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"Sinnerman"Written By: L.
Valensi Disclaimer: The characters are copyrighted to
BANDAI and all others responsible for their creation. Rating: NC 17 Pairings: 1x2 Summary: Duo and Heero were in the same unit in the war. Heero was killed and Duo is searching for those responsible. « » Marks words spoken in a different language
episode deuteronomy xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx orange eyes of embers gleaming in the night "Embers," Blue Foundation xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The winter chill passed through the windows of the T Salon’s tall glass windows and roughened brick interior like an unwelcome stranger. A snowstorm had burst through Manhattan with such force earlier in the day that it shut down schools and had deicing trucks littering the streets trying to clear roads for traffic. It was for days like this that Duo reserved his visits to the city’s teahouses, when people would rather sit by their own fireplaces than traverse through knee-high snow. He brought a cup to his lips and barely winced when the scorching meld of tropical flavors swirled in his mouth. He put the cup down and picked up a copy today’s Times another patron had left sitting on the table. He thumbed through the newspaper slowly, carefully; a random passerby would have thought he was a typical, politically-savvy Manhattanite, but that was hardly Duo’s case. He was, in fact, just biding his time. He tried to find something interesting in a report concerning the DOW’s record nine-hundred-point drop, the sharpest drop in fifteen years, but a flash of olive green and a Burberry pattern streamed into his vision like a well-dressed messenger of doom. Fear and relief accompanied the arrival of that familiar face, but Duo had to suppress conveying both feelings in order not to ruin his resolve. Which was a pretty difficult thing to do, he realized, as the rustling of high-end fabrics approached him with cautious steps. But he bit his lip and pretended not to notice the blue-eyed man with the mussed brown hair staring at him, no doubt expectant of some kind of greeting, who finally seated himself upon cognizance of Duo’s purposeful ignorance. After a noticeably prickly pause, Tsubasa cleared his throat. “Usually when I’m invited out somewhere, I’m supposed to be entertained,” he said dryly. “Surely you didn’t plan on ignoring me all afternoon? I walked a damn long way through this snow to get here.” He’s definitely not Heero, Duo thought, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile at Tsubasa’s long-winded sour reply eased Duo’s fears, in that it managed to be adorable more than suspicious. It allowed Duo to forego the idea—at least, for now—that the man sitting before him with the most precious flippant look on his face was not responsible for the events in Ostrava that nearly took his life. Duo, not wanting to waste any more time himself, swiftly folded the paper back into its original shape. He placed it on his lap before meeting Tsubasa’s stare head on—and with a pleasant smile no less. “You’re cute when you try, you know,” said Duo, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not trying.” Tsubasa replied, terse and unimpressed. “Well, then, I think that makes my point all the clearer.” Duo’s smile remained. “How was your day?” Tsubasa paused before declining to respond to Duo’s earlier comment. “My day’s going fine,” He sighed and began to unwind the scarf around his neck. “The whole city’s bound to get snowed in today, so this may be the only thing I’ll actually do.” “Don’t worry; it’ll be worth your while,” said Duo, earning him a slightly wary glance from the other. Duo took up his cup and leaned back against the chair. “What’ll you have?” “They have Oolong here?” Duo tipped his head towards the literal wall of tea in the back area of the establishment, amused. Tsubasa’s cheeks turned pink, but he got up and walked hastily towards the cashier’s counter before Duo had a chance to call him that abominable word again. While in line, he glanced over to Duo, who was contemplatively drinking his tea. He, himself, pondered what this meeting could possibly be about. Duo hadn’t even bothered to ask for his name up until two weeks ago. Similarly, it was the first time in nearly a year that Duo had actually brought him to his house (at least, he assumed it was his house—after all, how rich could he be that he owned two homes in Manhattan?) And now, despite his unwarranted cancellation, Duo had personally invited him out here. To a teahouse. In daylight. He certainly hoped that this meeting—whatever it was to Duo—was not what he thought it was. Anyway, he’d find out soon enough. When he sat back down, Duo’s expression became immediately as breezy as it had been when he’d left to get his tea. It lost every trace of solemnity that Tsubasa swore he’d spied while he glanced at him in line. He avoided eye contact with Duo as he poured himself a cup of tea. “How’s the tea?” asked Duo as Tsubasa took his first sip. Tsubasa shrugged. “Good.” “Not great?” “Prices don’t always reflect quality.” Duo chuckled. Or maybe he’s more like Heero than I want to admit. There was that name again: Heero. However dangerous this train of thought was for Duo, he was a creature driven by desire. No matter how hard he fought it, he always gave into the fantasy—that the man sitting opposite of him, adamantly avoiding his gaze, was somehow Heero in disguise. Sometimes no comparison could be made between the two men at all, but this moment—the very moment the skies opened up to spill a ray of sunlight across Tsubasa’s downcast eyes—was among the handful that managed to make him wish that such comparisons would be possible beyond appearances. “Aren’t you afraid that someone will recognize you?” asked Tsubasa, catching Duo off-guard. At this, Duo’s brow peaked. “They’ll have a field day if they saw you here with someone else…” “Why? Am I someone worth recognizing?” he asked, the suspicion returning. Of course, Duo took every precaution, as usual, to avoid being seen, even if that meant having to drag out a large coat and hat to hide as much of himself as possible. Tsubasa rolled his eyes at Duo’s comment, a little too petulantly than Duo was used to seeing. “Try picking up the Enquirer one of these days. You’re practically on every cover with that little blonde thing.” “Oh.” Duo paused, chewing his bottom lip, apparently not expecting that part of his life to have been revealed in such an impersonal fashion. “So how long have you known it was me?” Tsubasa smirked. “A while. You’re a little hard to miss, Rapunzel.” Duo chuckled nervously instead of replying and poured himself another cup of tea. He saw Tsubasa looking outside the window, his expression remote. “For the record,” said Duo, wanting to break the uncomfortable quiet. “I’m not dating Quatre. I never have, never will. As far as I know, he’s free as a bird. We’re just good friends, that’s all.” Tsubasa turned back to him, his brow raised this time. “What? Do I look jealous to you?” Duo shrugged, a playful smile on his face. “For the record, I’m not.” “I imply nothing,” said Duo. Duo bent the upper half of his body and rested his elbows on his thighs. He spent a good, long while just staring at Tsubasa, who had resumed watching the deicing trucks push ice out of the streets outside. Duo swallowed but found his throat dry, despite all the tea he had been drinking. “I apologize for last week,” said the other abruptly, continuing a trend of being rather disarming for Duo. Dry as his throat was, now that Duo had to talk about the question they’d both been evading, it felt thick with suppressed sentiments. But even he understood that the conversation was necessary, especially concerning what he was planning to do. “I got your note,” he said. “Didn’t really explain much, though.” Duo noticed Tsubasa stiffen significantly. “In any case,” continued Tsubasa dismissively, his tone becoming as cold as his demeanor, “I’ll take better care in informing you next time.” “What happened, anyway? Did you have another appointment you forgot to tell me about?” asked Duo simply. He had consciously phrased the question to sound noncommittal and unassuming, but even then Tsubasa didn’t immediately reply—prompting Duo’s suspicions to return with full force. His eventual reply would not help ease Duo’s fears, either. “Things are like I wrote,” said Tsubasa, meeting his inquisitive stare. “I’ve just had a lot of stuff to deal with lately. It’s not all about you, you know. I’ve got my own things to deal with. Not all people can live the way you spoiled celebrities do.” This time, Duo fell quiet, but his eyes did not leave Tsubasa’s. He gently pushed his elbows against his knees and pulled his body upward to rest against the seat once more. Tsubasa’s stare, full of icy conviction, did not waver. “It seems you’ve painted a pretty ugly picture of me in your mind, then,” said Duo softly, understandingly. He watched Tsubasa’s reserve become instantly perturbed by the need to respond although he knew Duo wasn’t going to let him. He just smiled. “No worries. After today, you’ll no longer have an obligation to comply with my bratty whims. Right now, I just want you to listen.” Tsubasa didn’t reply. Duo could tell by the look of wrath on his face that he wasn’t planning on sticking around any longer. “This will be my last proposition to you, Tsubasa,” said Duo. The blue eyed man’s glare sustained. “You have two choices: you can either get up and leave, and we’ll never cross paths again… or you can do that, but after hearing why it is I chose you out of all the poor, miserable, good-looking souls in New York City.” “…” “Well?” asked Duo. Tsubasa rolled his eyes. “Well, Morpheus, if I haven’t left yet, what does that tell you?” “I thought you were waiting to make a grand exit.” “I’m not staying to hear you call me a queen, asshole,” he snapped acerbically. “If you’re going to take my time, don’t waste it.” Duo laughed without a hint of regret or recognition of the consequences of his proposition. “It’s not exactly a secret,” began Duo. “It’s just that people always trivialize matters of love into something logical and simplistic; something with an answer; something they’re not and never will be.” Tsubasa remained quiet, gazing steadily at him. “But if you do hold it in for fear that someone will do just that, it will become just as you’ve said—a secret—without ever meaning to be hidden. And then it becomes the one thing that has the ability to break you down in the end.” “So why tell?” Duo shrugged. “It’s about time.” xxx “The first rule I learned as a Marine, I didn’t learn in the classroom. I didn’t learn it during basic. No one taught me simply because no one could teach me. It was a lesson you learned the first time you set foot on the field of battle; a lesson you learned once a bullet cut through the side of your armor and drew the first drop of blood from your body without permission; a lesson learned once you held onto one of your comrades, whispering false promises into his ear about survival even if half his body’s already been blown off by an enemy grenade. Kill or be killed. That was the first rule. Simple; straightforward. But you had to sell your soul to learn it. Only when you realized that you’d been abandoned by your country in the Sand Land, you knew there was no other choice possible. So you sold it gladly, with a smile on your face, otherwise you ended up being the poor fuck blowing a hole through the back of his head with his own government-issue rifle. But you know, the funny thing was, I didn’t really care much for that first rule. The first rule I always believed was reserved for people who were afraid of death. It applied to people who believed they had something to lose, but that wasn’t me. At that point in my life, I had only one thing to lose, and I would have given anything—paid any price—to keep it safe. That was when I learned the second rule of being a Marine: to protect the man beside you at all costs. That was when I learned my reason for being. He’s the reason I’m alive. He’s the reason I chose you. He’s the reason I’m here with you, now. His name was Heero Yuy.” xxx July 16, 2018 at the 0243 hour. It’s the fifteenth year in Iraq. The 6th Force Reconnaissance platoon had been deployed early in the month to bring down target Fallujah, which had come under siege by Al-Qaeda in 2016 and reconstituted itself into a Taliban stronghold. It has since become the most perilous area, given that the factions fleeing from Baghdad now found an impenetrable asylum. Not that it’s necessary—they’re more aware now than ever that U.S. troops have grown weary over the last fifteen years of a war they have no interest in fighting. They know that the constant redeployments by an economically-sagging government back home have been helpful only to vindicate their cause—and not the cause of the United States. They’re confident that they will capture Iraq now that America’s power has weakened significantly. They believe their victory is near. Yet you can find no such sign of weariness in the eyes of Maxwell and Yuy. After six years of active duty, the two men had hardened themselves—their souls, minds, hearts—beyond all weaknesses of the average human being. As the humvee drifted off-road from the edge of Baghdad towards the fire-lit horizon leading to Fallujah, their rifles clinked together—a comforting symphony in a sea of humid silence. As Mueller observes the clinical calm which had beset itself upon the demeanors of both men sitting behind him, he swallows back a question he now finds to be rhetorical. Aren’t you two even a little bit scared? He isn’t about to admit the cold shivers of fear racing through his body to the two men. He knows he’s in the presence of two men who would be warriors, not a mere follower like himself; he seeks to be like them, and so he will not speak of fear. He absentmindedly wrings his wrists. After a while he realizes that Maxwell is staring right back at him with that cheeky grin plastered widely across his face, a Cheshire’s smile illuminated by moonlight. “Nervous?” asks Maxwell sincerely, without a hint of disdain. At this time, Yuy turns his attention to the Mueller, who stops wringing his hands and takes hold of the tip of his rifle. He tries to hide his embarrassment by clearing his throat and turning away—to no avail, though, because Maxwell’s hand is already sitting comfortably on his shoulder. “Remember what I told you last time, Mueller,” says Maxwell, cupping the other man’s cheek and swiftly redirecting it to face his own. Maxwell pinches his chin and looks him directly in the eye. “There is no way I’m gonna let you die here. You got that?” This is not the first time Maxwell has said these words to calm him. But this is the first time Mueller can’t bring himself to say anything for fear he will appear unmanly; unworthy of his title as a Marine. Mueller shrugs off Maxwell’s hands with a snort, trying to hide his embarrassment as effectively as possible. “We’re here,” says Walker, from the front of the humvee. He turns to them and gives a signal to go ahead and get into formation. Maxwell slaps his knees happily and drags his rifle behind him as he rolls off the side of the vehicle. Mueller takes a deep breath and sheaths his own weapon into the scabbard on his back, turning to jump off as well—until he feels the small tug on his shoulder. “There is no way I would let Duo die,” says Yuy, rather unexpectedly and seriously. Mueller looks at him, confused. “I don’t—what?” Yuy shrugs. “If Duo doesn’t die, you won’t die. So there’s no use in being nervous.” He jumps off the humvee and leaves Mueller stunned, shocked, and more than a little suspicious. xxx Moonlight suffocates the arid night wind as muffled, yet thunderous, footsteps bound towards the decimated perimeter of the city of Yusufiya, now overrun by the very enemies they had—until lately—successfully kept at bay from the Fallujah region. Maxwell’s platoon has been on their feet, running under cover of night, with mounting determination to take hold of the Iraqi stronghold at Fallujah once more by establishing control over surrounding areas. The Marines heaving beside him were among the first that knew immediately that, the moment they lost the city of Fallujah, their war would never end. Since the devastating multiple-bombing of the Euphrates bridges that destroyed hundreds of retreating military vehicles and, with them, his fellow American fighters, Fallujah had been in the forefront of their understanding of the new crisis: Al-Qaeda had not only grown, but their intelligence was sharper, more accurate than ever before; their organization was tighter, smarter, and more efficient despite the sea of empty desert separating Baghdad from the mountains of Waziristan; and their appetite for violence was dragging the already-withdrawing troops to stay put and defend against their imminent, grisly extermination. This time would be the last time. A final, no-holds barred re-destruction of the city that has come to be known as the Ruins—in the name of freedom, peace, and democracy. Their first target—a set of American military sniper towers and outposts built in Yusufiya to mitigate enemy combatants in the southern border of Fallujah—is within shooting distance. Maxwell’s squad, flanked on all sides by another squad headed by Yuy, is shrouded in darkness. Their infrared sights are the only ways they are able to sense each other. Their orders are to take hold of the first tower—now a decaying, ten-story block of cement that served as a lookout point for the city—which is rife with Al Qaeda footsoldiers. Yuy counted thirteen men on the ground with flashlights, scouting the area. Maxwell whispers an order to his squad to slow down movement and lay low as they approach the hundred yard mark. The voice of their battalion’s commanding officer from earlier in the night, Major Zechs Merquise, replays in his mind. “Surround and conquer is your tactical goal,” instructed Merquise, stern yet pressing, to Maxwell’s platoon. “Bait, switch, and kill—and if you value your life, if we have taught you anything of importance, you will prove it today. You will be faced with several guards performing a sweep of the periphery. Each will be carrying a flashlight. Your goal is to disable those guards without letting the flashlights drop. That is what you have trained for these past few months. This simple little task is vital for your survival. Your special operations responsibility is to minimize the death toll of this attack as much as possible. And that is what you will do, or die trying to do, tomorrow morning in order to ensure the safety of our victory in Iraq and our freedom. Good night, gentlemen, and good luck.” Maxwell cocks his rifle. “Mueller, take down 3 o’ clock,” he murmurs, scoping out the area around the guard through his sight. “On my order—” But before Maxwell is able to finish, he is cut off by a trembling whisper. “Sir—Maxwell—I—I can’t…” Maxwell pauses. He cannot see Mueller, but he knows the fear that regularly shakes the confidence of his long-time friend; and yet he cannot find the words to say now that the fear is threatening to destroy their first chances at Fallujah. Shit, is all that goes on in his head. His eye is trained on the guard’s every motion, ready to take the first shot to signal the attack. He cannot bring himself to order a frightened comrade to get into close contact. Shit, Mueller, I told you I wouldn’t let you— “Maxwell—take the shot.” Through his sight, Maxwell sees a lone Marine stealthily creeping up behind his target, still undetected. “Take the shot now.” He breathes deep and shoots the silent mark of death straight through the skull of the unsuspecting guard. A moment of silence after the shot—followed by a thud to the ground. Yet the light holds steady at waist-height, dimly illuminating the surrounding area. Maxwell watches as it paints a slow figure 8 on the ground and breathes a sigh of relief. He hears the soft patter of footsteps and the whispers of “ready” and “fire,” and feels a great weight lifted from his shoulders. Maxwell rushes to the side of the Marine who braved abandoning his position to cover for Mueller. Around him, silenced shots fire into the night, bringing down the enemy lookouts successfully. “Thanks, man, you really saved my ass back there,” says Maxwell, clapping him on the shoulder. The Marine turns around and gives him a thumbs up. “More like Mueller’s ass,” Otto chides in his familiar drawl. “Tell that chickenshit nonhacker we’re even.” “You can tell him after we storm the shit hole,” says Maxwell. Otto punches his arm and proceeds to light his path to the building’s entrance. “Yuy, get your guys to clear the entry path of light—my squad, stay low and get ready to take the main door.” Maxwell takes a deep breath, steadying his grip on the M4 Carbine in his hand. He remains stationary while footsteps gather behind him; he can feel the blood, sweat, and tears already flowing freely from each and every one of them though they stand only on the brink of battle. Bright lights circle around him and his squad like fireflies glimmering in the dead of a summer’s night. “Ready?” whispers Maxwell into the dark. “Hell no, sir,” replies Walker, nudging Maxwell forward towards the door. “But let’s get this shit over with already!” “Now!” At the very moment the lights on the ground shut off abruptly, resounding crashes break the night quiet like the shrieks of a banshee. The Marines shatter the windows on the ground floor with the butts of their rifles in seamless unison. Urgent and frightened voices fill the air, joined by the sound of grenades being unpinned and thrown into their midst. “Duck!” Maxwell shouts, covering his ears and head in a kneeling position beside the entrance of the building. In no less than ten seconds, the heavily barricaded metal door burst open, carrying half of a burning corpse with it as it tumbled on the hard, dusty ground. Immediately after the door bursts open, Maxwell takes up his gun and begins shooting from his position. Half-illuminated in gunfire beside him, others shoot down dirty, white-clad figures streaming down from upstairs through the broken windows. Maxwell gauges that bodies in front of him are falling faster than they’re coming down from upstairs. It’s his signal to initiate a takeover of the floor. “Getting the fuck in there,” he shouts, “Cover me!” Without waiting for confident reassurances of backup, he rolls into the room and instinctively rushes to the area below the stairs. The nook ensconces him in enough darkness that the enemies, in their frenzy, do not sense his presence. From where he is positioned, Maxwell can see the faces of his friends and fellow Marines, confident despite the extreme volatility of their situation. He understands that, amidst the deafening violence before him, their operation is going as smoothly as they could expect so far. From where he is positioned, he can feel the thunderous whirring of the air support bringing down the insurgent squads. He can feel the unmistakable drop of their footsteps on the rooftop and the dull chorus of combat boots surrounding the enemy with a clear plan to lock them in the building with no escape route possible but a jump to their deaths. From where he is positioned, he shoots down body after body without a hint of or the time for remorse, repeating to himself that their lives are a necessary waste. Their brown, blood-spattered, wind-chapped lips cry out in a language that his ears have listened to for six years and his lips never bothered to learn. He can hear the noises of American war modernity crushing beneath its feet the antiquated AKs to which their enemies cling. He can hear shouts and orders in his own tongue claiming a victory amidst their recent slew of failures in a land he refuses to call home. Everything is exactly as Maxwell had pictured in his mind, and it gives him as much relief as a good fuck would have. These days, nothing tastes better than the feeling of victory, no matter how small. xxx The lookout tower is now swarming with Marines. Maxwell’s Captain is on the radio with his second-in-command without a hint of relief in their voices, because they know as well as everyone else that the worst will come at dawn. The very moment of daybreak, they again will be the first to be on the offensive at the gates of Yusufiya, and then to Fallujah. There would be no moment of actual rest; there simply is not enough time. The enemy does not sleep—they know it well—and so neither do they. Yet, Maxwell never gives more than a minute to thinking about the danger of anything. After six years of guerilla warfare with the ‘sandmen’ as his day-in, day-out ritual, war’s as routine as brushing his teeth in the morning. For him and many others, gunshots have become like music to the ears, careful movements in the sand like a ballroom waltz. After the rooftop squad clears the top floor of still-live combatants and begins to move crates of weapons down the building, Maxwell and Yuy follow orders to cover their platoon from above until they move out in the morning. The rest of both their squads are positioned in the floors below them. When they finally arrive at their destination, Maxwell dramatically throws himself to the ground, heaving from loss of breath. “Good… fucking… lord…” huffs Maxwell, spread-eagle on the floor. “Why don’t… these fuckers… ever build any fucking… elevators…” “They had one.” Yuy, following behind him, walks to the shattered windows facing the troops on the ground and sets most of his equipment down beside it. Duo props himself up on his elbows with a look of disbelief on his face. “There’s a fucking elevator?!” asks Maxwell, incredulous. “There’s an elevator and you let me walk up the stairs?!” Yuy doesn’t look at him. “We blew it up,” he replies, “And you deserve it for being lazy.” Maxwell sits up, sweat dripping down his chin. “I deserve it?” He begins to laugh but it doesn’t stir Yuy to return his gaze. “Man, you’d make a terrific priest, you know that?” He rises from the floor and pulls up an empty crate to the window beside Yuy. He unties the rifle attached to his back and drops the magazine onto the floor, replacing it with a new one from his side pocket. While going through the movements of reloading, Maxwell’s breathing slows. He finishes without a word, enjoying the calm of the moderate quiet he is experiencing. The rustling of clothing gives him a start; he looks up to meet Yuy’s particularly intense gaze head on. “You’re too reckless recently.” Yuy says this plainly, sounding almost patronizing to Maxwell. His partner smirks at him. “I’m sorry, are we talking about me here, Mister I’m-Gonna-Drive-My-Humvee-Through-A-Building-Full-Of-Armed-Crazies?” Maxwell jokes, shaking his head. “You didn’t wait for us to clear your entrance.” Maxwell knows precisely what Yuy is referring to, but merely shrugs his shoulders in response. He rests his rifle on the window sill and props the butt end on his raised knee. “There was no need for me to wait,” he says, turning his head to grin at his solemn, blue-eyed partner. Yuy turns away from him, chilly as ever. “I won’t always be there.” The comment earns Yuy a sigh. “I didn’t plan on dying on this mission, of all missions, you know. I imagine my death to be of a grander scale. I didn’t make it through Al-Basrah to die on something as simple as this.” Yuy is quiet for a while before he says, “Don’t talk about it like that.” “It? You mean dying?” He understands Yuy’s silence to be an affirmation. “I think we’re a little past conversations about the fear of dying. Jeez, you’re the last person I’d expect to hear those words from.” “People like you…” Yuy mumbles, barely audible. “There is something other than this for people like you.” Maxwell’s breath gets caught in his throat upon hearing those words escape from his partner. He can feel the heat swimming to his cheeks and his palms in a cold sweat. He’s afraid to look in Yuy’s direction for fear that he may end up doing something both of them would regret. If I look at you now, thinks Maxwell, his heart aching a little bit. I know I’m gonna rape you. Instead, he opts to gaze out the window (yet not without great effort). He sets his chin down on his arm, resting both on the windowsill. As he watches bodies move about like shadowy snakes far below him, he mulls overs Yuy’s previous statement. “People like me,” he mumbles into the crook of his arm absentmindedly. “What makes you think you know what kind of person I really am?” “Because I know you.” He feels Yuy’s weighty stare before it sets on him, followed by a sudden discomfort. “And I know this is not where you wanted to be.” Maxwell’s chuckle is dulled the fabric covering his mouth. “Oh yeah? Are you telling me you wanted to be here, in this dead zone, risking your life for god knows what anymore?” He turns and grins dryly at Yuy, finally finding the moment for which to wear his familiar mask. “There’s no point in asking that. You can’t change the past.” “Okay… well, let me try again, then,” says Maxwell. He turns to face Yuy this time, indigo eyes shining with certain curiosity. “If you could be out of here tomorrow, where would you go? What would you rather be doing?” Yuy stares at him blankly, distantly. “There’s no point in asking that also. I will be here tomo—” Maxwell interrupts him with a groan. “Oh, for god’s sake, Yuy, how many times do I got to tell you that not every question has to have a practical point!” He straightens up, animated by the conversation, and puts his hands on his chest. “Look, take me for example. If I could be out of here by tomorrow, you know where I’d be? I’d be in fuckin’ Cabo with other people my age showin’ off my goods for Guys Gone Wild and throwin’ back as many drinks as my liver can possibly handle in one night. See? It’s easy. Just try it. Just say anything.” Yuy gazes at the floor with the same steady lack of emotion, almost as if everything Maxwell just said had gone in one ear and out the other. A minute of no reply passes them by, peppered with faint honking and the shouting of orders from the ground. Great, thinks Maxwell, there goes that chance. He sighs heavily and begins to turn to his lookout position. Just when you think you’ll finally get him to open up… “I… don’t know.” His partner’s baritone catches him off-guard, as it almost always does. Maxwell looks at him, shocked and somewhat overwhelmed. It is the first time Maxwell can remember Yuy answering a question with a sincere answer—not even an unassuming “I don’t know” had ever passed his lips. There is a softness in Yuy’s countenance tonight that Maxwell has experienced very rarely—and very rarely does he ever react correctly to it. This time, though, he remains quietly granting the other his full attention. Maxwell watches the slow rise and fall of Yuy’s breathing in the darkness before the voice continues a story that Maxwell has been waiting to hear their entire time together. “I don’t know anything else… other than this,” says Yuy, somber yet sure. “No time in my life before joining the Marines is worth reliving. But, other than this, it’s the only thing I know.” Maxwell is afraid of pursuing him, but more afraid of never taking the chance to get past the one exterior he’s never managed to crack. Charily he queries, “Wasn’t there even one moment in your life when you felt happy?” Yuy makes a sound Maxwell has never heard before—maybe a small laugh or a grunt; he honestly could never tell the difference. Nevertheless, Yuy answers him, much to his surprise. “I don’t know what happiness is, either.” Maxwell shakes his head, in denial for his partner. “There is no way you don’t know what it’s like to be happy. I mean, I know you’re one cold bastard, but I always thought that was—you know—just a character flaw or you shtick or something. There must be one time, one thing even, that’s made you happy!” Yuy turns to him and shrugs. His piercing blue eyes spare no room for interpretation: they told Maxwell that his words are as frank as ever. “…No.” Maxwell restrains the urge to embrace his partner out of both pity and sexual frustration. He feels as if he’s being emotionally fucked by the man in front of him, staring at him with naked, smoldering honesty. “What about now? Do you think since joining the Marines you’ve been happy?” he asks with trepidation. He knows the answer he wants but he knows he won’t receive it. When Yuy doesn’t immediately reply and instead turns his attention back to the ground below them, Maxwell understands that the conversation is officially over. The thick emotion that held him at bay before has dissipated, as if it had never existed. After a couple minutes of silence, Maxwell finally moves to take up his rifle once more, only to be stirred into shock by another one of Yuy’s consistently unexpected replies. “I’m not sure if it’s what you consider happiness,” he says, “but here, I can protect other people, and I’m good at it. I like having a purpose.” Maxwell makes a sound of protest but is cut off by a signal of silence from Yuy, who points outside to a pair of headlights heading towards their part of the border. He receives the green light to incapacitate that humvee from a distance. Subsequently, all lights within the building’s facility are shut off and the troops on the ground quickly arrange into combat positions. “Car bomb, probably,” whispers Yuy as he takes careful aim of the approaching vehicle in his sight. “If I don’t blow the car, you need to take them out.” Maxwell nods and fixes his rifle on the sill. At that very moment, he catches sight of a figure moving in the dark across the room, towards a stray AK-47 hidden underneath another body. Panicked, Maxwell shifts position, knocking Yuy’s rifle out of his hands, and turns to the direction of dying insurgent just in time to see the machine gun in his hands, pointed right at his partner’s back. Maxwell barely aims before he shoots at any particular part of him, hoping to hit anything to keep the shot away from Yuy. “Maxwell, what—!” Yuy begins to shout but is cut off by the deafening scream of death and the sound of several rounds from the machine gun in the dark. The rounds hit the already-crumbling ceiling above Maxwell, showering him in debris. He’s disarmed by the close, rapid firing of the gun, prompting a slow reaction to the piece of heavy concrete that hangs above him like the sword of Damocles. He isn’t quick enough to notice; he can’t move away. In a matter of seconds, Maxwell feels his back pinned to ground; he’s unable to breathe, but at the same time cannot feel any resulting pain—just a strange, comforting warmth. Am I dead? He thinks. He opens his eyes, his vision blurred by dust, but the unmistakable smell of guns and roses filled his nose faster than his eyes can adjust to the scene. He watches the slab of ceiling concrete rolls off Yuy’s back like a slow-motion nightmare. He looks at the motionless head of his partner lying on his chest. No. “NO!” Maxwell screams and embraces Yuy’s body in order to carefully roll around and set him on the floor. When he puts his fingers to Yuy’s neck to check for a pulse, he’s relieved, but when he sets his eyes on his partner, no such feeling remains. Yuy, face already lacerated by falling concrete and shrapnel, convulses and coughs up blood onto his uniform. Maxwell, tears burning in his eyes and panic heaving in his chest, takes him up into his arms. “Heero, please, don’t go,” he whispers directly in his partner’s ears. A loud explosion shocks the building, and urgent shouts from below clutter the night silence of just a few minutes ago. Maxwell ignores them all, clinging to his partner. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” The radio in Yuy’s pocket goes off, the voice of their Captain yelling loudly, “This mission is snafu; get the fuck out of that building and get on the ground!” “Oh, God,” cries Maxwell, frantically scrambling to grab any rifle to carry with him. He slides Yuy onto his back in time to see Walker come up the stairs to herd the rest of the men out. “Fuck, they fucking got Yuy? How the fuck?!” He exclaims, signaling for Maxwell to follow him out. “You need to get him the fuck out of here and onto the chopper! I’ll call for them to stand fast ‘til you get there!” Maxwell nods at Walker and is guided by fellow Marines to the safe route out of the building. The further they go down the stairwell, the more he realized how fucked up things got; the fourth floor is full with the sound of bullets. “You’re almost there, Corporal,” says the fresh-faced younger man leading him, probably no older than Maxwell himself. “We gotta get you the hell out of here—we think they’re gonna blow this building up.” He leads Maxwell, with Yuy still on his back, to the rear exit, where the chopper was less than a mile away, awaiting them. He gives Maxwell a thumbs up before returning into the building. “Wait!” Maxwell says. “Why are you going back? You need to get out of there too!” “I can’t, sir, my brothers are in there,” he says with somewhat of a sad smile. “Take care of yours, sir. Semper fi!” The words break his heart even more, because he’s seen that look before: that kid’s committing suicide. He turns around briefly to gauge the chaos that had come to fruition in a matter of minutes after their success, a scene that decimates what’s left of his emotional reserves. And then he sees the unambiguous missile launcher on the back of the enemies’ stolen military humvee taking aim at the building. He bites his tongue hard enough to bleed and prays for the men inside, because he values the fading life he’s carrying on his back more than his own or anyone else’s. Wrought with guilt, Maxwell runs like hell for the helicopter. But he’s not fast enough. A wave of power and a blast of sound hefts Maxwell and Yuy along with him from the ground like an invisible hand. He’s thrown aside like a castaway doll, face grating against the sandy ground. He groans, dust and smoke filling his lungs as he struggles to overcome the pain. Get up, he says to himself, swallowing back the ache of his own injuries. Get him out of here. He picks himself up, cringing as the harsh heat emanating from the tower, now a fiery inferno, hits him. He crawls over to the only other body in his vicinity, praying desperately with rapid breaths. He holds onto Yuy’s barely-breathing body for dear life. He strokes his partner’s head, clutching him in a tight embrace, as he hears gunfire open up above him on the ground. He begins to cry, unrestrained, into Yuy’s shoulder, like a child. He looks up in order to find a way out, yet expects to meet a bullet head-on from the barrel of a raged militant. Instead, he finds himself in a sea of MARPAT, surrounded by his fellow Marines. They’re yelling reassuringly that he’s got to take cover, that they’ve got his back. Through the tears pouring down from his eyes, he can see muddied figures running towards him like angels rising with the dawn. He peers down on his partner, wetting the bloodstained face with salty tears. He wipes away the dampness gingerly. “Stay with me, Heero, don’t fall asleep yet,” he coos amidst the raucous noise of battle around them. Yuy’s eyes flutter open in recognition of his voice. Maxwell smiles audibly, hugging his partner into a better sitting position. “They’re coming for you. You’re going to be okay. Just stay awake. Stay with me, now.” Maxwell flags the corspmen down with his free arm. “Corspmen!” he yells, throat raw with emotion. “Corpsmen, over here! Hurry!” The medics rush to his aid and takes Yuy from his arms into a makeshift gourney. The Marines around Maxwell and the medics shout for them to move as soon as possible to the safe zone to get the wounded Yuy out of the battlefield. While the corpsmen secure Yuy to the gourney, the wounded man’s hand limply tugs at Maxwell’s wrist. Maxwell, cheeks streaked with tears, blood, and dirt, takes Yuy’s hand between both of his own leans close to the other man’s face. “I lied… I—” mumbles Yuy hoarsely, grunting as the corpsmen strap him in. “I wish some things were different… but I…” Maxwell makes hushing sounds, not realizing how tight his grip on Yuy’s hands has become. “Don’t… don’t try to talk anymore, Heero…” Maxwell’s hold on Yuy is broken by the rise of the gourney. Maxwell looks up and watches Yuy fade away into the distance. He doesn’t hear it, but he swears he sees the words on Yuy’s lips as he disappears into the horizon: I’m happy to have met you. He never had to hear it; it’s enough that he remembers it that way. xxx Duo takes a long, labored sip from his cup of tea, relishing the last drop like the moment permanently seared into his memory. He set the cup back down onto the coffee table separating him from Tsubasa, who remained somberly silent throughout the whole recollection. For a while, he avoided looking at the man who’d just spent the last hour listening to the most painful story Duo had ever dared to tell. Inwardly, he felt cold and empty; he felt like an abandoned child shivering in the rain. But on the outside, to the world he had to live in, he held onto a smile. The memory would not break him today. Mostly out of pity for himself, he starts to laugh heartily, causing Tsubasa to cast him a skeptical, unamused look. The look on Tsubasa’s face prompts him to laugh even harder. “There’s nothing particularly funny about anything you’ve just said, so I don’t know why you’re laughing like an idiot,” commented Tsubasa irately. “It sounds to me like you’ve just admitted that you used me to fuck the regret out of yourself ‘cause I look like the boyfriend whose death you feel so much unecessary guilt for.” “Yeah, you’re right.” Duo stared at him wanly for a moment before letting out a big sigh. “I can’t ask you to understand or even accept any justification for what I did to you,” he says as he leans in as close as possible to the other man, who scarcely even flinches at the unexpected motion. Duo takes the scarf resting on Tsubasa’s armrest between his fingers and absentmindedly plays with it. “But when I made love you, the happiness that followed was the closest I’d ever come to feeling the way I did when he was still alive. When I still had him, even if I could never be with him the way I was with you. “When I was with him, I lived for the second law—which, by that time, had become the second law of just being alive for me. Every day I spent with him is more real to me now than even this moment. This moment is a dream. It’s less real than everything I remember when I hold you in my arms and pretend that for one moment in time—in whatever shitty hotel we may be in—that you’re him. “If you’re asking me why I’m telling you any of this, there’s a very simple reason. And I don’t expect you to understand or accept it, either. I invited you here today to tell you this story because it’s the closest I can ever come to being able to explain it to Heero himself. This way, I can finally move on from all the old demons of the past and try to find my happiness elsewhere.” Tsubasa snorted, still wholly unimpressed despite the deeply heartfelt confession of the other man in front of him. “You’re right, Maxwell, I don’t understand or accept anything you’ve just said, mostly because it’s all bullshit,” he snapped, snatching his scarf from Duo’s hands. He closed the distance between them even more, an icy glare stitched into his brows. “You know that I’m not Heero. Telling me any of this won’t make a difference. You could have gotten a shrink and said all this shit. There’s no reason you should have said any of this to me if all you’re going to do is leave. Nothing’s changed for you. You’re still guilty and Heero is still dead.” Yet Duo did nothing but smile at him. “I knew I could count on you not to give a fuck,” said Duo with a grin. He kissed Tsubasa quickly, squarely on the lips and stood up. He buttoned up the front of his peacoat and put his newsboy cap on his head. “Enjoy the rest of your tea here; it may not be the best you’ve ever tasted, but it’s good for a day like today. Consider it a parting gift,” he says in a typically airy tone that Tsubasa hated more than anything. Duo’s blue-eyed ex-lover refrained from looking at him. Duo bit his lip, knowing he would regret it if he said it, yet even more if he didn’t. “If things were different, there would have been room in me to treat you the way you deserved to be treated.” He said this loud enough for Tsubasa to hear. Duo smiled sadly, but Tsubasa never turned around to see. tbc ~ * ~ |
