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Left Unsaid	By : ElleSmith Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male > Heero/Duo Views: 1020 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: GUNDAM WING is a Registered Trademark of Bandai, Sunrise, Sotsu Agency & TV Asahi. This work of fiction was written for non-profitable purposes.

Chapter List
- 11
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Chapter 12: SSRI
Typed characters appeared rapidly on a computer screen:
HEERO YUY – EVALUATION & MANAGEMENT:
CC: 24-year-old male seen regularly for PTSD induced depression and anxiety. No indication of SI/HI [[i]]. Patient displays increasing distress over the past 2 months, related to the upcoming holiday season, marking the anniversary of many trauma-related events. Patient experiences intermittent, severe and uncontrolled anxiety lasting between a few minutes to an hour. Instigating stressors include work-related stress and unresolved interpersonal relationships. Patient reports severe sadness, loss of appetite, renewal of heavy smoking, drinking, increased aggressiveness, lack of concentration and mild forgetfulness.
History of Present Illness:
Heero has experienced severe early attachment disruptions: he was often left unprotected by his caregivers and has never been adequately nurtured during his early childhood. In response to his mother's emotional abuse, Heero began to dissociate, and by the age of three, depersonalization had left him unable to cry. Secretly, he hated his mother, and upon her death when Heero was about six, he felt no grief or sadness.
Further trauma has developed during preadolescence years following involuntary recruitment as a child-soldier in the colony rebel militia. Repeated exposure to chronic and traumatic stress during development in a brutal military environment has left Heero with many mental deficiencies, notably PTSD, psychiatric distress and malfunctioning, expressed as outward aggression, irritation, dissociation and acting out of intrusions (flashbacks).
As an adult, given the unresolved disorganization in his attachment relationship with his mother, exacerbated by his difficult personal history serving under the militia, Heero has developed many personal and relational barriers. A subconscious desire for female nurturing has developed as means of compensation, but was never fully resolved despite a significant relationship formed with a female counterpart. Hindered by an acute fear to articulate and divulge his problematic past, Heero is unable to fully realize this relationship, fearing that full disclosure will put it at risk. Hence, the relationship remains undefined; it seems unclear whether Heero's interest in this woman is romantic, sexual or simply a friendship he relies on for security, affection and comfort.
Early attachment disruptions and war-related severe stress and traumatic experiences that came later on have shattered Heero's most fundamental beliefs about safety, trust, and self-esteem, which lend instability and psychological incoherence to his internal and external worlds, notably affecting his ability to trust and connect to people. This could better explain his inability to establish a permanent and validated romantic relationship. He is guided by a fear that discussions about his past could make others feel abhorred, guilty or sad, causing a variety of general relational disruptions, fortifying his reluctance to disclose and connect.
Environmental influences seem to have played a significant role in Heero's sexual orientation and development. Although sexual orientation is determined by many genetic, hormonal, developmental, social, and cultural factors, less gendered socialization in early childhood and preadolescence may shape subsequent same-sex romantic preference. In addition to attraction, opportunity has to present itself. Growing up in a strictly male environment during preadolescence years, favoritism for distinctly impetuous, harsh and demanding male company has developed, manifesting in homosexual relations with a fellow comrade during adolescent years, but never pursued since. Nevertheless, Heero says that he doesn't rule out future homosexual relationships.
Heero's socialization experiences might have shaped this desire, but not his consequent adult sexual orientation. His sexual identity remains unresolved and this lack of clear sexual orientation manifests in bisexual tendencies. There's also indication of aggressive sexual behavior, common among sexually and emotionally abused males. The fact that Heero has experienced male-on-male sexual assault as a preteen, as well as rape a year ago, is crucial to this analysis. A diagnosis of Rape Trauma Syndrome is inconclusive at this point, since symptoms overlap with active and established PTSD, although RTS could have played a part in Heero's major PTSD relapse in AC 202. His aggressive sexual tendencies were intensified as an attempt to reestablish normalcy of sexual experience and regain control after experiencing sexual assault.
Cultural stereotypes associating victimization with femininity and norms of male socialization have forced Heero to deny or minimize his past experiences of victimization and their subsequent pain and suffering, thus exacerbating symptoms and hampering recovery. Additionally, history of violence and continuous exposure to it has impaired Heero's reintegration into society. An extensive mental health treatment is necessary for rehabilitation, yet Heero refused to seek treatment before AC 202 and only sought it upon his daughter's death. He admits to have cried for the first time when he realized that he was about to lose his daughter during the DC Incident. News of her accidental death two weeks later has elicited severe emotional distress, physically manifested in congestive heart failure during hospitalization for extensive injuries suffered during the DC Incident.
Following his daughter's untimely and tragic death, Heero was overtaken with grief and finally obliged his superiors' request to seek counseling under the care of Dr. D. Wright at Preventer North American HQ.
As noted in Wright's notes, pathological patterns of defective parenting displayed by his caregivers have passed down trans-generationally to Heero. He was unable to provide consistent care because he had never received it himself, and chose to disassociate from his daughter's life (same might apply to romantic and sexual relationships). He resented being forced into fatherhood, which clashed with subconscious desires from early childhood, resulting in self-hatred regarding his conflicted aversion from parenthood.
Hence, the moment of his daughter's death was cataclysmic, precipitating distorted reasoning, overwhelming of the nervous system, dissociation, and a conditioned fear response. Aversive stimuli (self-hatred and terror) were paired with a neutral stimulus (seasonal changes typical of the holidays) and dissociated procedural memories are now regularly triggered in December, bringing back an array of traumatic events associated directly or indirectly with the holiday season.
Heero reenacts the original death of his mother, as well as of his daughter, by breaking up any personal ties he had formed at the time. His increased aggressiveness and apathy around the time of the dissociative episodes is subconsciously utilized to ensure this breakup. Additionally, Heero experiences traumatic reenactment somatically in the form of severe insomnia and addictive tendencies (smoking, drinking), and behaviorally in the form of intrusive thoughts, flashbacks, severe panic disorder and uncontrollable reenactments.
On a side note: a pre-existing conditioned fear response has also been observed and reported by the patient, who is aware of his programming but is helpless against it. Conditioned since childhood to respond to the sound his superior's metal-clawed hand, Heero reacts to the creaking sound of a metal claw opening and closing with irrational, paralyzing fear which elicits total obedience. The conditioned fear coincides substantially with active PTSD and anxiety disorder. Extinction of CFR requires an additional treatment plan to help rid patient from current programming. Further TR treatment could aid in actively unlearning the fear.
Heero's ongoing depressive symptoms include generally feeling down with anhedonia – nothing is ever enjoyable. Symptoms worsen as the holidays approach. Heero has had difficulty falling asleep for the past two months. This has significantly decreased his total sleep time and lead to daytime fatigue and deterioration of cognitive function. He admits a recent change in appetite and poor concentration. Despite past suicide attempts he claims that he has no future suicide plans. Although he no longer actively seeks it, Heero still views death as a welcomed release and will no longer fight for survival.
Dr. Wright had prescribed medication to battle PTSD, depression, anxiety and insomnia symptoms, yet a psychological treatment plan was never implemented. It is the firm belief of this therapist that only full and uninhibited disclosure would lead to an effective treatment plan. Even delayed disclosure will serve to moderate mental illness symptoms and reduce the likelihood of further victimization. Though many barriers to disclosure exist in multiple domains, an initial treatment plan has been established and implemented to dissolve these barriers.
Treatment Plan – Reevaluation:
Given the patient's complex HPI, a successful trea—
The typing stopped. A knock on the door drew Dr. Sloan's attention from his computer monitor. He looked up at his office door. The clock on the wall above it showed 15:00 PM and the date display read December 25. The door opened, drawing his attention again, and Relena Darlian peeked inside.
"Doctor?" she asked hesitantly, her eyes searching the room until she found him. She opened the door further and stood at the doorway. "Is this a bad time?"
"Senator Darlian," Dr. Sloan greeted and minimized the word processor window. Getting up, he gestured her to enter. "Please – come in."
Relena nodded gratefully and stepped into the spacious office, closing the door behind her.
"I wasn't sure you'd be here today," she admitted apologetically. The older man took off his golden-framed eyeglasses and wiped them clean with a flannel cloth resting in a case on his desk. He seemed just as tired as she felt.
"I can't say the wife is happy about it," he muttered, sighing; "but work comes first, I'm afraid." He placed his glasses back on, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, and looked sharply at Relena.
The young senator smiled back halfheartedly. "Yes... I know what that's like," she mumbled and Sloan nodded in understanding. He gestured at the sofa by the window.
"Please, have a seat," he offered. "Would you like some tea?"
"Yes, please," she mumbled and settled on the sofa. She turned to look out the large panoramic window overlooking Lower Manhattan. Most of the city was hidden in thick white fog. It was a snowy Christmas Day, quite rare for New York City. It was beautiful.
There was a tea set on the coffee table between the sofa and Dr. Sloan's chair. He poured her a steaming cup, added some sugar and handed her the beverage. She looked at the teacup pensively for a moment, before nodding in thanks and accepting the drink. The hesitant pause was a stupid habit. Ever since she had been duped by terrorist drugging her cup of tea all those years ago, during the Marimeia Uprising, she has had some difficulty accepting tea from strangers. Heero had taught her what kind of warning signs she should look for – promising that if she followed his teaching she'd reduce the risk by at least 75% – but the hesitation always remained. She did her best to ignore it, giving people the benefit of the doubt even though she knew Heero would consider that as sheer foolishness. Well, he was the one to talk! Heero had walked knowingly into a trap laid out for him by some psychopath...
She sighed and leaned back into the sofa, taking a small sip, testing the beverage and waiting to see if it would cause any suspicious reactions. She could feel Dr. Sloan's scrutinizing gaze. Being a trained observer of human behavior, she had no doubt that he was already taking mental notes about her wary mannerism.
"What can I do for you?" he asked kindly nonetheless.
She placed the cup of tea on the table and slumped tiredly against the sofa, looking down at her lap. She straightened a few folds creasing her tailored pants, running her hand over them nervously a couple of times.
"I was thinking I might take you up on that offer," she finally said and turned to look out the window; "...to talk."
"Of course," he agreed compassionately; "What's on your mind?"
She ironed the wrinkles on her dress pants again, staring at them numbly while searching for words.
"I assume that you're up to speed regarding the Redeemer investigation?" she finally asked, looking up at the doctor.
He nodded in confirmation. "Yes, of course," he said; "Agent Shaw was here this morning. Is this about last night's call?"
She bowed her head down again, unable to look him in the eye. "You've heard?"
"Only that there was another call," Sloan elaborated; "Any luck with the trace?"
She shook her head. "Nothing yet," she exhaled with a sigh. "We're still waiting."
"I see."
For a while, Relena stared quietly at her black high heel shoes. They were her favorite pair, the most comfortable of all her shoes. She noted that the leather at the tip was beginning to wear, it was gray and faded. She will have to throw them away soon...
"What did Heero say?" Sloan's careful question interrupted her trivial musing. She looked up, studying the man quietly for a moment. He had the pleasant, trustworthy face of an intellectual, well-read, scholar. His features seemed harmless, demure, if not for the hard, calculated and well-reserved look in his eyes. He looked like someone who's been exposed to a fair share of horrors, not surprising considering he treated Preventer agents on a regular basis. He was probably well-versed in many complex and sensitive issues the agents around him dealt with, which put him in a unique position to help. She wondered if Heero had made the same assessment when he first started meeting with Sloan. It had taken him a long while to cooperate with Dr. Wright back in DC, but eventually the man had gained Heero's trust. It must have been hard for him to change psychiatrists. She had a feeling that Sloan has never enjoyed the trust and compliance Heero had offered Wright. Still, she hoped that he had been willing to help, as much as Heero had let him.
"I'm sure that being Heero's therapist you know things," she finally spoke; "and I'm aware of doctor-patient confidentiality," she added somberly and fixed her firm blue eyes on Sloan; "but there's also a matter of national security, so before I say anything, I need to know... how much you know."
Dr. Sloan leaned back into his leather chair, crossed his legs and nodded sternly. "If you're talking about DC," he said, looking at her firmly; "then I know."
Relena nodded in understanding. She cast her gaze back down.
"I'm also aware of a few more personal issues..." Sloan continued more softly; "as I'm sure you've taken under advisement when you came here."
She nodded again, staring at her shoes. "Yes," she mumbled. "I figured that much." She looked up at him again. "I hope this means that Heero talked to you. That he... that he was at least... trying, that he hasn't given up yet."
"You know I can't comment about that," Sloan reminded her gently. "But please... what's on your mind, Senator?"
Relena inhaled a deep, shaky breath, mustering the strength to speak.
"I knew they did horrible things to him, but..." she paused, shaking her head helplessly; "God..." she moaned, burying her face in both hands; "I can't even say it..."
Sloan waited patiently. She sniffled quietly and looked up, resting her hands down on her lap again. Her bright blue eyes shone with tears.
"Last night... he... he told me... he..." Her tears overflowed and she closed her eyes sadly, carefully wiping the lingering drops from her mascara-enhanced eyelashes. She exhaled shakily, struggling to keep talking. She couldn't bear to look at the doctor, so she kept staring at her shoes through tearful, blurry, eyes.
"They... they raped him..." she whispered brokenly; "He... he never... I didn't know."
Sloan nodded grimly. "Male rape is the least reported type of crime," he informed her; "The shame is too great. Most cases go unreported."
Relena looked up again. "You mean you didn't know?" she asked fearfully, tormented by the idea that she has revealed something Heero hadn't been willing to share even with his therapist. She couldn't shake off the dreadful feeling that she was betraying him by speaking to Sloan.
"I'm not at liberty to say," the doctor replied quietly. "But I am not surprised," he added, maybe just to soothe her anxiety for exposing such a private wound. Now the whole damn CID probably knew about it, or at least the people involved in the case and in charge of tapping her phone. How could he possibly look them in the eye again? That is, if he ever came back alive...
Relena bowed her head down sadly, wiping the rest of her tears away.
"I don't think he even told Doctor Wright," she admitted; "and he... Heero had really opened up to him. I... I don't know where he would be if not for that man."
Sloan nodded grimly; his expression was stony, unreadable all of a sudden.
"Why do you think the Redeemer wanted Heero to tell you about the rape?" he asked and Relena turned to gaze out the window again. It was snowing.
"I don't know..." she mumbled quietly, on the verge of tears; "to hurt me perhaps?" she ventured a guess; "Maybe to hurt Heero by hurting me..." She bowed her head down sadly. "Maybe it's a part of his game... Maybe he was trying to scare Heero into thinking I'd leave him if I knew... that I'd be appalled by him. He begged me not to leave him... kept apologizing... God... He thinks he's at fault..." she wept, shaking her head miserably. "Why would he think that I'd... He knows me better than that..."
Sloan listened quietly, giving her time to compose herself.
"Heero didn't want to say it..." Relena added in a shaky whisper; "That psycho tortured the words out of him... But he should have told me. He shouldn't have had to hurt alone... he should have known I'd..." she sighed and bowed her head down, shaking it. "After all this time he still believes he has to keep things from me... that I won't be able to handle his horrors." She looked up at Sloan again, smiling hopelessly. "But the truth is I've been handling them for almost ten years now... he just doesn't realize it."
Sloan nodded thoughtfully. Relena cast her gaze back down, sighing.
"Have you told Duo?" the doctor asked after some time.
Relena looked up, mortified. She shook her head firmly. "No... God, no... I don't even know where he is. He took off yesterday. The wait made him a little crazy... He never struck me as the sitting-around-and-waiting kind of guy. He differs from Heero in so many ways..."
"And once you'll find him, will you tell him about the call?"
"I have to tell him," she said decisively; "But I can't tell him what Heero said. I'm not even sure I should have told you..." She heaved a weary sigh and leaned back into the sofa. She began fumbling with her fingers.
"Duo has a certain image of Heero in his head... I can't be the one to ruin that. Heero would never forgive me," she explained.
"What kind of image?" Sloan questioned carefully.
She shrugged helplessly. "One that keeps his love alive... one that he keeps telling himself is the real thing. It's something that helps him cope with losing Heero to me, I guess. Keeps him going... Makes him feel worthier of Heero... I can't take that away. Duo has convinced himself that he's the only one who really sees Heero... the only one who truly understands him."
"And you disagree?"
"No... not entirely," she sighed; "I'm sure that there are sides of Heero only someone like Duo could understand," she reasoned, staring numbly at her fingers. "There are things Heero has probably shown only to him... sides of him only Duo knows... but there are also things he only shows me."
"What kind of things?"
She sighed forlornly. "Fragile things... things he can't show anyone else," she mumbled; "I think he was also trying to keep that perfect image in Duo's head. It... It helped him keep strong, somehow. He saw his strong side in Duo and his... his weakness in me. He divided his demons between the two of us, never really dealing with anything all the way through. It's his way of avoiding the real issue..."
"Which is?" Sloan arched an eyebrow.
Relena cast her gaze down again, exhaling sadly. "How to live with himself... facing his flaws and strengths, his sins and virtues as a whole... Coming to terms with who he is... I think he'd rather surrender to the darkness inside of him than try to understand it. Duo calls it his 'ugly'... I guess that's true. There's a lot of ugliness to accept... but there's a lot of beautiful too. I think that's why Duo feels resentful towards me... for robbing him of a chance to see it for himself."
"That is very insightful of you," Sloan agreed; "Bouncing between the two of you was his way of coping and with Duo out of the picture..."
"I wasn't enough," she concluded, sighing. "Yes... I know. It was like he had lost a part of himself. Only the fragile remained... eating away at him. I couldn't keep him strong. I broke him..."
"And you believe Duo can save him?"
Her eyes watered again and she sniffled quietly, fighting back the tears. "I hope so..." she mumbled and took a deep breath, struggling to compose herself. She turned to face the window and gazed at it thoughtfully for a long while.
"He should have told me about the rape..." she moaned sorrowfully, still facing the window; "It wouldn't have made him any uglier... not to me. He shouldn't have had to deal with that pain alone." She turned back to Sloan, her shoulders slumping tiredly. "It would have saddened me, but I wouldn't have been appalled."
"Maybe he was trying to keep a certain image in your head as well," the doctor suggested softly. "Perhaps he feared he'd tarnish the purity of that image if he told you about the rape."
"He did what he had to do to keep Lizzie alive... I can only love him for it more, never less." She cast her gaze down sadly, sighing. "Maybe he was too angry with me to talk... too hurt. After we lost Elizabeth he... he pulled away... more than ever. I let him... I never insisted that he'd talk to me... I let him slip away."
The doctor's expression softened with compassion. "You felt you deserved it," he said; "that's understandable. You were both hurting."
She nodded, sniffling, and wiped away her tears.
Sloan bent forward, offering her a tissue. "Do you still love him, Relena?" he asked as he leaned back into his seat.
She nodded, sniffling, wiping the smeared mascara under her eyes. "With all my heart..." she mumbled despairingly; "I know I shouldn't... I've always known that I'd be better off if I moved on, but... my heart never listened to reason. Not when it comes to Heero."
Dr. Sloan nodded thoughtfully. "We like to believe that it's our hearts that choose for us, but the heart is just an organ pumping blood," he said; "Love is in the brain," he explained; "it's all about chemical reactions and brain mechanisms that shape our minds since prehistoric times."
"You sound just like him..." Relena muttered; "Heero's need for constant reasoning always drove me nuts," she sighed; "he never could just surrender to impulse... not with me, at least. Not since the war ended."
Sloan smiled respectfully, nodding. "Sexual desire also stems from the brain," he explained; "it is often the first step towards romantic love, but not necessarily," he added. "The sex-drive, romantic love and attachment are primal mechanisms that have evolved to motivate us to seek sexual union, reproduce, focus on a certain partner and stick with him or her long enough to raise a child."
"You're talking about a healthy human being," she interjected; "a normal person. There is nothing normal about Heero."
"Perhaps," Sloan agreed; "But the same set of rules always apply. Heero's past experiences may be abnormal, but his reactions to them fall well within the boundary of what one would expect them to be. Heero is only human, and none of us can fight chemistry. Romantic love – that intense energy we devote to focus our attention and cravings on a certain partner – is associated with high dopamine levels in the brain. And since elevated dopamine levels also rise when experiencing thrill, danger and hyperactivity, it's quite often that we find ourselves falling in love with someone we've experienced those sensations with."
"Like combat," she deduced, sighing. "That was something he experienced with Duo... not with me."
"And that might explain his strong attachment to Duo," the doctor suggested; "but I am talking about you, why you fell in love with whom you believe is the wrong person."
"I fell for him just because he thrilled me?"
"Initially, yes," he agreed; "Falling in love affects our brains just as an acute cocaine injection would, and it's just as addictive. You were hooked... and you still are. Much like recovered addicts, you'll always crave this drug."
Relena scoffed dismissively. "Your approach is certainly more clinical than my regular therapist," she remarked, amused. "Are all psychiatrists like that?"
Dr. Sloan smiled politely. "We might differ from psychologists, yes."
"So what possible reason Heero had to fall for me? I certainly wasn't as thrilling as Duo. I wasn't as dangerous... not even close."
"Thrill doesn't necessarily entail danger," Sloan pointed out; "given Heero's complex history, it's not surprising that he could find even the most benign to be stimulating... especially the benign, even. Rest assured that he has his reasons for loving you. You've offered him a lot, Relena, I assure you, but I cannot discuss it. I've already said too much."
She nodded in understanding. "Yes, of course," she mumbled. "It doesn't matter anyway... he fell out of love with both of us."
"That's also chemical," Sloan explained; "You shouldn't blame yourself," he added. "You see, low serotonin levels are crucial in enabling the brain to produce high dopamine levels, which help us fall in love and maintain our attachment to a single person long enough to psychologically attach."
She looked at him, frowning.
"Some researchers maintain that taking serotonin-enhancing antidepressants – such as the SSRI scripts he's been on for quite some time – can potentially dampen feelings of romantic love and attachment. The medication that keeps him stable and functioning may very well have jeopardized his ability to fall in love and maintain a stable, long-term partnership."
"It sounds rather simplistic," she groused.
"Sex, love and attachment are just another motivational drive system in our brains," Sloan justified; "a mechanism designed to ensure the continuation of the species. We enjoy making more out of it, but in the end that's all it is... chemical reactions and interactions."
"I refuse to believe that," she insisted.
"Most people do... but fact remains that the three distinct yet interrelated brain systems for courtship, mating, reproduction and parenting can become active in any sequence: Some suddenly fall in love with someone they've had casual sex with, some begin their relationship with feelings of friendship and attachment that metamorphoses into romantic passion and some can even feel deep attachment for a long-term spouse while they feel romantic passion for someone else and even while they feel sexual attraction for an array of others. It's a very flexible system of complex mechanisms, which is why these dynamic interactions are affected by any medication that changes the chemical checks and balances in the brain. Half of the population is on some kind of serotonin-enhancing antidepressants... One must bear in mind the broad and possibly deleterious effects of these medications."
"And you do?" she asked, concerned. "You're the one who prescribed him with the medication he's been on. Are you saying that you're the one to blame that he cannot love me?" she taunted, smiling weakly.
Sloan smiled back, recognizing the good-hearted humor. "That's one way of looking at it," he joked; "but like I said... Heero's case is a bit more complicated than that. I can't discuss it, although I assure you that we are... were... working through it. The prescriptions he's on are necessary at this stage of the treatment."
She nodded in understanding. Heaving a despaired sigh, she turned to look out the window again. "Do you think he'll ever be capable of loving again?" she whispered sadly.
"That depends on whether or not he'll be able to recover from his depression."
She nodded pensively, still staring outside. "And then he'll finally choose?" She turned back to face Sloan.
"Could be," he said; "It's up to him," he reminded her; "Are you still waiting for him to choose, Relena?"
"I'm always waiting for him..." she murmured, casting her eyes down sadly.
"And if he chooses Duo?"
She stared at her hands, fumbling with her fingers again. "Actually... I'm hoping he would..."
"Why is that?"
Relena turned back to face the window. She watched the snow quietly for a moment before giving her reply: "Because Duo will keep him strong... keep him safe. He won't need medication... he'll have his drug, as you call it. He'll have Duo and... He'll live... love... again..." she mumbled, gazing outside wretchedly. "Duo won't let him break like I did..."
Dr. Sloan nodded gravely and leaned back into his chair. He pushed his golden eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose, concealing a knowing smile.
*     *     *
Duo's small hotel room was a mess. Clothes, linens and pillows lay discarded on the brown-carpeted floor, along with empty beer bottles and snack-wrappers. A chair had been tossed aside in a tantrum, one of its legs now broken. In a late afternoon hour, the room stood silent and empty; not a trace of its demolisher. Outside the large window by the bed, the sun was setting behind a forest of skyscrapers, painting the usually gloomy and cloudy skies with softer, warmer, hues.
The bathroom door was wide open. A column of bright fluorescent light tumbled onto the floor, cutting through the darkness ruling the rest of the hotel room. Duo stood in front of the polished dark-wood vanity, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. His long hair was badly disheveled; his braid almost completely loose. His unshaven features were pale and distraught; his eyes wide, red and puffy... haunted and hollow. He stared harshly at his mirror-image, lips pressed tightly.
He stood wearing a pair of black jeans and naked from the waist up. His taut, muscular chest was just the right amount of hairy. It heaved up and down with his panting, angry, breath. The silver cross pendant he wore from a chain around his neck rested over the center of his nude chest. Both his fists were clenched as he stood leaning forward against the bathroom vanity, staring at his reflection in the eye. He was clutching a pair of scissors in his right hand.
He had trashed his hotel room in a fit of blind rage his shrink would probably blame on what she liked to call his destructive Outer Child: a brutal manifestation of all of his unresolved heartbreak, loss and abandonment issues. According to her, those issues made for a perfect breeding ground to this so-called complex. She had babbled on and on about this damn child until Duo even named him – Outer. And Outer's primary role was to defend against the insecurity and fear seeping out of the many wounds bleeding in his soul. His most automatic, knee-jerking defense mechanisms – especially the maladaptive ones – were driven by this out-of-control child.
Outer took everything to the extreme: sleeping, watching TV, drinking, spending money, cluttering, procrastinating, fucking... whatever. Nothing was ever moderate, which was why he could barely recall leaving the church after that horrendous phone call and returning to the hotel where he had apparently wracked his room. He only remembered how drained he felt afterwards, once Outer retreated and left him facing the mess he had made, as always.
If Dr. Gavin would have seen him right now, she'd probably freak out and re-prescribe him with an array of antipsychotic agents, antidepressants and mood stabilizers. She insisted that in order to break his most deeply entrenched self-defeating patterns, he must heal his "abandonment wounds", but he refused to participate in her psychoanalyzing-bullshit-quest to "heal his soul", so the meds had to suffice. He had promised that he'd take whatever she prescribed, but he had stopped taking the pills soon enough, resenting the mind-numbing effects of the medication. He would rather risk the destructive effect of his condition than lose his mind to the dullness of some psychoactive drug or another. They were supposed to keep his Borderline Personality Disorder in check – to make him feel stable and in control of his emotions, perceptions, thinking and behavior – but he didn't like the way the SSRIs dulled everything... taking away the extreme. He didn't feel like himself when his senses were numbed and everything mellowed down to this boring, monotonous existence in which nothing mattered anymore. He preferred the pain, the rage... the danger of walking a fine line between sanity and madness.
He considered BPD to be a blessing in disguise. Impulsivity and instability were his way of life; they've helped him through the war, keeping him alive by keeping him on his toes, focusing all of his attention and energy on achieving his goals. He rolled with the punches, always playing hardball, because that was the only way he could justify living, no matter how much it hurt. He was aware that BPD was probably why he was so fucking obsessed with Heero, idolizing a man who had done nothing but hurt and abandon him... causing him more stress and grief than elevation. BPD could do that, he was told, and he feared that if he took the meds Gavin prescribed him, his feelings for Heero would change. And as much as he often longed to rid himself of this insane and unhealthy obsession over a guy who had disappointed him in the cruelest way by taking him for granted, he could not live without the hope of patching things up with Heero one day, so... no meds.
The only time he was willing to take a damn prescription was back when Joe died and he had trouble getting back to work. He wanted Gavin to give him something for the anxiety, but she refused to prescribe him with any anxiolytic medication, claiming that antianxiety agents clashed with the other drugs he had already been prescribed. Apparently, combining the two types of medication has a poisonous effect on the mind and body. It didn't matter that he assured her again and again that he wasn't taking any other damn drugs – foolishly admitting to neglecting to take the SSRIs she herself had prescribed – but she refused to risk it. Stupid bitch; no wonder he went straight back into the habit, turning to illegal substances again. Joe would have been furious... but he was dead.
Soon Heero would be dead too. There was only one day left before Christmas was over and they'd reach the Redeemer's deadline... and it was pretty damn obvious who Heero was going to choose.
Last night's phone call still echoed in Duo's ear. Heero's aggrieved, gasping cries to Relena kept playing in his head in an endless loop. The blatant shame in Heero's voice, the uninhibited fears of her abhor and abandonment laced into his terrified weeping... they all twisted and knotted inside of him, wrenching his heart, crushing it. He couldn't stop thinking about it. In his pain, Heero had turned to Relena – to the only person who's been there for him constantly through the years. It was only natural, logical. Duo had no right to complain. He was nowhere around for the past eight years, foolishly waiting for the problem to either resolve itself or go away; stupidly believing that Heero was still untouchable, unbreakable. But just because he hadn't been able to breach past the fortified walls Heero had built didn't mean that in over eight years they won't go tumbling down anyway. God knows that he had had his fair share of meltdowns over those past eight years, suffering heartaches over things he had sworn to never again to experience, yet he had let himself get attached anyway: to Joe, to Tomás, Father Dixon... even God.
The Church he had shunned for years became important again somewhere along the way, right along with the God it represented and a controversial old man who claimed to be representing that God. Duo had thought that he had lost his faith on the charred steps of the Maxwell Church decades ago, but at some point between the end of the war and life on L2, the faith Father Maxwell had so desperately tried to bestow upon him has found him again. He would have liked to blame it on Dixon, but that would be wrong. Dixon never tried to force his faith on him; the old man was just trying to atone for whatever sins he felt he must have committed against Father Maxwell, the Sisters and the children, when leaving the church mere days before the massacre. It was a classic case of survivor's guilt. Dixon took him under his wing when he returned to L2 because it was the only way to make up for choosing the road not taken by Father Maxwell. Come to think of it, maybe – like Dixon – all he really wanted to was to make it up to Father Maxwell too...
They said that there were no atheists in foxholes; that all soldiers in combat were "converted" under fire, yet Duo didn't find his faith during wartime. While most people tended to seek a divine power when facing an extreme threat, he had plunged into it head-first, fearing nothing because he didn't believe in some Deity that would deliver retribution. His new life on L2 changed that. The scum he saw on the street as a cop made him turn his eyes up to the heavens in hopes to find something purer... something good to contrast all the bad. Thus faith was ignited.
Joe was a firm believer (for all the good that had done him...). Perhaps he had spent too many hours sitting in an unmarked patrol car with his partner, talking for hours on end because there was nothing better to do during a stakeout, until the ranting started to make sense. Joe was ex-military. He had seen enough horrors to make anyone turn a blind eye to God, yet the gruesome experience of war didn't destroy his faith, only made it stronger. There was something very comforting about Joe's faith, something irresistible he had grown attached to despite himself. It was hard not to get attached to Joe. The older man had taken him into his home, made him feel part of the family. He had busted his ass out of trouble on the streets in and out of work-hours. He had bailed him out of bad dates with scums and pervs he really shouldn't have messed with while being too high to handle it; he had forced him to kick the habit and dragged his sorry ass back onto the wagon whenever he had slipped and returned to doing drugs. Joe had saved him from an array of bad decisions and nasty situations, keeping him off the path to self-destruction he was always so keen on hurtling into. Losing Joe had been hard... even harder than losing his religion on the steps of a burnt church.
Then there was Tomás... the only pure thing in the swamp of evil that was his life. He did his best to protect that innocent pureness, doing what he could to keep the boy off the streets so he won't be brought into the fold of one street gang or another. He wouldn't exactly call what he had with the boy a relationship per-say – it was more like taking in a stray puppy every now and then – but it was something. Caring for the boy gave him comfort, and very few things did. Failing to save the child from the brutal trauma he had suffered when forced to witness his mother being raped was a sin as unforgivable as his absence from the church on the day of the massacre; just as sinful as failing to get Joe the help he needed on time and just as horrible as failing to get Joe's son, Jesse, out of The Pit on time. Unlike them, Tomás might still be alive, but the horror he bore witness to has scarred him irreparably for life, slowly killing him inside. No matter how hard he tried to intervene on behalf of goodness, it was never enough. Death was still the only deliverance he could offer... the God of Death was all he could ever be.
Duo glared angrily at his reflection, accusation shining hatefully in his cobalt blue eyes. In his mind's eyes, he could see the words that were projected on the screen back at St. Peter's Church: 'Imagine God speaks to you tonight. What are you afraid He might ask you to do?'
The answer was clear to him now. There was only one way to break the cycle of endless failures and make certain that Heero won't be his next victim, the next person he will fail and leave to die because of his irrefutable inability to come through for the ones he cared about... and that was to step aside. Just like Agent Malone had already said: he had to step out of the court before he dropped the ball... again.
Taking that call had been a mistake. He should have left the playing field when he was told. At least that way he wouldn't have been toyed with again; he wouldn't have been forced to betray Heero by eavesdropping on such a terrible and intimate secret. He had played right into the Redeemer's move, helping the psycho get a step closer to checkmate.
Well, no more. If that's what it would take to save Heero, then he was finally ready to throw in the towel. The ball was in Heero's court now... come what may. He was letting go – of the church, the war, Joe, Heero... everything. He was ready to put himself in God's hands.
Duo clutched the scissors tighter in his hand. His jaw was set and clenched firmly as he reached his other hand up behind his head and grabbed the base of his thick braid. Keeping his hard blue eyes fixed squarely on their reflection in the mirror, Duo raised the scissors up... and began chopping. In less than a dozen seconds, he had sliced through the thick tresses of hair at the base of his neck, serving the long braid from his head. He threw it into the sink.
What remained of his spiky and freshly cut hair swayed forward once he let go. It dangled around his head in long messy layers reaching down to his shoulders, rock-star style. He reached to open the faucet. Using two hands, he cupped some water in his palms and applied it to the mess he had created around his head, slightly dampening the hair. He brushed it back with his fingers, raking them through the thick strands and tucked the hair behind his ears. He then splashed some water on his face, reached for a razor and cream and proceeded shaving the days'-worth of dark stubble bristling his face. Once done, he washed the residue shaving cream off his smooth cheeks and looked at the mirror again. A new person was looking back at him from the other side... but not quite yet.
He gripped the cross dangling over his naked chest and yanked the chain, hard. It snapped, torn from his neck. He threw it into the sink as well. The plain silver cross landed on the snake of hair that used to be his precious braid, now soiled with bristly foam. Lastly, he pulled his cellphone out of his black jeans' pocket and threw it along with the rest. He snatched a black sweater off the hanger behind the door, and stomped out of the bathroom.
*     *     *
The thin strips of light framing the boarded window were gradually dimming. He had been staring at them for what must have been hours, probably since high-noon, because back then they had still glowed brightly. He could barely make out the window frame anymore, but continued staring at it dully with numb, glassy blue eyes; traumatized and dazed, his every nerve frayed. His body felt as deadened as his mind; he lay slumped heavily against the reclined chair, motionless and beat, covered by a coarse gray blanket. Beads of perspiration shone over his pale forehead, a low fever pulsating weakly in his bristly and hollow cheeks.
Left in the darkness, nothing but memories remained. They oozed in slow trickles out of the solid numbness filling his mind. Hazy images dripped along with the drugs leaking into his veins through the IV line: a drop of pink, and then a memory – vague and distorted, but enough to stir him from his eerie semi-aware state. They were spontaneous memories, sporadic and unrelated: like the first time he saw the ocean when descending towards the Earth to commence Operation Meteor – it was so fucking big and blue. That was one of many firsts, like the first time he had tasted chocolate when he stole some from a gas-station convenience store in a moment of irrational hunger and despair. It was a pack of Kit-Kat – the first thing he had eaten in days – and it was so fucking good, a reward for surviving through a horrendous week of living on the run from OZ, hiding in the woods injured and hungry, living on hair-trigger reaction only.
He recalled the first time he had fired a gun, closing his eyes tightly when he pulled the trigger. He was little and the pistol was so heavy. The recoil was a shock, he had dropped the gun. Odin barked at him madly, but he didn't cry. He never cried, not even when he had made his first kill. It wasn't easy, but he did it. He did it because Odin told him to. He was a good boy; he did whatever he was told, no matter how difficult. Odin promised that it'll get easier each time, but it never did. It didn't matter. Something inside of him vanished with each kill... until there was nothing left. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing got any easier either. Dr. J broke both his hands, crushing his fingers with his metal claw. There wasn't a bone in his body that hasn't been broken at one point or another. He was then forced to disassemble and reassemble his handgun. It hurt so much... so much... but he did it.
"Do it again," J ordered afterwards, and he did.
"Do it again," he commanded, and he did.
"Again," J said coldly, and he did as told.
He couldn't feel his hands anymore.
"Again."
He disassembled and reassembled the gun until his broken fingers could no long function, and then again and again... till J was satisfied. He was never satisfied...
J wanted him to kill a dog – a puppy. He shot it. It died with a short wail. He watched it die, and felt nothing. Retraining was a success, J declared. He was asked to kill another one, and he did. He did anything J asked him to do. He killed people too... five of them. J said they were traitors to The Cause and he was to be their firing squad, their executioner. He watched them die and felt nothing. J was finally pleased. He told him to clear the bodies. He brought them downstairs to be cremated. One man was still alive. He saw his hand twitch… heard him moaning weakly – he was incinerated alive! He didn't want to watch. The stench of burnt flesh was awful! He could still smell it... always burning in his nostrils. That man was burnt alive! He didn't want to watch... but he had no more will of his own. They took it away, and he couldn't take his eyes of the crematorium as the flames devoured that man alive...
They took everything away in Retraining, but Duo brought some of it back. He must have, because suddenly he wanted Duo... so badly. J wasn't pleased, but the urge was irresistible. That burn... it was different than the charred smell always stinging under his nose. It was a good burn... scary, which was good. He felt scared. He felt! The burning sensation scorched his chest, growing stronger, wilder... uncontainable. He couldn't fight it... and he took what he wanted. Just once, just that one time... and then the next... and the next... again and again because there was no one there to punish him for it; no one to bark at him if he made a mistake... no one to break his bones as a form of discipline. For once in his life he just... he just took what he wanted.
He remembered their first time, fucking on that ridiculously small and squeaky bed back at St. Gabriel's. That fire had run wild... bursting ferociously out of him until the room was filled with Duo's loud moaning. He had pounded Duo into the bed, moving fiercely like he could never get close enough to his heat. Duo had kicked and he had punched... fists grabbing and tugging at his hair, fingernails raking down his back while he thrashed wildly beneath him. The sound of Duo's hungry cries had drowned all reason... consuming him completely. He was giving someone pleasure, not just pain... it was uncanny, addictive... utterly blissful. They always knew how to show each other a good time... even during the worst of times. Good times and bad kept floating leisurely across the surface of his subconscious, like clouds drifting through the skies.
Blue skies, sparking ocean waves... He suddenly recalled a sunny day spent at a pristine strip of white sandy beach on the crystal clear turquoise blue waters of the North Atlantic Ocean; summertime at the Sanc Kingdom. The soft and warm sand under his bare feet... the sunshine washing over him after weeks of being held captive in a dark OZ cell... Oh, how good it felt to collapse against a soft, posh and freshly made bed!
He remembered the room Relena had given him at her boarding school after Quatre brought him to Sanc in the middle of the war; it was way too lavish for his taste. He had slept for days, recovering from grueling weeks of being held by the enemy on the moon, forced to fight for OZ before managing to escape, being recaptured and experimented on with the ZERO System, barely escaping with his sanity intact, fleeing to Earth and ending up fighting as a mercenary for the Treize Faction Militia and nearly losing his life in a hopeless losing battle against a battalion of Mobile Dolls just outside of Sanc. The unexpected R&R he had enjoyed once he had arrived at Relena's homeland included the best damn sleep he had had in his life; nothing has yet to compare.
Relena, of course, became worried when he hadn't come out of his room for two and a half days. She had checked on him a few times, disturbing his deep slumber for a brief moment. He could hear the door being unlocked from the outside, creaking softly as it was opened before she peeked into his room, watching him until she was certain he was still breathing, and then left quietly. On the third day, he could smell food: freshly-baked bread and pastry, strong coffee, bacon and eggs. She had stepped into his room and closed the door behind her, placing a tray of rattling dishes on the table by the bed. He pretended to be asleep, even though he had been awake since early morning. He just didn't feel like getting out of bed yet... it was such a comfortable bed...
He waited for Relena to leave the room, but she didn't. A sofa squeaked quietly as she settled on it and waited patiently. He dared a small peek behind half-lidded eyes, glancing at her through the shelter of his thick eyelashes. It was quite dark; though a dim halo of daylight filtered behind heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes obscuring a large window; it was just enough to illuminate the room faintly. Relena sat on the small double sofa next to the window, wearing pink/white/black school uniform and her hands folded over her lap as she stared down at her shoes... waiting. He realized that she wasn't going to leave.
Stifling a sigh, he sat up, the blanket falling down to his lap and revealing his filthy white undershirt. Avoiding her eyes, he reached for the tray. He could feel her eyes on him as he placed the tray over his lap, leaned into the headboard and picked up a small bun, nibbling on it quietly while staring dully at the messy bed sheets. He must have tossed and turned restlessly in his sleep, plagued by nightmares he could not recall for he had slept so deeply.
The fresh bread smelled and tasted wonderful, increasing his appetite. Realizing how hungry he was, he wolfed down the rest of the meal hastily. He finished by gulping the hot coffee, and slammed it back on the tray, releasing a content sigh now that his stomach was finally warm and full. He could feel her watching. Suddenly self-conscious, he reached carefully for a small bowl of fresh fruit salad, moving slower as he picked up a small fork. He ate the dessert more calmly, leaning casually against the headboard. When he dared a small glance in her direction, peeking behind unruly bangs, he caught her smiling, and frowned. He turned to face her, his expression stern, and her smile vanished, replaced by awkwardness. She cleared her throat, looking away uneasily.
"I've arranged for some clean clothes," she mumbled quietly, gazing at the closed curtains; "You can take a shower, if you want," she offered cautiously and it dawned on him that he must be absolutely reeking of filth. He hadn't bothered with a shower and just took his flight suit off before crawling into bed... three days ago. All he wanted was to sleep. Now he suddenly became aware of his own damn stench of sweat, grime, gunpowder and whatnot. He was sticky with perspiration, blood and smut. It was awful. He nodded, accepting her offer, and threw the covers aside to get out of bed.
When he returned to the room, showered, clean and dressed in a plain pair of white boxer shorts and tank top undershirt, his messy hair dripping wet, Relena was still waiting there. She had opened the curtains to let the soft daylight in. He noted that the room had an amazing ocean view. It was a tranquil and sunny day, flooding the grand dorm room with warm serenity. Relena had made his bed, replacing the sweaty and dirt-soiled sheets with fresh white linens. He stood by the open bathroom door, steam still coming out behind him, and stared at her strangely. He didn't know what to make of the whole situation. He was actually being cared for and it made him feel... awkward, out of place; like he wasn't even himself. He was never quite himself around her, at least not who he should be.
They stood at opposite sides of the room, simply staring at each other, until something changed. He wasn't sure what exactly. All he remembered for certain was that he had made the first move. Looking at Relena, suddenly it hit him that Duo had abandoned him on the moon. He escaped alone, while he had been away fighting for OZ against his will. He wasn't angry... he shouldn't be. Duo had done the reasonable thing. There were no strings attached when it came the two of them. Duo saw a chance and he took it... as he should have. The mission was all that mattered... right? No strings attached.
With Relena, however, there were so many strings. Too many. They were tangled all around him. He had felt their tug at that very moment, pulling him in. He stepped forward – marched briskly more like it – and in less than a second he had her pinned under him on the freshly-made bed, kissing her hungrily, one anxious hand sneaking fervently under her school blazer and blouse, tearing buttons open so he could cup her panting breasts. His other hand was already up her skirt, eager fingers carefully probing the deliciously warm wetness between her legs.
She had lost her virginity to him that day. He had taken what little innocence she had left, spiriting it away between fragranced white sheets while the warm ocean sun washed over their nude bodies. It was his first time with a girl and even years later he remembered every detail of it, especially how different it was compared to being with— compared to fucking Duo. There was a difference between the two; even as an inexperienced fifteen-year-old he could still recognize it. There was being with someone, and there was fucking someone. With Duo, there was never time to just... be; but with Relena he felt a kind of clam and tenderness he hadn't known with Duo.
Fucking Duo was like touching liberty, but sleeping with Relena was... peace. It was a different kind of pleasure; a mellow, slow-paced union of flesh that left time to exist in the moment, lingering long enough to feel the gratification and appreciation of the act. He wanted to thank her for taking him in, for lavishing him with care and affection, with simple indulgences he hadn't known before: like breakfast in a luxurious bed, luxury bed/bath sheets and most of all – a chance to rest and recuperate in peace. She had helped him find serenity and solace in times of unbearable uproar, granting him the simple yet elusive wish of a good night sleep when he was so terribly tired of all his scars.
No matter how haunted he felt – how broken, damaged or hollow – he could always come to her and just... sleep. One night, he had waited two hours in the rain outside her DC apartment until she finally came home from work. He hadn't slept in days; he couldn't sleep in his apartment after Elizabeth's death, so he came to her, miserable and dripping wet in the middle of the night, crying that he was so tired...
She had pulled him into her embrace, holding his cold wet body against her soft soothing warmth. She took him in and after a hot shower and clothes that just came out of the dryer she welcomed him into her bed, wrapping him in warmth and comfort until finally... he could rest. He wished he could crawl into her bed right now and just... sleep forever.
"I suppose that there are worse ways to go," Duo remarked nonchalantly, his husky voice speaking from the Shadows. "You've had far more gruesome death wishes, present one included..." he sniggered.
Heero turned his head slowly, away from the window. He stared at the Shadows numbly. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his arid mouth. He licked his chapped lips, but everything was so dry...
"Can you... get me some... more... water?" he asked hoarsely, barely finding a voice to speak with anymore. His throat was so parched...
"I would if I could, Heero," Duo muttered helplessly; "but I'm not really here, remember?"
"...yeah..." Heero sighed, closing his eyes tiredly; "I know..."
"The thirst won't kill you," Duo assured him; "He's been pumpin' ya with 'nough fluids to keep you alive."
"Yeah..." he agreed tiredly; "I think I wet myself..."
"You did," Duo mumbled sympathetically; "A number of times."
"How long... have I... been here..?"
"I've counted four sunrises and five sunsets," Duo said; "so I'm guessing... five days?"
Heero nodded slowly. It sounded about right. He was taken before Christmas... five days ago. Five days... Five days during which he's been forced to relive his difficult childhood, his horrendous training, the war, the museum... his daughter's death... all in under five days. Five days that Sloan has been reopening wounds and delving into his deepest scars. Five days and a lifetime of pain and suffering... it was too much, too fast. He was beat, overwhelmed and defeated. He stood divided, facing an impossible crossroad that would lead to his undoing either way. He didn't know which way to turn... he just wanted this terrible feeling to end...
"I don't feel so good..." he slurred miserably, moaning.
"That's because antibiotics and drugs don't mix," Duo reminded him, referring to the medication Sloan must have given him to fight the infection in his mouth where his tooth was extracted. "God only knows what else he's been feedin' ya... You're losing it... poisoned... dying."
"Yeah... probably..." he agreed, exhaling a sigh; "but I'm... I'm so... thirsty..."
"Dead men don't feel thirst," Duo pointed out.
"Must mean I'm not dead yet..." he replied ruefully.
"You're gonna be," Duo scoffed; "Seven people have already died on that chair... and you're next."
The autopsy reports came to mind; pictures of blue and mutilated corpses flashing in his head. None of the victims looked peaceful; they had died tortured and disgraced. Heero winced and turned the other way, opening his eyes. He stared at the window frame again, gaping at it desolately. It was getting dark.
"She'll be devastated," Duo whispered sadly; "you know that, right?"
His eyes watered with tears, flooded with anguish. "Yeah..." he mumbled, agreeing with Duo; "I know..."
"She really loves you. You were her first... that counts for something. There's a place in her heart that's always gonna be just for you. Corny, but true..."
"I know..." he mumbled resignedly; "I love her too... but he... he made me tell her... about... the museum..." he wept sorrowfully; "she knows..."
"She won't hold it against you," Duo promised.
"I know... but I... I didn't want her... to know..."
"If you don't want to hurt her then how about ditchin' the whole 'giving up without a fight' routine and doing sumthin' 'bout gettin' outta here?"
"Can't..." he shook his head, closing his eyes again; "Too... tired..."
Duo snorted rudely. "Cuz you don't care either way, do you?" he grumbled, disappointed. "You live on this fine line between life and death... standing on this ledge and waiting for a strong wind to sway you one way or the other. You either live or die – whatever... just as long as you don't have to choose which. The thing is that no matter what, life seems to choose you every single time..."
"Yeah..." Heero agreed jadedly; "looks... like it..."
"Yanno, some say survival is the punishment for leaving things left unsaid. God knows you got yourself plenty of that goin' around... It's only fitting that you die here, after he wrings every last bit of it outta you," Duo added somberly. "I bet you'll let him. You're dying to have him... redeem you. It's what you live for now... isn't it? Death."
"Stop trying... to... figure me... out..."
"Oh, I dun haftta," Duo chuckled darkly; "Seven people died just so he could figure you out. Bet he's gonna write this big fancy paper for some Goddamned academic journal... telling the world all about what makes a Gundam pilot tick. That's why he wants to get under your skin so bad, ain't it?"
"Could be..." Heero agreed weakly.
"I wouldn't be sayin' it if you didn't already think it," Duo said. "And you're just taking it lying down... That's a whole new level of pathetic, Heero. Da fuck you gave up the fight, huh? You useta go through fire and water for others... why not fight for yourself for a change?"
"There's... nothing left to... fight... for... I'm... burnt out..."
"Then choose me, Heero... Choose the fire. Reignite. You could never live without the fire... it's the heat that kept you strong, right? Kept you fighting... kept you going. You were born to live, to fight... to overcome. You're so Goddamn hot when you're alive... you're on fire. You fuck and fight like an animal... so fierce it's scary. When you live, you live so fucking intensely! Choose the heat again, Heero. Choose me. We'll burn together... living the only way we know how..."
He shook his head, biting down his lower lip, refusing to listen.
"Then choose her!" Duo exclaimed in frustration; "wrap yourself in that soft candy-cotton blanket that you yearn for so much and sleep for the rest of your life... but just choose life already! Get off the fucking ledge – live! Just... just pick one already! Choose... choose life. Don't just let it choose you – choose! Nothing fancy, just... life. With her, with me... alone... whatever... just don't let him win. You're better than that, Heero, you know that! I wouldn't be sayin' these things otherwise, right? You don't wanna let him win... not really. You're just tired... I know... but you've gotta live through this, Heero, please... Don't let him win. Don't go out like this..."
"He's already won, Duo..." Heero mumbled bleakly, his voice trembling with tears; "He didn't... didn't even have to... go through... all this... trouble. All those people... dead... He didn't have to... I was already... broken. I... He... he's already... won..."
"No, no!" Duo insisted; "You can't say that! You worked too damn hard to say it! Your wounds have healed, Heero, you're just seeing the scars. They'll always be a part of you, but the wounds are gone. Don't let that psycho fool you that they're still bleeding... they're not. The scars hurt. He dug into them and now they hurt, but that hurt is good. It reminds you of what you have to live for now... it's a reason to fight. You've come too far to just let go... Look at what you've overcome! Keep walking on the ledge, but don't fall, Heero... please."
"No..." he shook his head, weeping; "I give up... I want to fall... I want off this ledge, Duo!" he cried out desperately. "I just want it to end... Enough talking... the questions... I'm done... undone. I'm all undone... I can't do this again... I can't get up... can't... there's no point..."
"Fuck that!" Duo exclaimed, almost panicked; "Don't go down that bumpy road again – you hear! Cuz if you do, you'll fall... and you'll break... and then he'd really win. Don't go making that mistake again, Heero... prove him wrong. Prove yourself wrong. You've gotta have faith. Believe in yourself! Believe in yourself like you believe we believe in you. Keep up with that image you're always trying to project... you're good at that. You don't want to let us down again, right? So don't give up. Not this time... not until it's all over and we'll be there to pick up the pieces. Please, Heero... just a while longer."
"You won't come for me..." he sighed, shaking his head sadly; "And Relena... she... she can't pick up the pieces anymore... I'm all over the place... and she... she... I can't put her through this again... You won't come for me... you never do... you said so yourself..."
"Fuck that! I ain't sayin' anythin'!" Duo called out in frustration; "I'm not even real! You're talking to your own stubborn self! You're using my voice – mine – not hers! Doesn't that tell you something? Will you just listen to yourself already?! You don't want to die here! You're not ready to give up! You know you can get through this and you know why you should! You've made your choice... now step up and do what you gotta do!"
Heero sniffled, though his nose was still runny, and turned to face the Shadows again.
"You're right..." he mumbled dully; "I am ready... I... I'll choose now... I'll end this... make this... stop... the bleeding... it'll stop... I'll choose now, Duo... Tell him... please... that I... I'm ready... to end this..."
This time, Duo didn't retort with a spiteful answer. No more reassurances. Instead there was only silence. Heero lifted his head up a bit and looked around, searching the darkness. There was nothing, no one, there; not a sound. Duo had nothing more to say. He had retreated into the Shadows, awaiting his decision... his final choice.
Heero sighed and laid his head back against the reclined chair. There was nothing left of his mind or his soul. He returned to staring numbly at the fading frame of light around the closed window, waiting for his redeemer to come and put him out of his misery.
*     *     *

[i] SI/HI: Suicidal ideation/homicidal ideation
- 11
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- 13
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