A/N: I can't really explain what brought this on, except possibly exhaustion from studying for German and watching West Side Story at the same time. In any case, I abandoned studying to write this and I must admit that I'm rather proud of it. It's most definitely unlike anything I've ever written before and I certainly hope it'll make you stop and think.
This was inspired by the ending scene when Action steps forward to help carry Tony away. Maybe I'm just seeing things, but the expression on his face, especially when he looked at Maria, was…I can't even describe it. It was beautiful acting on the part of Tony Mordente, in any case.
The third-to-last line should sound familiar, and yes, I did that on purpose. Just in case you were curious.
Finally, this isn't exactly a pairing, even an unrequited one; it's not really romance and it's not really heartbreak. But I would certainly be extremely interested to see someone write an Action/Maria fic. Just a hint. Cough.
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing you see here; this is all the creation of Jerome Robbins and Arthur Laurents and was inspired largely by Leonard Bernstein's incredible music.
She was the most beautiful thing Action had ever seen.
A lily.
A star.
The moon.
The sun.
The ocean.
Dusk.
A saint.
An angel.
He always used to think these things were sacred and holy and beautiful. But she left them all in the dust.
Maria.
Her red dress, her silken hair, her beautiful brown eyes—Action had never seen anything so pristine, so wonderful before. Oh, he had seen her before, of course; who hadn't? But he had never really noticed her. Before, she was just a PR. She was Bernardo's kid sister; who the hell was gonna take someone like her seriously? She was so…so damned innocent. Action hated innocence—it never lasted.
Garlic.
Gold.
Birds.
Cats.
Knives.
The early morning hours just before the sun rose.
Sharks.
Action hated all of these things, and all of them reminded him of the PRs—but mostly Bernardo. They were all the things that made Action boil inside. So why didn't Maria remind him of any of these things? She should've, by rights. She was Bernardo's sister. He had loved her and she loved him in his life and even in his death, and whatever Bernardo loved, Action hated.
It didn't make any sense.
He'd hated her before. Hated her for being Bernardo's sister. Hated her for causing the whole rumble. Hated her for inadvertently causing Riff's death. Hated her for sending her flashy friend to come for her when they were at such a precarious internal balance. Hated her for upsetting Chino. Hated her for being the cause of Tony's death. Hated her for taking the gun away from Chino (that damned Spic didn't even deserve to call himself a man) and pointing it at them like they were dogs.
He didn't understand it. Her command to stay back, her seemingly simple remonstrance, her sobs. Why did they wield such power over him? Why did he feel the need to obey? Why was he compelled to be close to her and miles from her at the same time?
And then she'd turned and given him that helpless look and he was powerless to stop himself. He moved forward to carry Tony's body away and he'd felt a surge of hate for this girl who seemed to command his every movement with a single glance from her moist doe-eyes.
But when she'd bent down and kissed Tony's still lips and whispered, "Te adoro, Anton," he'd thought her the most beautiful thing in the world.
He didn't trust himself to glance back at her as they bore Tony's body away. He was scared of himself, scared of what he might feel. Because Action didn't like to feel. Feelings were too complex. He liked basic, simple things—that's why the only things he ever allowed himself to feel were anger and satisfaction. They were simple emotions and didn't involve any introspective that would lead to realizations that only made him weaker. And he knew that if he looked back at her while he was carrying Tony's body, he would feel things he didn't want to feel.
He didn't know if he would ever see her again after tonight. He didn't even know if he wanted to see her or not. She confused him, and not in the normal way that most women confused men. He should have hated her. But he didn't. He wasn't sure if it was love or not—love was not something Action had ever really known; not yet. But the thought of feeling anything more complex than general feelings of anger or satisfaction bothered him; he wouldn't fall in love, not if he could help it. But he would allow himself to call her beautiful.
Beautiful—God, yes, she was beautiful. Her very name was beautiful. Her name was all the beautiful sounds in the world in a single word:
Maria.
Beautiful, beautiful Maria.