Disclaimers: Yaoi, OOC, AU, weirdness. (like you expect anything else from me? =^-^=) Not mine, don't own em, just having fun.
The silence was oppressive, steadily pounding against his entire body, heavy and thick in the air. Too quiet... there was nothing, nothing to distract him at all. He curled up tighter, hearing his own breath rasping in his lungs, quickening, gasping for every bit of air he could pull from the stifling atmosphere around him. On the edge of the silence he could hear the voice, as though from a distance, a quiet murmur on the edge of his consciousness. He could only hear it when everything else was quiet, and he feared it. Seductive, beckoning to him, twining itself around him until he could hear nothing else, but the endless call to death.
Shinigami was beckoning him....
Duo awoke with a start, gasping for breath. His entire body was trembling convulsively; cold sweat dampened the covers, and he shuddered, casting them aside and getting to his feet. He moved unsteadily toward the dresser, thankful that his partner wasn't there to witness his nightmares. Heero wasn't back from whatever mission he'd been called away on, so Duo still had the room to himself.
The safehouse had three rooms; Wufei had one, Trowa and Quatre had one, and he and Heero shared the other. It was the standard arrangement, and it seemed to work well; Wufei preferred solitude, and there was a close friendship, maybe more, slowly emerging between Trowa and Quatre. Personally, Duo thought it was sweet. And he and Heero were best friends; they got along quite well, (or at least Heero hadn't killed him yet), so their sharing a room was not a problem.
Duo sighed softly. Often he wished they were more than just friends, but it didn't seem likely. Heero was too cold, too cut off from the rest of them, and from the entire human race, for that matter. Still, it would be nice, to be able to hold the gorgeous Wing pilot, to feel the warmth of the darkly tanned skin and run his fingers through that eternally tousled hair. So he kept chattering at Heero, trying to break through the barriers, trying to work his way into Heero's regard, at least as a very close friend, for now.
After shucking his soaked nightshirt, he pulled on a warm pair of sweats over his boxers and curled up on the bed again, pushing the sheets to the bottom with his feet, and wrapping himself in the blanket. At least thinking about his taciturn partner helped keep his mind moving, helped him forget the dreams and the silence. He snaked an arm out from under the covers, retrieving his CD player and pulling it under with him. Placing the headphones over his ears, he relaxed and tried to sleep again, filling his mind with thoughts of Heero... in boxers.... yum....
Heero had finally given up his memory-searching, and turned back toward the safehouse. The wind was cool against his skin, ruffling his hair. Cold... <Put me back, back where it's warm, where I'm safe... I don't want to be out here anymore....> he shuddered, this time from the disquieting feelings these strange memory fragments evoked. The subtle feeling of "not-right" that came from not being certain anymore.
<The men gathered around him, dressed in white, the riot of colors and glaring lights almost blinding after the soothing dark-- poking and prodding him, inserting needles and tubes; he whimpered soundlessly, wishing it would stop....>
"Yamero," he commanded himself quietly, forcibly pushing aside the memories. <Focus on the task at hand, the mission; everything else is inconsequential.>
Upon reaching the safehouse, Heero headed quickly to his room, intending to check his laptop for any new messages. Opening the door, he paused. Soft strains of music came from the mass of blankets on Duo's bed; the tousled chestnut mop was the only thing visible, with a pair of headphones hanging awkwardly from his ear and one cheek, apparently displaced by the sleeping boy's movements. Heero snorted, walking across the room and reaching down to remove the headphones. Unfortunately, he discovered, the attached player was somewhere under the blankets. So he settled for returning the headphones to a proper position against Duo's ears.
"Baka," he murmured, his fingers moving of their own accord to smooth Duo's bangs away from his forehead. Suddenly he froze, fingers still tangled in the silky strands. What was he doing?! Frowning, he pulled his hand away, and turned toward his desk. The moonlight coming in the window was enough to see by, but the green glow of his monitor seemed bright by comparison. No new mission updates. He frowned again. They'd been idle for several days already, and he was anxious to return to the fight.
Then again, this short lull might give him time to explore the strange memory-wisps that had plagued him lately. Once they were purged from his system, he could concentrate fully on the mission once more. He nodded, satisfied at his conclusion, and turned off his laptop. Setting his shoes at the base of the bed, he shucked his tanktop and shorts, and slid under the covers.
The soft music from across the room should have bothered him, but he found the soft thumps of the bass strangely comforting, like a heartbeat. Closing his eyes, he sighed. And he dreamed of the softly throbbing heartbeat surrounding him, of warmth and safety... and love...
Across the room, Duo's dreams were not so peaceful. They had started out quite nicely, pleasant things like half-naked Heeros and hot fudge sundaes, sometimes with the two put together in interesting combinations. But all too soon they darkened into his usual fare; darkness, blood, and death... and he was Death....
<It feels good, doesn't it? To take their lives away. We live for it. We revel in it.> The voice came from the darkness around him, and Duo turned, trying to see its owner. Instead he found himself on a battlefield, watching mobile suits marching through piles of rubble, thick plumes of acrid black smoke billowing into the sky. Off in the distance people screamed; the piles of scrap metal here and there around the field were covered in splatters of blood. Slowly, he moved among them, finding twisted bodies covered in blood and MS fuel.
<I did this,> he thought, with a strange combination of guilt, indifference, and pride. Off to his left, a thick gurgle of breath emerged from the wreckage, and he moved toward it. Another nameless mobile suit pilot, watching his own blood pool in the dirt, gasping for his last few breaths. Hearing Duo's footsteps, he looked up, his eyes feverish and glazed, trembling with the realization of his own impending demise. A single pale, soot-streaked hand reached toward Duo. "Please..." the man rasped, blood flecks coating his mustache with his words, "my... little girl... she's sick, she needs me...."
Duo's eyes filled with tears as he knelt beside the man, feeling the pain of his wounds throbbing along his own nerves, a sympathetic ache. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Visions of a little girl, dark-haired like her father, hearing her daddy wasn't coming home, danced across his vision. "I'm so sorry..."
"I'm not," came the voice from behind him. He whirled around. There, among the rubble and smoke, stood... himself. Dressed in black leather pants and a loose black silk shirt, wearing not a golden cross but a silver ankh, seeming pale and foreboding among the wreckage. Violet eyes gleamed red, reflecting the flames of battle, as a cruel smile crossed the sensuous mouth. "So they're dead. A lot of people are dead. Don't feel bad for the little girl, she doesn't have long to live anyway." Duo's double walked toward the man, looking into the staring eyes, now bright with fear. "Go ahead and die," he said conversationally, touching the man's forehead. The fallen soldier shuddered convulsively, the light fading from his eyes.
The other Duo got to his feet and turned toward him, in one graceful movement. "Stop feeling so guilty. We kill people; it's our job. It's actually rather fun, in my opinion. And I'm pretty damn good at it, too." Duo shivered. "I know that." <All too well...>
His other self... the dark part of him, the part he tried to keep hidden, buried; the part that thrived on battle and death, that craved it.... the part of himself that he hated, yet found so strangely fascinating....
"Why can't it stop?" he whispered quietly. "All the killing and the hating and the dying and the pain.... why can't it just go away? This stupid war... it takes everything that's good... Father Maxwell, and Sister Helen... and just leaves the pain." He shuddered, wrapping his arms tightly around himself.
"Life is pain," his dark twin shrugged. "Get used to it. You're so weak! That's why you need me. I can handle it, and I can certainly dish it out. Quit trying to run from me. Quit locking me away. I can take the pain, and I can deal the death that we have to. It won't hurt you anymore if you let me in control."
Duo shook his head furiously. "NO!! I remember what happened, the last time I let you..." he shuddered, unable to finish, unwilling to relive the memory. "I can do this on my own! I don't need you!" He turned and fled, over the blackened field.
Behind him, Shinigami's laughter echoed through the darkness.
End Part 2
C&C definitely wanted!!!! Arigatou!! *gives everyone huggles and chibis and chocolates and lemons*
(:./madcat/separate2)
