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kinkfest2008-02-06 08:40 pm
dev-chieftain.livejournal.com) wrote in kinkfest2008-02-06 08:40 pm
Entry tags:
Holy Ground, fic (Trigun, Midvalley/Wolfwood, PG)
Title: Holy Ground
Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dev_chieftain
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 792
Warnings: Chest touching.
Summary: Who knows who the wake is for?
A/N: Referred to Wolfwood as Chapel. Hope that's okay? Also, only ever watched the anime. For prompt: Trigun, Midvalley/Wolfwood: vibrations - Down and out in July City
At some point when they're wandering the globe, and Vash the Stampede has all but disappeared, and Midvalley knows that Chapel knows where he is and isn't saying, they run into each other.
It's a funny place to run into each other: July City, wasteland of a civilization that should never have come to Gunsmoke in the first place, ruins of a land destroyed at the hands of the very man they work for-- more or less. It somehow feels cooler than the rest of the planet, though: quieter, calmer. There are shadows spun like teeth and spiderwebs, forgotten things and fallen things, all around in these ruins. A bit of plaster here still standing; a half of a building there, that trembles whenever the stiff wind blows. Everything's gray or brown, yellow or white. Everything's colorless in the midday sun, bleached out to this bleak reminder of what it is, exactly, that Knives plans to do. (Then again, maybe they don't really know what it is he's planning. Or what he wants. But they can smell death on him when they get near: they know death is a major part of the plan.)
Chapel's crouching by the remains of a fallen window, one hand laid over it, his expression grim and quiet as he strokes the lines of the cracks in the glass. Midvalley stops a few feet behind him, and says nothing.
They're silent, and the stiff wind's blowing, and the world could be abandoned except for just these two and they'd believe it. It's hot wind, but the shade they're standing under is cool, and Chapel's shirt is unbuttoned all the way down to his belly.
Midvalley is more eminently aware of fashion taboos: he is smartly dressed as always, as he lifts his sax to his lips, licks them, and takes the mouthpiece in between his teeth, tasting the sand and the murky wood smell of a reed too old, and the tastelessness of rubbery plastic.
He plays a sonata, one originally written for flute that he had to transcribe into E-flat all by his lonesome and by ear, to boot. There's not a lot of resources for things like paper in Gunsmoke. There's not a lot of reason to waste it on writing down music. Midvalley learned to read it from an old scarred man with a big fat head, sagging eyes and a wicked bass voice. They used to scratch out the notes in the dirt, and that's where he heard the flute sonatas before. Usually, he doesn't play stuff that was ever written down; he just plays whatever he feels like, unstoppable as this slow hot wind.
Chapel's praying in front of him; still crouching, but with his hands pressed together and his head bowed, his breathing slow and even. The sunlight flashes off of the sax's keys, but Chapel, all black and white, is wholly encased in the shadow of the ruins. He has a wooden crucifix on a beaded string in his hands, the cross swinging between his ankles as he murmurs there, like this mumble-prayer is the words to the song that Midvalley is playing. He could swear the sounds are sparkling, or at least, in his mind's-eye they do, even when the pitch skips too high and screeches and breaks. Neither of them flinch, neither of them stops: all the way through introduction, recap, development, all the way to the end.
Then Chapel drops the little wooden crucifix onto the glass of that half-shattered window, and slowly rises to his feet, moving with obvious stiffness from maintaining that pose so long. He slips his hands in his pockets, and looks over his shoulder very slowly, greyblue eyes reflecting gratitude.
Midvalley's still holding his horn, looking back at him with some kind of wordless sorrow for the thing they both came here to think about. They don't speak; they usually don't.
Somehow, Midvalley's hand finds its way from the keys to the bell of his horn and out, to Chapel's chest, under the black jacket, under the white shirt, touching skin, feeling his breathing, feeling his heartbeat.
Chapel smiles just a little like he knows full well it's still beating, and Midvalley shouldn't be surprised. He waits for Midvalley to be satisfied, and only then does he turn around, and walk away, effortlessly snagging his heavy cross with two hooked fingers, as though it doesn't take most of the strength in his body to get that burden up on his shoulder again. He waves casually without turning around to look, and walks away, whistling.
Midvalley sits where he was, thinking, puzzling, and listens to the wind until all traces of Chapel are gone from it, and heads out in the opposite direction.
Artist:
dev_chieftainRating: PG
Wordcount: 792
Warnings: Chest touching.
Summary: Who knows who the wake is for?
A/N: Referred to Wolfwood as Chapel. Hope that's okay? Also, only ever watched the anime. For prompt: Trigun, Midvalley/Wolfwood: vibrations - Down and out in July City
At some point when they're wandering the globe, and Vash the Stampede has all but disappeared, and Midvalley knows that Chapel knows where he is and isn't saying, they run into each other.
It's a funny place to run into each other: July City, wasteland of a civilization that should never have come to Gunsmoke in the first place, ruins of a land destroyed at the hands of the very man they work for-- more or less. It somehow feels cooler than the rest of the planet, though: quieter, calmer. There are shadows spun like teeth and spiderwebs, forgotten things and fallen things, all around in these ruins. A bit of plaster here still standing; a half of a building there, that trembles whenever the stiff wind blows. Everything's gray or brown, yellow or white. Everything's colorless in the midday sun, bleached out to this bleak reminder of what it is, exactly, that Knives plans to do. (Then again, maybe they don't really know what it is he's planning. Or what he wants. But they can smell death on him when they get near: they know death is a major part of the plan.)
Chapel's crouching by the remains of a fallen window, one hand laid over it, his expression grim and quiet as he strokes the lines of the cracks in the glass. Midvalley stops a few feet behind him, and says nothing.
They're silent, and the stiff wind's blowing, and the world could be abandoned except for just these two and they'd believe it. It's hot wind, but the shade they're standing under is cool, and Chapel's shirt is unbuttoned all the way down to his belly.
Midvalley is more eminently aware of fashion taboos: he is smartly dressed as always, as he lifts his sax to his lips, licks them, and takes the mouthpiece in between his teeth, tasting the sand and the murky wood smell of a reed too old, and the tastelessness of rubbery plastic.
He plays a sonata, one originally written for flute that he had to transcribe into E-flat all by his lonesome and by ear, to boot. There's not a lot of resources for things like paper in Gunsmoke. There's not a lot of reason to waste it on writing down music. Midvalley learned to read it from an old scarred man with a big fat head, sagging eyes and a wicked bass voice. They used to scratch out the notes in the dirt, and that's where he heard the flute sonatas before. Usually, he doesn't play stuff that was ever written down; he just plays whatever he feels like, unstoppable as this slow hot wind.
Chapel's praying in front of him; still crouching, but with his hands pressed together and his head bowed, his breathing slow and even. The sunlight flashes off of the sax's keys, but Chapel, all black and white, is wholly encased in the shadow of the ruins. He has a wooden crucifix on a beaded string in his hands, the cross swinging between his ankles as he murmurs there, like this mumble-prayer is the words to the song that Midvalley is playing. He could swear the sounds are sparkling, or at least, in his mind's-eye they do, even when the pitch skips too high and screeches and breaks. Neither of them flinch, neither of them stops: all the way through introduction, recap, development, all the way to the end.
Then Chapel drops the little wooden crucifix onto the glass of that half-shattered window, and slowly rises to his feet, moving with obvious stiffness from maintaining that pose so long. He slips his hands in his pockets, and looks over his shoulder very slowly, greyblue eyes reflecting gratitude.
Midvalley's still holding his horn, looking back at him with some kind of wordless sorrow for the thing they both came here to think about. They don't speak; they usually don't.
Somehow, Midvalley's hand finds its way from the keys to the bell of his horn and out, to Chapel's chest, under the black jacket, under the white shirt, touching skin, feeling his breathing, feeling his heartbeat.
Chapel smiles just a little like he knows full well it's still beating, and Midvalley shouldn't be surprised. He waits for Midvalley to be satisfied, and only then does he turn around, and walk away, effortlessly snagging his heavy cross with two hooked fingers, as though it doesn't take most of the strength in his body to get that burden up on his shoulder again. He waves casually without turning around to look, and walks away, whistling.
Midvalley sits where he was, thinking, puzzling, and listens to the wind until all traces of Chapel are gone from it, and heads out in the opposite direction.