*rei.
The snow crunched under his trudging boots. Flurries of snow fell from above, hazing the view of winter cityscape. He could not, would not, see where he was going. His destination was not assigned to him. He was drifting from street corner to street corner in the frozen city. The air held an apathetic stillness to it, even with the bustling of the few people who hurried to their families for the holidays. There were no cars that drove on the narrow street beside him. Today...tonight...was Christmas Eve. In his apartment, he was alone. Out on the streets, he was still alone, and he felt even more so. Never had he craved to be with someone. He never wanted that. His blank eyes focused on whatever was before him, whatever he was coming towards in his empty march.
He passed a woman and her daughter.
"Mommy," the girl whined in a shrill voice. "When are we gonna get one 'a those?" The little pig-tailed blonde girl clawed at the glass of an electronic store, decorated in reds and greens for the holiday spirit, shelving modern television sets in the ornamented window. They were tuned into the news channel, which was currently showing a chorus of women and girls dressed in old English clothing. They were caroling.
"Someday, honey. Come on, grandpa's waiting." The woman's voice was soft and weary. But her daughter did not move from her place in front of the window.
The boy stopped his march and looked towards the window of the store. His body froze for a moment. He then took a step forward, making the snow crunch beneath his boots. The girl was startled, and then she looked up towards the boy with the dark eyes.
"Mister, mister, do you like 'em?"
His head did not move, but he cast his eyes down towards the child.
"Me and mom and gran'pa are gonna go and-and-and see those girls on the TVs. Yeah, they're in the co-cwo..." she struggled with her words for a moment. "The coopo-rate building tonight. They sure pretty, huh?"
His eyes flicked from the child back to the television screens.
"Honey, leave the boy alone now. We have to go." The mother took her daughter's hand and gave the young man a fleeting smile, unnoticed to him, as she left.
He pressed his hand against the window. The glove he wore on that hand had its fingers torn off. His bony digits were tinged pink from the frost. He then pressed his forehead against the glass as well, closing his eyes under the brown hair over his forehead. He wore a black skullcap that warmed his ears, and over that, he wore his olive green sweatshirt with a hood. Over that sweatshirt, he wore a shabby black leather jacket that was beginning to fade. He let out a deep breath and mist formed on the glass from where he breathed. The voices rang through his head.
"Ba-rum-bum-bum-bum," they sang.
Visions of what used to be immersed his mind. He remembered dark eyes and fierce ideals; emotional blue eyes and a kind voice; an introspective touch and quiet tone. He remembered a boy with a long braid, a grin, and a mask. He remembered the war, the colonies, the murder and the victory that came with it. He remembered death. He remembered the unfeeling machine he was placed in. Which came first? The unfeeling machine in him or the one he devoted his life to? He had a feeling he knew the answer.
He swallowed and pulled himself off the glass. But first he let his fingers glide across the cold window and catch a red ribbon that hung from the ornaments. Then he began his trudge his way in the ankle-deep snow once more. In the numerous minutes he had walked, he did not see another person on the streets. Finally, when the cold managed to clasp tightly around him, he decided to let the weakness in his knees take over and he sat on a raised flagstone with golden engraved letters titling 'Memoirs of Khushrenada.' The boy in worn-down clothes leaned his head against the pole behind him and watched the street across from him. There were shops finally turning off their lights. It was six o'clock.
"Darling, darling," someone had called as the door opened from across the street. It was a coffee shop. A woman stepped out first, in a fancy white dress with an elaborate red coat. A man in a black tuxedo stepped out after, flipping the 'open' sign to 'closed.'
"Yes?" the man asked.
"Are we going to see your parents?"
The man turned, locking the door as he watched his the woman. "How about we spend Christmas with just the two of us this year?" The woman was pleased. A smile shone on her crimson painted lips and she embraced the man. Their lips pressed against each other's for a long moment.
The boy from across the street suddenly pressed his head against the pole behind him. He watched the two from his distance with his eyes half-lidded. A feeling sunk into him, seeping into his mind, his body—almost physically. It was then that the two across the street had noticed the boy watching them. The woman smiled and the man took something out of his pocket. They were approaching him. Their fancy shoes weren't made for the ice on the street and the snow on the sidewalk. The walk seemed to be vigorous for them, but they still smiled at the boy against the pole.
He did not move from his position. He was confused of why they would come to him.
"Here, young man," the woman said. She was pretty and about in her late twenties. The couple were both smiling, still. The man bent down and dangled a five-dollar bill in front of the stoic boy.
The tall Frenchman placed the money on the boy's knee gently. "Go and get something to eat. Merry Christmas." Before the boy could move or say anything, the couple turned and walked away.
They had thought he was homeless. They thought he was a beggar. He was no such thing. His eyes moved to the money placed on his leg. The cold wind blew harshly. The green paper was gusted away. The boy did not make a move for it. He only watched it disappear down the street and around the corner. He was somewhat relieved to know that the street he was on was not popular, and since it was the holidays probably no one else would be seen. His apartment was just a few blocks away. But he knew that he would feel more alone in there than outside in the empty streets.
He closed his eyes, remembering a song he heard a long time ago.
Shine bright morning light.
Now, in the air, the spring is coming.
Sweet blowing wind,
Singing down the hills and valleys,
Keep your eyes on me.
Now we're on the edge of hell,
Dear, my love, sweet morning light,
Wait for me, you've gone much farther
Too far...
It was a simple tune of little notes, a last verse in a higher octave. He remembered an old friend had sung that. She had a beautiful voice, but he had forced her out of his life. He had shoved her away for such a long time she had given up on him—like all the others before her. She was the last to stay, and the last to leave. He remembered her eyes; they always stared at him piercingly. He did not like it at all. She loved him, he knew. He just would not, could not, feel the same. It was sooner or later that her eyes turned slowly to another, leaving him. When she was gone, he experienced what it was like to truly be alone. No one looked for him. He supposed it was the way he acted towards others. He was unapproachable, unreachable, to his those that cared for him. Soon, that love of friendship they had held for him disappeared because of his bitterness. He began to truly give thought to his purpose.
The absolute mission he had been created for, lived for, had been accomplished. When the others had been around him for that brief while after the war, he did not give a thought to the matter. But now that there was nothing else for him, he questioned... more than he should have.
Keep your eyes on me.
Now we're on the edge of hell...
Wait for me, you've gone much farther.
Too far...
No one was there anymore. He admitted that he had made a mistake in his character a long time ago. He did not know what he had until it was gone. He had the thought of knowing that people had considered him a friend after the war. But they all had left him due to his own personality. He was too incapable of handling 'friendship.' He could escape a heavy-guarded OZ base unnoticed, but he could not handle kindness towards someone like himself. He was useless and hollow now. He had nothing else to give to the world, the colonies. He was just waiting for someone to press the shut down button on him, the machine.
Keep your eyes on me...
Now I am on the edge of hell....
The snowfall gradually faded and he was left with only a cold breeze. Excess frost outlined his clothes, and as he brought his legs up towards his chest, the traces fell from his torn black jeans onto the blanket of snow on the ground. He stood. He decided to go to his apartment. He felt vulnerable, as he walked, with his own arms wrapped around his shivering form for his only comfort against the cold.
He passed a small grocery store on the way. An old man in a Santa Clause beard was on the curb, ringing a bell. "Heart, heart for the poor," he chanted in a wheezing voice. When the dark-eyed boy stopped in front of him, the man rang his bell three times. "Donations? Donations, young man?" The boy held his hand over the red bucket of spare change. He dropped the red ribbon from his hand.
The old man hollered and laughed. "Thank you, young man, thank you!" He handed the shaggy-haired boy a small, thick red candle with a miniature green wreath adorning the base. "Take good care of yourself." The boy looked at the candle in the old man's hand. The elder urged it forward and he took it, dazed. He nodded his recognition and made his way on his trek once more, putting the candle in the large pocket of his jacket. "Happy Holidays!" shouted the bearded senior.
His apartment was a part of an older building complex, which showed its disregard towards bills from the government. It was to be condemned soon, and all its residents, twelve of them, would be kicked out onto the streets. The appearance on the outside of the building was far more becoming than the inside—and the exterior looked terrible. The boy unlocked the large double-doors to the apartment and stepped into the hallway. He climbed up the stairs to the fourth and final floor. The second door on the left was his. Unlocking it, he wandered inside, shutting the door behind him quietly. There was a bathroom, a very small kitchen that only consisted of an oven, stove, and sink, and a living room. His bed was the couch against the wall. The table he used was the coffee table that came with the apartment. There was a single window that overlooked the street below. He rented this apartment only because of that window.
He placed the candle he had gotten on the windowsill and sat down beside it, staring below at the urban winter wasteland. He took off his gloves, dropping them to the floor. He then began to take off his jackets, stripping down to his deep black long-sleeve shirt. This ebony contrasted with his faded black jeans, which almost looked gray. He kicked off his wet boots and brought his legs up onto the sill, too. The candle in between his knees seemed bare. He took the lighter from the coffee table, which was in arm's reach, and lit the candle aflame. He leaned the side of his head against his window as he watched the fire. He stayed like that for a long while.
He reached behind him and pulled out a metal object from the back of his pants. It was a gun. He examined it for a while, noticed it was loaded with one bullet. He was almost satisfied with that. He took off his skullcap, and dropped it to the floor. He had long, dark brown hair. His hands trembled as he held the gun. He told himself because of the cold. The apartment had heating, but it scarcely worked. It didn't matter anymore though, any residents that cared about their health and lives had already managed to move out. Even the Super managed to buy another complex on the other side of town.
With the gun in his right hand, he touched the muzzle of the weapon to the candle flame, which immediately extinguished. His lips moved. "You've gone much farther." No sound came. "Too far."
His Prussian blue eyes scanned the city outside his window. It did look beautiful in the snow. The sky was a murky gray, shrouding the sun from illuminating the white snowfall across the city. He smiled, finally able to see a beautiful side to an ugly city. The gun pressed against his lips softly, in a gentle kiss. He grew weak and tired, eyes idling, humming a vaguely familiar melody. There was a quiet click of the safety switch heard behind the humming. He opened his mouth, body trembling. Both hands were on the gun.
Then came three harsh knocks on the door. He was startled, but did not move. He only shut his eyes. He was hearing things. But that theory proved to be untrue, for something tried to shove his door open. He, instinctively, pointed his gun towards the door, hands trembling, arms extended.
"Heero..."
The voice behind the wall began to talk. But he could not hear anymore. After he heard that voice... his mind completely split. Half of him wanted to swallow a bullet, the other half wanted to see if it were true. Did his ears deceive him? Why not when everyone else had?
"Heero, why..."
He convinced himself it was a dream. No, there was no way...
"Heero, won't you..."
No...
"Heero, are you there?"
The door opened gradually. The face, the eyes, the boy in the windowsill was so hatefully anticipating had came into view. The long hair... violet eyes... pale lips... It was Duo Maxwell. Shaky hands dropped the gun to the floor. The dark-eyed boy in the sill leaned against his window, staring, dumbly, at the figure in the doorway.
"You are here." Duo almost seemed disappointed in his hushed tone.
Heero Yuy's jaw clenched, hoping not to talk, but not finding the words anyway. He swallowed. Everything he held onto suddenly got ripped from his hands. It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. No one was going to see... He didn't want to see Duo, no matter how much he thought about him and the others each day. He didn't want to see how healthy Duo had been while he rotted away in his own mind and body. Heero could not take his eyes off of the ex-Gundam pilot. He was taller, thinner, his hair much longer. His eyes were different, as well. They held more understanding and maturity than they had a year before.
Heero had given his own appearance a thought for just a brief moment. He must have looked pitiful. There was no mirror in his apartment. He hadn't seen how he had looked in weeks. His hair was a grungy mess, his eyes must have had dark circles around them from his lack of sleep, and he knew he had lost far too much weight, almost bony, considering he was extremely malnourished. His clothes were trashy and torn. His eyes were downcast, lips chapped, and he had a number of scars on his body—arms mostly. He did wear a long-sleeve shirt.
"Dreaming..." he whispered to himself. He closed his eyes, turning to the window, cheek pressed against the glass.
"Heero? It's Christmas Eve." His footsteps came closer to him. His boots caused the planks to creak from under him.
It was just a dream. But he knew it would soon turn into a nightmare—like in his sleep. Was he truly sleeping this time, though? No, no he wasn't. He felt the coldness in his breaths, the shivering in his shoulders. He brought his legs closer to his chest and pulled his arms in front of him, hands at his mouth, eyes closed as he leaned against the window in his seat in the sill. It was not real, like everything else.
Hands came to grip around his shoulders, calming his shaking body, warming him so he was no longer cold inside. Lips whispered against his ear, "Keep... your eyes on me."
His eyes flew open and he turned to face Duo Maxwell. Heero threw himself towards the boy that stood in front of him. His arms wrapped tightly around his neck, holding onto his hair, face buried in the Duo's shoulder. The dark-eyed boy took a deep breath. He would never forget how he smelled. He smelled of incense that Wufei had burned nonchalantly in the safe-houses they had hid out in during the war. Duo smelled like it the most. Heero loved it, no matter how hard he tried to deny it.
"Now we're on the edge of hell..." Duo's voice sang on in that whisper. But Heero did not tremble any longer. He felt warm with that presence around him. That long, soft hair... "You've gone much farther..." A whisper against his ear, he could almost feel his lips. Duo's arms came around the prone boy to embrace softly. Heero knew what he would say next, and he felt his own breath get stolen away from him. He gave a last tight squeeze and choked on stolen oxygen. He would not admit he sobbed. "Too far..."
Heero blinked, and in that instant, everything was gone. His everything had disappeared into his blink of imagination. He was sitting against the window, facing his bland apartment room. He bit his lower lip. He tried to remember the feeling for just a moment. He couldn't.
Shakily, he stumbled towards the kitchen. Hanging from the wall was the unused phone. He dialed a number he had memorized when he first understood that he was entirely alone. The dial tone rang four times until the message machine came on. "Yeah, leave a message after the beep." That was it. Heero clenched his teeth for a moment, mouth almost pressing against the mouthpiece of the phone. He let out a deep sigh first.
"Duo. Please. Come find me. Before... I do." His voice was quiet, nervous.
His hand languidly placed the phone back onto the wall from where it hung. He then pressed his back against the wall, sliding down onto the floor. He would wait for the call to be returned. He would wait all day and night, until Christmas. Little did he know that Duo Maxwell was gone from his house during the night of Christmas Eve. He was out, at Quatre Raberba Winner's most festive of parties, getting drunk and not giving his deserted friend a single thought. It was a year ago, since Heero had disappeared from the lives of everyone. He learned to forgive and forget.
Wistful Heero Yuy sat beside the phone in his run-down apartment, waiting, staring out his window at the urban winter wasteland. He hummed barely audibly.
Shine, bright morning light.
Now, in the air, the spring is coming.
Sweet blowing wind,
Singing down the hills and valleys.
Keep your eyes on me,
Now we're on the edge of hell.
Dear, my love, sweet morning light,
Wait for me, you've gone much farther.
Too far...
end.