Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Five Instances in the Life of a Demon God ❯ Five Instances in the Life of a Demon God ( One-Shot )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: makishef 
"She too has seen that creature inside the machine, but she cannot see that you have already made your claim in blood and violence and a hope you had long forgotten." 1x2x1, some R+1. Written Feb 23, 2003.
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Psychological / Romance / Drama | Type: Shounen-ai | Uploaded On: 01.28.2007 | Updated On: 01.28.2007 | Pages: 1 | Words: 854 | Visits: 699 | Status: Completed
"She too has seen that creature inside the machine, but she cannot see that you have already made your claim in blood and violence and a hope you had long forgotten." 1x2x1, some R+1. Written Feb 23, 2003.
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Psychological / Romance / Drama | Type: Shounen-ai | Uploaded On: 01.28.2007 | Updated On: 01.28.2007 | Pages: 1 | Words: 854 | Visits: 699 | Status: Completed
One: Shine.
You want. It is the greed of a child with the distinctly adult disappointment that you have lived with all your life.
You want. This is a sharp, painful ache, not so easy to ignore as the dull throb of your wish for this war to be over, for your life to be over.
You want. You have seen something inside that shell, something alive and moving and glowing, and you are determined that you will have that.
And you hate her. Oh, it is nothing she has done, but he cannot kill her when he would kill anyone else, and he shows her his own strange breed of compassion when he steals from you and never acknowledges your help or existence.
She too has seen that creature inside the machine, but she cannot see that you have already made your claim in blood and violence and a hope you had long forgotten.
Two: Peel.
You have made yourself known. You have forced him to really look, forced him to notice you and not just the person he thinks he sees.
And he responds in kind. The first time, you are both painfully ignorant and awkward, but it is no less beautiful for that; after all, you are touching him, and you are peeling back that shell to get to the being inside, this thing that flutters in your hands and glows ever brighter with your kisses.
He often resists this opening, but you have both learned how to surrender, and sometimes, when he is lost and mindless and writhing for you, there is no shell at all.
You no longer hate her, because you know now that she cannot do what you have done, for he recoils from things so innocent and cannot understand them.
Three: Contradiction.
The war is over.
It should bring relief, but instead it brings a sense of aimlessness that is little like freedom.
There is tension between you and he now, for the war changed you and the end of it has changed you more. You argue often, and though it is easier now to kiss him, to hold him, it is bittersweet, and maybe both of you take it for granted now that it is not so dangerous to give in to these feelings.
Sometimes you wish he had chosen her to save you the trouble of this, but you know you would not have survived if it weren't for something dear to cling to, some hope that the two of you could get out of this and really learn to live.
It is routine now, and he doesn't glow the way he used to, and you wonder if maybe this is normal, if this is real life.
Four: Purpose.
New wars break out every few years. Peace cannot last long between such creatures as humans. Your experiences with him have taught you this much, at least.
But now you are with him again, and you cling to one another the way you used to, when you still had the faces of children.
In periods of quiet, if they last too long, you will argue again, you will lash out at each other in your mutual unease. You are both children of war, and without the war to guide you, you have little purpose.
Five: Peace.
You bring him flowers. You have made it a ritual these days, and you like to imagine that his silence is gratitude.
There is gray at your temples and your hair is cropped short; you walk with a limp. You are no use to the war effort any longer, but neither is he, so you like to spend all the time you can with him.
It has been years since you met him, long, hard years that have all begun to meld together lately, so your memories tend to overlap. You can see him sometimes with his face still cherubic, eyes still deadly, and you try hard to remember the expression he got just after that rapture, the peace that settled over him.
He is surrounded by your flowers, and he has not bothered to throw out the wilted ones. It takes effort to kneel down, especially with that wounded leg, but you manage.
You have never told him you love him, but you do so now, and he still will not speak. The joints in your fingers are aching as you offer the flowers to him. They are two rosebuds; yellow for friendship and red for love. You lean in and press your lips to cold granite, and you whisper again that you love him.
He remains silent as always.
You want. It is the greed of a child with the distinctly adult disappointment that you have lived with all your life.
You want. This is a sharp, painful ache, not so easy to ignore as the dull throb of your wish for this war to be over, for your life to be over.
You want. You have seen something inside that shell, something alive and moving and glowing, and you are determined that you will have that.
And you hate her. Oh, it is nothing she has done, but he cannot kill her when he would kill anyone else, and he shows her his own strange breed of compassion when he steals from you and never acknowledges your help or existence.
She too has seen that creature inside the machine, but she cannot see that you have already made your claim in blood and violence and a hope you had long forgotten.
Two: Peel.
You have made yourself known. You have forced him to really look, forced him to notice you and not just the person he thinks he sees.
And he responds in kind. The first time, you are both painfully ignorant and awkward, but it is no less beautiful for that; after all, you are touching him, and you are peeling back that shell to get to the being inside, this thing that flutters in your hands and glows ever brighter with your kisses.
He often resists this opening, but you have both learned how to surrender, and sometimes, when he is lost and mindless and writhing for you, there is no shell at all.
You no longer hate her, because you know now that she cannot do what you have done, for he recoils from things so innocent and cannot understand them.
Three: Contradiction.
The war is over.
It should bring relief, but instead it brings a sense of aimlessness that is little like freedom.
There is tension between you and he now, for the war changed you and the end of it has changed you more. You argue often, and though it is easier now to kiss him, to hold him, it is bittersweet, and maybe both of you take it for granted now that it is not so dangerous to give in to these feelings.
Sometimes you wish he had chosen her to save you the trouble of this, but you know you would not have survived if it weren't for something dear to cling to, some hope that the two of you could get out of this and really learn to live.
It is routine now, and he doesn't glow the way he used to, and you wonder if maybe this is normal, if this is real life.
Four: Purpose.
New wars break out every few years. Peace cannot last long between such creatures as humans. Your experiences with him have taught you this much, at least.
But now you are with him again, and you cling to one another the way you used to, when you still had the faces of children.
In periods of quiet, if they last too long, you will argue again, you will lash out at each other in your mutual unease. You are both children of war, and without the war to guide you, you have little purpose.
Five: Peace.
You bring him flowers. You have made it a ritual these days, and you like to imagine that his silence is gratitude.
There is gray at your temples and your hair is cropped short; you walk with a limp. You are no use to the war effort any longer, but neither is he, so you like to spend all the time you can with him.
It has been years since you met him, long, hard years that have all begun to meld together lately, so your memories tend to overlap. You can see him sometimes with his face still cherubic, eyes still deadly, and you try hard to remember the expression he got just after that rapture, the peace that settled over him.
He is surrounded by your flowers, and he has not bothered to throw out the wilted ones. It takes effort to kneel down, especially with that wounded leg, but you manage.
You have never told him you love him, but you do so now, and he still will not speak. The joints in your fingers are aching as you offer the flowers to him. They are two rosebuds; yellow for friendship and red for love. You lean in and press your lips to cold granite, and you whisper again that you love him.
He remains silent as always.