The Long and Winding Road
So this was how it ended. He walked out into the freezing night, his breath misting the air before him. Not with a huge argument or even an "understanding" that it was to be this way, they simply drifted apart.
He peered up at the starless, moonless black velvet of the sky. Not that they were ever "together" in that sense. Heero . . . he paused briefly to adjust his cap firmly against the biting cold of the wind. Heero was too well conditioned to respond to any emotion, even if the Perfect Soldier could feel anything past the satisfaction of a mission accomplished.
He smirked to himself slightly, even as he shivered from the chill of the night. Ah, would the little jousan win Heero's love and devotion forever. He highly doubted it.
Perhaps the Japanese pilot would be drawn in by her naivete . . .or even be fascinated with her obsession with him. She did possess the same sort of look as the children that drew Heero's attention so much, something Duo had observed during their brief stop overs together at various private schools. Was it the memories of his own childhood that gave such a haunted light to the normally stony, blank eyes, or was it a wistfulness for something he had never been able to experience? But . . . in the long run, once that first illusion faded, with she finally having possessed the one object denied her and he having sated and analyzed her devotion and emotions, they would be left with nothing. Perhaps a vague sense of dissatisfaction on both parts, neither living up to the other's image which had been fixed clearly in their minds.
As for himself, when he saw the laughing children, . . . he wanted to forget. Forget the laughter and warmth that had surrounded him all too briefly, forget that once he too was loved and sheltered as well, because all of those memories faded to nothing against the dark chaos of smoke and violence which left him standing alone. Left him with only the memories which refused to let him go. But he had promised . . . Never forget.
Self-consciously, he brushed his cold, stiff fingers against the lump under his shirts. The solid warmth of the cross he wore lay against his throat. The Lord Jesus had his cross to carry . . and he, he let out a brief dry chuckle, he had this lump of gold . . .
It was so cold tonight. He should've worn a jacket or something. He could feel his ears, cheeks, and nose go numb. Hunching down further into the collar of his shirt, he continued to slowly travel down the dark street.
Hardly anyone was out, even the street lights seemed muted without the presence of people. Briefly, he wondered what the people inside their homes, peering out into the night, would see. A slim long-haired boy, walking on the street? Or would they see a vaguely human like shadow, fading in and out against the pitch blackness of the night, silent as Death, black clothes blending and camoflauging his presence . . . Or perhaps a shapeless, faceless presence, more felt than seen.
He thought the latter was more appropriate. Lately, more so now that the war was over, he felt anchorless, drifting in and out of life. During the madness and bloodshed, he had his promise to keep, a sense of "something" to stay focused on. He was Death, leaving chaos and destruction behind him. But now . . . the seductive whispers of that personality weakened, grew less as Death was needed less and less. Even his brief physical link with Heero was gone. Not that it mattered . . . not that it ever had.
What they had was a physical need, ne? Something that their bodies and horomones demanded, not a desperate call for human contact . . . or for the prolonging of the brief intimacy that would follow a release. It was none of those things.
Chikusho. Damn wind blew something in his eye. Rapidly, he blinked away the warm tears, which immediately froze against his numb cheeks.
It had never been anything like that . . . although, sometimes . . . sometimes, when the other was sleeping, dark lashes laying softly against that smooth cheek, he felt a tug, a brief kindling warmth. Was it affection, tenderness? . . . or something. But that nameless something which drew him to the sullen, silent pilot, repelled him equally. He didn't *want* to feel anything past the pure rush of physical release.
So sometimes . . . sometimes, he could almost hate the other pilot. Because Heero made him want to reach for something more, to demand something more for himself. He could grow to hate the other boy for that.
Of course now . . . it was a moot point. Heero was with Relena, however long that would last. And he . . .he had his memories, his broken faith, and a cold, according to the rasping sounds of his breath.
Time to head back home.
With a brief sigh and another glance at the dark sky above, he headed back.
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