[rp] But There Are Dreams That Cannot Be

[wingzerosoldier]

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.

Comments

[braidedwonder]

Maybe he'd been a fool for thinking that offering Heero his love and affection would be enough to heal the deep-cutting wounds of their experiences in the war, things that he'd known about and didn't know about too. Hell, there were things that he remembered in his dreams that he'd never have the energy to put in to words for Heero or anyone else. They were too close, too personal, too much for anyone who already had bad experiences to handle on top of their own. They were both damaged goods, really, hardened by their experiences in the war and yet still wounded by it, still very much the young, scared children that had left the war in their dreams though they might put on brave faces when it came to facing the world. But Duo had been willing to face them all, one by one, step by step, with Heero, no matter how much it scared him or tore at his heart when he felt him crying behind him, or had to wake Heero up from his night terrors.

Duo had never in his life been alone. As a street orphan he had a group of friends he ran with, and in the church he had Sister Helen and Father Maxwell. In the war, he had Howard and the other boys. Post-war... all he had was Heero. No matter how selfish it was, he realized he was a selfish little bastard even during the best of times, and he fully intended on clinging to Heero as best that he possibly could, for as long as he could, in order to help the other pilot out, to show him love and affection and hope and pray he stayed with him. Usually Duo might say that he was the God of Death because Death followed him - the orphans, the Father and the Sister, everyone who grew too close to him left by way of death.

So when Heero had left him, even in the promise of returning when he could face the world again, it felt like a death. The former Deathscythe pilot had put on a brave face in front of Heero, had reminded himself that he couldn't possibly be so selfish as to keep Heero when he was clearly so haunted, pale and gaunt in front of him, clearly suffering. Somehow he'd managed to hold back tears until Heero was out the door and far enough he couldn't hear him, and the silence of the empty house around him was crushing and oppressive. He was alone - utterly and totally alone - for the very first time in his life. Duo didn't remember how long he spent on the floor by the door, trying to wake himself up from this cruel dream, but it never happened. He didn't leave bed for days, after that, and only Hilde's repeated phone calls that garnered no response drew him out of bed by threat of force by a forceful long time friend, who shoved him in to the shower and convinced him to eat, called Howard and got him out of the house.

In the six years that Heero had been away, Duo had spent five out in space, working and avoiding the home they'd shared gathering dust. The last year had been dedicated to other things: namely getting the dust out of 'their' old home and avoiding and pushing back the marriage he'd agreed to with a member of Howard's crew, another young man who had seen the war and who had been a great companion for a year before. He'd accepted the ring and proposal nearly out of compulsion - afraid he'd be left alone again if he declined, and had regretted it ever since. It was easy enough to put off the lie of a 'relationship' for companionship and an easy way to get his rocks off, but... now he felt cruel. That he had strung this man along for so long, that he continually put off choosing a date for some half-assed reason or another. He was.. trying to wait a little longer for Heero, but he didn't know how much longer he could wait.

It's another young man entirely that answers the door for Heero, looking automatically confused. He gives Heero a once over, and then asks "Uh, can I help you?"

Ironically, Duo's new choice in partner.. almost looks like Heero. Heero, but paler and more blonde. "Who is it?" A voice, clearly recognizable as Duo's, comes through the house, and his fiancé shrugs his shoulders as if the braided man could hear it.

"I think you're lookin' for the girl next door, man."