30-May-2000
Please
please please C&C!!! I really need to know whether I should even
bother continuing this...I have a feeling this ficcie is headed
downhill...So please comment!
And now, without much further ado, I present SC Part 3 - Recognition.
Pardon the typos and such, I had only Notepad to type this in. Oh,
and I don't know much about the Gundams' navigation and piloting, so the
first paragraphs might sound cheezy.
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is not mine. I'm not making any money off of
this. If you sue, you'll get my dirty socks, so don't bother.
Warnings: probably OOC abound, angst, mush factor, very mild
shounen-ai.
...Swing, swish - one down, only about 20 more to go. The boy spared a glance at the screen for a damage report. So far, so good; only minor scratches. He'd been pretty careful up until now.
Now, if he could only get rid of the remaining mobile suits, he'd be home free and this mission would be complete. Just then, the red light on the radar went off and the alarm signal started beeping. Another look at the screen revealed 200 or so Tauruses headed to the fray. They'd be here in another minute.
"Shit shit SHIT!" the boy cursed loudly. He flipped on the comlink, hoping that Wing or Shenlong, which were supposed to meet him here, were already within this frequency range. His answer was nothing but static. "Dammit Heero! This one time you could afford to be a bit early." He prepared to switch the channels to call for backup when Deathscythe received a direct hit which knocked out the Gundam's communications system. From now on, he was on his own against the swarm of the enemy suits.
Several minutes later, he was surrounded on all sides and reduced to barely trying to defend himself; forget about attacking! The alarms were going off all over the cockpit, indicating massive damages. It became clear to the pilot that the situation was quite hopeless. Damn, I guess I'll need to use this, after all, the boy muttered grimly. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and tossed the heavy braid back over his shoulder, then reached for the self-destruct device. He pushed the "on" button just as Deathscythe was rocked by yet another blast. The red light went on and....
Rowan sat bolt upright in bed, his chest still heaving from the nightmare he'd just had. For several moments he simply sat there, trying to calm down. His heart was still beating madly. This nightmare had had a bizarre realistic quality about it. Rowan had had nightmares before - lots of them - but he'd always been able to tell it was just a dream. This time, it was as if Rowan had indeed been in a battle with mobile suits - a battle far more intense and frightening than the ones he'd seen in movies. Puzzled, the boy laid back on the pillow and tried to go back to sleep, but it wouldn't come. He lay there until dawn, the blanket wrapped around him, feeling alone and miserable. Elsewhere in the house, the spirit was plotting to get rid of this latest nuisance of an inhabitant.
After a couple of days of getting used to his new dwelling, Rowan decided that it was time for him to find some sort of a job to pay for his living.
He was a good artist but somehow he doubted that painting would be enough to buy him dinner. Fortunately, he was also a great mechanic and could put together or fix just about anything - a skill that was one of his inborn talents.
And so, one morning he made his way down into town and hired himself out to a mechanical shop there. As far as Rowan had been able to tell, the place specialized in everything from hovercraft to speeders, to computers and refrigerators. The variety was just fine with him.
The owner of the shop was a bit surprised to see an 18-year old asking for a job like this, but took him. Rowan would start the following week.
When the teenager came back home, he decided to try to sketch something. The nightmare he'd had a couple of days previously was still making him restless and unsettled, and he thought that maybe if he drew the disturbing feeling would go away. He'd brought his art supplies with his and now got them out.
Taking the stuff with him, Rowan went out into the backyard, where the rays of the setting sun were making the bushes look golden. Taking out his sketchbook, Rowan picked up his pencil. He figured he'd draw some of the people he'd seen in town today: some of them had been quite colorful-looking. Stroke by stroke, a face started to take shape.
Rowan was confused; he had no idea where THIS image was coming, it definitely was NOT one of the townspeople. However, he figured he'd just draw. ...Precise, chiseled features, spiky hair, serious eyes... In a few minutes, a face of a young man - no, a teenager - was looking back at the artist. The sketch had a remarkably life-like quality about it, the eyes of the boy looking determined and purposeful, guarded and yet strangely vulnerable.
"Where the hell did this come from?" Rowan wondered out loud. After some contemplation, he decided that the picture needed some color. "Hmm, I wonder what color his eyes should be?" He looked through his collection of colored pencils and, after a moment, selected a dark cobalt-blue. Not quite sure of the result, he began to color in the irises. The outcome pleased the boy so much that he decided to color in the rest of the picture as well.
Rowan became so engrossed in his work that he didn't even notice when the sun set until it became too dark for him to see the page. He got up briefly to get a lamp, then settled back to the drawing. After a few hours, it was finished. By this point, the boy was so exhausted that he fell asleep right on the grass, leaning against a tree, his work on the ground beside him.
The sketchbook was still open and from the page gazed the face of a boy with dark unruly hair much like Rowan's own, only darker, and deep cobalt-blue eyes.
The look in those eyes had changed with the addition of color; they were still guarded but not quite as emotionless. Now they held some sort of hidden smile, maybe even tenderness. Those eyes were alive.
The spirit was gliding soundlessly through the garden when he saw his quarry fast asleep on the grass. The spirit smirked to himself and approached the boy, bent on doing him some mischief. The spirit stopped, however, when he saw the picture Rowan had drawn. "How?.." the ghost wondered, looking at this, almost perfect, portrait of himself. "What if?.. No, it can't be."
Changing his intentions for the moment nevertheless, the spirit moved to stand over the sleeping form. Rowan's bangs covered half of his face; the light of the lamp cast mysterious shadows and made his features beautiful and delicate. As the spirit gazed at the boy, he suddenly became aware of how much this boy reminded him of the one he had once loved, and lost.
The memory filled the ghost's hardened soul with emotions he had thought he'd never experience again. They were feelings of regret, and sorrow, and guilt... For the first time in decades the spirit's thoughts wandered back to that cursed day when his beloved died. The words of the Messenger came back to haunt him: "...When you find the answer - only then can you go home..."
For weeks that had followed Heero racked his brains trying to figure out what the phrase had meant. But, as the time went on and he still couldn't solve the puzzle, he became more and more obsessed. And, slowly, obsession became a fixation, then anger.
Eventually, instead of thinking how to obtain forgiveness, the ghost started to curse his fate, God - all and sundry. His desire to find a way to expiate his sins evolved into extreme and utter hartred of everything and everyone. He became one very angry spirit, as the new owners of the house soon found out.
Heero didn't want anyone to violate his and Duo's dwelling and he proceeded to drive away any new tenants - some by simply scaring them off, some by driving them to madness and suicide. Then, as the place acquired a solid reputation as haunted, people stopped coming and the spirit had had the house to himself ever since.
Until now. This boy showed up and was somehow rendering Heero unable to hurt him. On the contrary, he was bringing up feelings that Heero didn't experience for so long. The spirit wondered why Rowan reminded him of Duo so much.
Their appearances were a bit similar, but there was something else much stronger, something he couldn't place... Almost in spite of himself, Heero stretched out his hand to touch Rowan's hair, knowing the gesture would be futile - ghosts weren't allowed to touch the living.
Heero's fingers went right through the sleeping boy but, unexpectedly, Rowan turned into the nonexistent touch. And whispered something. Heero leaned closer to hear what the teenager was saying and noticed the tears running down his cheeks: Rowan was crying in his sleep. Then, he whispered again and his words froze Heero in his tracks.
....Hands, lips, skin against skin...The small touches in passing, and the rougher passion play. The ecstasy of his climax and the featherlight caresses that meant worlds to him. Even as he re-lived the moments, the loneliness and emptiness he always felt was ever so poignant. Then, suddenly, through the haze of his dreams, an angel came. An angel whose face he recognized as the one he'd sketched tonight. More than that, though, he knew who the face belonged to.
This, was his guardian angel - the one who made him feel safe, protected. The one who had made the hurt and misery go away. The angel floated toward him and enveloped him in his feathery embrace. And, as the boy felt the soft wings around him, tears began to roll down his face, but these were tears of joy. As his angel held him close, he felt the longing that he'd had all his life dissolve away, the void inside him fill and in its place - pure happiness. After all this time, he finally felt complete, whole.
"Heero," he whispered, "It's been so long..."
The spirit heard the boy whisper his name and froze. In the next moment, he snatched his hand away.
Rowan was still enjoying his newly found happiness when he felt the angel's embrace weaken, then break. He raised his head only to see Heero slowly dissolve into the air, leaving him alone once again. A dream, only a dream...
"Heero...NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Rowan screamed out, grasping at the air desperately. And woke up.
Heero watched, amazed, as the boy's face contorted and he cried out as if in great pain. All of a sudden, he wanted nothing more than to get away from Rowan, from here. This whole scene had scared him, and that wasn't easily done.
Rowan's eyes snapped open and he looked around, still dazed from his dream. No, it had only been a dream. He was still in his garden which was now moonlit and quiet. His notebook still lay open on the grass next to him. Rowan sighed as he got up.
All a dream... He was still alone. What he couldn't understand, though, was why the emotions he had experienced had felt...right. And why they were still roaring inside his mind. And how had he known that other boy, Heero.
Thinking about him now, saying his name was somehow comforting. Rowan was so confused; he felt like there was an important piece of memory he was missing. If only he could get that one piece into place, he would solve the puzzle of what had been happening to him lately.
And Rowan sensed that the secret lay somewhere in this house.
End Part 6
(:./murasaki/second6)
