Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation ❯ III - B - Significant Others - Heero's - Odin Yuy ( Chapter 17 )

“Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation”

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFall.com

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (including graphic lemon, multiple multiple pairings, but primarily 1x2 and 3x4) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

 

 

Part B of “In the Concrete Jungle”, Page III in the s4 arc.

Significant Others - Heero's - Odin Yuy

Heero's POV

 

It was Sunday. I never understood Sundays, might never. The routine changes. No work, no school, no drinking, no alarm clocks, no missions. All people do is shop and go to church. The entire world is put on hold, a one day hiatus.

 

But Sundays have their own routine and familiarity to them. Mothers go shopping; the same ring-road market or shopping center, a familiar list of foodstuffs. Fathers fix up the house; the same set of tools, familiar leaks and broken fences. Kids slack off; the same set of friends and familiar games. Students start their work for Monday; the same classes, familiar assignments and studies.

 

Sometimes there are differences: ballgames, trips to the park, a movie, relatives, a suicide.

 

The people go to church.

 

I was looking at a group waiting to cross the street to Saint Sophia's on 121st Street. They were all black people. The entire upper Gotham region, where I was driving through, was made up of blacks, Asians, Hindis, Latinos, and other groups of immigrants. There were also large numbers of poorer Italians, Irish and Greeks. The western side of streets 110 to 175 were composed of rundown apartment complexes and decaying two-story hovels, most of their occupants minorities, and all of them poor. The northern region was called Bliss Heights, due to the number of trees, parks and hills once looking down on the metropolitan skyline of Central Gotham. But currently people just called it “Africa”. I didn't understand the name.

 

Hn, whatever. 121st Street was one of the worst areas in the entire city; but these people were all dressed in their Sunday best. I suppose they wanted to look flawless for God and the pastor. Maybe it would make up for the crimes and sins they committed on the other six days of the week? I never subscribed to redemption, and couldn't see why they should either; yet there they were. They were on welfare, used food stamp, and lived in public housing. They had to conserve hot water during the winter and cracked fire hydrants open in summer. But today they were all dressed in suits and dresses. The children picked at their ornate costumes with pouty lips and uncomfortable wiggles. I sat in my car and looked out at them. They waited for me to drive by.

 

I had to yield to them. The sign said so. It read, “Must yield to pedestrians in the crosswalk”.

 

So I sat there. I waited and sat there. A hotrod behind me began to honk his horn.

 

The group didn't cross. Maybe it was their numbers, or the parents' concern for the children. Maybe it was because nobody yielded to pedestrians anywhere north of the on-ramp to Avalon Bridge. I honked at them and made a gesture showing my surprising lack of desire to run them down. They crossed.

 

I was dressed up as well. Or rather, considering I generally wear a full suit and tie everyday, this was actually a dressed-down day. However, I considered my brown penny-loafers, tweed vest, and collared Polo shirt to be dressing up because I had to take much more time picking out my Sunday morning clothing. The rest of the week I simply grabbed whichever pre-arranged suit and tie combination happened to be closest.

 

But I had quickly found that dad thought it odd that I wore such formal attire around him...

 

Still, I wanted to impress him, show him how well I was doing, that I was healthy, happy, normal.

 

All the things I really wasn't.

 

I didn't like lying to dad. But telling him the truth, all the dark and evil secrets, would probably have killed him. No, it was unlikely that it would actually kill him, as he was one of the toughest old men on the face of the earth, but... He was the one person I did not want to hurt, in any way. I wanted him to be proud of me. He always said he was proud of me... I wanted more. I wanted to feel like I had earned his pride; that I was really something he could be proud of.

 

Not some twisted murderer with homosexual tendencies...

Not some chronic gambler and gun-for-hire...

How could I ever tell him that?

 

I could never think long about how he might react to learning the truth. The most common nightmares that plagued me were when I dreamed he found out about me, after I'd been arrested, from a co-worker, finding me in bed with Duo... I could not get up to the part where he would yell at me. Dostoevsky would tell him 'See, I told you so' (Dad was often found to be reading 'The Brothers Karamazov' and other works by the Russian author; and, for some odd reason, even though I could never have met the man and had no real idea what he would look like, the long-dead Russian would sometimes appear in my dreams as if he were a real flesh and blood acquaintance of my dad)- and he, my dad, would just look at me with such loathing and...

 

And I would wake up pleading out loud for his forgiveness...

 

No. I could never tell him. He must never find out...

 

It was the most strenuous mission I had ever faced, the one that took the largest toll on me every Sunday. The mission: be a good son, the boy that dad deserved, that he worked so hard to raise. It was a covert operation, where lies were my shields and forged information were my bullets.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

Before I knew it, I was sitting in front of him, sipping the tea that he had prepared himself. On the table were several newspapers, his reading glasses, and 'The Brothers'. There were hired hands to help him with the lawn, the serious cleaning, but he always insisted on cooking for himself. A real stubborn, do-it-yourself kind of person, dad had taught himself how to cook at a base-camp in the European theatre. His cuisine retained the distinct lack of flavor and succor that must have been initially inspired by un-spiced war rations and mostly rotten produce.

 

“So, how is the business going?” he asked.

 

“Fine,” I answered. “Everything's pretty good.”

 

“You weren't affected by that recent carpenter's union strike at all?”

 

Dad was always reading newspapers. He always knew the latest; still sending me clipped articles that he thought could help me with my fake construction company. A member of the underworld who I'd done countless jobs for had set up a shell network of fake secretaries, answering machines, even company logos and forged photographs, making it appear that I had a real, legitimate business. Such shells were standard practice in money laundering.

 

“Well...” I took a deep drink from my glass, stalling. Unable to come up with a lie, hating myself for even trying, I set it back down. “...not really.”

 

My father peered at me. His face was wrinkled and worn by the countless years. His grayed, going white hair was tied into a stub of a ponytail. He had a permanent scar over his right eye from serving in the Great War when he was even younger than I am now. Shrapnel from an anti-air mortar. He had dentures and a cane.

 

“But all the unionized carpenters in the Metro area held out for an entire month.” My father was tough to fool. His friends often came to him for advice, even though he had been just a lowly dock worker and sailor. His retirement party from the marina had been a sight to see. “Unless... unless you've been lying to me all this time.”

 

“That's not true, dad!” I protested, hoping my lie wouldn't be obvious.

 

“Heero, come now.” He looked at me with almost the same cobalt eyes I see in the mirror every day. Except his are free of sin and shame, shining instead with pride and respectability. “It's no use hiding it from me.”

 

“I-I-...” Had he found out after all this time? I guess I couldn't fool `Boss Yuy', as his friends like to call him, after all. The shame welled up inside of me. I felt like a tiny child, lost and helpless in a dark house, staggering desperately in search of the warmth and light that would nourish me when I was a baby. “I...”

 

“Heero.” My father, Odin Yuy, a great man, put his hand on mine, still looking at me with all the pride and love any son could ever wish for. The blows of shame were worse than any bullet that had ever landed on my flesh. This pierced something deeper. “Heero, it's okay. I understand.”

 

Confusion was added to distress. How could he possibly understand?

 

“Lots of construction companies use illegal immigrants as workers in hard times.” Relief and guilt washed over me in unison. The resulting feeling was a kind of light-headedness, a tendency to laugh unnecessarily, and a queasy emptiness in one's guts. I sucked the last dregs from my cup of tea... not enough to calm me.

 

“I was always suspicious when you told me that you only use unionized laborers in all of your jobs.” Dad kept going on, eyes twinkling with that `Thought you could fool your old man!' glimmer. “It's almost impossible to make any money with the outrageous wages these bastardly unions demand nowadays! You just be careful, you know, that you don't get in any trouble with the law.”

 

I nodded and politely asked him for another cup of tea.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

The clock struck three before I knew it. We'd gotten to talking about when I was younger. About several close friends of dad's who were getting old now, some of them dead already. We talked about the times when we'd travel up to the Cape Town and I'd play on the sandbars during summer. It seemed so long ago. Dad said that Mom had always liked it there. I was still quite young when she died...

 

“And how are the ladies treating you?” dad asked. I always hated this line of questioning, even before I knew I had no interest in the opposite sex. It was embarrassing for a boy to have to talk with his father about that kind of thing. Now, as an adult, my embarrassment was my dark secret. Remorse at the fact that I had no interest in giving him the grandchildren I knew he was so eager to have was what made the conversations awkward now.

 

I shook my head, trying to show that I didn't want to talk about this subject.

 

“Well, you know, one day a pretty young woman might just come knocking and maybe you'll find yourself head over heels for her!” Dad guffawed rather loudly. I didn't see anything funny.

 

The doorbell rang. Eager for a reason to escape the conversation, I got up off the cushioned leather chair and went to the foyer. I opened the milk-white mahogany door.

 

There was a lady standing there. Her blue-green eyes showed surprise at seeing me. She was dressed in a professional business suit that had a modest skirt, skin colored tights and matching shoes. Her light brown hair was almost blonde in the winter sunlight. It was pulled back rather tightly and seemed to be tied by- And it hit me. My father's loud guffaw seemed to chuckle in my ears. This woman was just my age and...

 

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the young lady spoke. “I was looking for Mr. Odin Yuy. Do I have the right address?” Her cheeks began to flush. It was a deeper blush than from just making an understandable mistake.

 

“Yes, this is the Yuy residence,” I said blankly, more than slightly annoyed at both the woman and my father.

 

“Well? Don't just stand there like an idiot, invite her in!” Dad's voice came from behind. He was staggering towards us, leaning heavily on his cane and beaming. To get from the living room to the door he must have sprung from his chair the second I left the room... “Invite Ms. Darlian in!”

 

My hand was forced. “Umm... uh, would you like to come inside?” I asked.

 

Ms. Darlian's face said yes, but she shook her head. “Oh, no. I only came to drop off...” She held up a manila envelope, as if it could explain everything.

 

“Nonsense my girl! Come in, come in!” Dad was great at devising these plans. “We were just about to sit down and have a light snack. Wouldn't you join us, for just a minute or two?”

 

“Well...” The girl eyed me bashfully. Fucking women... They could never just be open about their emotions. It was obvious that she wanted to come in; and it wasn't snacks that allured her... “I suppose, for only a minute though.”

 

“Would you take her coat, Heero?” I love my dad, but sometimes he would do things like this that really... Oh, well, I supposed I deserved it. “Have you met Ms. Relena Darlian before, Heero? She's the daughter of the D.A. and quite a bright girl.”

 

“Oh, please, Mr. Yuy!” Relena tried to stop him, blushing more.

 

I heaved a deep sigh and shut the door.

 

-end Heero's POV

-end “Significant Others - Heero's - Odin Yuy”

Part B in Page III of the Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation story arc.

 

Next: Order, High Council Meeting of

 

ID Notes:

Odin Yuy is sorta a hybrid of Odin Lowe (Episode Zero) and Dr. J. If you must think of him as anything, think of him as Odin Lowe, just older. Obviously his past isn't the same as in Wing, and here I've cast him as Heero's actual father.

 

Relana Darlian. You know who she is. Here she is actually the daughter of Robert Darlian, the District Attorney from part D of the previous Page.

 

Heero's mother will be fleshed out later.

 

Setting Note:

This is the furthest north in Gotham we've been yet. The map on my site can help.

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