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the-observant-frisbeetarian · 5 years

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Gallipoli

By George deValier

Status: Completed One-shot

Gallipoli, April 25, 1915. Australia is a young nation with plenty to prove. And war is where nations prove themselves.

Now when I was a young man, I carried me pack, and I lived the free life of a rover From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback, well, I waltzed my Matilda all over. Then in 1915, my country said 'Son, it's time you stopped rambling, there's work to be done.' So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun, and they marched me away to the war. And the band played 'Waltzing Matilda,' as the ship pulled away from the quay And amidst all the cheers, the flag-waving and tears, we sailed off for Gallipoli.

April 25th, 1915

Australia leans on the deck of the ship and feels fiery excitement thrum through his veins. He breathes in the cold, clear air of dawn that gusts over him, carrying with it the clean and salty smell of the Aegean Sea. It is exhilarating to be this far from home. It feels like a lifetime ago that he left with his men, sent on their way to glory by cheers and applause and the strains of a familiar old folk song. Now, a million miles from home, the high, unfamiliar Turkish cliffs loom before him, but Australia just laughs defiantly at them. He knows his lads can give these Turks what for, and more besides. They will prove themselves capable just as Australia will. After all, he is a nation now, and war is where nations prove themselves.

Australia turns and smiles when his brother walks up beside him. New Zealand's blond hair is a tousled mess, his blue eyes tinged with red. He has obviously had very little sleep, and does not look nearly so eager as Australia feels. "G'day, N.Z."

"Morning," yawns New Zealand, pushing the hair from his eyes. "What are you doing out here so early? Have you slept?"

Australia shakes his head restlessly. "Can't sleep. Just lookin' at the ocean." How can he possibly sleep at a time like this, when he is about to make his destiny?

"Ah, the wine dark sea," says New Zealand softly, leaning on the railing and gazing out towards the horizon. The sky is still dark, but the softest hint of daybreak plays on the water.

"Huh?"

"This place is very close to Troy, you know." New Zealand's voice is slow and somehow distant. Australia just stares at him in confusion. "Troy… the Iliad…" New Zealand explains slowly. "Which was written by Homer, who often used the phrase 'wine dark sea.'"

"Uh… huh." Australia finds his brother a little strange sometimes. He looks back at the ocean and scratches his head. "It doesn't look like wine to me."

"Oh, forget it." New Zealand smiles slightly before falling sombre again. He takes a shuddering breath before closing his eyes. When he opens them he stares blankly at his hands on the railing before him. Australia can't understand his little brother's strange mood, but he is concerned none the less.

"What's the matter, mate?"

New Zealand looks up at Australia, his expression unsure and a little worried. "Aren't you scared?"

Australia blinks incredulously. "Scared? Why would I be scared? You think we can't stand up to Johnny Turk?" Australia laughs loudly. "We're nations now, N.Z. You'll see. They'll all take us seriously after this one."

New Zealand shakes his head a little before clasping Australia by the shoulder. His grip is surprisingly strong. "Good luck today, big brother."

Australia winks at him. "Won't need it, cobber."

It takes no more than fifteen minutes. Australia watches in shock as the Turkish shells cut through his ranks like a shearer through wool. The Turkish cliffs are insurmountable, knocking back wave after wave of men as they charge. Some fall dead immediately, bullets tearing through their brains; others fall screaming as arms or legs are shredded by sudden, whistling steel. Australia tries to keep going, tries to yell at his troops to keep moving, but as his men fall around him he can barely breathe. Shock and disbelief tear through his head like the shells and bullets tear through his men. The noise, this heat, this overwhelming stench of sweat and blood smothers him, but he just tries frantically to push forward. This is their first battle. Australia's first real battle. This is supposed to be glorious. So why are they getting nowhere?

"Forward!" he cries, his voice coming from far away. "Push forward!" Australia feels his men's terror and confusion but he keeps yelling, keeps trying to keep his battalion together. He can barely hear his voice above the screeching of the shells and the punctuated barking of the rifles. He pushes down the panic and his confused jumble of thoughts turn suddenly to New Zealand. Is he fighting this same impossible, losing battle? Australia looks around desperately, but his brother's troops are nowhere in sight. All he can see is the brown dirt beneath him, the corpse-laden beach behind him, the bright, unforgiving sun blazing down on his exhausted and rapidly falling men. He can not even see the enemy beyond these blasted cliffs. But this is where they have been told to land… he is following his orders… so why are they unable to even make it up this bloody cliff? Australia realises it is hopeless with a gut wrenching, despairing sense of clarity.

Everything goes too slow, too fast. Australia is ordering these men to their deaths. Men who signed up for adventure, signed up to see the world, signed up for glory and duty. Men he's trained with in Egypt, laughed with over cigarettes and beer, cheered with over games of two-up, brawled and sweat and bled with. Men whose names he knows like his own. His men. His men falling around him, before him, beside him. Bleeding and screaming; silent and stunned; limp and lifeless. Australia can't believe it. He can't stand it. And he wonders if he has come this far just to watch his army slaughtered on their first day in battle.

And how well I remember that terrible day, how our blood stained the sand and the water And of how in that hell that they called Suvla Bay, we were butchered like lambs at the slaughter. Johnny Turk he was waiting, he'd primed himself well. He shower'd us with bullets, and he rained us with shell. And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell Nearly blew us right back to Australia.

Australia pushes through the stinking, sweating mass of uniformed men who fill the British command tent. He does not know who they are; he does not care. He is only interested in one. Pressing through the crowd, his eyes fall on a large makeshift desk that occupies the far end of the tent. Several high-ranking English officials stand around it, examining the papers that cover its surface. Amongst them stands the very one he is after.

"England!"

England looks up from where he leans over the desk, sighs in frustration, runs a hand through his hair in a weary gesture. He looks exhausted. "Hello, Australia."

Australia does not stop. He walks right up to England, grasps his collar, and pulls him onto his toes. "Whose bloody brilliant idea was it to send us up those cliffs?"

The men around them shoot to attention and jostle closer, but England simply raises a hand for them to back off. "Australia, I know. The landing place was incorrect. It seems our intelligence was faulty."

"Faulty?" cries Australia. He doesn't know whether to laugh or scream. "Faulty! I'll bloody say it was faulty! My men fell like stones in a river out there! They were cut down like…" At the very small, almost imperceptible raise of England's eyebrow, Australia sets him back on his feet. But he tightens his grip on the nation's collar. He grits his teeth and tries to focus, tries to calm down, tries not to act like the petulant child that England thinks he is. "What do we do now?" he growls.

"You keep going."

Australia reels as though he's been struck. He waits for England to explain himself, but no explanation is forthcoming. Instead England just looks like he is waiting for Australia to leave. The men around them murmur amongst themselves. Australia stammers before he can form a response. "You're insane! Did you see them cut down out there? What the… how… this isn't a fair fight, it's a bloody slaughterhouse!"

"Nevertheless, we have no choice. Those are your orders."

Australia will not accept it. "No! Have you seen the terrain out there? I don't know much about battle tactics but I know you can't drive a herd over a cliff. The Turks advantage is too great. I can't send my men against that."

"Your men are soldiers. They are here to obey orders. And they will."

Australia tries to respond, but he is struck speechless. There are no words. He pushes England away and takes a stunned step backwards. His eyes fall to the floor. They will keep going. The failed battle on the cliff will repeat itself. More of his men will die pointlessly, before even meeting the enemy. The room spins dangerously around him.

England's eyes soften and he places his hand to his forehead wearily. "Australia, your nose is bleeding."

Australia wipes the blood on his face edgily. "I know. Think it's broken."

"Here." England pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and takes a step towards Australia. Australia takes another step backwards, his body thrumming with anger and irritation.

"Stop. Don't act like you bloody well give a damn now." His breathing comes hard, fast, rapid. A futile grief immobilises him. He closes his eyes and clenches his fists. "They died before they even reached the bloody Turks - they never had a chance." Australia feels lost, overwhelmed, surrounded by this lonely cold and indifference. He wonders where New Zealand is. New Zealand will care. New Zealand will understand. "So many of them died, England."

"Welcome to war, young one." England sounds cold, distant, weary. Old. "Your men died. Mine died. More and more and more will die."

Australia's blood thunders in his ears. "But that... that was for nothing!"

England's eyes harden again. Hardened by centuries of war, of battles lost and won - of watching his men die. "It's always for nothing."

Australia's vision turns red. He has to leave. He has to leave before he snaps. "It might be easy for you to send your men to the slaughter. But forgive me if I find it slightly bloody difficult, you arrogant bastard!"

Australia turns and storms from the tent. Behind him England sighs and whispers. "He will learn."

The days and weeks and eventually months wear on. The battles continue day after day, going nowhere, producing nothing. A type of town develops on the hills of Gallipoli, a town of trenches and dug-out roads and makeshift tents. The Australians settle in, settle in to continue the battles, continue the hopeless push forward, continue to obey the futile and suicidal orders that keep issuing forth. Australia is eternally grateful for the comforting presence of New Zealand. But there are others also.

England is an unseen presence, hidden in his tent with his troops stationed far from Australia's, only appearing occasionally to hand Australia another desperate, pointless order. The beautiful and distant India, who is also bound by England's orders, and quickly befriends New Zealand. France, a strange and flashy sort of bloke who spends a lot of his time arguing loudly with England, but fights hard and bravely when the time comes. And even occasionally a young, soft spoken blond fellow in glasses whose name Australia can never quite remember, but who seems fiercely devoted to the few men who serve in this hell-hole in his name.

And yet, none of it ever stops. The sound of rifle fire that splits his head in half. The smell of blood and death. None of this is what he imagined. These trenches aren't the adventure he was promised. And Australia would do anything to trade this cramped hell and this bleeding dust for the green bush and the orange sky and the sweeping, wide brown plains. But he stays with his men - he stays and bleeds and dies with them. Here by the threatening, overbearing cliffs he had once laughed at so easily; here on the harsh, unfamiliar earth constantly dug for trenches and graves. Here with the view of the ocean, that wine dark sea, and Australia wonders if Homer got it wrong, because the sea looks more like blood than wine. On certain nights, lying under a comforting black star-studded curtain, he can almost imagine he is back under the outback sky. But then that rifle fire splits the silence apart and that death scent of blood overwhelms him and he realises that these stars look different from the ones back home.

But in those brief moments when the fighting stops and the cannons fall silent, Australia's heart is a million miles away. It is in the outback, with the wide, open sky that stretches on forever. In the dry and living bush, with its trees and river beds and teeming undergrowth. In the evergreen rainforest, with its waterfalls and rock pools and hidden caves. In the sprawling towns and young cities his people have made; in the vast red plains where his people have hunted and danced for thousands of years. Back where the stars shine the right way and birdcalls fill the morning air. Back where the gleaming white sand meets the sparkling sea, which is blue as the sweeping sky and not dark as wine and blood.

But the band played Waltzing Matilda, when we stopped to bury our slain. We buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs, then we started all over again.

The graves stand in lines, mounds of dirt piled like tiny mountains, small makeshift crosses standing crookedly adorned with carved bronze tags. Australia grits his teeth, clenches his fists, feels blood on his tongue and on his hands. This is not what he had been promised. This is not glorious. The wind gusts past, making the dirt scatter across the dusty ground and the bronze tags swing in the breeze. He stares across the waste, across the battlefield, where a huge masked Turk stands defiantly on the lip of the trench. Australia has seen him before. Seen him often. He hated him at first. Now, as he watches Turkey and knows that he is waiting to bury his own dead, it isn't hatred Australia feels, but a begrudging respect. Whatever difference lies between them, this they have in common. Neither likes to see their men die.

Finally bowing his head with the devastating fatigue that hits him on these days, Australia barely notices as New Zealand walks up slowly beside him. His eyes remain on the lines of crosses until New Zealand speaks.

"It's his country, you know."

Australia looks up to New Zealand's face as his little brother nods across at Turkey, standing on the other side of the battlefield. "He is only fighting to defend what is his." New Zealand always understands. Australia stares, angry and uneasy and confused. He tries to understand, too. Tries to accept. But he can only wonder just what the hell he is doing here in the first place.

Because everything is impossible to understand; impossible to accept. The mornings he sends his men to the slaughter, the afternoons he buries his dead in the unforgiving ground, the nights he lies with his hand in New Zealand's and dreams of the stars in a southern sky. The days march on and it does not make sense anymore. Australia watches as his men throw cigarettes and canned meat to the Turks. He watches as the Turks throw chocolate and sweets back. He watches in disbelief as a Turkish soldier emerges unarmed from his trench to lift a wounded Australian soldier and carry him to the allies side. It simply makes no sense: men on both sides, dying for nothing, and going nowhere.

And those that were left, well we tried to survive, in that mad world of blood, death and fire And for ten weary weeks, I kept myself alive, though around me the corpses piled higher.

"Come in Spinner!" Australia calls, the soldiers around him cheering as a young corporal takes a hold of the kip and tosses two pennies into the air. The loud calls and cheers break into evenly split groans and whoops as the two coins land, tails up. Australia laughs merrily when he sees the result and holds his hand out to the referee, demanding payment. "Fair go, mate. Tails up, spinner loses. Pay up."

The corporal groans and Australia claps him on the shoulder. "No worries, better luck next time, eh?" Australia passes the man a cigarette then lights it for him before lighting his own. He pushes the handful of coins into his pocket and calls out for a new Spinner.

The circle of men laugh raucously as they trade winnings amongst themselves. The scorching sun beats down on the group of gambling soldiers standing in the narrow dusty trench. It is moments like these when Australia can almost forget that half of these men will be lying dead in No Man's Land before the month is out.

Another Spinner loses his first round and Australia grins, reaching out a hand for his winnings, nodding to the applause around him. He is about to call out for a new Spinner when he is interrupted by a familiar and unwanted voice.

"Australia, what do you think you and your men are doing?"

"Ah, bloody hell," Australia mutters. He gestures for his men to hide the kip and coins, wipes his hands on his trousers, plasters a grin on his face, replaces his cigarette between his lips. "Hello, hello, what's this then?" he says, turning to meet England walking up behind him. "Come to visit the cannon fodder?"

Always the same. This little exchange. England trying to radiate authority; Australia trying to strip him of it. "Australia. Gambling is forbidden in the trenches." England stands a few feet away from the men.

Snickers and murmurs behind him. Australia raises an eyebrow. "Who said we were gambling?"

England raises his chin, glares back; delivers his blow. "We have another mission for your men."

Australia grins, even as his gut wrenches a little. He grins because it is easier. "What's bloody new, eh?"

England looks around, takes in the dirty quarters, the empty bottles, the men staring at him defiantly. He wrinkles his nose. "Don't your men ever wash? And don't you teach them to salute their superiors?"

His men laugh heartily around him. Australia laughs with them. They always find the stuck-up English pretty bloody hilarious. "We'd be happy to have a wash if we had any bloody water. Why don't you send us some of yours? As long as you have enough left to make your tea, of course. And none of us like to salute those who send us to our deaths day after day."

England shifts uncomfortably at that. Australia takes the opportunity to dig the knife in a little deeper. "Talk of death too vulgar for you? Come out of your bloody tent once in a while and you'll see that it's a regular occurrence for us on the front line." England just shakes his head, laughs humourlessly, almost turns on his heel. Australia hopes it hurts. He knows it doesn't. "Come on then, give us our orders and back to safety of the tent for you."

"You've no idea, Australia," England spits irritably.

Australia takes a few steps towards him, lowers his voice so the murmuring men behind him can not hear. He removes his cigarette and blows a mouthful of smoke before he responds. "No idea? Don't I? I have an idea of pain. I have an idea of death. I have an idea of bloody suffering. And I have an idea that you don't give a bloody damn about any of it. I wonder if you'd have a better bloody idea if it was America and his men out here." England winces at that, just as Australia hoped he would. "But no, it's much easier to tread all over the colonials. So hand us your order, then kindly bugger off."

But even through his angry words, Australia knows it is not that easy. He knows that England is not a coward sitting all day in a tent. Over the weeks, Australia has watched England struggle under the weight of a desperately failing campaign. He has seen the nation weary and dirty and dead-eyed as his own troops are cut down. And he has wondered how England has lived with this pain for centuries. Australia has even screamed at him, demanded to know how he could stand this; screamed for understanding, screamed of his own pain, screamed, "My men are dying!"

England had responded, "So are mine! I've lost more men in war than you can possibly imagine, so don't speak to me like I have no idea of your sacrifice!" But Australia could see him thinking 'Stupid child', he could just see it. Just as he can see it now. Because this is what it means to be a nation. But Australia does not want this.

England does not relay the order like he normally does. He just thrusts the envelope containing the orders into Australia's hand before silently taking his leave. Australia holds the death warrant, glares at it, and shoves it into his pocket next to the coins. It will wait. He replaces his cigarette and his grin. "Come in, Spinner!" he calls, turning back to the circle of Australian soldiers.

Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head, and when I woke up in my hospital bed, And saw what it had done, well I wished I was dead. Never knew there was worse things than dyin'.

The dying screams shoot through him, destroy him. Australia is helpless to stop them. They are dying for England. They are dying for Australia. They are dying for nothing. They had come for glory, they had come for empire, they had come to heed duties call. But after so much blood and pain and death, it isn't for glory anymore. Now there is nothing to prove, and they no longer want to be heroes; they just want to survive. They don't want to be heroes, but Australia is still proud of them. Of their defiance, of their courage, of their ferocity in battle and their endurance in the face of despair. Australia watches as his people fight and struggle and die and he does it all with them.

As the wounded are taken to the ships and the dead to the earth, always the old folk song comes to mind. Those strains the band played when they sailed away from home take on new meaning in this harsh, foreign place. "And their ghosts may be heard, as you pass by that billabong… you'll come a waltzing Matilda with me."

When Australia was young, he wanted nothing but the outback under the red sky, the stars, the dry bush, the wet forests, the pale blue glow of the mountains, the far horizons, the sparkling blue sea. The beautiful land where he could go waltzing Matilda. But he had become a federation. He was expected to stand alone as a nation. This war was supposed to be the perfect opportunity to rise to the task, to prove himself, to earn glory and a name and form a legend. Instead it has shown him what is expected of him to stand as a nation in this world of blood and sacrifice and futility.

So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed, and they shipped us back home to Australia. The legless, the armless, the blind, the insane, those proud wounded heroes of Suvla. And the band played Waltzing Matilda, as they carried us down the gangway. But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared, then they all turned their faces away.

January 9th, 1916.

When it is over Australia sits on the shore, staring out at the blood red sunset over the wine dark sea. On the shores of Gallipoli, Australia has won nothing. His men have lost their lives for a foreign king while invading a foreign country. He has become a nation and all that it means. And now he is tired, worn out… sad. The ideal is lost. The reason never existed. And the war has only just begun.

Eight months, and nothing has changed. They are finally leaving, and Gallipoli is still held by its Turkish defenders. Eight months of fighting and killing and dying, eight months of blood and fear and madness and exhaustion and hell on earth. Eight months, tens of thousands of lives. Was this what is meant to be a nation? To throw your men's lives away for nothing?

"Australia!"

Australia looks up when he hears his name called. New Zealand pushes through the mass of soldiers waiting to board the boats. Australia is too tired to stand and greet him. He is too tired to do anything but sit and watch New Zealand approach. His brother looks dirty, dishevelled, exhausted; he looks the way Australia feels. He kneels slowly before Australia and gently takes his hand, his face a map of concern. "Australia? Australia, say something."

Australia swallows and forces himself to speak. "N.Z. Why are you crying?"

"Australia, are you… are you all ri..." New Zealand breaks off as though realising what a pointless question that is.

Australia tries to smile. "Don't cry, mate. We're nations now. Nations don't cry."

Australia's words have the opposite effect. New Zealand shakes his head, the tears falling down his cheeks. "Australia." But there isn't anything else to say. New Zealand leans forward and puts his arms around his brother, rests his head in his shoulder, lets the tears fall. Australia does not move.

"We're nations now, N.Z. You'll see. They'll all take us seriously now."

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? And their ghosts may be heard as they march by that billabong Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?

The End.

Author’s Notes

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

#george devalier #aph Gallipoli

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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Church of the Poison Mind Ch.2 (Trixya) - Dahlia

AN: Writing this was honestly like pulling teeth, I’ve forced it all out of me and it’s been as cathartic as it has been terrifying. I would not have made it through without the l i t e r a l s t e p m o m to my fic Lale!! Also the lovely Matilda, and Bromeoandjooliet!! Thank you everyone for all of the lovely feedback on the last chapter and don’t be afraid to drop a line by my Tumblr DahliasForKatya!!

Even from a young age, Trixie spent a good chunk of her time in the water. She couldn’t wait to get home from school and retreat to the bathroom; a towel draped over her shoulder. She’d draw her golden hair back in a high bun, and sit haphazardly at the bottom of a stalled shower. The water beat hard against her freckled back, until the cold tile settled into warmth beneath her skin. She’d sit until the water ran cold, and the pads of her fingers pruned. When the mere act of breathing became relentless, Trixie would find herself craving the stinging spray of scalding water across the surface of her body. There wasn’t a problem in the world a that hot shower couldn’t solve, or at least postpone. Sanctuary.

Trixie’s mother would often scold, “You’re running up the water bill!”

And of course, as with most things, a terrible guilt would run through her. She’d resign herself from that happy place and apologize, from there, she’d retreat to her small bedroom. Sitting for hours in a towel, contemplating going back in anyway. Things weren’t always like this, her room used to be sanctuary enough, her home, her mother’s touch; but now she felt distanced from herself, vague, like navigating life through a video game. Have you ever looked down at your own hands, and hardly recognized them? Trixie could feel the meaning of every word she spoke hitch on her lips, each consonant skipping on the beat of its own arrival. Words scattered, wandering across time, lost in the hollows of the space between her ears. She’d wander the halls of her school, a ghost in a shell, auto piloting her way from class to class. Mindless. That sour sting was all that could revive her, all that could bring her back down to land.

The sun peered in rich that morning, and Trixie was reminded of how much she hated wearing sunglasses. She hated the feeling of wearing sunglasses because they were too distracting; she didn’t like the weight on her face, on the bridge of her nose. She’d too often find herself staring at the rims, missing what lie right in front of her. She found the distortion of color irritating, like she was dreaming half of the day away. Lately, removing sunglasses felt no different than leaving them on.

Trixie’s mother used to make blueberry pancakes every sunday morning, but always mixed way too many blueberries into the batter. They were especially runny that morning, especially bitter. Trixie choked them down as she always did, with a warm smile to acknowledge her mother’s hard work. From her seat at the table, she peered around the stairway, willing her father to come down. Her eyes landed on her mother’s pursed lips, and she sunk down in her chair, too nauseas to eat. He hadn’t come home last night. Again.

—

Trixie’s stomach was churning quietly in anticipation of the day’s classes. She could hear Jinkx’s words still, flowing in and out of her mind. She carried those words with her throughout the day, to her first class, Acting and Stage Presence with Professor Del Rio. A heart of gold, but definitely not the kind of person you’d want to rub the wrong way. This rang true, mostly. She took comfort in the way Jinkx played a witty banter with their professor, she aspired to that confidence.

And then on to Vocal Studies with Professor Minj, where Jinkx had left her outside the door with a smile of warm wishes; She’s a real tough broad but her class can be a hoot if you play your cards right. Trixie worried then about how she’d find her next class without aid. She turned a small glance in the direction of a pale haired girl seated adjacent her own desk, a first year just like Trixie. She seemed friendly enough, quiet, with a smile of gleaming teeth and thin lips. Trixie thought maybe she’d introduce herself, but discarded the idea. Maybe, she’d come to Trixie a bit later on and they’d hit it off. Maybe she’d never even learn the girl’s name.

Trixie gathered her things at the end of class and began down the narrow hallway, headed toward the staircase. She assumed the two in room 203 meant the second floor, at least that’s what she had hoped. Trixie wasn’t keen on being late, but she had terrible navigation skills. This was part of the reason she frequently bummed rides off of Kim.

Trixie, so consumed with the prospect of getting lost, became lost, quickly. Suddenly, she was looping circles around the second floor, passing the same doors, full of the same people and their watching eyes. She couldn’t seem to leave her headspace; that class is crazy, absolutely bonkers, but arguably one of the best at this school! Quite brilliant, actually! Trixie wondered how something could be crazy and brilliant all at once, how those two could marry and craft a science class.

As the clock struck lateness and rounded 2:30p.m., her lack of sleep was becoming more apparent. She found herself caught between reality and dreams. She could still feel that girl all around her, her mystery, red lipped beauty; could still picture her through the darkness, the way her lips parted and trembled against her own. There was some kind of magic there, in that space, some kind of beginning. The two of them melding in the night, like soft hands braiding underwater. Trixie ached then, there was also some kind of end.

Trixie wandered further down the corridor, passed doors 213 and 211. It was 2:45 now, and she was grateful to have found her way, but reeling. She pictured what the class would look like, students already seated and settled, having to apologize as she walked in. The feeling followed her like an omniscient pair of eyes, stalking her down the floor of the classroom, calling on her tardiness. 207 now, 205, she was getting close-

Lost in thought, Trixie’s forehead collided with the shoulder of someone rifling through papers outside of room 203. The jolt sent both of them to the linoleum, busied papers floating around them like ashes, sweeping to the ground. Trixie looked up, they locked eyes, and her heart plunged deep into the pit of her stomach. Her. It was her. All red lipped and slender. Mystery girl. Trixie’s face flushed, speechless. She could tell from the girl’s ghostly expression that they were both thinking the same thing. Memory overcame her, swelling in her temples.

—

Her teeth sink into my bottom lip, vicious and stinging. Her moans are like my symphony, beautifully poised as they glide over my lips, their melodies ringing in my mouth. She’s salty with sweat but delicious, and I can’t stop my tongue from trailing up the length of her chest. She pushes my head down where she wants me, needs me, and I tease the daylights out of her, plunging my teeth into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. And then I taste her, and she melts into my mouth, dripping down my chin. She’s stifling her moans now, reaching for my hands and placing them on her breasts. Every part of her is taut and lean, glorious and glowing. She’s too good for me, and she knows it. She feels fleeting, but for right now she’s mine to worship. Her curls are splayed across my pillow, and I’m hoping I can still smell her shampoo come morning. The skin of her thighs is soft against my cheeks, and I feel her legs tighten around me. Her body jerks, and releases, gentle sonatas careening from her lips. I let her music engulf me, consume me, fluid harmonies rising in my ear drums. Turn up the volume, drown out the silence. She pulls me back up to taste herself, and we’re at it again, electric,kinetic. My skin is on fire, her nails scrambling down my back, I’m praying she breaks skin.

—

The scratches down Trixie’s back lit up like a switchboard, fiery paths radiating down the surface of her skin, hot with anxiety. Her throat felt scorchingly dry, where the words hid from her tongue, shaking in a back corner. Their eyes met again as they scrambled to pick up papers, their faces stark, dumbstruck. She watched the other girl’s hands scattering; and in the light, she couldn’t have been much older than her, maybe a few years. Acid crept up her throat, Trixie wondered if her own skin still lay beneath the girl’s fingernails.

“I - uh, I’m so sorry,” Trixie gathered the remaining papers and rose to her feet, her palms slick with sweat and unease. The girl muttered something soft in reply, but Trixie couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in her ears. She felt the strings tighten, constricting around her. She wanted to say more, but didn’t know where to start. She was even more gorgeous in the light, and her clothes clung criminally to each contour of her body. She had to break eye contact, say something, do something. Anything but this. Both stood quietly, minds racing. Trixie’s eyes darted to the ground in self defense, but she was only more flustered by the sight of the girl’s pointed red pumps. Correction, she wasn’t a girl, she was anything but. Especially then, as Trixie couldn’t help but picture what lie beneath her clothes, she wanted desperately for the bruises.

They brought Trixie’s mind back to the color of her lips, bright against the cream of her complexion. And Trixie stood again, thinking about her lips, wondering what it would feel like to reach out and touch them; to stain her fingertips red, and carry a bit of this woman with her to class. Trixie pictured sitting a few rows down from her, stealing glances, borrowing a pen, unable to look away. She could never be so bold. She knew that the minute they stepped through the door, Trixie would never so much as look at her again.

Mystery girl cleared her throat, bringing Trixie back from her thoughts, and flashed a meager smile before turning for the door. Trixie, in reflex, held it out for her, secretly reveling the scent of her perfume as it lingered behind her; the same perfume that undoubtedly still clung to the fabric of her pillow cases.

The classroom was quite larger than the others she’d seen that day, with black industrial tables and stools in the place of desks. Various wires and tubes wound out of them, connecting tanks below to the burners that sat atop the surface. The walls were lined with large glass cabinets, containing beakers and other related paraphernalia; the amount of equipment seemed almost superfluous given the scant headcount of the room. There might’ve been twenty students at most, but no professor at the head of the class. As Trixie scanned the room, she was privily grateful the professor was later than she, but still, an apprehension simmered within her. Her eyes crossed the room in search of her mystery girl.

Much to Trixie’s surprise, mystery girl now stood at the head of the room, facing away to scribble something across the whiteboard. It read in messy, coiled cursive:

Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova

“Okay class! I’m sorry I’m late, I got caught up in the dumpsters out back. Very messy! Anyway, as you can see from the board I’ll be your professor for this term. And look, I know name seems daunting, so you can just call me Katya.”

#dahlia #trixya #lesbian au #college au #smut #rpdr fanfiction #katya zamolodchikova #trixie mattel #church of the poison mind

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