04-Feb-2004
Sons Of Saigon 2/??
Author: CleverYoungThief
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, violence, gore, psychological horror, situations
in war, racial tension, drug use, and other controversial issues
that involve the Vietnam War
Archive: GWA
Pairings: None as of yet, and probably none at all.
Genre: War/AU
Timeline: Late 1960's
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I don't own any Gundam Wing character, as usual, and any
other character I do own.
Feedback: Please?
Notes: Sorry Requiem people, I know I promised another chapter out
on that one, but this chapter was bugging the hell out of me, so I
had to get it out.
Thanks to: Merith, who practically spoon-fed me this chapter.
"He's five foot-two, and he's six feet-four,
he fights with missiles, and with spears.
He's all of thirty-one, and he's only seventeen,
been a soldier for a thousand years."
--- Donovan, Universal Soldier.
"Over on the mountain
Thunder magic spoke,
"let the people know my wisdom,
Fill the land with smoke."
--- Creedence Clearwater Revival, Run Through The Jungle
Tonowanda, New York October 1967
TONOWANDA TIGERS WIN REGIONALS; QB YUY LEADS TEAM TO NATIONALS
Heero scowled, crumpling the yellowed newspaper clipping in his hand. He leaned his arm over the edge of the bed and let it drop indifferently to the floor. His eyes traveled over the room, coming to a rest on the crutches still propped in the corner beside his closet.
There were no dirty clothes on the floor, or even in the hamper. Heero knew his mother would take care of them, if he just threw them on the floor. His step-father had no problem letting her take care of it. But Heero knew she had been working all her life. He was determined not to make any more work for her than he had to. She deserved at least that much.
Trophies. All the fucking trophies. He couldn't look at the wall without seeing a shelf full of trophies. Trophies for football. A brutal sport, his mother called it. An American pastime, Odin had replied amiably.
/What good did they ever do me? Nothing. All I have is a shelf full of shiny plastic and a draft-card with my number up. Fuck it./
He stood up, kicking the crumpled ball of newspaper across the room as he grabbed his folded jeans from the foot of the bed and pulled them on, walking out into the hall and down the stairs, his feet thumping on the floorboards. He could hear his mother rustling around in the kitchen, and the warm, salty smell of miso drifted into the hallway.
He called softly to her, not wanting to startle her and cause her to burn herself. "Okaasan."
His mother looked up from where she was stewing her soup, sparkling obsidian eyes almost buried in wrinkles; she looked decades older than her age, worn down by a hard life and hard roads. Heero towered over her tiny frame; he had been shorter in high-school, but his father's American blood and broad shoulders finally caught up with him when puberty hit.
Her eyes said everything she couldn't. He spoke again, reverting back to the soft sing-song tongue of his youth, even though the words felt rusty in his mouth, and his mother understood English perfectly well.
"Okaasan, soko e ikanakereba narimasen," Heero said softly, putting his hands on her shoulders, so huge and clumsy-looking on the pretty, plain silk of her dress. ~~If I don't go, it won't do.~~
She bowed her head, but didn't answer. He spoke again, his voice a little stronger.
"Vietnam, okaasan. Ashita iku to iiamshta. Ikitai desu." ~~Vietnam, mother. I said I would go tomorrow. I intend to go.~~
"Mochiron desu." ~~Of course.~~ She turned away a little, and Heero felt his heart cinch a little when he saw her eyes flash too brightly in the light over the stove. "Kanshin dekimasen... datte, anata wa keikan. Sondou wa keikan. Wasurenaide kudasai."
~~I can't admire it... but you are strong. Your family is strong. Please don't forget.~~
"Konrinzai." ~~Never.~~
Heero leaned down and kissed her forehead gently, squeezing her shoulder a little, trying to comfort her, and felt a little better when her arms came around to hug him tightly; for such a small woman, her grip was fierce.
/I'll never forget./
Carefully, he withdrew from her arms, giving her a nod before slipping out of the kitchen and out onto the porch, heading into the night. In the west, there was still a blood-red tint to the sky, like a rising storm. He turned that way, walking into it, heading northwest towards the river.
He passed through the suburbs and onto the small two-way road that made up the major strip of the town, walking along the curb, his head lowered as he watched his feet swing back and forth beneath him in the easy cadence of his stride. Someone called a greeting to him, but he didn't bother to look up.
Heero only raised his eyes when he passed the barbershop, raising his eyebrow slightly at the sign in the window: "HIPPIES" GET YOUR HAIR CUT SOMEWHERE ELSE
He loved Tonowanda... but he hated it too, a little bit. He passed Lockhart's General, where he had spent three summers in high-school stocking shelves and sweeping floors, trying to save up the money for a car. Odin wouldn't buy one for him, said he would appreciate it more if he earned it himself. Next to the general store was the old abandoned shop where he and Frankie and Solly had always hid away during the hottest hours of the dog days of summer, reading Hustler, playing nickel poker, and smoking cigarettes.
The town was old, broke down. A two-story town, with more ghosts than a lot of graveyards could boast. Grass grew up between the cracks in the sidewalks, and the stores were separated by empty lots filled with broken bottles, old newspapers, and crushed beer cans. A hard wind blew from the north, roaring off the river, and Heero bowed his head into it, feeling his cheeks go numb with the cold. He could smell the rotten sulfur smell of the chemical factory next to the river, and the seared acrid fragrance of the lumber mill.
A train whistle echoed across the streets, fading in the twilight, and he felt the air shake as it raced up the tracks near the river, rattling the windowpanes of the corner market. For a moment, he contemplated just stepping out in front of it. It would solve a lot of his problems in one fell swoop.
He was shocked the thought came to him when he was still sober.
Instead of stepping onto the tracks, he stopped, feeling the rush of the train's slipstream as it passed him by. He wondered what it was carrying. Where it was going.
/Maybe I could just hop it/, he thought, smiling a little at the thought. /Ride the rails out to California./
/ ...It's always warm there./
But as soon as it had come, the train was gone. He watched it ride off for a moment, then crossed the tracks, heading down to the docking pier.
"You want a smoke, bud?"
Without looking up, Heero reached up a hand, and took the cigarette offered to him. Josh sat next to him, lighting up, then held the lighter out. Heero lit his cigarette on it, feeling the nicotine hit him smoothly, the warm little spark driving away some of the night's chill. The two of them just sat there for a few minutes, silently watching the water flow past.
" ...When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow."
Josh shook his head, taking a drag, then let out his reply on an exhalation. His breath made a white plume in the cold night air. " ...Damn. I mean... damn, man."
" ...Yeah."
"Think you'll run into Solly?"
Heero shook his head a little. "Probably not. He should be over there already."
/He could be dead already, for all we know./
They were quiet for a few more minutes, and then Josh spoke again. "You know Becky?"
Heero scowled, his brow furrowing in thought, then glanced over at his friend. "The one that lives on Yarrow?"
"Yeah, her."
"Hn."
"I knocked her up."
Heero scowled harder, gazing at Josh's face, which looked slightly flushed in the dim light coming off the river. Josh looked back at him steadily, though, and Heero had to give him credit for that much. "Her father's getting me a job at Whiteman's. We're getting married next week."
"Good."
Josh nodded. "Yeah... you know, if you're a guy havin' a kid, they can't draft ya... ya know?" He looked away, and Heero was surprised to find himself disappointed in his friend.
/Coward,/ he thought viciously, feeling a bright flash of hatred touch off in him like a spark, and he was immediately ashamed of himself for it. It was cruel and it wasn't fair; of course Josh didn't want to go to 'Nam. His best friend couldn't shoot a deer, much less a man.
"So, uh... I'll be waiting for you...you and Solly."
The two were quiet again. Heero finished his cigarette and ground it out on the asphalt he was sitting on, tossing the butt into the river.
"So, what about Sharon?"
Heero glanced up. "What about her?"
Josh looked disappointed with *him*, now. "What are you going to do about her, 'Ro? You told her you were going, right? She's your girl, isn't she?"
"Haven't thought about it much. Don't think so."
"Well, it'd be pretty cool, ya'know, if when you get back, you and Sharon get hitched. Then you and me, and Sharon and Becky could all hang out. Have our kids grow up together and shit like that. I could get you a job at Whiteman's with me."
Heero was silent for a minute. He tried to stay calm, even though what he wanted to do was grab Josh by the front of his decidedly blue-collar tee-shirt and shove him to the asphalt, tell him how things *really* were.
"I'm not coming back."
Josh laughed, but the sound had a nervous edge. "What?"
Heero looked over at him, his gaze dark and solemn. "You don't understand. It's war, Josh. People die in wars."
He looked out over the water, and his voice was perfectly calm, almost contemplative. "I'm going to die over there."
Josh scowled back at him. "Man, don't even joke like that. It isn't funny, you know. You have a fucking terrible sense of humor."
"I'm not joking."
Josh turned towards the river and the great wild country beyond it, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper, as if he was afraid of being overheard.
"It's only five miles away across the river. I'll go with you."
Heero followed his gaze out into the cold darkness, his eyes tracing the outline of the river, which shone like running silver in the landscape. The wild north, where somebody could just disappear without a trace. A draftee, for instance.
Canada.
He smiled a little, closing his eyes. "What about Becky?"
"I'll send for her once we get over there."
Heero shook his head. He reached out and clapped Josh's shoulder. "No." He smiled faintly, trying to make his friend see. "No. I have to go. You understand?"
/I'm not like you.
...and part of me wants to go./
Josh nodded back at him after a few moments, and another long silence laid between them. Josh finished his cigarette, then pulled a carefully rolled joint from his front pocket, lighting it. He took a draw on it, closing his eyes as he held the smoke. Eventually, he let it out in a coughing exhalation, eyes watering.
"Toke?"
Heero started to shake his head no, then thought twice about it. He took the joint, taking a deep drag on it before passing it back. He felt the grass start to work, a warm calm that emanated through him with his heartbeat.
Josh spoke up, blowing smoke up at the stars. His voice took on a relaxed lilt. "There's a Steve McQueen flick playin' at the Riviera. Wanna go?"
" ...No."
"Well, let's go grab a beer at Sorentino's and shoot some pool."
Heero shook his head, the movement dizzying. "Maybe later."
Quiet fell over them again, and they listened to the roar of the river.
"So... when do you leave?"
"The bus comes at nine tomorrow morning."
"Fuck," Josh said, in a kind of awestruck horror, but beneath it all, his voice was almost nonchalant. Heero felt that spark of hate again, even under the calm of the marijuana; he clenched his fists at his sides, resisting the urge to shove his fist down his best friend's throat.
"Yeah," he said instead, feeling the urge eventually fade away into a tired and lonely emptiness, like cold static. He looked over at Josh, and his friend looked back; he knew then that for a moment, Josh could feel it, too.
/I'm not coming back./
He stood up, stretching. "I gotta go. The old man wanted to see me tonight." Josh followed suit, dropping the last of the joint and crushing it beneath his heel. He glanced at Heero, his gaze unreadable. "Yeah, sure, understandable. Well... I'll be at Sorentino's if you change your mind. Just stop on by."
"Sure, see you later."
Josh smiled charmingly, and Heero was reminded why the young man made homecoming king. It was blinding, charismatic...and completely guileless. "And if you see Solly, you sock him in the arm for me one."
Heero nodded, smiling back a little. "Yeah... good luck yourself." He walked off into the darkness.
/Things have changed... / he thought, passing through the night streets, and he sighed softly. Solly was in Nam, maybe dead or missing already; they hadn't heard back from him in months. Josh was getting married.... going to have a kid.
/And me?/ he thought, grinning bitterly. /I'm going to do a long run in the jungle, too./
When he pushed the door open, a voice came to him from the living room.
"Heero."
He glanced up. Odin was sitting in the living room in his armchair, his feet propped up on the ottoman. There was a newspaper folded on the side table. Heero found himself standing straighter as his imposing stepfather got out of his chair; Heero was taller than his mother, but he was nothing compared to Odin.
"Boy, grab a couple of beers and bring them to the basement." Odin walked past him without touching him, leaving Heero standing silently in his wake for a moment before he snapped back, walking into the kitchen as he was told. The smell of miso still lingered near the stove, but his mother had already put away the leftovers. It was later than he thought; she'd be in bed already, reading or asleep.
Heero reached into the fridge and grabbed a couple of beers from the top rack, carrying them down the stairs. He pushed past the stands of fishing rods and rifles, walking past boards and buckets of tools, nails, and other miscellaneous junk. On the opposite wall, a moose head was mounted, staring balefully down at Odin, who sat in one of the two ragged chairs sitting in the center of the room.
Odin took his beer and cracked it open with a muffled hiss. "Getting too old for this shit... "
The older man glanced at the wall, at a picture of Heero. Heero felt a strange pang as he saw the picture; he had taken it right before nationals, when he shattered his leg. He looked younger, he thought, in that picture. There were two dark streaks of lampblack beneath his eyes, and his eyes were cold. There was a football in the crook of his arm, and for some reason, Heero was reminded of the way a wild animal will protect its kill.
The thought made a shiver run down his back, like a rill of ice water. He blamed it on the chill of the basement as he sat down, opening his own beer and taking a swallow. He knew Odin could probably smell the pot on him, but he knew his stepfather wouldn't say anything about it.
"You were always a good ball player, boy."
"Thank you, sir."
Odin stared at the picture a moment longer, then back at Heero, as if sizing him up. Odin's eyes were dark and serious under his thick salt-and-pepper hair. "It wasn't your fault what happened. Shit happens."
/ ...Didn't seem to think so before I got picked for the jungle,/ Heero thought coldly, and then flushed. He didn't understand what was wrong with him. He took a couple of deep swallows of his beer.
"I know, sir."
"I want you to go give 'em hell. Show those Red bastards they can't mess with America. And if anything happens over there, you die a hero?"
" ...I'll do my best, sir."
"I know you will." Odin finished off his beer, crushing it effortlessly with one hand, then set the can on the floor beside him. "Listen, kid, you take one last word of advice from this old man. No matter what happens, you just follow your feelings. You do what you think is right. Sometimes those brass... they don't know their assholes from their elbows."
Heero was silent a moment, then nodded. "I will. Thank you, sir." There was a period of uncomfortable silence, and Heero stood, heading for the stairs.
"I'm going to go meet Josh at 'Tino's. I'll... be home later."
/Until they take me away./
"Okay, son. Tell Raf to put a beer on my tab for you and Josh."
Son... Heero stared at him a few seconds longer, then turned away, walking up the stairs without replying. He grabbed his jacket off the coat hook by the front door, throwing it on as he stepped out into the night again.
He tried to make himself go back and say something...anything....but in the end, he couldn't.
/Run through the jungle,/ he thought, the prophetic words echoing in his head like a mantra, and he drew the jacket more tightly around him, shuddering.
/Run through the jungle... /
End Part 2
(:./cyt/sons2)
