02-Oct-2000

Title: The Longest Dream, Part 9
Author: Hope of Dawn
Feedback: C&C appreciated!
Archive: GW Addiction at http://www.geocities.com/fenris_wolf0
Legal stuff: None of these characters are mine. Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise, and Sotsu Agency, among others--Xenogears belongs to Squaresoft. For time-wasting purposes only and not for profit, so don't sue, 'kay?
Writer's Notes: This was... hard to write. Very intense. It got very long--but I hope people enjoy it anyway. Many, many thanks to my new beta-reader, Windlily, who has done an *excellent* job at picking out all my mistakes! This chapter would have been a lot worse without ya!
Warnings: slight AU, X-over, shonen-ai, language, violence. More angst--and a bit of a songfic, 'cause I couldn't resist. As always, OOC-ness is left up to the reader to decide.

The Longest Dream by Hope of Dawn

Part Nine

The words hung, echoing in the deserted hangar, as the five Gundam pilots watched an angry and despairing Fei leave.

It was inconceivable. Impossible. Those three words almost negated everything else that Fei had told them. Only ingrained habits of observation allowed them to process the rest of Fei's incredible story; data that was filed away, pushed back until it could be handled by the shellshocked pilots.

To fall asleep, only to awaken like a modern Rip Van Winkle. Outrage stirred in the air, coiling hotly as it was fed by unexpressed emotion. This wasn't how it was supposed to be! Your family, your friends, your *home*--they weren't supposed to just vanish in your sleep...

Duo's voice was uncharacteristically tentative. "He's... nuts, right? Delusional or something? I mean, there's just no way... " He trailed off uncertainly as he saw Trowa slowly shake his head.

"I didn't want to say anything until we were sure," Trowa murmured. "But I've been outside, and I've talked to people. This world has a different moon. It has animals I've never heard of before, like bearcows, and chu-chus." He closed his eyes, remembering. "And not a single person even knew what the Earth was."

"So at the very least, this is a different planet," Wufei murmured, taking refuge in his analysis. "And delusional or not, if he was right about that, then--he might be--" His voice trailed away as he tried to avoid the logical conclusion.

Quatre took a deep shuddering breath, wrapping his arms fiercely around himself. "I felt Fei's pain, Duo. He truly believes what he has told us; so much so that it's tearing him apart." He forced himself to do it--to say the words, test their reality. "Ten thousand years... " He bowed his head, letting his hair fall over his face as he turned and walked away blindly, shuffling like an old man.

Trowa watched him go, green eyes glittering with pain under the concealment of his bangs. He looked down at his hands with a numbing sense of helplessness. Ever since his first midnight recon, he had been afraid of what he might learn--but the reality far exceeded even his misgivings. Shaking his head as if to negate his own words, he abruptly turned, walking away with long, ground-covering strides.

A few seconds later Wufei followed his example, fists clenched and shaking at his sides.

Heero watched them go before turning to his partner, feeling Duo seethe with angry tension. The braided boy's smile was gone like it had never existed, eyes two dark indigo pits in a drawn face. Hands opened and closed impotently at Duo's sides.

"They abandoned us. Those fucking bastards," he grated harshly. "They left us out there to rot!"

Heero took a step forward--reaching out a tentative hand. "Duo... "

Duo wheeled on him, eyes wild. "Don't!" He closed his eyes, visibly trying to control his emotions. "Sorry, koi. I... need to be alone for a bit." He slipped into the shadows, heading deeper into the hangar. Heading for Deathscythe. Heero let him leave without protest, hands limp at his sides. With no one left to see, he let the mask slip--letting the quiet sorrow come out from behind the resolute facade.

"I understand," he whispered, unheard by his partner's retreating back.

The rising desert sun warmed the sand under his feet as Wufei stomped and turned, sweeping feet and hands together in the intricate patterns of the kata. Muscles burned, protesting the unaccustomed exertion, only to be ignored. Sweat rolled into the eyes, trickling across his spine as he finished the kata and flowed smoothly into the next without a break in the rhythm. He tried to narrow his concentration down to a single point--to summon the focused clarity that usually came so effortlessly. The sand shifted under his bare feet, challenging ankles and balance both, and there was a ringing in his ears that had nothing to do with physical weakness.

He had long ago resigned himself to being alone. To being the lone survivor of the Dragon clan--the last of the Chang dynasty. He had watched his clan, his colony die for him, and for their honor. This would be no different.

He ignored the despairing cry of his soul, scowling. Sweep, turn, hands snapping through the air at invisible opponents. Strike at the knee, at the groin--flowing through into defense in the same movement. The loose drawstring pants flapped around his ankles as his feet created sweeping, punctuated lines in the now-hot sand.

A guttural, grieving cry tried to tear past his throat. He bit it back; maintained his silence. He was a Chang--a man, a warrior. He would not wail his loss like a woman bereaved, exposing his pain for others to see. He turned into the sun, fighting his body's urge for great gasping breaths. His control held fast; his breathing stayed even. Wufei slid low into a crouch, lashing a foot out in a sweep and sending sand flying. He felt muscles tremble as he held the tensely poised stance, rising with infinite care upward.

Even the Earth is lost to me. The ancient lands of the Dragon clan, the graves of my ancestors... I am cut off from them more completely than if I had died in space...

Anger and despair fired his movements, curtailing their smoothness. His strikes became short, choppy. A blackly humorous memory brought a grim smile to Wufei's thin lips. His old sensei would be disgusted at such a lack of discipline. He could almost hear the man's crackly, paper-dry voice. *Idiot pupil--only a fool fights angry! A warrior controls his feelings.*

Control--I gave away mine. I put my fate into the hands of people I trusted--and lost everything!

As if in response to the thought, his knee turned under him, betrayed by the shifting sand. He felt tendons strain, tearing as his knee buckled inward. Shifting his weight to the other leg, he regained his balance and stood upright in defiance of his own weakness. He finished the kata and bowed low, feeling the sun beat on exposed neck and back as he honored his long-dead sensei and the gift of his training.

Only then did he allow himself to collapse over his sprained knee. Settling to the hot sand with a slight hiss, he bowed his head over the injured leg, stubbornly ignoring the pain. His body was exhausted--but not his mind. It swirled in a haze of anger and fear as a single overriding question beat rhythmically against the inside of his skull.

Gods... why?!?

The dry desert wind gave him no answers. So he sat, letting his exhaustion bleed off with his sweat into the sand and rock beneath him, leaving him limp and empty. His keen ears clearly heard the scuffing sound of approaching footsteps over the sound of the wind on stone; he simply no longer cared.

Stepping gingerly around the rocky upthrust that Wufei had chosen for his concealment, Citan approached warily, uncertain of his reception by the young man slumped in the sand. Stopping a few paces away, he leaned against a rocky outcrop, not wishing to intrude on the young man's space.

"Are you all right?" Citan grimaced internally even as he said the words. The question was trite--the answer, obvious.

Wufei, who had allowed his head to fall back on his knees once he'd recognized his unwelcome visitor, shrugged without looking up.

"Ah." A short pause. "Fei told me what happened. I wish you had not learned in such a way, but... " Citan trailed off uncertainly, not wishing to cast blame. He was startled by the fierce anger in the ebony eyes that snapped up to his.

"Really? In what way would you have had us learn this?" Wufei hissed. "How kindly do you tell someone that everything they ever cared about is gone!?" He bit back more angry words, belatedly realizing the debt he owed this man. "I... "

"No, it's all right." Citan pensively watched his elongated shadow creep across the sand. "I understand." He watched the slumped young man for a moment, then shook himself mentally, recalling his purpose in coming out here.

"I know what it's like to lose your home, your people." Wufei looked up as Citan pushed off his rock to stand before him with a sorrowful gaze. "I know that there's nothing I can do to ease that pain." Citan extended a long, carefully-wrapped bundle to him--proffering it solemnly, from one swordsman to another.

Heart hammering in a sudden, wild hope, Wufei reached out and accepted the bundle wordlessly as Citan continued. "My advice may be unwelcome, but--if there is one thing that I have learned in the last two years, it's that sometimes you need others to help you through your grief. In any case, however, I apologize for intruding." He bowed slightly, turning away.

Once he was alone once again, Wufei undid the knots that bound the bundle with trembling fingers. The carefully wrapped red silk fell away smoothly, as if it was anxious to deliver the object it had protected for so long. Gleaming dully in its dark, lacquered scabbard, the now-revealed sword sat quietly in his hands.

Wufei lifted it carefully, fingers caressing the familiar hilt. His heart leaped in recognition as he drew the blade. This was no ceremonial sword, no well-intentioned gift. This was the ancestral sword of the Dragon clan, a sword used, honored, and reforged as necessary. A blade that had borne the honor of an ancient clan of warriors and scholars for centuries. Watching the light slide and ripple over the burnished edge, Wufei felt the burden of memory focus--and at the same time, lighten.

He knew every nick and scratch, every gleaming inch of this sword as well as his own body. This was the sword he had taken to war. The sword with which he had fought Treize Khushrenada. The sword he had wielded in Mariemaia's name. This was the blade he had left on Earth, safely packed away against his return from the L6 colony. He could think of only one person who would have had the presumption to wrap it in its bindings and send it with him on his journey.

"Sally... " he whispered.

Did you have a premonition, Sally? Or were you simply concerned about me, the way you always have been? Somehow, though, you knew what I would need--and even after all this time, you ensured that I would have it.

He bowed his head over the sword in his hands. "Thank you, Sally," he murmured in Mandarin, willing the words to reach her. "Wherever your soul has flown--please know that mine thanks you."

Trowa stalked blindly, almost running, through the corridors of the desert base. By unconscious decision, he avoided the more populated areas of the base, sticking to the back hallways and shadowed service areas. His mind roiled as he walked, guilt and grief warring inside for dominance.

Shouldn't this hurt more?

He grimaced slightly. He'd hoped that the time spent with Quatre would have helped him to understand the emotions he had locked away so long ago. Instead, odd as it was, he grieved more for Quatre's obvious pain than for any personal loss. Quatre... Trowa slackened his pace slightly and gave a faint, almost inaudible sigh. Of them all, Quatre had lost the most as a result of their involuntary exile. The other pilots, including himself, had very little in the way of family or friends besides each other. But Quatre--Quatre had family as well as friends. The Maganacs, his sisters, the corporation his father had entrusted to him. .

While he--well, in the end, he was simply... Nanashi. No name, no home, no place... except for the one he had chosen with his lover.

What about Catherine?

Catherine... For the first time, Trowa felt a pang of true sorrow slice through the numbness.

My 'big sister'... she tried so hard to protect me. She was encouraging when she heard of my decision to go to L6, even though I could see the fear in her eyes. She knew, as I did, that I didn't really have to go. The circus would have been glad to hide me. But I couldn't let Quatre go alone... and she understood that, even though it hurt her.

Oh Cathy--I hope you didn't grieve very long for me. I never wanted to cause you that kind of pain.

The sorrow sat like a dull ache in his gut, weighting his footsteps as he shouldered open yet another service door.

He'd lost lost count of the number of hallways he'd paced through, lost in thought, when he encountered Fei again. Leaning against a wall, the young man stared pensively out an open corridor window, the strong desert sun splashing over bronzed skin.

Trowa paused in mid-step, trying to decide whether to turn back or simply walk on by. Fei's dark gaze flickered over the new arrival briefly, a swift myriad of emotions flashing over his face. After a moment, a vague expression of guilt and regret won out.

"I'm... sorry," he offered hesitantly.

Caught as he was turning away, Trowa paused at the low-voiced apology. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he tried to ignore the subdued pain in the other man's voice--tried to walk away. But somewhere, deep inside the deep-buried well of emotions that was usually only tapped for Quatre's sake, a vague sense of obligation prevented him from leaving.

"Why?" The question came out harsher than he had intended. Trowa turned back, leaning against the wall and facing Fei fully.

"I... " Fei trailed off, looking back out the window and giving a helpless little shrug.

"Was what you told us a lie?" Trowa asked.

"No. I just... it could have been said better."

"You told us the truth. Don't apologize for it." Trowa shifted uncomfortably, unaccustomed to the role of counselor. "We've had too many people lie to us in the past... " he murmured.

Fei finally looked at the lanky pilot, noticing the cynicism that seeped from behind the expressionless mask. "Ah... you too?"

"Yes." The answer was clipped and short, discouraging any further probing.

Fei sighed, feeling a small amount of the tension seep from his shoulders. "Would it be patronizing if I said that I think I understand?"

"Possibly," Trowa replied, hearing the wealth of bitter self-knowledge in that question. "But--I think I believe you anyway." He left the rest unspoken. And I'm sorry for it.

"Ah." Fei gave a wry, lopsided grin. "Not that it does either of us any good."

Trowa shrugged, not knowing how to answer him. What was he supposed to say? That knowing someone else went through the same degree of pain and misery that he did made the hurt go away? It didn't. In the end, the Heavyarms pilot simply did what he was most comfortable with--he maintained his silence.

After a long moment, Trowa pushed away from the wall. Nodding his head briefly at Fei, he left without bothering with any half-hearted farewells. What had needed to be said was said. Anything else would have been pleasantries without substance.

Then, the almost inaudible sound of his footsteps ringing against the deck plating, Trowa continued on.

Eventually Trowa's wanderings led him, unsurprisingly, back to Quatre. With a faint, purely internal sigh at his own subconscious impulses, Trowa walked slowly towards the smaller boy.

Quatre was huddled protectively in on himself in the shadows of one of the ramshackle refugee houses, watching a large group of children tussle and play loudly out in the dirty alley that passed for a street. Shaggy blonde bangs shadowed the downturned face, and Quatre's fine-boned hands hung listlessly over his tucked-up knees. Trowa frowned and slowed his footsteps, concerned at the unusual stillness of his normally energetic lover. He drew a breath, about to express his concern, when someone else spoke first.

"Why're you sad?" The question was asked in a piping, curious voice.

Trowa paused, unconsciously moving out of sight, as he saw Quatre raise his face from his arms and look at the small--child?

Trowa was a bit taken aback; even after being told of the demihumans, and meeting a mutant himself, it was still a bit of a shock to encounter one in the flesh. Yet, even with the scales, the tiny wings, and the anxiously flipping tail; it was obviously a child. It had a child's big, curious eyes behind the scaled muzzle, and it watched Quatre with a peculiar intensity that only the very young could seem to muster.

The Heavyarms pilot settled back to watch what developed, not wishing to interrupt and become the focus of that wide-eyed interest. Children had always vaguely unnerved him; possibly because he could never remember ever being that young. Or that innocent.

Quatre, on the other hand, was innately paternal; always ready with a story or a game or to listen to the adventures of the day. Trowa remembered how startled he had been the day he had come across Quatre, smudged and laughing, helping to build a sand Gundam in the midst of a horde of Maganac children. The misshapen figure had insisted upon collapsing under its own weight, much to the loud dismay of the would-be sand engineers. Undeterred, Quatre had turned the collapsed sculpture into an impromptu game of 'king of the hill', and proceeded to roll down the sides of the sand 'mountain' with the best of them.

It was a brief and happy moment, filled with the innocence of the children's play. Then a young mother, collecting her dirt-smeared trio of children for supper, had shattered it with a few innocent words.

'Thank you for watching them, Lord Quatre. You are so good with children. I'm sure you will make a wonderful father someday. '

Quatre's clear teal-blue gaze had darkened, and he had looked away. 'I'm... honored that you think so. ' He mustered up a smile, quickly covering up his pain. 'But I'm a little too young to think of having children just yet.'

Trowa winced at the memory of those well-intentioned words and the pain they had caused. Then he shook his head, shaking away the useless memories, and refocused his attention on the unexpected encounter taking shape before him.

"Are you lost?" the child chirped again, brow wrinkled in concern. Quatre mustered up a sad smile, patting the child's head carefully.

"No, I'm not lost. I'm just... thinking, that's all."

"Uh-uh." The dragon-child shook its head so emphatically that it nearly tipped over. "You're lost."

Quatre straightened a little, startled at being contradicted so flatly by a child. "Why do you say that, little one?"

"'Cause that's what's hurtin' you," the child replied. Tiny dragon-like wings fluttered as it stood on its tiptoes and thumped Quatre's chest lightly with a small fist. "In here... ." The dragon-child cocked its head thoughtfully. From his hiding place, Trowa gave a small, surprised grunt.

Quatre stiffened, then smiled ruefully. "Guess I can't fool you, huh?" He uncurled from his seat, leaning forward. "What's your name?"

"Ren." The child held up two four-fingered hands proudly. "I'm eight years old!"

The blonde Gundam pilot studied the small, scaled hands, taking one of them gently in his own. "Eight, huh? That's a very good age." He gave the hand a small shake. "I'm Quatre, Ren. Pleased to meet you."

"You talk funny," Ren confided.

"Well, I'm still learning how, you see," Quatre replied. "I come from someplace far away--so that's why I talk funny."

"Is that why you're sad?" Ren persisted tenaciously. Quatre shifted uneasily under that innocently probing gaze, unable to give this uncannily perceptive child a comforting half-truth.

Trowa snorted quietly in amusement as he watched the tables get turned on his empathic lover.

"Well, Ren... " Quatre tried to choose his words carefully. "You see, I'm just--just not used to being alone." Momentarily forgetting his audience of one, he folded his arms across his chest, whispering to himself. "... I never really understood how the others felt. . .until now."

No family. No Maganacs. Even in the darkest days of my father's death, there were still people I could count on to help me--to build Wing Zero for me. As a Gundam pilot, I always knew I had places and people to go to for help, for repairs... I tried hard not to take it for granted, especially after I saw how the other pilots scraped by...

But how could I understand how utterly helpless I would feel without them? How sad and angry and scared I could be--all at once?

"I should have never left," he whispered. Then Quatre jerked in startlement as a small form climbed fearlessly into his lab, head butting comfortingly into his breastbone. "What... "

"Dadda feels that way too, sometimes," The small dragon-child snuffled into his shirt. "But he says it's better here... " Large golden-amber eyes, glittering with tears, looked up at him hopefully. "Mebbe better for you too?"

Quatre smoothed a hand down the child's head, patting the back comfortingly. "Maybe." He smiled down at that upturned face; a true smile this time, though still tinged with grief. "Thank you for trying to make me feel better, Ren."

"S'okay," Ren replied, looking down sheepishly. "You were... lonely."

"And you were lonely too, weren't you?" Quatre asked gently. He got a uncertain nod in response. Hugging the small, compact body carefully, he murmured, "It's okay. This way we both feel better."

"S'good." A shout from the street caught Ren's attention as a small pack of demihuman children ran by, yelling and kicking a tattered, lopsided ball back and forth. Quatre smiled as he followed that longing gaze.

"You know--I bet you could play with them. I'm pretty sure they would like that."

Ren's eyes widened. "Yeah... ?" He struggled clumsily off of Quatre's lap, pattering towards the street. Then he stopped, looking back with an oddly adult look of concern on his face.

"You gonna be okay?"

"I'm not sure," Quatre replied honestly. "I'll have to see what happens."

"Oh." Ren shifted from foot to foot, torn. "I--"

"It's all right, Ren," Quatre said soothingly. "You can go and play with your friends. I have friends of my own to keep me company."

The dragon-child thought for a moment, nibbling on a claw, then brightened. "Okay." He darted out into the street, pausing to wave goodbye. "Bye!"

Quatre lifted a hand in return. "Bye, Ren." He watched Ren's small form dart into the street, tail flying, and smiled. Then he leaned back against the mud-brick wall, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry to Trowa's hiding place.

"So, my friend... Would you care to keep me company?"

Trowa jumped a little, vaguely embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping. Then, his lips quirking sheepishly, he pushed away from the crates and walked towards his partner. Quatre watched him approach, extending a welcoming, vulnerable hand.

"Join me, Trowa? Please, I... I need to know I'm not alone."

Duo sat, silent and still, tucked into the shadow beneath Deathscythe's headpiece. He watched the now-bustling hangar with an angry gaze, unnoticed by the mechanics and soldiers.

Betrayed.

His fists clenched.

Lady Une promised us! She promised us we would be able to come home!

The thought was almost a childish wail, held inside where no one could hear. Duo dropped his head back to the smooth metal supporting him, letting the puddled length of his braid cushion the impact.

"Everyone lies to us. Right, partner?" he whispered. "I should have listened to my own damn instincts. I should have never let myself trust her." The giant form underneath him gave no answer. However, even as Duo smoothed fingers over the armor plating, a faint, almost forgotten memory came to the fore; almost as if it was summoned up by the chilly metal beneath his fingertips.

(Lunar launching base, AC 198)

"So what's the big deal, Noin?" Duo bounced ahead of Noin as she led their small group down the brightly lit corridors of the moonbase. "After all, aren't we scheduled to become frozen dinners in a few hours?"

Noin chuckled as Quatre protested. "Duo!"

"What?" Duo gave him a look of mock-innocence. "It's the truth, ain't it?"

Noin, smiling, answered the rhetorical question. "In a really macabre way, yes--though hopefully you'll reheat better," she retorted. "However, before you do, Lady Une thought you might want to see this." She seemed to be having a hard time holding back a smile as they walked up to a pair of loading bay doors. Noin punched in the access code with the ease of long familiarity and turned, not wishing to miss the looks on their faces.

The doors rumbled open with mechanical slowness, allowing light to spill in a widening rectangle over the waiting group. Almost as one, the five pilots gasped in shock. There, gleaming in the harsh fluorescent lights of the loading bay, were--Gundams. Their armor polished to a mirror sheen, the familiar forms of Wing, Sandrock, Heavyarms, Shenlong, and Deathscythe stood impassively, as if waiting for an inspection.

Heero's anger caught Noin by surprise. "What's the meaning of this?" He turned on the surprised woman, hand reaching unconsciously for the gun he no longer carried. "The Gundams were destroyed. *We* destroyed them. Why have you rebuilt them?!" Noin took a step back, as the other pilots turned on her as a single angry group.

"Well, that is... "

"It's not what you think, Heero," called out Lady Une from across the loading bay, calmly buttoning up her green uniform jacket as she approached.

"What do you mean?" asked Trowa, tones laden with suspicion. Lady Une smiled, unperturbed by the hostility in the air.

"Take a good look at them, all of you. These aren't the same Gundams you flew in the wars and later destroyed. These Suits are rebuilt from Gundam specifications and with gundanium armor, true--but they're something entirely new." Her voice softened. "Gundams built for peace."

She watched the five pilots turn back to the machines, now noting the cleaner lines, the trimmed-down bodies. However, the most significant difference was also the most subtle: the absence of much of the backup weaponry normally hidden behind a Gundam's magnificent facade.

"These machines are lighter, faster, and physically stronger than your old machines. The gundanium armor has been retained--it is still the best armor plating available for deep space work. But make no mistake, gentlemen--these Gundams were designed to help *build* the colony, not destroy it. Suit dexterity and pilot responsiveness has been improved by 300%, and operational systems have been upgraded to aid in the more delicate engineering operations you will no doubt be expected to undertake. There are still legacies left over from the war--your main weapons are, for the most part, still there. However, they've been modified into something more versatile--tools for something other than mass destruction. For instance, Sandrock's scimitars have been modified so that they can slice through objects precisely and with great accuracy; something invaluable for mining and modifying raw materials needed for the colony. Wing still has its Buster rifle--but the mostly uncontrolled blasts it used to emit are now focused into near-pinpoint accuracy, and with more pulverizing force. It is hoped that Wing can intercept any asteroids or meteors that might damage the colony or its people; a safety measure, if you like, before the colony's defense systems come on-line. The others have been modified in similar ways. I can give you the full specifications, but I'm sure all of you wish to inspect them for yourselves."

She stopped for a moment, then spoke frankly. "I won't lie to you--these machines could still be used for war, just as a carpenter's hammer could. But that's not their purpose; therefore they will have certain vulnerabilities that some of the original Gundams--such as the Zero and Altron models--did not have. They are going to be sent with you five to protect and aid in the construction of the colony, and to test the viability of this new use for Mobile Suits. If this succeeds, then perhaps we will someday see the day when *all* Mobile Suit technology can be used to build instead of destroy."

Wufei stopped staring long enough to snap a quick question at Une. "How did you--"

"--build these?" Une finished his question. Wufei nodded. "I rousted the surviving members of the Scientists out from their little hidey holes about a year ago and put them on this project. They protested at first, but--" She gave a small, coldly satisfied smile. "I made them an offer they couldn't refuse."

Wufei arched an eyebrow, understanding the reasons Lady Une had left unspoken. It was a rather simple rationale, actually. If Une did not keep tabs on the fanatical geniuses, someone else would--and that someone else was much more likely to utilize the Scientists' formidable talents for projects malevolent in nature.

"Yeah, I'll just bet," Duo muttered. Almost trancelike, he moved forward into the hangar and trailed fingers along the new Deathscythe's gleaming black armor plating. "Hi, partner. It's been awhile... "

Almost as if that was a cue, the other pilots moved forward as well, inspecting their old-new Gundams with stunned awe. Noin and Une watched them, satisfied by what they saw now that the young men had forgotten their anger.

The Gundam pilots had clipped their own wings for the sake of peace, and never once complained of the loss. These Gundams could not even begin to make up for what they were going through; however, when the opportunity had presented itself, Une had seized it with a near-fanatical determination. She may not have been able to avoid the necessity of their exile from Earth, or to completely shield them from the animosity of the people they had fought for, but she could do this one thing.

She could and would give them back their wings, and allow these five remarkable young men the opportunity to fly once more.

Abruptly shaking himself back to the present, Duo stared at his tingling fingertips.

"What the hell was that?" he whispered, trembling slightly from the onslaught of memories. Duo rubbed his fingers together, thinking. "Huh... Lady--I'd almost forgotten how far out on a limb you'd gone for us." Looking at the dim, distorted reflection of his face in the black plating, he gingerly put his hand out and caressed the metal. "Is that what I'm supposed to remember, Deathscythe? That she made sure I had my aibou with me?"

There was no reply. Duo was rather unnerved to realize he was actually expecting one. He thumped a fist against his forehead. "Fuckin' stupid, Maxwell--you'll be havin' conversations with trees next."

Still, the odd sensation of being listened to didn't go away.

"Man, I *definitely* need to get out more. It's bad enough trying to hold a conversation with Hee--oh... shit. Heero." He rubbed his forehead. "I just... ran, didn't I? Right when he needed me. He didn't *say* it, but--fuck, I didn't even give him a chance to say it, did I? Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

Uncurling himself from his hiding place, Duo began the long, treacherous climb down to the nearest scaffolding. "Guess I gotta go and make it up to him. Man... I *hate* apologizing... "

It took the better part of the day to find the elusive Wing pilot; not to mention scoring the supplies needed for his backup plan. Finally (after a great deal of persistent effort and a little Maxwell charm on the right people), Duo tracked down his partner. Curled up against a pile of discarded Gear parts, Heero sat pensively on a low rooftop watching the first stars of the evening come out.

Duo trotted over to him, the cheery greeting he had prepared evaporating at the sight of that solemn, upturned face. Instead, he set his bag to one side and collapsed into a casual sprawl of limbs at Heero's side, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched. "Hey."

"...Hey," Heero replied quietly. The last red tinge of the sunset had started to fade from the horizon, with only a bare handful of stars showing through. "You okay?"

"Well--no," Duo admitted honestly.

"Aa. Me neither." He laced his hands behind his head, still staring at the sky. "He warned us that we wouldn't like the answers."

Duo snorted cynically. "Yeah, well--I hate 'I told you so's'." Heero gave a rough, short chuckle, and the braided pilot gave him a brief smile in return. After a brief, one-handed search through his bag, he pulled out part of his booty and waved it underneath Heero's nose.

Heero looked at the rounded, stoppered object with mild curiosity. "What is it?"

Duo shrugged. "It ain't saké, but whatever it is, it's alcoholic. 'Way I figure it--if there's anyone in the universe who deserves to get stinking drunk, it's us."

"Ah." Darkened eyes considered the bottle for a moment. Then Heero pulled out the cork and took a swig. "You're right."

"'Course I am." Duo took his own pull at the bottle. The two pilots passed it back and forth for a while in companionable silence, watching the brilliant pattern of stars begin to paint itself across the sky. Then, shifting to one side, Heero pulled out a bulky instrument from its hiding place behind a crate. He settled it across Duo's lap, watching his lover's face expectantly. Duo lifted the stringed, deep-bellied instrument up in reverent surprise, running his fingers over the smooth dark wood. "What the. .?"

"I was pretty sure your guitar wasn't one of the things that survived. One of the mechanics loaned this to me. It's a different shape, and has a couple extra strings, but... " Heero shrugged off the musical mysteries of foreign instruments, and contented himself with watching Duo's long, clever fingers stroke across the frets. "Play for me?"

Duo gave him a tremulous smile. "If you don't mind that I'm a few thousand years out of practice... " He strummed across the strings experimentally, listening with a cocked head to the wavering harmonies the pot-bellied instrument produced. Then he set himself to the task of retuning the strings to his liking, a hand sneaking out for the bottle every now and then.

"Hmp." Heero settled back, watching the sky as his partner strummed and winced at sour notes.

Some time later, after the alcohol had begun to blunt the edges of their shared grief, Wufei limped hesitantly onto the roof, sheathed sword at his side. After pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust, he picked his way over to the seated pair now working their way through a second bottle. Duo barely spared a look for Wufei's arrival, instead waving a hand lazily as he picked out a random, wandering tune with the other.

Wufei shifted his weight, trying to decide if he was intruding. "I--found your note."

Heero nodded. "Good." Before Wufei could retreat, Heero shoved another bottle at him. "Here."

Wufei sniffed tentatively, then nodded and ensconced himself wearily in a nearby corner, sitting cross-legged between a wall and a heap of worn-out tires. "Thanks." The Wing pilot merely shrugged, sliding down into a half-prone position and looking back up at the stars.

Duo began to pick out plaintive arpeggios, agile fingers flying across the strings. Then, shifting smoothly into the opening chords of an ancient Earth ballad⁽¹⁾, he began to sing, feeling his way through half-remembered lyrics. His voice was low and melancholy; it suited the instrument.

"I close my eyes/
Only for a moment and the moment's gone/
All my dreams/
Pass before my eyes in curiosity/"

Wufei closed his eyes as Duo's bittersweet tenor gained strength, letting the song do his grieving for him.

"Dust in the wind, all they are is dust in the wind/"

Quatre joined their group silently, eyes still shining with unshed tears. Duo, bent over his instrument with his braid slipping over one shoulder, contented himself with a nod as he wrapped himself in the familiar song, set to alien harmonies. Heero opened his eyes, gifting the smaller teen with a rare, welcoming smile. Quatre smiled back wanly, lifting his face to the evening wind.

"Same old song/
Just a drop of water in an endless sea/
All we do/
Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see/"

Emerging from the shadows, Trowa slid unobtrusively behind Quatre, slipping arms around his shoulders and resting his head against his lover's back. By aching slow degrees, Quatre relaxed--letting Trowa's warmth embrace a wounded heart, even as the others gave courage to his flagging spirit. The makeshift guitar's strings rang out with new defiance, Duo plucking them raggedly as he sang.

"Dust in the wind, all they are is dust in the wind/"

Quatre's question was barely a whisper, meant only for the boy behind him. "Trowa?"

"Mm?"

"Do you think--that one of those stars... might be Earth?"

Trowa's reply was firm. "Yes."

"Do you think--they remember us?"

There was a brief pause, and Trowa tightened his embrace.

"...I don't know."

"Don't hang on/
Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky/
It slips away/
And all your money won't another minute buy/"

"So--was this--" Wufei waved vaguely at the roof and its three other occupants, "--your plan all along?" he asked quietly. Heero's answer was a sidelong look and a slight, sad quirk of the lips before he threw back another drink. Wufei smiled faintly back, settling the sword more comfortably in the crook of his elbow. Then he set himself to matching Heero drink for drink. Duo's voice softened, the storm of his anger gone as he gentled his touch. The last chorus was picked out singly--the counterpoint gone, leaving only a stark melody, buoyed up by Duo's rich tenor.

"Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind/"

Heero reached out, grasping the puddled end of Duo's braid. He smoothed the tangled hair, savoring the familiar touch. The guitar continued to resonate under skilled hands as Duo let his smile go and closed his eyes, raising his face to the stars they had lost.

"Dust in the wind, everything is dust in the wind..."

End Part Nine

Notes:
(1) The 'ancient Earth ballad' is actually 'Dust in the Wind' by Kansas. IMHO, it was uniquely appropriate..

(:./hope/dream9)