FIC: Chopsticks and Narcissism ("classic" Gundam W)
Author's Note: So this fic is years old, but I've been meaning to post it here for awhile with the rest of my fics. This is actually the one fic that people have across-the-board told me that really LIKE... and thus I got tired with it pretty quickly, haha. But since it won a few awards back in the day, and since I am still on my major nostalgic GW kick, I felt like it was time to raise it from the dead. Enjoy!
Title: Chopsticks and NarcissismPairing: 1x5
Rating: PG-15 ish?
The more you eat, the less flavor; the less you eat, the more flavor.
~Chinese Proverb
It’s called the “Green Garden.”
I discovered it one night, almost by accident, when I inquired of a half-Vietnamese taxicab driver where I could get a good bowl of Hot&Sour soup. He laughed and slyly pointed me in the Garden’s general direction.
Its sign is painted in a variety of Asian languages, all in assorted shades of olive, emerald, and jade. From two yards outside the wooden door, you can smell the teas and soup spices, the oil burning on the woks. On weekends, you can hear the radio playing Japanese pop songs or a strange, techno-mix of Korean rap.
The food is good- I’ll be the first to testify to that- but it’s the clientele that makes the Garden unique… it started out as a form of comfort. It ended up being an addiction.
I usually found myself there on Fridays, when the nights were clear and full of pale, raw-boned teenagers who would flicker delicate glances over at me like so many frail butterflies.
I sometimes found myself there on Mondays too, when the old woman serving tea would sit down next to me, mumbling the story of her life in broken Mandarin, every once in awhile slipping into clear, smoother Cantonese. Her wrinkles crinkled, turning lopsided as she smiled.
Somehow I also ended up there after mission assignments, when my bones and muscles screamed with ache and fatigue. At those times I would order a strong glass of coffee, syrupy thick with condensed milk, and try and wash away my exhaustion with the smell of Udon, stale sweat, and the musical mix of Asian tongues.
It didn’t always work… but it always seemed worth trying.
* * *
“Hey, what’s your name?”
“I haven’t seen you here before…”
“Come here often?”
“I see you every week, but I’ve been too nervous to introduce myself…”
“Isn’t the soup here great?”
“You a vegetarian?”
“Man, you have great eyes…”
“You want to walk me home?”
The words change, but the meanings stay the same. Fridays are the nights where the only language spoken here is that of courtship. Black haired, brown eyed teenagers, all spindly and awkward, fumbling for comfort amongst themselves.
Why do they come to the “Green Garden”? I know- it’s not a typical teenage hangout. There is no dancing, no alcohol, no smoking. The woman who owns this tiny restaurant looks like a Chinese grandmother, the great-aunt that everyone has had on one side of the family or another. With her standing behind the counter, her lips permanently set into an impassive half-smile, it is like the gathering of youth has an invariable built-in chaperone.
But the reason these young men and women come to the Garden is not that there aren’t better places to go- it’s because it’s only here that they will find the kind of relationship they crave. Here they find the emotional incest, the cultural masturbation that they've been craving- here they can find a brother, a sister, a reflection of themselves, to take home and make love to and find comfort in.
It’s a survival technique in a way…
Oh, who the fuck am I trying to kid? It’s a weakness. It’s frailty. It’s helplessness.
Some days, it’s all that keeps me going.
* * *
The variety of cultures and languages within Cinq Kingdom is noted, by many, as truly a positive quality. But what they don’t realize is that there is no “variety,” no culture at all, really.
Cinq is just an open sea of nationless people, barren of traditions, of homegrown spices and the smell of herbs drying in the kitchen. There is no culture- just a mashed grouping of lost souls. Walking to the Preventers’ office every morning is like walking through a who’s who of nothingness. Blank faces lacking life, lacking… culture.
Everyone has forgotten. Or maybe they never knew.
Those who came from the Colonies remember. There, people have moved into comfortable factions, peoples divided by race and belief, the way history has always been. Peace is earned, not forced, Miss Peacecraft. By pressing it upon the populous, you wipe away what defines them as a community, as a people.
And maybe that’s for the best, in the long run. But I don’t think I can live with that. Not really.
If I weren’t Asian myself, it would be perverted. The way my heart leaps in my throat when I see a boy with slender hips and slender eyes, skin the color of almonds, hair as black as ink sticks. But since I am Asian, I suppose it can’t really be considered more than a manifestation of narcissism. What one really wants, in the end, is to make love to one’s self.
That is the reason for the “Green Garden.”
It’s one huge reflecting mirror, replicating each bony-hipped child seven, ten, fifteen times. It’s the teenagers that want to drag our culture out of the dust. It’s the teenagers that turn to the elders and want to hear of our pasts, our histories.
The “adults” have been living on earth for just long enough to want to deny the colonies, want to solidify their Earthian-ism. They want to deny their culture.
* * *
And so… Here I am again, pushing strips of garlic soaked beef around in trails of hot sauce, half-glancing over my shoulder as I feel hot eyes burning across my back.
It’s Saturday- an unusual day for courtship.
I hadn’t planned on taking anyone home tonight. I had planned on just eating my plate of Bugogi, nibbling on the pickled cucumbers, and sipping tea.
I just took a boy back to my apartment yesterday, in fact. A cute Thai boy- Chet-his hair furiously dyed streaks of red over jet-black, his mouth turned up in a small half-smile. His skin had been darker than mine, tanner by about two-and-a-half shades, but in the dark, our mouths locked together like latches, we could have been twins.
He left this morning, not asking for the reason I wanted him gone. Not even asking for taxi fare for getting back to his parents’ house (though I gave it to him anyway). He didn’t ask for anything, just flashed me a smile and a garbled “Mai pen rai…”
“No problems” indeed.
I never take two boys home in the same week. I try never to take any home… but that’s about as successful as attacking a fleet of Leos with a feather pillow.
I feel eyes on the back of my neck and try to tell myself not to tense up, not to look for what around me could be used as a weapon. It’s silly, but that soldier training never quite goes away. I breathe slowly, in, out, in out...
I wonder about who is staring at me. I’m sure he’s just like all the others. A mirror image of myself. Thin and lanky, hair the color of raven’s wings and ripe seaweed, eyes the tint of soy sauce.
They all are. That’s why I come here. I’m not looking for the love of my life. I’m not even looking for a hot one-night stand, not really.
I’m looking for myself.
One week I bedded a pale Korean boy named Pin, who always arrived at the Garden dressed in over-sized pink tee shirts and highlighter-stained khakis. In the flesh, we fit together perfectly, like soybeans curving against the fuzz-kissed edge of the pod.
But something was… off. It was like straw on silk. Like a bitter taste hidden within a stuffed bun’s sweet sauce.
Physically, we looked like we were brothers. But that didn’t stop me from feeling disgusted the next morning, from ignoring him as he prattled about school or relatives or old boyfriends.
It’s hard to believe we were really the same age. How were we both seventeen? We weren’t even the same species!
It’s the same with all the boys. Even Chet- with his harsh, worldly edge and quiet understanding- was not war-spoiled enough, not calloused enough. He was certainly not like me…
The boy who has been watching me (why am I sure it is a boy? Call it instinct, or wishful thinking) shifts behind my back. I sip my tea and pretend to ignore him. I don’t even want to take anyone home tonight, so I’ll be damned if I make the first move!
The chair next to me slides to the side as the stranger sits down. I continue to stare off into space, as if my attention was focused on something spectacular and interesting. I take another sip of tea.
“Wufei?”
What…?! I almost spit out my mouthful-
I turn to the boy next to me, trying to hide my disgraceful surprise.
I should have known; he moved too smoothly, shifted from foot to foot too quietly.
He doesn’t look out of place in the Garden, of course. His plain dress style is more conservative than most teenagers, but not enough to be noticeable. His dark hair feathers over his tan forehead, hiding the scars that live there. His hands are rough and calloused, but not many people look at hands upon first sighting.
No, the only truly incongruous feature that nearly everyone can see, the only thing that really stands out, is his sharp, clear, blue eyes.
“Heero.”
How long had it been since we’ve seen each other? Six months, at least. His shoulders are broader, now, and he looks decades older than he had during the war. It’s amazing how a year can make battle-scars show so clearly. There’s a faint, blossom shaped burn-mark on his cheek, left over from an attack on Relena Peacecraft on L3, some seven weeks ago. I heard that Heero spent a whole week in the hospital after that assault. Quatre told me to send flowers. I didn’t.
Heero gestures at the old woman behind the counter. He orders a cup of green tea and a Cantonese dish of pig intestines and sour cabbage. I grimace and shake my head. The saying goes that Cantonese will eat anything with two legs but the host, and anything with four legs including the table. I don’t care how good the food is; I’m leery of touching anything that I cannot readily identify.
He fills his teacup and takes a few cautious sips- I can’t stay quiet any longer.
“What brings you planet side?” I ask this as casually as possible, picking up a paper-thin slice of cucumber with my chopsticks.
Heero shrugs and takes another mouthful of hot tea. “The Preventers.”
I frown. “Why? You don’t work for us.”
“Do now.” He glances at me with a half-smirk, his blue eyes flashing almost white.
“I thought you were guarding Relena.”
“Was. I quit.”
The news hits me like a punch in the stomach. Quit? Heero Yuy wouldn’t just quit protecting the former Queen of the World! Who is he trying to kid?
My face obviously makes a spectacle of my skepticism, because Heero shakes his head. “It was my security error that caused the event on L3. I over planned security in the Parliament ballroom, and didn’t scour the perimeter enough. So… I resigned.”
I nod and take another sip of tea.
I’m quite sure that Heero’s part in “causing” the violence was fiercely exaggerated in his own mind. And I’m sure that Quatre, Duo, and perhaps even Trowa have tried to make him aware of this. But I also understand that no one will ever talk him out of his guilt.
Of course I understand- I’m exactly the same way.
“So, you’ve joined with the Preventers? Protecting the act of peace instead of the persona?”
“Something like that.”
“Huh.”
Heero’s food has arrived, and I have to admit it smells delicious. I pick at the barely luke-warm strips of beef on my plate and poke at the now soggy cucumbers. I don’t know what to say, so I stay silent. Heero and I have always been awfully good at that.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Heero mutters into his teacup. “You wear your hair down now?”
“Not always…” I run my hand through the front of my shoulder length black locks. My hair feels mildly greasy and unkempt. I didn’t shave this morning either, and I can feel a faint scruff lining my chin. Fuck, I must look awful.
“I saw your flight jacket, though,” Heero continues, smiling as he drags a strip of cabbage through its oil-soaked sauce. “You got that from Sally during the war.”
I don’t know why, but it irks me slightly that Heero knows my clothing, that I have something he can so easily identify me with. Here, he is anonymous- plain gray shirt, unmarked jeans. Except for his blue eyes, he could be anyone.
“So, how…”
“Chang!”
I turn sharply to see Niran, Chet’s doe-eyed cousin, grinning at the end of the bar. His smile is crude and vulgar- a shoddy imitation of Chet’s seductive smirk. Even without practice, though, his grin promises kisses, blowjobs, and arms to sleep in for the night.
Any other night I may have smiled back, bought him a drink or a sweet cake. Now, though, I am vaguely embarrassed at Niran’s boldness.
I don’t know what my glare looks like to Niran, but it is harsh enough to cause his deeply tanned face to turn pale and for him to slink away from the bar, his eyes cast downward.
“Friend?” Heero asks, head tilted sideways. He looks somewhat amused, but I ignore him.
“No. Just a relative of an acquaintance.”
“Hn.”
Heero wipes his face with a paper napkin and lays his chopsticks diagonally across his plate. I raise an eyebrow; I barely saw him eat, let alone entirely finish his meal. Heero pays for his dinner silently. I make a gesture, asking the old woman to put my dish on my tab.
We leave the Garden together.
* * *
I don’t know how we end up like this. Chests scraping, mouths entwined, hands frantically searching for skin. Maybe he saw Niran’s expression and guessed its meaning. Maybe he just knew I wouldn’t say no.
Somehow, though, we are on each other before we even finish walking past the threshold of my apartment door- Heero’s hands encircling my wrists, my hips grinding up against his. We gasp for breath, shake our heads, and start again.
Our passion is surprisingly violent- hands scraping like claws, teeth rasping, mouths biting. Moving my mouth away from Heero’s shoulder, I note that a deep, blushing bruise is already forming. It’ll probably be a rich, blue-purple tomorrow.
Kissing Heero isn’t like kissing any boy I’ve ever picked up at the Garden. Their young mouths tell stories of schooldays and friends- of cheap liquor, and old cigarettes- of wontons and whipped eggs- of relatives and parents and life. Heero’s mouth is like mine, telling stories of gunpowder and explosions- of blood and scraping bone- of steel, gears, and death.
We collapse on my bed in a half-undressed jumble, Heero moaning into my mouth as my hands fumble at his zipper. He falters as he inhales, his face pressed against my hair, as if he plans on breathing in my very essence.
“Wufei…” he mumbles against my neck.
“Hmm?”
“I haven’t done this in a long time.”
I nod, but stay silent. There really isn’t anything I can say as a response that wouldn’t be a lie. Instead, I let Heero lock his lips to mine, let him run his hands down my thighs, let him make me gasp, make me groan.
We barely take time to prepare, just charge ahead like the soldiers we are. I struggle for breath, my hands clutching the sheets at first breach. He takes it slowly, letting me adjust, but that doesn’t stop his teeth from roughly scraping against my jaw line, against my throat.
Violence. That’s the only name for it, really. Maybe comfort as well.
Our pace is furious, frantic. My hands grip his hair brutally, tugging hard enough to make the roots scream. His hips snap towards me like an attack, fucking me thoroughly, roughly, deeply.
Neither of us can take this for very long. He comes shouting my name, and I hear a loud guttural howl, bordering on a scream, which I can hardly believe comes out of my throat.
Every inch of us is trembling, hot and wet with sweat and exhaustion.
I kiss his forehead absently, trying to get my irregular breathing under control. It isn’t long before we both fall into a deep, fatigued sleep.
* * *
“Does Une have you staying at the ridge? By the airport?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll never get any sleep there. I keep telling her to send recruits somewhere else, but… ugh, you know how bureaucracies get with budgets.”
“Hn.”
I hand Heero a steaming cup of coffee and the plate of nearly burnt toast that I just fished out of the toaster oven. He takes them without comment, but I see the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“You can stay here.” I offer flatly. My heart feels like it’s lodged in my throat. I don’t know what he’ll say, but…
“Thanks.”
I bite my tongue in order to hold back my sigh of relief.
I pour myself a matching cup of coffee and sit down across from Heero. He hands me half of the newspaper that he’s been perusing, his expression unchanging, yet surprisingly calm.
“You know,” I hear myself say, “we really don’t look anything alike.”
Heero looks up at me, frowning. I can tell that he’s confused- his forehead bunched into creased ridges, his eyebrows pushed together.
“No,” he admits bewildered, “we don’t.”
I nod and dip the edge of my blackened toast into a swirl of jam. After that, we continue to sit in silence, Heero contemplating the events of the world, and me contemplating the boy sitting across from me- the only boy I could ever bring myself to call “brother.”
True, we hardly look related. But we’re both men of bloodshed, born out of war. There are few others in the world that can understand each other as we do.
I look over at Heero through the steam of my coffee, and I do not see my old comrade.
I see myself.
FIN