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Amami	By : thewayoutis Category: +S to Z > Trigun Views: 1215 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Trigun, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Amami
- 1
Note: Oh, man. This is my first published Trigun fic. I like it, but every time I read it I become more and more critical of it. Oy gevalt.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN TRIGUN LOLOL. I'M NOT MAKING MUNNI. Seriously.

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I'd tell you this story if I could. It's sort of irrelevant and I know you wouldn't care, not at first at least, but you'd listen anyway, and then you'd give me some off-handed and probably sarcastic remark that would tell me that even though you seemed like you weren't listening and that you really didn't care, you really were and you really did. I mean, I guess it's part of your job, being a priest and dealing with kids all the time - listening and hearing not only the things a person says, but what they don't say, and recognizing the words they choose and the way they say them, all so you can really understand exactly what that person is trying to tell you. It's difficult, and somehow you're really good at it.

So keeping all of that in mind, I would tell you this story. I heard this opera once, when I was very young. I heard a lot of operas when I was young, actually, because Rem felt that they were an important part of Earth's culture and besides that, she said, they were all very beautiful. Now that I think about it, she was right, but back then I mostly listened to them because it seemed to make her happy when I did. So since I listened to so many of them, it's kind of hard to recall which one it was and what exactly happened in it, since a lot of operas are pretty much the same. I always think about this one because of one of the songs in it - it's an aria, really, which are often the most beautiful songs in any given opera. This woman's lover has just left her, and so of course she sings a song about it because that's all they do in operas. Like I say, I forget her name - the only reason I know Alfredo's name is because it's in the song - and exactly why he left her and if he even loved her at all - since he left I'm inclined to say no, but it was a long time ago and it was in Italian and even though I could pick out some meanings it was kind of hard for me to get the meanings of every part of it. So maybe he did love her but extenuating circumstances forced him to leave. But there is the matter of the actual words of the song, which are simple enough that even I could understand them even then. She begs Alfredo to love her, to love her as she loves him. And then she bids him goodbye. And maybe it's the way the actress sang, but it clearly had an effect on me, even when I had no idea what was being sung. See, when I said I couldn't really understand much of this particular opera, I meant that I understood next to none of it, and that the only reason I knew what this part meant was because I asked Rem to help me look it up. I stopped with that song, though, and didn't look up the rest, because I somehow felt it wouldn't be as satisfying to my imagination if I just found out what had happened and left it at that. My brother found out for himself, of course, because he couldn't stand not knowing and he couldn't for the life of him understand why I'd want so much mystery to it. I didn't exactly know why myself, but I do now. It's a simple reason, really: even then I'd discovered that there was no real intellectual stimulation with operas - despite how moving they usually were, the plots were all pretty straightforward and formulaic. I didn't want this to be the same, and it's pretty funny that it seems like I thought that even I could write a better story.

So while telling you this story, I'd choose my words carefully, and pause at the right moments and hesitate at specific parts. I would hesitate when telling you what the woman says. I would hesitate when I came to the words "my brother". I'd place a certain emphasis on particular words at those two points on this story, because it would clue you into two very important things. Let's approach the less important things first. Since I've heard so many operas, have had access to a language database and have some knowledge of French which is by now a dead language, it's pretty obvious that I am at least old enough to have been on the Seed ships when they came to Gunsmoke. That was well over a hundred years ago, and with the life expectancy of humans on this planet, it's also pretty obvious that I am not quite human. You probably already know that, though, because of the thing that has to do with my brother. I know you've been lying to me, Wolfwood, and I know that those lies have something to do with my brother, and I think you know that I know, but we've somehow agreed not to speak of it. Whether you're working for him, I'm not quite sure, although who but a gung-ho gun would have such a highly-customized and highly powerful weapon? So that means you're at least working for Legato, and Legato and my brother are more or less one entity anyway so I guess it doesn't really matter, does it? I don't know where you go when you leave, whether it's to Legato or not, but I always, always wish you wouldn't go. And this brings us to what I consider to be the most important part of this story.

First of all, while telling you this story, I'd position myself deliberately. We'd probably be somewhere in the desert or getting drunk or in a hotel after being in one of the two previous situations. In any of those situations I'd have an excuse for sitting so close to you: it's cold in the desert at night, very cold, and in the interest of conserving body heat, close physical contact is really unavoidable. If we were drinking, well - we both know I get really friendly and really honest when I'm drunk. In the hotel, I could say it was just habit from being in the desert to stay close, and again being drunk would be an excellent excuse. Mostly these excuses would be to ease my mind, so I would feel like you were just blissfully oblivious, even though I'm always acutely aware of the fact that I'm entirely transparent to you.

So there we'd be, huddled together either around a fire or booze, and I would be telling you a story about someone who is really in love with someone who is leaving her - here is another point where I'd falter a little, sort of nervously look over at you every now and then - and she asks him to love her, like she loves him. And then she says "addio." Goodbye. And then I would tell you that I assume she is miserable for the rest of the story until he comes back. But who knows whether he'll leave again? He probably will. And then she'll be miserable again, and the cycle is repeated ad infinitum. At least in my version of these events. You, of, would notice it's a bit too true to life to just be a passing anecdote and then either of two outcomes would occur, mutually exclusive of each other. Either way though, you'd get exactly what I was telling you, because that's what you do. So you might just light up a cigarette and pretend not to know what I was talking about, wondering aloud how the hell you got stuck with such a sentimental idiot like me, which wouldn't exactly be the best way to let me down if I'd come right out and told you, but as I told it it'd be an excuse for us to never mention it again, since ostensibly you didn't catch the heavy-handed hints and you scoff at such stupid love stories. And we'd go on being friends, and I would never approach the issue again. I tell myself that this is how it will happen, just so I'll have the excuse not to risk it.

But there is still the other part of me which nags me constantly, the part of me that hopes that the opera ended happily and hopes that this story will end happily too, as happily as it could, at least. You just might look over at me with those eyes of yours, lit up by the moons or the dim lights of a bar or hotel room, and you just wouldn't say anything for a moment. I like to imagine this as a moment that lasts forever, your eyes locked with mine. And then we'd move closer, and you'd kiss me, and then probably fuck me gently to pieces, all while the music would be swelling in my head and I'd hear that woman singing again, crying for her fleeing lover and saying her farewells, and afterward I'd dread the moment when you leave me again, because I know it's going to happen eventually. I'd try not to think about it, but I am very good at thinking about things that I don't want to think about. I'd probably start crying again, like I do every once in a while. I know you know about this slightly embarrassing habit of mine, so you might pretend not to notice for my sake, or you might finally give in and attempt to calm me down and stop my tears, and it would be at this point where I would tell you that I love you. And here is where I'm unable to project any further what might happen. Knowing you, you'd just stay silent, maybe kiss me again and just lie there, holding me, because I know you're the type that does not like to fall in love, or to admit it to anyone - especially yourself - if you do. But then again you are not quite as transparent to me as I am to you, so you just might surprise me and say that you love me, too. And then I would hear her voice again, crying to herself as her lover leaves her, saying goodbye and not knowing if he'll come back, and I wouldn't be able to say anything at all, probably because of the tears that would undoubtedly come to my eyes. The question of whether they'd be tears of happiness or of sorrow would be irrelevant, I guess, though it would probably be both. I'd silently beg you to stay with me, probably with another kiss. I wouldn't be able to say it aloud per our unspoken agreement to not mention such subjects. And then we'd sleep, and we'd wake up and make no acknowledgement of the previous night until the next night, when you just might fuck me gently to pieces again, of course dooming me to repeat the tears and professions of the night before, until you eventually leave again.

And I'd have no choice but to wait for you.
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Amami