花落月明

一个浪荡的薄情人,爱得不深,睡得不沉。
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[崔槙] 白夜暗雨

ch1ps0h0y《Black Rain White Night》的翻译。

因为保存了很长时间才想起来翻译所以原文地址找不到了,如果有知道的妹子欢迎补充

祝大家新年快乐

 

 

  

作者说明:

Sometimes they like to sit and talk, and sometimes silence speaks louder than words.

A short drabble attempting to capture the friendship Choe Gu-Song and Shougo have.

有些时候他们坐下来聊天,而有些时候沉默是金。

描述崔求成和槙岛圣护之间友情关系的小短篇。

  

  

白夜暗雨

cp:崔槙

   

  

It's the city that he really takes after, you think as you sip your drink. 

Ice clinks against the glass - real crystal; a rarity in this day and age - and settles half in and half out of the alcohol as you set the container down on the table, lean back in your chair, and watch him turn a new page in his book. His fingers handle the paper with a loving care, caressing the sheet as his hand moves down the page and settles at the base of the book's spine. You would never see that sort of affection in anyone except a pair of lovers. Soft and sweet and subtle. The lighting is kept low for mood, so he reads by the luminescence of a candle burning steadily over his shoulder. It must be a strain on his eyes; but then, you know he's not really reading. He has long since memorised that book's contents.

这正是座与他同为一体的城市,你抿着饮品这样想着。

冰块在杯中碰撞,在你把杯子放回桌上的时候漂浮在酒液之中,在这个一切都可以虚伪的年月,它晶莹地闪烁着,真真切切。你靠回了椅子里,看着他把手里的书又翻过了崭新的一页。他的手指饱含眷恋地掠过纸页,深情地在字里行间抚摸而过,最终停驻在书脊的底端。除了相爱的情侣之间,你不会再在他人的眼里见过那样绵长的爱意——轻柔,甜蜜,而且难以捉摸。为了营造气氛,灯光调得很暗,于是他便借着肩膀上方那盏蜡烛安定的微光阅读着。这对视力很不好,但是你知道,他并不是真的在看进去什么。他早就已经把那本书的内容铭记在心了。

  

Outside, the rain sheets against holo-panes and seeps across saturated pavement. It's dark but for the occasional flash of colour. So stark, yet starker still are the clothes he wears. Pure white, pure cotton - real fabric that you can touch and smell and not just see. Here is genuineness personified, not just in looks but in manner: an aloofness that carries him above the pedestrian yet does not ask for veneration. You seek to drink in every aspect of his appearance, taking him in like how the drains swallow the filth of the city.

窗外的雨帘席卷过全息投影,流淌在透湿的人行道间。整个世界是昏暗的,偶尔却有鲜亮的闪光划过。那闪光无疑是突兀的,但更突兀的是这个人的衣着。纯净的白色,纯净的棉质,不单单只是可供欣赏,每一丝纤维都告诉你你可以调动所有感官去任意感受。无论外表还是举止,他就像一尊化身为人的神,甚至不需要请求别人给予任何的景仰也足够以一种超凡脱俗的态度凌驾于众生之上。你贪婪地想要见证他的每一面,却在不知不觉中被他吸引,如同城市的污泥被雨流溶解,然后吞食。

   

And he is filthy - a corruption masked by the aesthetic of his visual form. The longer you listen to the words he drips into your ear, the deeper you sink into the taint, and the more you worship him. 

What lies at the heart of his being that he can move you so?

他也是肮脏的,优雅的外表下其实掩藏着恶毒的腐朽。他向你灌输的字句越多,你就越不可自拔地崇拜他,与此同时在万劫不复的沼泽里越陷越深。

就是这样的存在,到底是什么吸引着你为他前行?

  

A sigh. He shuts his book gently, looks up, and smiles.

That smile is a douse of cold water hauling you back to the present. For once it touches his eyes, as it does when he has taken particular pleasure in his reading. The rest of the time they are as inscrutable as the lights outside, assessing your worth and weighing your actions. Cold like metal, cold like pale, untarnished gold.

一声叹息。他静静地合上书本,抬起头微笑。

那个微笑如同一盆冷水迎头浇过,把你从沉思里硬生生拖回现实。只有在从书本里汲取到了至高的快乐时,那双眼睛才会弥漫上笑意,其余的时候它们总是如同窗外的闪光一样神秘,估量着你的行为和个人价值,冰冷如铁,苍白如未抛光的金玉。

 

You think they're beautiful.

而你竟然觉得,它们很美。

  

Swallowing more of the alcohol as he speaks, he asks a question phrased in thinly-veiled reference to his vast library of knowledge. You respond in kind and he laughs, a sound so at odds with the composure he showed earlier - and so rare, coming from him - that you have to stop and listen and savour. He's pleased and in much better humour now, tossing you a fond glance as he stands to replace the book on its shelf. 

他向你提出了一个问题,措辞之间毫不掩饰地炫耀自己丰富的知识储备。你在说话间吞下更多的酒,用自己的理解回应了他——引来了他以和之前的镇定截然不同的大笑。这笑容在他的身上如此稀有,以至于你停下来倾听,并且沉醉于笑声之中。他心情好了很多,在起身把书放回原位的时候向你抛来一个赞赏的眼神。

   

It isn't just his presence you're attracted to. It's his intelligence, insight, beliefs, and wit. It's the nights you spend alone with him, in his home, sometimes quiet in contemplation, sometimes lively in discussion. You'll speak of anything with him: from computer science to obscure texts, the merits of true food to the differing palates offered by wine. But always - always - between the two of you, and no-one else. You don't think it's wrong to covet him, any more than he thinks it wrong to help this city open its eyes to its own complacency. He has told you that, once, he walked down the main street carrying his bloodied razor, and all he received was a single stare.

深深吸引着你的并不只是他的皮囊。吸引你的是他的智慧,洞察力,信仰和才华,吸引你的是那些在他家里你们独处的夜晚,有些时候是沉默的冥想,有些时候又是激烈的争辩。你会和他讲所有的事情——从计算机科学讲到那些晦涩难懂的文本,从真正的食物有多珍贵讲到不同品种的美酒之间的口感差别。

但是,永远,永远都只有你们两个,没有他人。

你不觉得你觊觎他是错误的,就像他不觉得让这个城市意识到本身的自满也是错误的一样——后者在他揣着血淋淋的剃刀走过主街道的时候,曾经亲口诉之与你。

而你回应他的只是一个凝视的眼神。

   

These thoughts distract from noticing that he's by your shoulder; you tilt your head up questioningly when he touches your arm and he descends to one knee beside your chair, gold dimmed by torrential rain and semi-darkness, like a white tiger crouched amongst forest leaves.

这些思绪困扰着你,以至于你丝毫没有意识到这个人已经站到了你身边。在他抚摸上你的手臂时,你充满疑问地抬起头,看到他在你的椅子旁边单膝跪下来,金色的瞳孔在汹涌的大雨和晦暗的房间里显得蒙眬不清,像一只伏于森林落叶中的白虎。

  

Stay here tonight, he says, the rain wasn't going to let up for hours yet.

在这儿过夜吧。他说。

几个小时之内雨停不下来的。

  

You glance at your laptop, an innocuous square, grey shadow on the low table in front of you. You'd checked the weather forecast not an hour ago, but you nod and set the empty glass down. Condensation frosts its surface a moment after you remove your hand.

你扫了一眼你的笔记本电脑,它在你面前的矮桌上投下一小块纯洁的灰色影子。不到一个小时之前你就确认过了天气预报,但你依然点点头,放下手里的空杯,抽手而退时表面冷凝了一层水雾。

  

Just for tonight, you respond.

只此一晚。

你回答说。



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