The OZ
August Again

For Leslee

One.August

The arms of the old windmill traced iddle fingers over the afternoon sky,
creaking to itself as their laughter echoed across the fields spread around
it. The tall grass whispered a compliant protest as they rushed after each
other, laughing like children, his hand reaching for hers as she ran away
from him.

He caught her, breathless and triumphant, pulling her down with him into
the golden sea of wheat and barley. She laughed, the sound of her voice
intoxicating and sweet, as he brushed away the loose tendrils of her hair,
his fingertips light against her skin.

Their kisses were artless and abandoned, their breaths lost as they drank
in each other, fingers fluttering lightly over hair and skin and fabric.
Perhaps they held each other too tight, their urgency pulsing through every
fiver of their being. But they were giddy with one another, their lips
meeting again and again as their eager fingers stumbled over lacing and
buttons, stockings and shoes.

She smiled up at him softly, her fingers trailing down his cheeks, as he
lay her down. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the sweet
fragrance of her skin, of the crushed barley beneath them. His lips trailed
lightly up her skin, meeting her lips in a tender kiss, her arms rising to
encircle his back.

"I love you," he murmured into her hair, feeling her gentle, even breathing
beneath him. His fingers traced her lips. "I would marry you," he breathed,
his eyes darkening with the intoxicating need for love, acceptance, and the
soft silk of her fingertips.

"You silly boy," she whispered, laughing, her fingers combing through his
disheveled hair. "I know you love me. I love you, too."

Smiling, she drew him nearer, and he sighed as she kissed him, his body
rising at the taste of her lips. His hands rose towards her cheeks, his
fingers trailing down slowly.

They had run out into those golden fields of wheat and barley to leave the
prying, demanding eyes of their elders, of those talkative old women and
moralistic old men. There, they could loose themselves in each other, their
sighs unheard, their passion unobserved save for the lazy clouds drifting
above them and the windmill murmuring to itself.

There, they could bare their souls to one another, not afraid anymore,
their wondering fingers free of constrains. There, they found one another,
their hearts beating as one. Holding each other close, dreaming of forever.

Two.November

He turned his face away, gazing out the rain slicked window at the trunks
and boxes lining the distant driveway. He wanted to shut out the voice of
that hateful woman they had sent to his room. But he could not. He grit his
teeth, the palm of his hand resting against the cold window pane.

"You understand, don't you, honey? She has to leave. The sooner, the
better. Why, it's a miracle we could act so quickly. No one knows anything
yet, thank God, his Holy Name be blessed.

He sighed as the old woman crossed herself, her nerveous hands clasping
together. He gazed in morbid fascination at the worn, wrinkled skin spread
tightly over her bony fingers. I will be that old someday, he thought,
raising his own hands before his eyes. He sighed softly as he clenched his
fingers in the coarse fabric of his pants.

Leaning his forehead against the windowpane, he looked down again at the
driveway. A porter was bringing down another bag, a lanky aid holding up an
umbrella to shield him from the rain. A woman rushed out towards them, her
handkerchief waving frantically at the trunks and bags lying around,
drenched and becoming more so by the minute.

He could not hear her, and her face looked strangely grotesque and detached
as her lips formed words he could not make out. The porter and his aid
waved their hands at her as she shook her umbrella at them. A young girl
rushed out into the rain, coming near the distraught woman. She took her
hands and tried to lead her away.

"Do you understand?"

Blinking, he turned his head towards the woman in the room with him. He
murmured that he did, his voice low and uninterested, his face turning once
again to gaze outside the window. He heard the woman sigh impatiently.

"My boy, you do not seem to understand. She was not one of us. Could you
imagine the scandal if anyone would have known? You might think that,
because you are young, there would be no scandal, but I assure you there
would."

He humphed quietly to himself, turning to face her. "So it's scandalous
when a young member of your precious society falls in love, but not if it's
two old has-beens."

The woman thinned her lips, her eyes darkening. "How dare you. You have no
respect for anyone, do you?"

Smiling, playing the perfect rebel she wanted him to be, he blew iddly at
his nails. Through hooded eyes, he gave her a mischiveous smile, licking
slowly at his fingertips. "You wouldn't have minded if it had been you, my
dear," he murmured, the smile on his lips obscuring the edge in his voice.

She threw her hands up into the air, her cheeks scarlett. "You are
impossible! Well, I give up on you, you selfish young man."

Turning sharply on her heel, she stormed from the room, her shoes clicking
hollowly on the marble floor. "Let your mother deal with you. It matters
little what you think. That, that woman will be gone by tommorow. You will
shape up then, hopefully. I very much doubt it."

"I will die first, you old hag!" he shouted at her back, the slam of the
door blasting cold air at his face. The lock of the door clicked once as
she fastened it again as it had been before she'd come in , trapping him
inside. His lips drew back in silent rage, his hands gripping the sedan
covering of the window seat. He cursed, his voice echoing back to him,
offering him no comfort.

The silent room spread out before him, empty and accusing. Its silence
oppresed him, filling him with uncertainty. Voices drifted up to him from
downstairs. The old woman's voice, mingled with his mother's. To his
clouded mind, it seemed as if they reffered to him as little more than that
annoying thing in the upstairs room.

Despairing, he turned towards the window, pulling at its hinges, locked as
well. He beat uselessly at the window panes, the monstrous silence of the
room swallowing his grunts, the sound of flesh against glass. He sobbed,
his fingers clawing at it, his head throbing with the knowledge of how
worthless and childish his acts were.

He stared out helplessly at the rain soaked driveway. The porter and his
aid were securing the last of the luggage into the trunk of the waiting
limousine. The fretful woman and her companion stood by, the older woman
calling out to the porter ocasionally, her mouth forming silent words of
reprimand.

He heard himself sob, the sound caught in his throat as his fingers came to
rest over the window latches. His eyes closed for a moment, his breast
heaving painfully. She had stepped out onto the driveway, her black bonnet
obscuring her face. A strand of pale hair hung out, quickly damped into her
bonnet, as she curtsied to the fretful woman and her companion. She took
their hands, and they threw their arms about her, drawing her close in a
last farewell. He saw her brush at her cheeks, her smile tremulous, and his
hands rose, coming against the window panes, his heart aching.

He wanted to hold her again. He wanted a chance to say goodbye, at least,
if it was inevitable that they part. His hands beat at the window panes,
his voice a strangled sob. He did not want to say goodbye. He wanted her
here, beside him. He called her name, his voice echoing in his ears, broken
and despairing.

Her face snapped up, her eyes widening, a pale hand rising towards her
throat. She looked around her, hopeful. Seeing her reaction, he kneeled up
into the window seat, calling her name again, his heart racing. But below
him, the limousine's chauffeur was motioning for her to enter the car. She
drew away from him, still looking around her, her lips forming his name. He
cried out to her, beating at the windows, hoping that, somehow, she would
hear him.

But he was too far away, and the fretful woman was coaxing her kindly into
the backseat of the limousine, patting her hand to steady her. She tried to
draw her hand away, but the woman would not let her. He watched, helpless,
as she hung her head, giving up, and turned to enter the limousine. He
heard his voice crack, tears spilling down his cheeks.

He rushed to the room's doors, pulling at the latches, beating at the wood,
pleading. He heard voices outside, full of worry, but they were soon gone.
He remained a prisioner, his body spent with worthless struggle.

Stepping back, he let his head fall into his hands, his cry defeaning in
the silence. From outside, he heard the muffled roar of the limousine as it
pulled away from the driveway. Taking her.

Leaving him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Three.December

@April 29-30th, 1997 Team Bonet. Gundam Wing, and all of its characters
hereof, remain @1995 Sunrise Entertainment Inc. Making illegal copies of
this story, although it is beyond me why you would want to do such a thing,
is still illegal as far as I know, although I don't know why, either. Heck.
Thank you for reading, chap!