14-Sep-2000
Posted: 9/13/00
Archive: Yes to those with prior permission, otherwise-- all it takes is an email. ;-)
Category: Yaoi. Possible lemon. Darkfic? AU.
Pairings: 1x2
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is quite sadly not mine, but in fact the property of Bandai, Sunrise, and other large corporations and companies I have no affiliation with. (Again, quite sadly.)
Warning/Rating: R. Violence. Angst. OOC. AU. Twisting of favorite characters into rather frighteningly charming psychopaths.
Feedback: Hit me.
Author's Notes: The story begins on New Year's Eve, AC 198, skips back to the previous-previous September, and continues onwards, until it ends on (surprise, surprise), New Year's Day. And that's all I know at this point. Completely AU, except that I'm using AC because it's convenient... so, no gundams, no OZ… right now, it's purely 1x2, but I might add some characters in later. Just side stuff, of course.
December 31st, AC 198]
All people were Good, inside.
Duo Maxwell was a Good person-- in the sense that everyone is inherently Good. He tried to be Good; he tried very hard. But it was hard to be a Good person: so very hard. He fumbled with his hat, pulling it low across his handsome face. Being Good was such a burden. He exhaled nosily and stared at the door, thoughtfully. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a worn and dog-eared photo of a teenage boy with messy brown hair and the coldest eyes he'd ever seen. But twinkling somewhere deep in those blue orbs, something that the flash of the camera had barely caught, Duo saw the Goodness in Heero Yuy.
And that was what he craved.
The innocent if not vulnerable look in those eyes; eyes that had never seen what he had seen.
Duo shivered and stared at the suddenly swirling snow around him.
This Heero Yuy would understand. If anyone understood, it would be the little boy in this picture. It was a little over a year old-- at least. Duo had found it in the pocket of a dead man-- a man he'd killed-- a man he presumed to be Heero's father. He sighed. He tried so hard to be a Good person. He remembered fumbling through the man's wallet with one hand, the other hand clutching the cold steel of a semi-automatic, and staring at the picture that had floated out. Heero had looked like a martyr or a saint, offering redemption in those bottomless Prussian pools.
Duo remembered gently pushing the dead man's eyelids up, glancing into those dull and lifeless orbs. His father, he mused. I killed his father. He shook his head, mournfully. He'd always be a Bad person.
He gazed at the photo once more, adoringly, before crunching it into his pocket again, just faintly brushing the familiar cold metal of his gun.
Not that he'd ever hurt Heero. He loved him-- he loved him with all the Goodness remaining in his heart.
Heero slung his bag over his couch, wearily and surveyed his apartment. It was decent, if not immaculate, with strewn paper littering the coffee table and half-empty shot glasses lining the bar. It was tastefully decorated with pieces that only money could buy-- the walls were lined with photos from numerous public events, private soirees, candid shots with prominent figures, and legends of music and film, a name or two highlighted in yellow. The Yuy family was quite influential in the New Earth Sphere, rubbing shoulders with politicians, trading gossip with socialites, and joking with the financially elite. Heero had been named for a great-great-grandfather of his-- the original Heero Yuy-- who was hailed as one of the most charismatic leaders of his time.
The most prominent picture, however, lay above the fireplace, rose petals strewn below it. In an ornate gold frame, designs twisted in the border, lay two old newspaper clippings, side by side. He always stared at it when he came in. The first headline read, in bold print: PROMINENT POLITICIAN MURDERED. The second one read: YUY'S WIDOW DIES IN CIRCUMSTANCES UNKNOWN.
There was a small picture of him in both of those articles, looking grievous and disheveled, a kind of wide-eyed denial over the events of the past year and a half. It was easy to fathom that his parents would have been targets, however; Heero had spent a few months under tight security, bodyguards shadowing his every move. He'd dismissed them on the morning of his eighteenth birthday: let the media fuss however much they liked. Heero walked to a window and stared at the falling snow blankly.
/I'm here…/ His mind whispered. /Come and take me./
The doorbell rang.
Duo punched the doorbell, a static nervousness moving swiftly across his features. His violet eyes were at their most sincere… Heero would understand; he would understand the necessity of his mother's death if he knew… knew that Duo was, after all, a Good person, who just did Bad things sometimes. His fingers twitched, and his smile curved suddenly downwards. He smoothed over his expression. Heero would understand. Heero would still love him.
Heero was such a good person.
[September 13th, AC 197]
Odin Yuy shivered under the street lamps of late September.
Natasha and Heero were at home, waiting for him to come home so they could sit down to the dinner and say grace. He smiled, imagining the two, across from each other; the table laden with gleaming Sunday china and silverware, white zinfandel in his wine glass, the candles lit and flickering. Domestic life agreed with Odin: after a long lifetime of politics and society, only home held appeal for him.
The streets were packed with crowds of people, so he ducked in an alleyway, taking a swifter shortcut.
Something clattered against a trash bin, and he stopped, and turned slowly.
It was only a boy, shadows playing across his face… but a morbid blotch against the brightness of the main streets. Thirty feet away, cabs were honking, people were laughing, music was playing. But here, there was only him and the boy, swallowed by darkness. He turned back around. That was when the first shot hit him.
He grimaced and thought: silencer. He contemplated screaming on the way down, but frozen from shock, he hit the cement, scraping his cheek, and lay there, bleeding.
Thirty feet away, someone was singing. A street musician with a haunting melody.
The boy walked over, footsteps heavy.
Four blocks over, Natasha would be unfolding her napkin.
He leaned down, touched the dying man's shoulder.
The beaten acoustic guitar-- it sounded acoustic-- rang hollowly in the space.
The slender figure knelt, and Odin felt the muzzle of the gun touch his temple. He closed his eyes, blood soaking through his expensive Italian suit.
Heero would be tapping his fingers, eyes gazing at his father's empty chair.
/We thank you Lord, for this bounty before us…/
Natasha and the blue of her eyes.
/For our health and our happiness…/
Heero, the emerging masculine lines and tentative smile.
/We give many thanks./
Flickering candles and gleaming silverware.
"I'm one of the Good guys," the boy whispered, finger slipping over the trigger. "It's just such a Bad world."
/Amen./
Duo Maxwell fired.
His hand caressed the photo, lovingly, and scanned the newspaper article. PROMINENT POLITICIAN MURDERED. The police had no leads, it went on to say, in the brutal killing of Odin Yuy, noted politician and great-grandson of Heero Yuy. Yuy left behind a wife, Natasha, and a son, Heero.
Heero Yuy. The great-great-grandson of the legendary leader of the New Earth Sphere in its infancy. His name was Heero Yuy; very appropriate. The original Heero Yuy was such a good man too. Duo sighed and glanced at the photo again, regretfully.
Heero Yuy, who was breathtakingly beautiful and cold; but if his heart ever thawed, those stunning eyes, their glance promised salvation, even for Duo. Redemption for all the wrong he'd done; for all the wrong in the world.
Duo looked at the photo one more time and decided that he was in love with Heero Yuy, with the beautiful eyes and frozen heart, whose veins ran with the ambrosia of Righteousness.
His mind whispered promises. /You'll be mine you'll make me good you'll make me good you'll make me good inside and you'll be mine./
[November 5th, AC 197]
Duo stood, face pressed against the grillwork of the cemetery gates. If he strained his eyes, he could see Heero's bent figure, kneeling in front of two graves. If he strained his ears enough, he could hear a faint weeping.
He felt another pang of regret in his heart-- one of many-- it was a terrible thing, what he'd had to do; kill Natasha Yuy, so Heero could be his. But one day-- probably not today, however-- Heero would understand why the violet-eyed boy was driven to do so: it was out of love.
He watched silent.
Heero stared at the stark headstone, side by side. When his father had died, his mother had gone a little insane with grief. She ordered one headstone, one grave, determined to be buried with her husband when she died, and to share that slab of grey marble.
/Beloved Father and Husband. Beloved Mother and Wife./
Below their names, a carved angel sang, its voice caught in the stone.
She seemed to know it was coming, he thought. She sat in a chair by the window of their apartment, and stared out into the city of lights and music, and waited for her death to come to her. She would meet it, face to face. Natasha Yuy, once brilliantly beautiful and still effervescent, colored with a youthful residue, wilted as she stared out into the cement and steel, her worn hands clutching the arms of her chair. He had been the only one able to coax her to talk, to eat, and to occasionally sleep.
One day, when he came home from school, she was dead, her head lolled to one side.
Cyanide, the doctors said. Suicide, the police report read.
Heero understood perfectly that his mother wouldn't commit suicide. He understood perfectly that she was going to meet her death-- his father's death, his murderer, but she waited; she waited, passive, never seeking, sure it would seek her.
Heero clutched the white roses in his hands, the thorns stabbing him. And lifting one bloom to his lips, he kissed them, reverently, trembling as he set them down. He wept alone, under the grey November sky, in the silence of the dead. It began to rain, water slicking the headstone, and soaking through his clothes. He wept, but soon his tears and the rain were indistinguishable on his cheeks, and only the faint salt in his mouth confirmed that he was crying at all.
Just outside the cemetery gates, Duo Maxwell's hand crept to his pocket, touching the photograph he always kept there. He ignored the rain, just as stoically as Heero, but his eyes were lit with a fanatical, fervent light: adoration and self-hatred, like a man glimpsing heaven and feeling unworthy of the mere sight. A part of him screamed and raged-- voices that stained his hands red. His forehead touched the cold iron, as he watched the grief unfurl on the cemetery patch: it was like an unfolding origami piece.
His mind repeated some words, mocking him. /It's just such a Bad world./
End Part 1
Duo's Post-Chapter Comments:
Duo: Oh, stop pointing, you'd do the same thing if you were me.
Jay: Well... you could have just asked for his number.
Duo: Sure, sure, do things the easy way...
Jay
Step right up and whap Jay via email here. Find a brain cell-- any prize, any size-- step right up.