Heero Yuy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wingzerosoldier) wrote2013-02-23 08:49 pm
wingzerosoldier) wrote2013-02-23 08:49 pm
[rp] But There Are Dreams That Cannot Be
War.
It was a terrible thing, that much most everyone could agree on. Some just thought it more necessary than others. However necessary it was or wasn’t, those who decided when there was war, those who instigated it, were responsible for each and every life touched by it, marred by it, taken by it. But how responsible, how guilty were those who allowed themselves to be used as tools?
How guilty was a boy with a detonator for killing a little girl with a yellow flower and a puppy? How guilty was a boy, little more than a child, that had sat in the pilot seat of humankind’s most advanced weapon? No matter his actions that influenced the end of the war; the boy had killed hundreds, thousands. Directly and indirectly. A boy, who could never truly understand the scope of what he had done, could never atone for those sins.
There were no heroes in war, only those who had done enough good among the evil to be recognized as still human.
He said he would never kill again, and yet - what use is a gun that has no target, a soldier who has no enemy, an operative who has no mission?
There was nothing for the boy with no name, no home, no mission. No life left to live, yet he couldn’t die. He couldn’t die with the blood of thousands on his hands. For each life he had taken, it seemed a mockery to give up that precious gift he had stolen. If he forfeit his own life, there was no word to express the cowardice of running from his sins.
He found comfort in Duo Maxwell. Another Gundam pilot, another boy who had his life taken from him by the war, another nameless victim who had to make his own name and his own way. It started sometime between the American pointing a gun at his face and the final moments in the silence of space after the destruction of Libra, but exactly when, he didn’t know. When he realized he had emotions other than guilt. Emotions towards another person that went beyond some extension of self-preservation. Emotions that went beyond the mission and its effects and consequences. Love, Duo had called it, but there was too much blood on his hands for him to accept that he deserved that love. And yet the American had persisted. Everyone deserved a chance, even them. As long as they tried to atone for what they had done, why should they be miserable and throw away the life they’d kept by killing other people?
Sleep didn’t come easy for the once Wing Zero pilot. Even as he lay in the dark, curled around his lover, he could only stare past the pillows to the stars beyond the window. The stars in the darkness that he wished would have swallowed him whole. But no, that was a coward thinking, someone who ran away. When he slept, he dreamed. He killed her often in his dreams - the little girl with the yellow flower and puppy. He hears her laugh a lot, too, before he destroys her, her family, her home, everything she’d ever known. He counted mobile suits in his dreams, but he could never think how many he’d destroyed.
He cried, sometimes, silent sobs that wracked his body and bitter tears that fell into the other’s braid as he slept. Duo had to know. It was hopeful to think he hadn’t woken the ex-02 pilot up with his anguish that sometimes just wouldn’t be reined in. As the days went on, things changed. It wasn’t that love wasn’t there - there was love. Love and guilt; all he had left. But his touch became colder, his gaze became distant, his words became fainter.
He woke up on the floor one night, tangled in the sheets and screaming. Head pressed to the floor and nails digging against the carpet, it had taken every ounce of self-control he had to stop himself. Self-control, and Duo’s crying and begging. He didn’t know how long he screamed, but his throat hurt as he washed his face with water in the bathroom. He came back to find that his lover had remade the bed for them. Neither of them slept the rest of that night, but when Duo stirred from his doze in the light of mid-morning, he found Heero by the front door. He wore his Preventers uniform, his pistol tucked in the back of his waistband under his jacket, and an old, familiar duffel bag sitting next to the welcome mat. He was leaving, he explained. He couldn’t sit in a normal house, with a normal life, and it not feel twisted and undeserved. It wasn’t because he didn’t love Duo, he reassured the other, hand cupping his cheek and brushing back the strands that had escaped his braid. If Duo wanted to wait, he would come back. One day, when he felt he had appeased the ghosts of his conscience. He loved Duo, but living like this was driving him insane. He left after a last kiss, with the promise that when he came back, they would get married like they had talked of.
He was 19 then.
He’s 25 today, dressed sharply in the formal uniform of the Preventers. His hair is unruly as it ever was, bangs low in front of prussian blue eyes. He’s taller now, shoulders a bit broader and held straight. There are murmurs behind him on the street as he walks, but their voices are eclipsed by polished shoes clicking along the asphalt. No one can tell his intent by his expression. It’s entirely neutral, but there’s the glimmer of one with a mission. A look his old lover would know well. Tucked carefully under his arm is a bouquet of 11 roses - red and yellow. Love and new beginnings. His pace slows and he stops in front of the third row house on the street. He looks up at the weather-worn door.
Six years ago, a haunted, gaunt teenager stood in the same spot, looking at the door that had just closed. He had told the door - and the occupant within, a quiet goodbye. Today he greets the same door without words. He’d made sure the resident was the same, a simple check had proved that. He steps forward, and presses the doorbell under the nameplate that says ‘Maxwell’, then steps back.
It was a terrible thing, that much most everyone could agree on. Some just thought it more necessary than others. However necessary it was or wasn’t, those who decided when there was war, those who instigated it, were responsible for each and every life touched by it, marred by it, taken by it. But how responsible, how guilty were those who allowed themselves to be used as tools?
How guilty was a boy with a detonator for killing a little girl with a yellow flower and a puppy? How guilty was a boy, little more than a child, that had sat in the pilot seat of humankind’s most advanced weapon? No matter his actions that influenced the end of the war; the boy had killed hundreds, thousands. Directly and indirectly. A boy, who could never truly understand the scope of what he had done, could never atone for those sins.
There were no heroes in war, only those who had done enough good among the evil to be recognized as still human.
He said he would never kill again, and yet - what use is a gun that has no target, a soldier who has no enemy, an operative who has no mission?
There was nothing for the boy with no name, no home, no mission. No life left to live, yet he couldn’t die. He couldn’t die with the blood of thousands on his hands. For each life he had taken, it seemed a mockery to give up that precious gift he had stolen. If he forfeit his own life, there was no word to express the cowardice of running from his sins.
He found comfort in Duo Maxwell. Another Gundam pilot, another boy who had his life taken from him by the war, another nameless victim who had to make his own name and his own way. It started sometime between the American pointing a gun at his face and the final moments in the silence of space after the destruction of Libra, but exactly when, he didn’t know. When he realized he had emotions other than guilt. Emotions towards another person that went beyond some extension of self-preservation. Emotions that went beyond the mission and its effects and consequences. Love, Duo had called it, but there was too much blood on his hands for him to accept that he deserved that love. And yet the American had persisted. Everyone deserved a chance, even them. As long as they tried to atone for what they had done, why should they be miserable and throw away the life they’d kept by killing other people?
Sleep didn’t come easy for the once Wing Zero pilot. Even as he lay in the dark, curled around his lover, he could only stare past the pillows to the stars beyond the window. The stars in the darkness that he wished would have swallowed him whole. But no, that was a coward thinking, someone who ran away. When he slept, he dreamed. He killed her often in his dreams - the little girl with the yellow flower and puppy. He hears her laugh a lot, too, before he destroys her, her family, her home, everything she’d ever known. He counted mobile suits in his dreams, but he could never think how many he’d destroyed.
He cried, sometimes, silent sobs that wracked his body and bitter tears that fell into the other’s braid as he slept. Duo had to know. It was hopeful to think he hadn’t woken the ex-02 pilot up with his anguish that sometimes just wouldn’t be reined in. As the days went on, things changed. It wasn’t that love wasn’t there - there was love. Love and guilt; all he had left. But his touch became colder, his gaze became distant, his words became fainter.
He woke up on the floor one night, tangled in the sheets and screaming. Head pressed to the floor and nails digging against the carpet, it had taken every ounce of self-control he had to stop himself. Self-control, and Duo’s crying and begging. He didn’t know how long he screamed, but his throat hurt as he washed his face with water in the bathroom. He came back to find that his lover had remade the bed for them. Neither of them slept the rest of that night, but when Duo stirred from his doze in the light of mid-morning, he found Heero by the front door. He wore his Preventers uniform, his pistol tucked in the back of his waistband under his jacket, and an old, familiar duffel bag sitting next to the welcome mat. He was leaving, he explained. He couldn’t sit in a normal house, with a normal life, and it not feel twisted and undeserved. It wasn’t because he didn’t love Duo, he reassured the other, hand cupping his cheek and brushing back the strands that had escaped his braid. If Duo wanted to wait, he would come back. One day, when he felt he had appeased the ghosts of his conscience. He loved Duo, but living like this was driving him insane. He left after a last kiss, with the promise that when he came back, they would get married like they had talked of.
He was 19 then.
He’s 25 today, dressed sharply in the formal uniform of the Preventers. His hair is unruly as it ever was, bangs low in front of prussian blue eyes. He’s taller now, shoulders a bit broader and held straight. There are murmurs behind him on the street as he walks, but their voices are eclipsed by polished shoes clicking along the asphalt. No one can tell his intent by his expression. It’s entirely neutral, but there’s the glimmer of one with a mission. A look his old lover would know well. Tucked carefully under his arm is a bouquet of 11 roses - red and yellow. Love and new beginnings. His pace slows and he stops in front of the third row house on the street. He looks up at the weather-worn door.
Six years ago, a haunted, gaunt teenager stood in the same spot, looking at the door that had just closed. He had told the door - and the occupant within, a quiet goodbye. Today he greets the same door without words. He’d made sure the resident was the same, a simple check had proved that. He steps forward, and presses the doorbell under the nameplate that says ‘Maxwell’, then steps back.
no subject
He doesn't return the sentiment, at least not verbally, but one hand brushes the American's cheek again briefly. The brunette considers the possibilities briefly, and he decides that, as much as he dislikes his partner seeing his face, for now he'd rather see Duo's.
"Stay like this," he says, idly brushing his fingers through Duo's hair.
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It's... strange to realize he hasn't felt this safe, this secure and not paranoid in a very, very long time. That didn't really apply to just being around Heero - he only truly felt secure when he was around his follow Gundam pilots - but it's a special kind of safety when it involves that natural musk of Heero in his nose and the distinct smell of them mixing in with it. He leans in to the touch at his cheek, humming lightly at Heero's decision.
It's a bit of a surprise, but by the way he begins to rock back almost automatically... he's certainly not against it.
Duo's quiet, other than a little moan as he begins to rock back on him, still sensitive from his last orgasm and knowing full well he's fully able to make himself come quickly this time. ".. Heero.."
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It's a sensation that starts in his jaw, and his lips press a bit tighter together to stop it, but they only tremble until he sets his jaw. Even as the American rocks back and forth over him, the ex-pilot can't stop the overwhelming feeling that stings at his eyes.
One hand slides up to Duo's hip as if to refocus his thoughts on the act at hand, but for once, his self-control fails. He's left, resolve finally broken, able only to turn his head and cover his eyes with a forearm.
It could be mistaken for the aversion to have his face seen belatedly setting in. But then, there's no mistaking the single tear that spills across the bridge of his nose, dripping to the pillow below. Even less mistakable are the tears that follow.
There are no words: not that he can speak, none to speak. There was no expressing six years of guilt and that endless inner turmoil of guilt versus justification. Guilt, that he had abandoned the one person who was patient enough to stay. Justification, that he had left when he did to prevent himself from ending up dead or worse.
His self-control dissolves further as he grits his teeth. The hand he's hidden his face behind clenches into a fist as he buries his face into the crook of his elbow, and the control of his breath starting to slip into something a bit more erratic.
The hand at Duo's hip never pulls away. Instead, his fingertips press just a little more firmly.
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They both seem to have settled in to a quiet mood, as Duo sighs softly, moving his body over Heero's rhythmically, occasionally settling in to his lap to grind and roll. It doesn't take very long for his body to begin reacting again, breath catching as he looks down at his lover - takes in the fact that this is Heero inside of him again, after all that time and frustration. It almost seems unreal to be seeing that face - slightly changed by time, but still that face - staring up at him like that...
It's the attention to detail that catches Heero turning away, pace faltering as he senses something else is at work here than the usual. The faltering pace stops completely, a frown falling across his face in concern as he sees that tear, all thought of sex flying right out the window at the sight of it.
"Heero..?" More tears follow, and Duo finds himself at a loss. He's never seen heero this emotional before, and is at a loss for what to do. But Heero has never been any different than any other person, and, carefully, he moves to stroke his fingers along Heero's arms, his sides, lips trailing where he can on his cheek and jaw.
"Baby.." He tries to give Heero a little indicator that he wanted his face away from his arm, speaking in a whisper, trying to seek out his mouth. He can almost guess what it is that's bothering him, and though he can't say Heero's guilt is unjustified...
He can't justify letting him dwell on it. "It's okay, Heero. I'm here... I love you.."
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Heero makes no move to pull his arm from his face, not until he regains enough self-control to act as if nothing is wrong, as if he didn't just break down and cry for the first time since he was a small child. Though he doesn't respond to Duo's soft words or coaxing, he does at least stroke the skin of the other's hip with his thumb as if to say he's alright - or at least would be.
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Well, there went any semblance of feeling as though he wanted a third round. Not that he could really blame Heero for being overcome with emotion. He might have, too, if he wasn't in the zone so far as moving over him. Even if Heero is content with acting as though nothing happened, Duo's lost all thought of orgasm, and in fact is pretty much.. well.. done in that facet. He moves to pull free of Heero, laying back down at his side and tucking in where he's always fit, against Heero's side with his head tucked in against his neck, just under his jaw.
His fingers stroke along the line of Heero's collarbone and chest, placing himself beside his lover, waiting to see if he'd even want to talk about it. Knowing Heero, he wouldn't, but he'd give him the chance to regardless.
But just in case, he'll murmur to him softly: "It's okay to let it go, Heero. You had to do what you had to, and I'd rather have you here, six years later, than visit your grave or your pillowed room. We still have each other, and that's... all that I really need."
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When Duo curls in against him, he puts his arm around the other somewhat automatically, but even the feeling of Duo against him after so long is little comfort. The ex-pilot allows the tears to dry on his cheek, gaze distant and somewhere between the wall and ceiling.
As predicted, he says nothing about what just happened - or anything at all, for now. He does pull Duo just a tiny bit tighter when the other speaks, an indication that he's listening and even if he's somewhere else right now mentally, trying to deal with his own reaction, he appreciates the sentiment.
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Duo is mildly aware of the fact that, by the lighting in the room, they've managed to stay up until the picturesque colony sunrise, but he's less focused on the fact that he'd been up all night as he is on Heero's comfort and mental state. He knew he'd get that silent reaction, and it's fine, so he stays pressed to Heero's side for a few minutes, basking in his presence and the soft smell that was just... Heero.
But eventually he moves to sit up a little bit more, half laying on top of Heero, leaning in to kiss him gently.
"This is your only pass on being a boner killer, by the way." And then he laughs, leaning in for another kiss to show that he was absolutely joking. Another look at the time and he sighs, settling more against Heero even though he knows he ought to get up.
"We should get up and shower. I've gotta go get my stuff and tell him that I'm leaving." Another kiss, adoring and gentle. "Do you want to come with me?"
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"Sorry."
He's quiet again, leaning in as Duo does, for a soft and brief kiss.
Come with him? He's not sure how welcome the other man would be to see his replacement show up. Still...
"If you want me to."
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"Hey you, come back to me." After all, he hadn't waited six years and kind of sort of broke his own honor code by sleeping with him while he was engaged to have him go all misty eyed and lost on him while he was trying to joke with him. After all, he was just as afraid of him being a dream and waking up to find himself in bed with his fiance at home again instead of right here, beside Heero where he wanted to be.
He moves to kiss the little mark he'd left on his neck earlier instead, gently kissing and suckling at the spot until he has to put away to speak again, pushing hair out of his face. Just wait until he stood up and it pretty much touched the floor, Heero.
"I'm gonna need help to get my stuff out, I think. Maybe... I can go over and talk to him, and when things have cooled down, I'll call you to come help me move things? At least to a storage space until I can get everything sent to where ever we'll be living next..."
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"That would be best," he decides. He'd already met the blonde fiance once, and it would probably be nothing to put together that the "old friend" who brought Duo 11 roses wasn't just an old friend - especially not after Duo had left in the middle of the night.
Heero sits up first. If they needed to get this done, then there was no reason to lay around any longer. Typical Heero. Working for the Preventers, submersed in a lifestyle for which the 'for the mission' mindset was perfectly suited, his penchant for getting things done sooner rather than later has definitely persisted. At least when they were together before, Duo had been able to influence Heero a bit.
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"'Kay." He concedes quietly, watching Heero as he sits up. For the moment he's very glad he'd managed to push all of his hair to the side, realizing that when he stood it would probably be a very sticky mess, and he wasn't quite sure the little hotel shampoos had enough in them to wash his hair. He trails a finger down Heero's spine, all the way down until his hand rests on the bed. He could tell he was going to spend a lot of time not being able to take his hands off of Heero, but for right now he had to.
So, slowly, he climbs back to his feet, hauling his hair to one side and away, taking a moment to look down, accessing the state of knots, when he notices...
"Hey, baby? Look, my hair touches the floor!" He laughs, entertained by the most inane things that he notices day to day. He's grinning as he looks to Heero, knowing that by tomorrow it wouldn't be this long again, and he might as well let him soak it up. Eventually he moves toward the shower, but not before being distracted again by the little box still sitting by the door, which he approaches, bending down to pick it up.
"Heero? What's this?"
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It's Duo's noticing the little ring box. For a long time, Heero is quiet, gaze not on the American but the box he held.
"I told you at that time, if you'd have me back, we'd be married."
In the box it a thin titanium band and, if Duo's hands haven't much changed in size, the ring should fit.
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Duo leaves his own clothing where ever they landed - not particularly worried about picking them up and de-wrinkling them at the moment. He'd be able to change when he got back to their old home, anyway, before he began to pack up his things, their pictures, to head to where Heero was living. He smiles, as Heero offers to braid it for him, giving an eager nod.
"I'd like that." He smiles, turning back to the box in his hand before he stands and comes closer to Heero with it, listening to Heero speak.
"So this is my ring?" He opens it, looking at the band with a smile that's... flickering on the line of sad and extremely happy, turning his eyes up to look at his lover.
"Do you want me to wear it, right now? Or wait?"
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"If you want," he finally decides. "It's fine if you wear it now." Then he turns away and heads for the small hotel room bathroom, turning on the light and turning the shower on.
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Duo isn't sure what to do with the conflicting feelings in his chest, the way his stomach flip flops at the idea of having Heero back, having Heero as his husband and fiance. It's a good nervous, but he has the thought that he might not really deserve it. He hadn't waited, after all, he'd made it more complicated for the both of them by not being able to be alone.
But he sees that discomfort at his question, biting his lip. Duo follows at least to the bathroom doorway, wanting to be absolutely sure that's what Heero wanted.
"Are you sure, Heero? I don't have to, if you'd rather wait.."
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He collects the shampoo and conditioner bottle from a little plain bag, and pushes the shower curtain back enough to step in and hold it open for Duo.
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"Well, it's kind of both our choices..." He trails off as Heero begins to speak again, nodding as he considers what Heero had to say. After all, he had a point - he really shouldn't wear Heero's ring in front of the man he was going to leave as soon as he had showered and gotten the smell of sweat and sex off of him. Still, he can't help the smile as Heero says he would be honored, leaning against the door jam with that sappy smile plastered across his face.
"Honored, huh?" But a plan has bloomed in his mind, and soon Duo is moving to take the band from the box, sliding it on to his ring finger. It fits perfectly, and he grins over to Heero as he steps inside of the shower. "It's perfect, baby. I'll wear it for the shower, and then take it off to go and see him, sound good?"