storypaint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storypaint) wrote2008-09-17 10:41 pm
storypaint) wrote2008-09-17 10:41 pm
Warum (Nietzche/Wagner)
Comm: none
Length: 524
Title: Warum
Prompt: Nietzche/Wagner in the present day, take 2!
Rating/Warnings: G, RPF
Disclaimer: This is a completely fictional representation of two men who are very dead. This fanfic is a derivative of canon material that is not my property. I do not profit from these writings. The opinions and actions expressed in these stories are not necessarily the views and beliefs of the original author or me.
Excerpt: "It has been a while, ya?" Wagner says awkwardly. He looks just the same as he did the last time Nietzsche saw him: fat, ruddy, bad teeth revealed by a grin.
This doesn't make any sense to him and Nietzsche tries to protest, to pause, but the dark-suited men that led him to his apartment do not want to answer any questions, and in any case, their German was terrible. All they have been doing is shuttling him between the infirmary and the apartment, leaving him alone to figure out how to turn off the lights (it took him a week to brush the switch by accident, and until then he had to sleep with the sheets over his head). The doctors don't speak any German at all, and this is worse.
"Why am I here?" he tries again before the last one shuts the door firmly in his face. He talks like a child, slowly, hoping for an answer. "Warum bin ich hier? Bitte!" But the man shuts the door and walks away.
He almost screams when he hears footsteps behind him. Even though it is foreign, he has begun to treasure this apartment as a space of his own, and now he is being invaded in his home. He turns around to see who intrudes on him and he does scream then.
"It has been a while, ya?" Wagner says awkwardly. He looks just the same as he did the last time Nietzsche saw him: fat, ruddy, bad teeth revealed by a grin.
Nietzsche stalks off to his room, slamming the door, and he doesn't come out again for several hours.
*
When he comes out again, Wagner is sitting on the couch and watching an infomercial with great interest.
"What is the 'Magic Bullet'?" he asks, not lifting his eyes from the screen.
Nietzsche rolls his eyes and stands in the doorway. There is no way he is going to sit down next to that lump of a man.
"Why are we here?" he asks, hoping that the musician will know. Someone has to know. And who else here spoke the Old High German?
"I don't know," Wagner replies, shrugging. "I remember nothing. Do you?"
And Nietzsche doesn't know why he didn't even think about that before, but Wagner is right. He remembers nothing.
"You should be dead," he mutters, and Wagner looks up and meets his eyes.
"Ah, and you as well, but obviously one of us was wrong in his estimation of God," he says, and Nietzsche stomps off to the kitchen. He pours himself a cup of coffee and he sits at the table and thinks.
"I should be dead," he grumbles after a moment, just to be contrary. He sits in the kitchen until his coffee turns to sludge and then he wanders back into the other room. Wagner is sleeping, the bright light of the television flashing across his flaccid face, and for a moment Nietzsche feels a touch of tenderness. Here, at least, is someone with whom he knows how things are, how things stand. Here is someone he can hate for knowing their stupidity and not for making him seem stupid.
But he won't admit it. Instead, he stomps off to bed and tries not to wonder whether Wagner will be there in the morning.
Length: 524
Title: Warum
Prompt: Nietzche/Wagner in the present day, take 2!
Rating/Warnings: G, RPF
Disclaimer: This is a completely fictional representation of two men who are very dead. This fanfic is a derivative of canon material that is not my property. I do not profit from these writings. The opinions and actions expressed in these stories are not necessarily the views and beliefs of the original author or me.
Excerpt: "It has been a while, ya?" Wagner says awkwardly. He looks just the same as he did the last time Nietzsche saw him: fat, ruddy, bad teeth revealed by a grin.
This doesn't make any sense to him and Nietzsche tries to protest, to pause, but the dark-suited men that led him to his apartment do not want to answer any questions, and in any case, their German was terrible. All they have been doing is shuttling him between the infirmary and the apartment, leaving him alone to figure out how to turn off the lights (it took him a week to brush the switch by accident, and until then he had to sleep with the sheets over his head). The doctors don't speak any German at all, and this is worse.
"Why am I here?" he tries again before the last one shuts the door firmly in his face. He talks like a child, slowly, hoping for an answer. "Warum bin ich hier? Bitte!" But the man shuts the door and walks away.
He almost screams when he hears footsteps behind him. Even though it is foreign, he has begun to treasure this apartment as a space of his own, and now he is being invaded in his home. He turns around to see who intrudes on him and he does scream then.
"It has been a while, ya?" Wagner says awkwardly. He looks just the same as he did the last time Nietzsche saw him: fat, ruddy, bad teeth revealed by a grin.
Nietzsche stalks off to his room, slamming the door, and he doesn't come out again for several hours.
*
When he comes out again, Wagner is sitting on the couch and watching an infomercial with great interest.
"What is the 'Magic Bullet'?" he asks, not lifting his eyes from the screen.
Nietzsche rolls his eyes and stands in the doorway. There is no way he is going to sit down next to that lump of a man.
"Why are we here?" he asks, hoping that the musician will know. Someone has to know. And who else here spoke the Old High German?
"I don't know," Wagner replies, shrugging. "I remember nothing. Do you?"
And Nietzsche doesn't know why he didn't even think about that before, but Wagner is right. He remembers nothing.
"You should be dead," he mutters, and Wagner looks up and meets his eyes.
"Ah, and you as well, but obviously one of us was wrong in his estimation of God," he says, and Nietzsche stomps off to the kitchen. He pours himself a cup of coffee and he sits at the table and thinks.
"I should be dead," he grumbles after a moment, just to be contrary. He sits in the kitchen until his coffee turns to sludge and then he wanders back into the other room. Wagner is sleeping, the bright light of the television flashing across his flaccid face, and for a moment Nietzsche feels a touch of tenderness. Here, at least, is someone with whom he knows how things are, how things stand. Here is someone he can hate for knowing their stupidity and not for making him seem stupid.
But he won't admit it. Instead, he stomps off to bed and tries not to wonder whether Wagner will be there in the morning.