and you bring me to my knees
again
all the times that i could beg you please
in vain
all the times that i felt insecure
for you
and i leave my burdens at the door
but i'm on the outside
and i'm looking in
i can see through you
see your true colors
'cause inside you're ugly
you're ugly like me
i can see through you
see to the real you
all the times that i felt like this won't end
it's for you
and i taste what i could never have
it was from you
all the times that i've tried
my intentions
full of pride
but i waste more time than anyone
but i'm on the outside
and i'm looking in
i can see through you
see your true colors
'cause inside you're ugly
you're ugly like me
i can see through you
see to the real you
all the times that i've cried
all this wasted
it's all inside
and i feel all this pain
stuffed it down
it's back again
and i lie here in bed
all alone
i can't mend
but i feel tomorrow will be okay
but i'm on the outside
and i'm looking in
i can see through you
see your true colors
'cause inside you're ugly
you're ugly like me
i can see through you
see to the real you
I'm posting this song because the following story idea exploded into my head while I was listening to it and the lyrics. In my own corrupt little world, it really fits Miguel through the story, and the music is just perfect for a particular scene later on. I used to have a link up here to it, but for some reason ff.net won't let me post URLs anymore. . . :P
Beans ([email protected])
Opening Words
Miguel padded barefoot down the back third-level corridor of the Vione, his steps brisk and jumpy over the cold floor beneath the soles of his feet. An early chill hung lightly on the morning air of the hallway, spiraling in through the jarred portholes to dance tingling around his ankles. He shifted the change of clothes tucked under his arm to both hands and buried the bundle of deep folds against him to buffer the draft as he made his way along the empty corridor.
Muffling back a yawn, he partly wished he hadn't torn himself from the warm embrace of his bed covers so early. Fortunately, as he'd hoped the hall had been deserted and he'd been able to trek down from the bunk room without incident.
The corridor branched off into a set of short wire stairs leading below the deck to the showers. He took them two at a time, stopping at the door at the bottom and pressing his palm to the entry gage and the door slid open with a low hiss. Miguel poked his head around the door frame and did a quick surveillance of the long room; then once he was sure it was empty he sidled inside, pulling a towel from the rack near the door and tossing his change of clothes over the bench running between the rows of showers.
The Dragonslayer climbed into one of the nearest stalls and fumbled with the valve until a warm spray of water sputtered from the faucet above. The steam billowed around his head while he shrugged out of his cotton nightshirt and breeches. He tossed them aside, rolling his left shoulder and kneading the muscles with the ball of his hand -- he'd pulled something last night, sure enough. He would make a point of teasing Shesta later about having worked him so hard.
Twisting his head around, Miguel spotted another noticeable rose tinge on the back of his shoulder that he'd missed earlier. He reached up and fingered the side of his neck, brushing his finger tips over the line of similar bruises that trailed its length. The tiny blond slayer had definitely given him a run last night. Halfway through, Miguel had already known he would have to do well to beat the morning mass to the showers the next morning to avoid unwanted attention being drawn to Shesta's clandestine souvenirs.
The steam from the hot water was beckoning, working loose Miguel's shoulders and relaxing the knots in his limbs. He had just stepped into the rain of the shower spray and was savoring its steady warmth over his back when there was the unmistakable sound of the sliding door. Miguel started sharply and spun around as the entry slid open and a figure stepped into the room. He blanched.
"Lord Dilandau --?"
The Dragonslayer captain stopped short at Miguel's exclamation, faltering as he suddenly seemed aware that the room was not empty. Garnet eyes flew in the direction of Miguel's shower stall and the slayer very abruptly realized how exposed he was. He grappled behind him for his towel, pulling it around his waist in a rush, his head reeling. It was well-known that the captain was an early riser, but he had been the very last person Miguel had ever expected to walk into the communal showers this morning -- Dilandau had his own private bath in his chambers.
The captain cast a darting glance over the other rows of showers as if confirming Miguel was the only unexpected occupant, and then he turned his eyes back to him, appraising him carefully.
"What are you doing here so early, Miguel?" he snapped.
Miguel stumbled, pushing his wet bangs back with his hand and feeling his face flush. "J-- just wanted to beat the rush this morning, lord --" he stammered quickly, paused, then added with careful timidness: "Sir. . .what are you doing down here --?"
Dilandau seemed to almost hesitate, and then to the slayer's surprise the albino snatched a towel from the rack to the side and approached the length of booths, staring at Miguel pointedly.
"The shower in my quarters isn't working, something with the damn plumbing," he replied briskly, visibly irritated. "And I'm not holding my breath for maintenance to drag themselves up off their ass to fix it."
A breath caught in Miguel's throat. The captain was showering here? Now?
Oh god, no. Not Dilandau Albatou. Anyone but Dilandau. . .
He just nodded blankly, watching tentatively as Dilandau passed. He was carrying his clothing and boots under his arm, his bare feet slapping over the wet floor, wearing just a pair of loose white flannel breeches and an open shirt.
Dilandau glanced tersely at him and paused, pushing his silvery fringe back from his face that fell unrestrained in the absence of the metal circlet, and with awe Miguel became aware that he'd never seen the captain in such an unkempt manner. It was enticing to see him so casual and unadorned, and he was entrapped by how elegant he looked in the simple white, cotton nightshirt.
Blinking, Miguel quickly shook himself from his musings as the captain stopped in front of him. He wilted under his stare, paling slightly as the albino's red eyes critiqued him, then Dilandau's stare narrowed slightly and he jabbed a finger at him.
"You better damn cover that crap up before morning drills," he hissed.
Miguel flushed brilliantly and frantically jerked a hand to his neck to hide the rose bruises, causing him to loose his grip on his covering momentarily. The captain snorted and gave him a sharp look and Miguel turned his head down, fumbling with his towel.
"Yes sir," he affirmed, looking up from under the top of his eyes and trying his best not to notice how the lip of Dilandau's pants hugged just at the edge of his hips; or how his open shirt fell back along his shoulders, revealing a pretty amount of the smooth milky skin underneath. As if privy to his musings, Dilandau pulled the shirt closer around him as if to hide from Miguel's prying eyes, then turned and set off further down the room.
Miguel exhaled deeply, running a hand back through his hair and slowly discarded the towel once more. He turned back into the shower, and as he bent back under the stream of water he dared to dart a glance out of the corner of his eye, letting his gaze follow Dilandau as he climbed into a booth far along the next row. There was a moments pause, and Miguel wavered as he watched the silver-haired soldier strip off his nightshirt and then slip off his pants.
Miguel drew in a breath as something fluttered in his chest. His mouth parted a little. Against all rational thinking, he took a small sidestep to his left and cautiously lifted his eyes a fraction, just beyond the tops of the stalls that obscured his vision.
He hardly blinked, utterly and completely enthralled as he dared to watch the steaming water roll down the pale skin, stealing the sight of the lightly toned muscle and the curve of the back of Dilandau's legs. His eyes trailed the albino's figure taking in every meticulous detail: the way the wet clinging strands of silver hair fell across his face; how he held himself on the balls of his feet and leaned into the rain of water. All of Miguel's long-practiced restraint could not force him to tear his eyes away. It felt almost ethereal.
Thick steam billowed up from the hot running water, giving the room a soft haze as Miguel teetered on the soles of his feet and watched ardently as his lord showered. He felt dizzy, and suddenly the warm spray of the water from above him was only partial to the wave of heat that swept his body.
With a gasp, Miguel wildly snatched his towel once more. It clung against his waist and the side of his thighs as the shower spray soaked it through and he frantically slid down against the side the stall, his face reddening deeply.
Oh god. Jesus, not here, not like this. . .
Panicking, he desperately fought to calm himself and lighten his breaths, but just the sound of the pounding water in the other shower sent ripples of provocation through his body. Miguel inhaled slowly, closing his eyes, but he found himself nevertheless drowning in the smooth cream skin and subtle curve of the hips that smoldered an imprint in the back of his mind. It left him breathless. He trembled lightly as the water cascaded over him, pooling around his feet and spilling down into the drain in the corner of the floor.
His reverie lasted only a fleeting moment, and he was jarred from his daze as the blended sound of running water suddenly trickled off, leaving the rain from the single faucet above him alone to dapple against the floor in the silence of the chamber. Miguel jerked, catching the rustle of dressing beyond him, and he was driven by frenzied alarm as he reached out against the wall and pulled himself to his feet. He whipped out his hand and wrenched the shower valve off, pulling his towel tighter around him, and rushing to drain the rose tinge from his cheeks as he heard footfalls near.
Gathering his composure, Miguel turned and abruptly stifled a startled gasp when he immediately came face to face with a steely narrowed gaze. The air felt like it was being sucked out of his lungs as he fell under the pair of smoldering garnet eyes, staring out from under a veil of delicately matted silver strands that glistened with damp beads and burning into the very back of his head.
"Stop it."
The single biting command from captain's lips drove the strength from the brunette's legs and Miguel braced a hand against the wall of the shower, his eyes wide, the color draining from his face. A coerced chill seized the length of his spine.
He was motionless as without another word Dilandau turned and fisted the entry gage. The door opened and he walked out, disappearing up the stairs.
The door closed and the world seemed to give a lurch. Miguel collapsed against the side of the shower stall, sweating and shaking. He mouthed wordlessly and held his shoulders against the sudden biting cold that gripped him, staring hollowly at the door; the silence broken only by the steady trickle of cooling water that fell to the floor.
He hadn't come.
Dilandau hunched back in the blanketed throne, veiled in pitted shadows cast from the lamps mounted along the walls. His brow creased and he prodded the tips of his teeth with his tongue, drumming a finger against the arm of the elegantly carved chair. Slitted eyes stared through the dark like glowing embers reflecting a slow brewing seethe.
He hadn't come.
Routine morning practice had come and gone: two hours offensive and defensive combat drills, another hour down on the field training in the Alseides units. Afterwards, the Dragonslayers had filed out of the assembly hall following a quick briefing, each patrol heading off to their assigned stations and duties with a sharp salute. The morning had bled into early afternoon, the routine, crisp, practiced exchange of steel blades had been made, while Dilandau's patience and temperament had perilously waned -- and the undermining, goddamn bastard had never shown up.
Dilandau cracked his knuckles. An ugly snarl pulled at his upper lip.
How dare you, Lavariel. . .
Dilandau had sent an explicit summon to the absent slayer immediately following training; he'd be damned if he was about to let the brunette walk away from such defiance unscathed. Miguel had skipped out on drills and then had had the nerve to protect his insolence behind Shesta's innocent guise; the blond covering for the slayer's truancy and upon Dilandau's questioning had dared to feed him some bull about Miguel feeling ill.
Had Miguel seriously believed his blatant absence would have gone unnoticed? That in itself was enough to kindle the livid rage that boiled in the pit of Dilandau's stomach. The slayer had better damn well be ill -- he had better be flat on his back dead, if nothing else.
But then, Dilandau was bitterly hesitant to remind himself, this wasn't completely unexpected, was it?
He sneered inwardly. No, Miguel was too sickeningly predictable for this to have come as a total surprise. This wasn't about Miguel trying to shirk his duties. He wasn't trying to proof a point through his defiance.
Miguel was hiding.
Hiding from Dilandau. From what had happened earlier that morning amongst the billowing steam beneath the level of the third deck.
Dilandau bent forward in his seat, his eyes hooded, teething the leather encased knuckles of his fist.
He shouldn't have even risked the showers. Of course he should have turned back when he'd realized someone had been there -- when he'd realized Miguel had been there. Dilandau had been completely aware of the situation for too long now; he should have known better.
It had been a hard, barreling revelation of truth that had practically shattered his pride in a single reeling blow. A few months back, when the war was still only adolescent sieges and weaning short-lived battles, a handsome victory had brought about a night of unruly celebration and revelry upon return to the capital to resupply. In celebration the captain and his men had plied each other with drinks all around, through the night becoming so splendidly under the influence of the hard liquor that they would have been at a loss to have noticed as much as a mecha invasion of thousands.
And Dilandau remembered -- amongst the drunk mulling Miguel had grabbed his wrist and pulled him up against him in such a way. His eyes had been laden with an alarming feverish passion, and then for a split moment in his lost judgment, Miguel had made to lean his head forward.
The abrupt gesture had shaken Dilandau from his stupor with the force like a blow from the butt of a sword, chilling his flesh and knocking him into immediate sobriety. He'd immediately wrenched his hand back and shoved Miguel away before the boy had become too bold, but the damage had been done. He had seen Miguel's eyes, he had felt Miguel's fingers warm around his wrist. The tenderness had terrified him.
The next morning, harboring humiliation and outrage, Dilandau had summoned the Dragonslayer to the privacy of the empty sparring chamber and Miguel had been severely beaten for his offense. The slayer's perfuse apologies had worn no heed from the captain, only enraging him further. For a week afterwards, Dilandau had kept in a foul mood that had been brought down upon the rest of his charges, while Miguel had spent a further week nursing a limp and a fractured wrist. The concept had been utterly flooring, and despite Miguel having had put up a desperate front of the incident being a result from the liquor and nothing more, suddenly Dilandau had known, nonetheless. He'd known, and by all his battered dignity, god, he wished he hadn't.
Things had by all general respects remained unchanged. Miguel still remained his subordinate and Dilandau his lord, and Dilandau continuously forced himself to uphold the proper dignity befitting his status. But beneath the establish veneer he had been horrified and repulsed as he had been slowly forced to face the realization of that truth, gradually becoming aware of the subtle gestures he had never bothered to notice before: fleeting, stolen glances; quickening breaths; tiny tremors that rippled Miguel's skin when Dilandau touched him. Fortunately, the other men appeared blind to Miguel's infatuation, and since then Dilandau had resolved to hold his tongue; to turn a blind eye at the brunette's subtle affections; to turn away whenever he caught Miguel's look, like he was undressing the captain with his eyes.
Dilandau hunched back in his chair again, his eyes burning wide, stroking the fine line of his jaw with an absent finger. He swore under his breath.
Letting it go on this long, that had been his first mistake. The incident earlier this morning he was afraid had taken it a world past too far.
His insides had lurched when he'd felt Miguel's gaze on the back of his skin, the blue eyes tumbling over his shoulders and legs with a ferocious heat that Dilandau hadn't needed to turn around to witness. He'd bit his tongue and hurried his shower while a cold repulsion had crawled under his skin at the thought of what taunting musings had been burning in Miguel's head; what the stolen sight could have possibly been provoking.
There was a reason he wasn't supposed to use the communal showers. If Folken found out Dilandau would be penalized for sure; at the least, it would be a black mark on his already scathed, esteemed record -- but the showers should have been empty at that time in the morning before the shift change. Leave it to Miguel to wake up before first call in an effort to hide Shesta's damn suckling.
But Miguel had taken this too far now. The slayer had taken a dangerous risk in breaching Dilandau's tolerance when he'd never shown up for duty this morning, and Dilandau held no pity in respect to the slayer's motives. He was too overcome with the livid rage boiling in his gut at this mornings insult -- unintentional or otherwise -- to care whether Miguel's behavior was spurned by pure arrogance or this sick devotion.
There was no justification. There was no excuse. This was going to stop now.
Across the room there was the soft sound of a sliding door. Light footfalls shuffled and faltered of someone who had paced themselves very deliberately and wasn't sure what to do now that they were here. The breathing was tight and strained like they were being slowly stifled by the dead silence that hung from the rafters overhead.
Dilandau didn't move or even look up. Leaning his head on a fist, he watched under the lids of his eyes as Miguel sidled into the chamber and approached the dais very slowly, his steps small and stiff and undoubtably furtive. The slayer's eyes were masked under a fan of untidy cinnamon hair that fanned his face. It looked as if he hadn't heeded to straighten it after his shower that morning.
Without a word, Miguel halted before the throne and immediately fell down to his knees, bowing his head low to the floor. Dilandau cracked his knuckles around the arm of the chair.
"Get. Up."
Almost shakily, the Dragonslayer obeyed and stood but kept his head dropped low. Dilandau rose from his chair and the dead of the room was broken sharply by a short grunt and the splitting crack of hard bone beneath a leathered fist. He sneered as Miguel writhed on the floor clutching his face where a deep red bruise was already blistering, and then Dilandau immediately wrenched him back up by the collar of his jacket, renewed rage boiling up through his chest.
"You think yourself to have unshared privileges?!" he spat, shaking Miguel by the neck of his uniform and practically lifting the brunette off his feet. The brown fringe was tossed back, revealing deep blue eyes locked wide in panic and a bead of sweat that glistened across Miguel's brow.
Dilandau's lips curled back and his fingers tightened around Miguel's collar. He jarred him roughly again.
"Where - were - you?" he hissed through gritted teeth, borrowing under the slayer's skin with the licking flames in his gaze, daring Miguel to look away; daring him to lie to him.
Miguel didn't fight, but he looked like he was trying to avoid Dilandau's branding stare. Racking breaths shook his voice and he quavered.
"F-- forgive me, Lord Dilandau. . . I was unwell this morning --"
There was a sharp exclamation and Miguel's head was whipped back as Dilandau swung another sharp blow to his cheek. The captain barred down upon the cringing soldier, eyes blazing in fury. Still holding him up by his collar, Dilandau grabbed a chunk of Miguel's brown hair in his other fist and twisted his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes.
"Do you think I'm a fool?!"
"No, my lord --" Miguel whispered desperately.
"Then do not patronize me!"
The slayer looked pained and his wavering gaze shook at the biting accusation. The aghast look in his eyes veiled something deeper that Dilandau recognized from previous encounters, hidden in elusive glances when his back was turned and masked under a passive blue stare whenever Dilandau touched him. It had always been fleeting in times prior, unshaped words that he'd always felt being burned in the back of his head and that would flee like a frightened animal the moment Dilandau dared confront Miguel's gaze. He'd gained considerable practice at distancing himself from it until now, but here it met him mere inches away, unrestrained; so insolent and bold in the unspoken words that they flayed Dilandau's nerves like hot molten fire.
A finger of cold apprehension traced his spine making the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and Dilandau was seized by a rush of irrational terror. With a snarl, he swung around and drove Miguel back, slamming the slayer up against the rear of the wall, driven by this sudden mix of fear and rage provoked adrenaline.
Smother it. . . Dilandau's head was spinning. Just smother it off his face. . .
He twisted Miguel's head up again to look at him, pulling back the brown fan of hair so the slayer couldn't hide the look disguised in the depths of his eyes. There was only a little yelp of strangled pain from the other young man as Dilandau shoved against him, snarling, trying to stare down that stifling yearning under those blue eyes.
He heard Miguel's breaths come in ragged, frantic gasps as Dilandau pressed him harder against the bricks. Dilandau could feel him shake and saw his face contort in a line of pain, but the slayer didn't struggle or fight back. He wouldn't dare. Dilandau would break his damn arm if he tried to push back. He might just break it anyway; maybe then that would strip that burning insatiable gaze from Miguel's face that had the nerve to stare up at Dilandau with so much feverish insolence and terrifying coveting.
But as he bared down upon Miguel harder, he was gripped by a sudden split moment of vague realization and reality of the situation. God, this was probably nothing but exactly what Miguel had always dreamed of -- locked against a wall with Dilandau pressing solidly up against him holding him there. He went cold at his fault, horrified and disgusted at the thought of Miguel's possible reverie at that moment; of how the slayer could be relishing it, and only further feeding the rapture that crested his gaze.
Repulsed, Dilandau instantly jerked and shoved himself violently away from Miguel's figure, stumbling back several feet and letting Miguel slide heavily to the floor. He sneered and collapsed back into the blanketed throne, half-aware of the sound of Miguel wheezing on the ground trying to catch his breath. He could feel the heat of the Dragonslayer's stare branding his skin once more, and Dilandau grit his teeth, burying his brow into the palms of his hands. There was a very long length of silence, deafening, that strangled the sound of the fallen slayer's heavy breathing. Several minutes passed before Dilandau spoke.
"Get out," he hissed, not looking up.
There was a pause, and then he heard Miguel slowly pick himself up off the ground. The sound of his boots treaded across the floor unsurely then stopped in front of the dais. Dilandau cringed as he watched under the lids of his eyes as Miguel bowed unsteadily to him in salute, and just as the slayer turned to head towards the door Dilandau looked up.
"Stop this, Miguel,"
The Dragonslayer stopped short and turned slowly to face him again. His face was flushed and his expression was an odd mix of restraint, anxiety, and confusion. "Lord Dilandau --"
The captain cut him off short with a sharp backhand to the face. Miguel writhed, clutching his cheek and stared at Dilandau as he rose slowly from his seat. Dilandau's eyes slitted and he loomed over Miguel from the top step of the dais, meeting the brunette's eyes, and then he spoke in a hissed whisper, deliberately clear and scathing.
"Whatever this infatuation you're entertaining -- get over it."
The air in the room wavered timidly. He could hear the breath catch in Miguel's throat. The slayer's eyes shot open wide and he went stark white, seeming to freeze solid where he stood as his mouth moved with no coherent sound. An eternity passed like a transient curl of smoke, then the rafters overhead rebounded with echoes carried on the heels of Miguel's flight.
He knew oh god he knew he knew he knew.
The chamber entrance slid closed behind Miguel with an abrasive hiss. He stumbled slightly in his hurried tread, froze, then with a shudder his legs gave out from beneath him and Miguel sank unsteadily to his knees in the refuge of the secluded corridor.
He knew oh god. He knew.
Jesus, it was suddenly so cold. He couldn't breathe.
Miguel blinked, the silence of the empty hallway flooding and cascading around him like suffocating dunes of sand. All he could do was gaze at the assembly hall door in a withered, ethereal stare. A choked rasp finally wrenched up through his chest and he fell forward slowly until his head leaned lightly against the heavy iron, gritting his teeth and screwing his eyes tight. Every muscle in his body felt limp; every limb a dead weight.
Raising an arm feebly, Miguel pressed his hand against the door, brushing the iron frame with trembling finger tips. There was a heat that radiated through his skin from beyond the door that chilled his flesh like dry ice. His lips quivered in fluttering breaths as he ran his fingers down the solid metal frame, both exhilarated and terrified; wanting to tear it down, and at the same time bracing it, holding it firm -- as if it were to fall his last desperate thread of reality would crumble in that heat and he'd sink.
How long had he known? It didn't matter. . .
It had been so biting. So abominably cold and scathing. It had torn Miguel from a fragile world of crystal glass that lay broken and shattered behind the door.
Why did it hurt this much. . .
There were footsteps behind him, tentative and gentle. Miguel turned his head very slightly and met Shesta's approach silhouetted in the dim light of corridor, the blond slayer's expression etched with anxious concern.
Clinging to the iron frame, Miguel sought desperate salvation in the warm, compassionate green eyes on the merest breath of a whisper: "He knows. . ."