Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Twelve ❯ Come and Keep Your Comrade Warm ( Chapter 14 )

Chapter 14

"Come and Keep Your Comrade Warm"

It was almost a shame that St. Petersburg should be so beautiful and there would be no one to share it with, that the soft snow should fall without someone there beside him to catch the snowflakes on his tongue and marvel at the symphony of white drifting from the sky.

On the cold, Russian night, he laid on a narrow bed in clothes that had not been changed for days, that brought with them the faint aroma of bar smoke and loneliness into the rickety carton of a hotel room where he desperately could not find sleep. The window had frosted over many weeks ago, masked completely by Jack Frost’s cruel and icy hand, so he could barely see the glow of the city lights. The room was in horrible neglect he assumed, judging from the emptied containers of vodka and vermouth, the battered and stained walls, the peeling paint, and half-rotten bed. The single, rickety lamp had not broken yet but was so wretchedly decrepit Heero had a suspicion the light bulb design would sit more comfortably in a museum.

Heero imparted a sigh through his chapping lips, sucked dry by the lack of warmth in the entire building. A truly Russian winter night lay just ahead for him, dark, cold, and seemingly without a dawn or spring at the distant end. The thought made his eyes darken and his face grow blank.

He forced himself not to think about it, but inevitably his memories of regret and loss were back and eager to pounce on his idle mind as he lay there. He pushed them away. It only hurt to touch some of them, and what was the need to do it again tonight? A single thought, a fraction of a bad memory would make him toss and turn, sleepless for days, and for the rest of his life they would be there whenever he needed to feel guilt or grief, but tonight, he just wanted to forget. Sleep and the oblivion it brought had been so elusive to him for the last year and as time went on it only crept further out of reach. Now his body as well as his mind had fallen victim and become horribly worn.

He brought his hand up in front of his face to squint at the final red and yellow capsule pinched carefully between his thumb and index finger.

"Last one," he told himself quietly, before he cupped it in his palm, and put his hand to his mouth.

Heero already felt his body sinking into the heavy comforter by the time he’d taken the final pill, and in a matter of minutes, he was sinking even further and further. Like he was slowly being swallowed by the musty carpet, by the ragged brick building, by the frozen Russian earth itself and into painless oblivion. That’s how he recognized the sedatives were beginning to take effect, even as his mind and eyes remained awake and open. A fluttering sensation began in the pit of his stomach as he realized this, and he took in a sharp, deep breath to remedy it. Even as he forced himself not to think about it, there was one part in him that hesitated, fearful, desperate, as sleep began to descend.

It was also the part of him that called him a coward and a fool, told him how much his friends would be disappointed in him—it imagined how Wufei would turn a disdainful eye at his cowardice, how Quatre would shake his head and bite his lip in anguish, how Trowa would lower his gaze, and how loudly Duo would bark at him, heatedly throwing his hands into the air, expressing his severe aggravation with his "stupid fucking move" at the top of his voice.

The butterflies in his stomach then faded away, only replaced by a stronger pain that struck without mercy in the heart of him.

Unbelievably drowsy, heavy, and ultimately cold in the wintry air, Heero then twisted his neck to look at the photograph propped up on the bedside table, even though his veins felt like they were filling with ice cold molten lead. Eyes rimmed red, holding back a sniffling sound and even a little bit of panic at how rapidly and how strongly the sedatives were working, Heero reached out his arm toward the picture, his rapidly weakening fingers curling beyond his control as he tried to take it. He brushed the frame but his body crumbled beneath him and his arm fell to the bed, motionless and as heavy as stone when he tried to lift it again.

But whatever panic now sprung to life in him, unchecked, it was forgotten. Heero’s world now began to blur, as well as gently suck him down into the blankets, and his vision was darkening, spinning, turning traitorous. His lips opened to utter something that came out weak and garbled. His jaw hung lifelessly as his eyelids grew almost violently heavy, the whites of his eyes showing as the rolled back, fraction by fraction, until his head dropped onto the bedspread, barely conscious. His body fought bravely against the powerful sedative and gave his mind one last moment of clarity.

I never did end up killing him, like he said I was meant to.

He was afraid, but he had no choice in the matter now. He’d already done it, and sleep, which had daunted him from a harrowing distance, was sitting calmly at the side of the bed, tenderly holding the photograph he had been so desperately reaching for, desiring to see it one last time.

No, it wasn’t sleep sitting beside him, Heero somehow recognized, even as his body was falling victim to an intense darkness. Rather, it was Death in his familiar black attire, his hair seeming to glow in the dim light, and his hand silently tracing over the glass, over an image of himself. He was simply sitting on the edge of Howard’s ocean repair ship, his arms crossed lazily over the lowest railing, gazing up at the camera, caught off-guard but peaceful and just about to crack a sheepish smile for the lens. Heero had found it on Peacemillion, so many eons ago, so far from this ratty Russian hotel room, and taken it with him. He remembered he had kept it in the thin pocket his flight suit, even while falling through the atmosphere, outrunning a two-megaton meteor. It had rested there, above his heart throughout heated battle and straining fighting, for so long that the corners had become worn and crinkled. But the picture was still flawless and still priceless to him.

Death turned his head and smiled gently at him, sitting, glowing softly and doused in a gentle silvery wash, just inches away. Sorry, buddy, he said wordlessly, but I’m not ready to come and get you yet. You’ll just have to wait.

He was still holding the picture when Heero’s eyes finally closed, his body slackened, and remained motionless, where his body would be found on the morning of the 19th of February, 200 AC, with six empty bottles of sleeping pills sitting beside a framed photograph on the bedside table.

Five years later, Heero woke up in the middle of another cold, snowy night, from a sleep that was neither pleasant nor restful. He’d dreamt it again, a disturbingly lucid memory of what he had believed was his last restless night, and again with Duo sitting at the edge of his bed, tenderly holding the picture frame and smiling back at him. It came back to him in horrible detail—the very stinging smell of vodka soaked into the carpet below, the exact color of the frost on the window, and the exact angle of the photograph on the side table as he had begun to sink into oblivion, reaching for it.

In the darkness of his own room, he sat up in a cluttered mess of blankets hanging off the bed and pressed a hand heavily to his face with a groan. His bare toes hung just above the floor as he sat over the edge, in an eerily similar way to the specter in his memory, and stared over at the clock perched on the side table, cruelly displaying the hour in its unfeeling red numbers. Heero frowned at it as his eyes began to adjust to the shadows engulfing the entire house—it seemed dark, even for the midnight hour. The Japanese man let out another tired groan and turned his head to glance out the window, expecting to see the gentle blue glow radiating off the snow banks in the dead of night, but even that was less vibrant than before. Too tired to think for a moment, he simply dug the heel of his palm into his face, trying to rub out whatever was ailing him. He felt a familiar unrest and exhaustion coming over him and swore to himself.

He hated these kinds of nights. Insomnia could drive more sane men mad than a fickle woman ever could was his firm belief, and it was coming from experience. He should have never have sat up. Even though it wouldn’t have been pleasant, he should have lain there and remitted himself to sleep, he knew in his sleepless bones, even if it meant reliving his night in St. Petersburg again in stunning color and sensation.

"Damn," he breathed, hunching tiredly, feeling animated by the restless exhaustion of sleeplessness again. He seriously considered, as he sat there, glaring unhappily at the time, of drawing the curtains around his bed and just lying there until the night took him, sooner or later, but he knew it would be futile. He’d spent enough time lying motionless and horribly aware under the covers to know the drill. Heero dragged a hand through his hair, scratching just above his ear and further disheveling his dark mop, as if it would help ease his indecision.

It had been a few hours since Quatre had fallen asleep on Trowa’s lap at the beginning of "Train in Vain", and therefore set off a chain reaction of sorts, sending each party to their respective corners of the house. Heero remembered wondering how it was possible to doze off to the loud and energetic voice of Duo’s that carried long into the late hours, how he could have slept through Duo crowing victoriously as he had just beaten Heero in another hand of cards, sitting on one side of the coffee table with a straight and a brilliant grin while Heero sat on the other, trying to convince him that he’d illegally procured one of his winning cards. The American had then mock-patted himself down and threw his palms into the air, drawling at him, "Ha! Innocent ‘till proven guilty, Sergeant, sir!"

Trowa had politely woken up the sleeping pilot, who’s head had fallen against his shoulder, and announced that he was gonna head to bed. And as soon as Quatre had gotten to his feet and followed, Duo had announced himself that he would finish one more game before hitting the sack himself. Heero found something in his stomach twisting as he recalled the strange hurried tone in his speech, the overly wide grin, and the anxious movements of his fingers as he constantly rearranged his hand or drummed them on the table once it had been only the two of them. Twice had his eyes quickly veered away from his when he’d glanced up and discovered him already looking at him, the color changing in his stare. Just thinking about it refilled Heero with the same peculiar pang he’d felt so acutely then, wondering why Duo had acted so nervously around him.

It was something that tailed him silently as he drifted out of his room, driven by insomnia to crawl barefoot out of his bed and quietly descend the stairs, the entire house faintly blue and seemingly nothing but shadows upon shadows. It was by habit that he should wander into the darkened kitchen, faintly tinged blue and white from the mounds of snow and the distant city lights. What was unusual about this particular sleepless night was the fact he had company. Heero stopped, ghostly silent, in the archway and looked wordlessly upon Death, sitting, equally sleepless, at the kitchen table, bathed in blue and silver. He felt his breath gather up in his throat, caught behind something indescribable, and stared at Duo for more than a moment before he could recognize him for the living being he was, instead of the surreal image on in a musty hotel room haunting him. For a soundless moment, he remained unnoticed and he swept his eyes over him, surprised to see him there.

Backlit by the hazy jewels of light of the sleeping city, Duo’s profile was distinct and familiar, though different—his head held much lower than Heero was sure he’d ever seen, gazing endlessly into a half-emptied mug of coffee as if it had entranced him, as if the secret of life was reflected on that dark surface. Though it seemed the porcelain cup had long gone cold with the coffee, his hands were wrapped tightly around it. Hunched at the table, dim blue light gleaming on the polish, with only a chilled cup of coffee and his thoughts to occupy him, he silently fingered the rim of the porcelain, mind miles away from body. Heero felt his mouth betray an amused twitch at Duo’s state, oblivious to everything and anything for a moment. He wondered what he was thinking so profoundly about in a pair of boxer shorts and plain T-shirt, complete with mismatched socks without an ounce of elastic, sitting crookedly in the chair. Heero remained motionless as he traced his gaze down his long, disheveled braid of hair and Duo’s reverie faded immediately, as if it his eyes were literal, electric shivers trickling down his spine.

The American turned his face toward Heero, heart-shaped and pale and quickly shifting as he recognized he was not alone anymore. His mouth did not automatically twist into a bright, even sly display of a grin as Heero found he had grown accustomed to. His face was strangely blank for a moment as he found his voice, though his eyes still held the nervous restlessness from only hours before, undimmed and even, if it was possible, intensified. "Heero," he said quietly, finally splitting open a sheepish grin. "You nearly scared the hell out of me. I thought you were a ghost." A soft chuckle broke the silence further as Duo consciously straightened up, the red that tinged his cheekbones deceptively obscured under the cover of the night.

Heero quietly smiled back at him, too tired to do much more than pull one corner of his lips as greeting, and the responding one was suspiciously wide and toothy.

"Can’t sleep either?"

"Nope," Heero answered with a shake of his disheveled mop of hair, moving out of the archway to the cupboards, out of which he extracted a glass. The tap hiss interrupted the quiet as he filled it with cold water, his back to Duo at the table. A single red orb of light interrupted the monopoly of blue light, glowing over an emptied batch of coffee.

"Does that work?" Duo asked with a softened smile. Heero had turned around, holding a clear glass of water, unable to hide the marks of his insomnia behind the ragged bangs covering his forehead, just brushing over his deep Prussian eyes. It was almost enough to take his attention away from the fact that he wore a loose-fitting pair of sweatpants and no more than that besides a smile. The thought alone made every nerve ending stand at attention, making him nearly painfully aware of every move, every tilt of the head, every misplaced glance and making it excruciating to maintain a certain expression on his face throughout.

Heero glanced at what he held bemusedly and then sat down opposite Duo at the table. "If it did, I don’t think that either of us would be here."

The American felt relieved that he didn’t feel the pit of his stomach drop when he looked up to meet his eye. If there ever had been one image he would have never predicted laying his eyes on, it would be this one, with Heero’s hair ruffled, a gentle, uninhibited smile, looking as vulnerable as Duo supposed he ever could be—he was younger than the Heero he’d seen stiffly sitting at a laptop, determinedly blocking out his bored narrative. And it was so Heero-ish of him to only look younger and younger as time marched cruelly on.

"Unfair," Duo whispered, smirking against the rim of the coffee mug as he tossed back the last few precious drops of caffeine.

Heero looked at him, his disheveled hair and the tilt of his head reminding Duo of the little brown dog who ran rampant about the house in the daylight. Apparently his hearing was as razor sharp as ever—did he ever age, like normal people? Before the puzzled man could open his mouth and inquire as to what was so unfair, Duo held the empty coffee mug toward him, explaining it. "I’m out," he said and tiredly tried to smile.

"You know," Heero told him, while offhandedly spinning the water around in his glass, "this is not the most appropriate time for black coffee, Duo."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he drawled in return, "but it had my name on it. I couldn’t help it. Better than just sitting around in the dark, moping."

"It was calling to you from the cupboard, I assume?"

"No, it really had my name on it!" Duo defended, quickly standing up from his chair to produce it from the cupboard over the emptied coffeemaker, throwing it open. Managing to get every ounce of dramatic effect out of his quiet tone, he snatched up a blue metal jar of coffee. "See!" He stalked over to where the Japanese pilot was sitting and jabbed his finger defiantly at the white text. "Maxwell House!"

Heero smiled. "I was wondering when you’d find that," he said, simply gazing fondly at it as he lifted the glass to lips again to take a drink.

"Where the hell’d you get something like this?" Duo muttered out loud as he circled around to his chair again, still staring incredulously at it. "It’s weird—I’ve never even heard of this stuff before."

"It’s an pre-colony brand," the Japanese man explained quietly. It was rather amusing to simply watch his comrade respond to the image of his own name printed on a can of coffee, gawking at it as if he were a man looking at his own reflection for the first time and staring intently as if it possessed some precious secret. "They only sell it in Seattle anymore. And even then it’s rather rare to find any around. It’s pretty good, actually."

"Of course it is. It’s got my name on it, dunn’t?" The American busied himself then, to offset the quiet tone of voice he took, with idly ringing a fingertip around the porcelain rim of his empty cup. "You know, when I found it, I thought you’d made it yourself just to make fun of me or something."

Heero looked across to him through the blue-silver haze of the wintry night, pinning an expression of disbelief on him. A corner of his mouth smirked despite himself. "When have you ever known me to make fun of you, Duo?"

Duo’s eyes flashed up to his. "Oh, don’t give me that," he scoffed with a sly and wicked grin usurping his entire face. "Don’t play innocent with me, pal. You take every chance you get to poke fun at me, but you do it in a much more subversive way, that’s all. With your smooth talk, ten-dollar words, and that incorrigible little smirk of yours—ha, you’re doing it right now! You couldn’t fool me to save your life, Heero. You’re not as pure and straight-laced as everybody likes to make you out, Mr. I-Save-the-World-in-My-Spare-Time." He folded his arms onto the polished table, hunching forward to fix a wickedly shrewd smirk on him in return while Heero only smiled back, blue eyes smugly blue. "Don’t deny it. You’re just as bad as me sometimes."

After the words had left the air, restoring the sleepy, but vibrant and humming silence of night, Heero considered this for a moment, never breaking his gaze from Duo’s while the corner of his mouth curled further and further, betraying him more and more. Time stretched out comfortably between them, effortlessly maintained, each painted in soft blue, radiating off the silvery white drifts piled outside. Heero slowly turned the half-emptied glass with his finger tips, eyes trained on the American’s patient sly smirk, and let his own smile get the best of him, until he was grinning in back at Duo, showing, without words, just how right he was with his own softer, more subtle mischievous expression. It was something Duo had never seen before, but somehow expected from him and felt awfully familiar with.

"I don’t think so," he breathed and shrugged finally, breaking off their silent showdown as he lifted the glass to his mouth, barely able to pull the corners of his mouth back to do so.

Duo snorted at him. "Right," he drawled. He stood up to fix himself another brew of his own coffee, noting to himself the angle of the clock hands slowly inching its way around.

Somewhere nearing the devil’s hour, after a long, mutual bout of insomnia, still unvisited by the comforting urge to sleep, Duo brought up the tender topic of stolen childhood, with him bemoaning the injustice they had suffered—fighting a war of losing battles while they should have been getting summer jobs, neglecting homework, and generally soaking up the short-lived light of their youth. Not in cramped, blistering cockpits, being thrashed by an army of mobile dolls, not unwillingly thrown in to the pits of hell on Earth. Duo, however, didn’t have to iterate that fact. They both knew the reality of it all too well, and the feeling was a mutual one. Morosely letting his chin rest on his folded arms, the Deathscythe pilot let another long sigh out between his lips, staring into the silver cast on the tabletop. Heero’s eyes rested on his face though, absently tracing over the softest hints of emotion as they passed through his eyes, the angle of his lips, the carefully rhythmic lilt of his voice.

"I can’t believe how old we’ve become," he muttered. Heero was astonished by the softness of his voice, absent of any flippant drawl. "I never thought I’d live past my sixteenth birthday, let alone to the ripe old age of twenty-five. It’s just… so mind-blowing to think we actually survived something like that when we were just kids. We were scraggly little runts, and we survived where thousands of grown men failed and were killed and died quick, painless deaths, or slow and painfully. Unbelievable, y’know."

The Wing pilot silent observed this, his lips setting tighter together as he was inevitably flooded again by the memories of war, spurred by Duo’s words. But this time, they were not the painful ones that plagued him—they were of the American hunched, pained and weak, against the a cold cell wall, squinting into the light towards him, undeniably afraid for his life for a moment, believing he would actually end it, and then his arm lowering and his expression gladdening. Of Duo, at St. Gabriel’s, standing by a basketball hoop and awaiting him, a basketball held on his hip with one arm. Of Trowa and Duo deliberating over a black and white chessboard between missions, the American beside him, slyly moving his knight to vanquish an opposing pawn, knocking it clean off the board.

"I mean, what were our chances of survival back then? Less than zero, but all of us are still here. Growing old," Duo murmured nostalgically, his voice becoming thicker and thicker with a nameless tone which made a part of Heero’s chest swell sadly as he sat reverently listening. "Trowa and Quatre are already planning the rest of their lives together, Wufei, of all people, has a little girl who means the world to him, and you’re getting married in less than a month."

Duo closed his eyes, drawing his brows tightly together, tightly controlling his voice as he continued on a few moments later. Heero felt his heart breaking slowly as he watched the deep violet of Duo’s eyes changing. "And we still have peace. The peace we fought for. I mean, I can’t even get my head around any of it, and it’s been ten years. A decade. An entire decade. Ten times how long I expected to be around. It went in a blink of an eye, but it was an eternity since Mariemaia, since Peacemillion, since I shot you out."

He then nudged his mouth against his folded arms, his eyelids drifting lower as he stared off into memory, looking smaller than he had ever been before. His expression was thoroughly blank as he murmured, more to himself than consciously, "And me, I’m stuck in time. I don’t move forward or get better or wiser, just old and wrinkled. I really wish I knew how you guys do it." Finally, he closed his eyes again, and sighed. Where Heero expected at least a sardonic smirk, there was nothing but a lifeless voice. "But then again, it’s probably just me being a coward."

Heero could find nothing to say to that. Transfixed, he watched Duo’s eyes slowly blink once, twice, then again, before the silence again was lifted, but not with any of his usual enthusiasm, morbid or otherwise.

He knew Duo felt him staring, but he couldn’t help it, and it was even more impossible to tear his eyes away when he spoke up again to ask, "Heero, do you think if our lives had been different, would we all be together, like we are? You know, Quatre and Trowa and Wufei and you and me? Would we even know each other?" That’s when his violet eyes flickered up, making the Wing pilot’s heart pound once forcibly against his ribs, and seemed to look straight into him, almost fearful of what he would find. "Would things be different? Would have you and I even become friends?"

Heero couldn’t bring himself to answer anything but, "Yes," to Duo as he sat there, hunched, tired, and unable to conceal his anxiety with a grin, and it still hurt to do so, knowing he couldn’t say all of what he felt and make Duo understand it.

He watched his face momentarily darken, sadden under his eyes, despite it, and witnessed a sudden change as Duo abruptly concealed it. Before Heero could even realize what had happened, his expression had shrewdly stretched into a lazy, crooked smirk and he leaned back in his chair. His jaws opened in a monstrous yawn, stretching his arms behind him sleepily. Heero simply stared as he sunk back into the chair, smacking his lips and reaching up to casually scratch his head, unconvinced.

"’Bout time," he said to himself, his mouth again splitting in yawn as he stood. "Think I’ll be hitting the sack now, Heero. You should too. Nobody’s gonna wanna deal with a grumpy you, bud," he joked casually, leaving the chair sitting crookedly as he left it to stand up. He extended his arms out before him and wove his fingers together, pressing his palms outward in his usual, fluid way so that his knuckles cracked and he put his hands on his hips.

"It’ll feel good to finally sleep again," Duo muttered to himself before he prepared himself to turn and bid Heero goodnight, turning instead to find himself standing only a foot away from Heero. He felt himself inevitably let his mask slip, letting through something he couldn’t decipher by Heero’s reaction, who was looking at him in the oddest way. The most disconcerting way, with those endless baby blues of his and just the slightest furrow of brow from concern sending his heart skyrocketing up into the back of his mouth, hampering his breathing.

It prevented him from asking what was wrong, though he wouldn’t have been able to form the words, anyway. Heero looked straight across into his eyes and Duo felt horribly uneasy about it. All rational thought had left the room for him as soon as he realized how close he had been, without making so much as a noise. He looked distressed almost, his brow furrowing further, and he said, "It doesn’t matter what didn’t happen, Duo. We are friends, and we’re not dead. And you’re not a coward."

"Yeah, I am," he murmured back, smiling nervously and sadly at the same. He still couldn’t breathe, but he still felt horrible to realize where he was—in Heero’s home, just weeks before he was engaged to be married to someone else, staring into his eyes. When he didn’t respond immediately other than to look at him with that agonizing puppy dog stare, Duo shifted to turn away, unable to stand the torture of being that close, and felt himself being pulled back.

Heero had put his arms around Duo’s shoulders and pulled him against his chest in a hug abruptly, silently, stunning the poor American. He didn’t move an inch after that, grounded and determinedly holding him there, his head slightly bowed and the sound of his breath flowing past Duo’s ear as they stood there. He was paralyzed, as far as he knew, realizing just how warm Heero was, the euphoric sensation of his arms squeezing around him protectively, even—the first time they’d ever hugged, the first time they’d ever really touched. That’s when Duo realized the sudden ache in his chest was his lungs, burning for breath, to supply to his frozen body.

He pulled away as suddenly as Heero had pulled him toward him, though he wanted nothing more in all his miserable life than to just stand there. But he just couldn’t deal with that, with Heero’s warm body or disheveled hair brushing the side of his face, of his arms holding him. It would kill him. Duo couldn’t think or see straight, and, blind as bat, stepped away, filled with fire and grief. He chuckled nervously, unable to hold his face from becoming a horrible charade of a smile. He quickly took another step, putting space between him and the one thing he could never really have, and said with an overly-wide smile, "Thanks, ‘Ro, but I really gotta go get some rest, ‘kay? See ya in the morning?"

Heero watched him silently, looking almost hurt by Duo’s withdrawal. But it subsided, whatever shined through, and he nodded numbly. "Sure. So do I," he muttered softly, turning his gaze away. "Goodnight, then."

"Yeah, goodnight," Duo responded too quickly, and as soon as the parting words had been exchanged, was stalking back toward his bedroom through the blue myriad of shadows, disappearing like a hazy memory, and leaving Heero standing there, in the kitchen, staring into the blue shadows before he, too, left for the dubious comfort of a lonely bed.

A/N: Though it's not much of an excuse, A.P. classes and such have slowed down the posting of his chapter, as well as me working on my Gwyaoi entry. I finished aformentioned story, luckily, but A.P. classes are another matter entirely and continue the entire year, unfortunately. But don't worry. Finishing this story is still my first priority, and I won't stop till I get it done (or I die, which ever comes first, I guess. ^_^;)