, the beloved voice echoes back. I'll find you again. Wake up.
“Wake up, kid,” a new, rough voice grates against his ear.
“He's breathing--”
He opens his mouth to speak, but the word never leaves his lips. His chest hurts; his head feels as though it's been cracked in half.
“Easy now,” says the voice he does not recognize. To someone else: “Dim the lights.” To him again: “You're safe, kid. I don't know how long you were out there, but you're real lucky we found you when we did.”
He opens his eyes. He does not know this place. He does not know these people. “Who--?”
“You're on a cargo shuttle,” the woman says, smiling gently. “En route to Colony .304. Couldn't help noticing the insignia on your spacesuit. Don't worry; we're apolitical. Just tell us where you belong and we'll make the call.”
“You'll--what?”
“What's your name, kid?” a man asks.
What's your name, kid? says the man who found him in his dream, which might not have been a dream.
A word rustles in his memory, but he's too tired, too cold to grope for it. He says, as he did in that old, old dream that might have been real, “I don't know.”
12/18/02