12-Dec-2000
Hi hi! A different sort of fic for me.... well not really, but a little. I want to try and write a series of fics based on poems; I have about four or five really wonderful poems to do this with, and this is the first of them. Hope you like it.
Title: How To Watch Your Brother Die
Author: TB
Archive: yes pleases GW Addiction
Catagory: death-fic
Pairing: 2x4, Iria
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: death, slight swearing, angst
Spoilers: none
Notes: This fic is based on the poem "How To Watch Your Brother Die" by Michael Lasser. All credit for the poetry goes to him, with this qualification: I changed maybe five words in the whole poem for the purposes of this story. The poem will be set apart by // // things. If anyone would like the poem in its original form, please email me and I will be more than pleased to send it to you. This takes place, presumably, after Endless Waltz, and also presumes a relationship between Duo and Quatre during that intervening time.
Feedback: feed me
Disclaimers: I have no rights to Gundam Wing or to any poetry by Michael Lasser; both are used without permission, but with no intention to profit off their use.
//When the call comes, be calm.
Say to your husband, "My brother is dying. I have to fly
to California."//
Iria's hand shook she slowly laid the receiver back in its cradle. She tried to wrap her mind around it--around the news, around the smooth plastic that evaded her shaking grasp. Then she pressed her hands over her mouth, over her stomach, trying to repress the urge to retch. No. How could this be happening?
Arms came around her waist. She trembled as she leaned back against her husband's broad chest. He murmured quiet words in her ear-- platitudes, sympathies, even, anything to soothe her. He stroked her golden hair-- golden hair just like Quatre's, why Quatre, her only brother?-- and as if his strength was somehow seeping into her from the contact, Iria felt herself composing back into rational thought and speech, instead of incoherent moans.
At last, she turned, and almost managed the smile she tried to put on for her husband. "Will you help me call the others?" she asked. "They should know."
"Iria... " Uncertain, he hesitated. "Iria, do you honestly think it'll make a difference? To them, he's been dead for years. Ever since--"
"They are still his family," she interrupted, her voice like steel. "And father's heir. They will damn well act like they care. They will damn well--" She caught herself just as her voice began to rise in hysterics. She stepped back, and headed toward the door with slow, graceful steps. "Have my secretary do it, then. I don't know how long I'll be gone, Bruce."
"I could go with you... "
She stopped with her hand on the doorhandle. "Thank you. But I wouldn't force you to be uncomfortable around him-- and this is really a family matter." With a deep pain in her chest, she opened the door and left.
//Try not to be shocked that he already looks like
a cadaver.
Say to the young man sitting at your brother's side,
"I'm his sister."
Try not to be shocked when the young man says,
"I'm his lover. Thanks for coming."//
"He fell," the long-haired man said. He never took his eyes from Quatre's slack face. Iria felt mildly embarrassed by the way he caressed her brother's sunken cheeks with long-boned, strong-looking fingers. The intimacy in that tiny act made her feel... isolated. And the way the young man talked, though on the surface attempting to include her, was strained. He knew she didn't belong here. She knew, too.
"He fell, one day, about a month ago I think, and that was the beginning of the-- " a hitch broke his voice. The young man ducked his head, soft brown bangs sweeping down to hide his face. In the long silence that followed, Iria fumbled to sit in a chair, and tentatively touched Quatre's hand. It held only a trace of warmth. And then she strained to comprehend the rest.
"We knew, of course. But the doctors said there'd be more time. They promised there'd be more time."
Another silence. Iria clenched her hands into fists and buried them between her knees. She didn't belong here.
//Listen to the doctor with a steel face on.
Sign the necessary forms.
Tell the doctor you will take care of everything.
Wonder why the doctors are so remote.//
"Strain and stress can act to hurry the disease in its course," the doctor explained. He laid two pieces of paper on the desk between them, one a chart, one an x-ray or something. Iria studied them, or pretended to. Her mind could not read the chart, and her eyes skipped uncomprehending over the picture. This was Quatre. This was her little brother. Only brother. Only dying brother, who had been absent from her life until his was over.
"Some people contract the virus and continue in perfect health for years," the almost-too-pleasant voice continued. "HIV patients can even take steps to prolong the eventual decline for decades, thanks to advances in medical research. Unfortunately, your brother was not lucky, Mrs. Warren. His participation in the Great War at such a young age, combined with certain anomalies in his heart that his previous doctors had noticed since childhood, contributed to a tenuous condition, at the best of times." He paused. "You may not be aware-- my impression is that Mr. Winner has not kept contact with his family?"
Iria gave a bare nod. She did not lift her eyes from the charts. Quatre's life, in cold mechanical alphabets. Running out. Ending.
"Like I said, tenuous health at best. At worst, Mr. Winner was literally a walking time bomb. We gave him an optimistic estimate on how long he would have had, but he actually exceeded our lowest figure. He lived a surprisingly long time."
"Stop talking about him as if he's already dead." Quietly spoken, the blonde bowed head never lifted.
The doctor, momentarily chastened, clenched his fingers around a pen and nodded a grudging apology. "Of course. But Mrs. Warren-- you have to realise. He *will* die. It's only a matter of days--hours, perhaps. There's no way of telling. He's not stable. He could become catatonic at any time. And after that, there is no saving him."
//Watch the lover's eyes as they stare into
your brother's eyes as they stare into
space.
Wonder what they see there.//
She knew that Duo Maxwell did not intentionally try to frighten her. Indeed, he probably did not even remotely realise he was doing it. But the unblinking stare that seemed to record with terrifying intensity every breathy inhale, every choked exhale, every tiny twitch of fluttering lacy eyelashes was slowly forcing Iria to draw inside herself for comfort. She'd never seen so much devotion concentrated into one violet-eyed stare. It was as if Duo Maxwell was willing Quatre to live.
//Remember the time he was jealous and
opened your eyebrow with a sharp stick.
Forgive him out loud
even if he can't understand you.
Realize the scar will be
all that's left of him.//
A nurse entered; she carried fresh sheets, a plastic bucket of warm water and a few soft wash-cloths. "Why don't you get some fresh air?" she suggested politely, to Iria. "It's hard, staying cooped up in here. You need to stretch your legs, Mrs. Warren."
Iria stood, recognising a dismissal when she heard one, but reluctant to leave. The belligerent expression on Duo Maxwell's face registered as she looked over at him. The nurse followed her gaze.
With sympathy, she added, mostly to Maxwell, "We'll notify you immediately if anything changes. I promise."
That seemed to appease the young man, and he stood slowly. Still, he hesitated for a moment; then he lifted Quatre's hand to his cheek and kissed it, squeezed it gently as he leaned down to place a kiss on pliant, unmoving lips. "I'll be right back," he whispered. "I won't be far, love. Just down the hall, okay? I'll be right here."
//Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria
say to the lover, "You're an extremely good-looking
young man."//
Violet eyes were unreadable beneath thick eyebrows that were raised in polite distaste.
//Hear him say,
"I never thought I was good enough looking to
deserve your brother."//
Iria glanced down at her plate, unsure how to react to that. She remembered, strangely, her father's grief-laden pride in his only boy. "Just like his mother-- look at those curls, those eyes!" She remembered her own reaction, on meeting the baby boy again years later, when Quatre was no longer a giggling toddler dangled on a servant's indulgent knee, but a self-possessed, gently-spoken, intelligent young man. A passionate, idealistic, steadfast, grown-up man-child.
"Forgive me, Duo," she replied awkwardly. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
//Watch the tears well up in his eyes. Say,
"I'm sorry. I don't know what it means to be
the lover of another man."//
Maxwell laughed. It was an empty sound, and she knew he was no longer even thinking of her, but of the man in the hospital bed, dying, down the hall. A man whose life could never be shared forever, now.
//Hear him say,
"It's just like a wife, only the commitment is
deeper because the odds against you are so much
greater."
Say nothing, but
take his hand like a brother's.//
Duo looked at their hands. Then he looked at Iria; and then she saw the tears that streaked his face in a torrent of uncontrolled pain, and Iria said nothing, recoiling in hurt as he snatched his hand away and left the table abruptly.
//Drive to Mexico for unproven drugs that might
help him live longer.
Explain what they are for to the border guard.
Fill with rage when he informs you,
"You can't bring those across."
Begin to grow loud.//
"Iria," Duo muttered. "Iria!" He looked at the guard. "She's distraught," he explained, futilely. "Sir, please. Maybe you don't understand... My friend, he's dying. This is his last chance. You don't want to be responsible for a man dying, do you?" He hugged himself, at a loss to find the words that would win this battle. "My friend--"
"I get it," the guard retorted. "Your 'friend' is just going to have to find another last chance, buddy. Those drugs can't cross, and that's the end of the story."
Iria, incensed, nearly slapped the man in her fury.
//Feel the lover's hand on your arm,
restraining you. See in the guard's eye
how much a man can hate another man.//
Iria glared at the man's back as he hurried in out of the sun, back to his air-conditioned little station. And then, for a horrible moment, she was on the verge of tears. Only a thick swallow prevented the first of the sobs; she knew that if she started, she wouldn't be able to stop.
//Say to the lover, "How can you stand it?"
Hear him say, "You get used to it."
Think of one of your children getting used to
another man's hatred.//
//Call your husband on the telephone. Tell him,
"He hasn't much time.
I'll be home soon." Before you hang up say,
"How could anyone's commitment be deeper than
a husband and wife?" Hear him say,
"Please, I don't want to know all the details."//
Iria hung up slowly. Well. She hadn't wanted him to come, anyway... for too many good reasons.
Duo sat up a little straighter when she returned from the pay phone. Earlier, finding him asleep in the hallway, his too-thin body curled in on itself on its side on a padded bench along the wall, she'd fetched a blanket from a linen closet-- she knew her way around their section of the hospital, now-- and gently laid it over him, noting with sadness that Duo, possibly even more like her brother, looked as though death were approaching. His eyes were so smudged from lack of sleep and so dark from worry that the violet that peered at her appeared almost black.
"You okay?" he asked abruptly.
Iria honestly didn't know how to answer. "Bruce... he, um-- Duo, it's just hard for him... "
His face lost all expression. "Yeah. I get it."
Helplessly she shook her head. "Don't blame him, Duo."
"Blame him?" Duo pushed the quilt to one side, and stood. He flicked hair out of his face in one angry gesture, then stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. "I don't blame him. Why the hell should I blame a man I don't know for not knowing better? For being a bloody ignorant bastard? I don't blame him. I don't fucking blame him." He turned his back on her, and went into Quatre's room. The shutting of the door had a thud of finality that made Iria wince.
She knew better than to follow.
//When he slips into an irrevocable coma,
hold his lover in your arms while he sobs,
no longer strong. Wonder how much longer
you will be able to be strong.//
"I'd like to give him a sedative, Mrs. Warren," the nurse worried. "He's taking it so hard, poor thing." She smoothed Duo's untidy braid, looking only pitying when he rudely shoved away her kind touch. "It will calm him."
Iria nodded. "If you think so." Duo's shuddering body was so frail in her arms. She could pretend, almost, that it was Quatre she held. She was helping, somehow, in some small way... holding her baby brother, her only dying baby brother with the beautiful curls and the innocent blue eyes. She rocked Duo back and forth in her arms, like a child, and held him close as the injection made him sleepy, and slowed his tears.
//Feel how it feels to hold a man in your arms
whose arms are used to holding men.
Offer God anything to bring your brother back.
Know you have nothing God could possibly want.
Curse God, but do not
abandon Him.//
Iria felt something settle in her chest with the weight of lead. It was Duo who spoke. "Of course," he said, tonelessly. "I understand."
The man had the grace to look embarrassed. "Yes, thank you, ma'am, sir. I thought you would."
"You thought correctly. I understand you very, very well, Mr. Spenser." Cold as ice, the voice raw from grief. Cold like the pit in her heart.
//Stare at the face of the funeral director
when he tells you he will not
embalm the body for fear of
contamination. Let him see in your eyes
how much a man can hate another man.//
Duo was past tears; he was drained of mourning, drained of strength, drained of life. Iria feared for him, some. They stood together, and she sought out his hand. She squeezed his fingers. He only stood, his head bowed, and his hand limp in hers.
//Stand beside a casket covered in flowers,
white flowers. Say,
"Thank you for coming," to each of the several hundred men
who file past in tears, some of them
holding hands. Know that your brother's life
was not what you imagined. Overhear two mourners say,
"I wonder who'll be next."//
//Arrange to take an early flight home.
His lover will drive you to the airport.//
They were silent, except for the minimal conversation about shuttles and gates and tagging her luggage. Duo carried her tote bag for her. Iria almost wished she had it, instead, so that she would have something to do with her hands; she was aware that Duo had taken the bag for that very reason. It was easier to think of Duo than to think of herself.
She let him hold the bag, while they sat, while she went to the washroom, while they waited for the previous passengers to disembark. Right up until a pleasant voice came over the pager, shot with a little static. "Flight 203 to Florida, with a stopover at Atlanta, Georgia and the Colonial Shuttle Port."
//When your flight is announced say,
awkwardly, "If I can do anything, please
let me know." Do not flinch when he says,
"Forgive yourself for not wanting to know him
after he told you. He did."//
Duo handed her the bag. Blood-shot violet eyes were hidden by hair that needed trimming. Iria would have brushed it away, but she didn't want him to turn away from her touch, and she was afraid she would.
//Stop and let it soak in. Say,
"He forgave me, or he knew himself?"//
Pain spasmed over his thin face. Then it crumbled, and this time Iria touched him, finding solace in the grip of his strong hands on hers. They had a connection, now. They were the same, as different as they were, and would probably always be.
They'd both lived through Quatre's death. No other two people in the universe had that. God forfend that any other two ever should.
//"Both," the lover will say, not knowing what else
to do. Hold him like a brother while he
kisses you on the cheek. Think that
you haven't been kissed that way by a man since
your father died. Think,
"This is no moment not to be strong."//
"Good-by, Duo," she whispered, and turned away quickly. She shouldered the bag, and did not look back until she was seated. She searched the windows of the building, looking for him... only a little disappointed to realise he had already left. But she'd known he wouldn't, couldn't, stay.
//Fly
first class and drink scotch. Stroke
your split eyebrow with a finger
and think of your brother alive. Smile
at the memory and think
of how your children will feel in your arms,
warm and friendly and without challenge.//
She knew they'd probably never see each other again. And she wished him luck, wherever he went. He was all she had left of her brother-- no. Quatre was gone, for her. That was all the peace she was allowed to have, after the mistake she'd made. And Iria would live with it. She closed her eyes, and leaned back in her seat.
She hoped Duo would make it back safely.
The End
(:./erin/watch)
