Last Question

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DISCLAIMER: I. Do. Not. Own. Gundam. Wing. So. Just. Leave. Me. ALONE!!!!!! Oh, yeah. Jurie is MINE!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Don’t read if you’re too sensitive.

WARNING: 1xR, 2x1. Characters death, original character, POV, evil Duo (or is he...?).

Naomi

//flashback//


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LAST QUESTION

* * *

I’ve never visited my father’s grave. I don’t think I stepped three miles next to the place since the funeral. I was seven-years-old when he died. I remember, the casket, it was pure white, and it glistered in the sun. It was a sunny day, and I remember I was angry at the weather for being so cheerful. Here I lose the most important person in my life, and the sun is out and the birds are singing. It was such a beautiful day, the skies were so blue, not one cloud staining them.

But unlike the skies, everybody’s cloths were dark. Black. Like death. There were so many people in the funeral. People I didn’t even know. I don’t think my father knew them either. He was never a ‘people person’. No. My father was never like that. He was too shy, too introvert. But my mother, she knew a lot of people. She brought them all to the funeral, and then the wake. They talked about anything but my father in the wake. I was so angry with my mother. Even more than I was angry with Him. The one who took my father away from me.

Can you imagine, a seven-year-old boy, wearing his small black suit, standing in the corner of the room, in his father’s wake, and hearing nothing but politics? No one said a word about my father. My mother, she just kept laughing, as if flirting with all the VIPs around. If it weren’t for Them, I would hate that day as well. But no, They helped me. They knew my father and They loved him.

It was the blond one who had found me crying, sitting curled up by a tree, outside in the courtyard. He was so nice and he hugged me and soothed my tears. He took my hand and led me inside, to his friends. They were a small group of four- two other men and a woman. They said they were my father’s friends. I didn’t trust them at first. All of the other people said they were his friends, but they lied.

The blond one, I think his name was something in Arabic; he sat me down in the study and began telling me about my father. They all sat around me, exchanging stories about my dad. They had made me feel better. They told me of a different time, long before me, when he was still young, fighting along with them. They told m fat father had saved the world.

I was sure they made up the stories to make me feel better. Otherwise, why was that he was so brutally taken away from me? Who would kill someone so great? Someone who had saved the world? Why would anyone take my father away?

They said they knew him since he was fifteen. They said he was a soldier till seventeen. I’m eighteen today, and I’m gonna live longer than my father did. He died when he was merely twenty-five years old. So young, and he lived to do so much. I hope I can be half as good as he was.

I lost touch with those three young men. I lost touch with everything, really. My mom, she couldn’t give a shit about me. She never did. It was always my father who took care of me. He was always there for me, unlike her. She sent me to a boarding school after he died. I knew she wanted to do it anyway, but when he was alive, he didn’t let her. He wanted me near. He always wanted me near. He loved me so much; it hurts to even think about it now.

It’s funny. It’s always the small things that remind me of him. I drink my coffee and suddenly remember how he hated coffee and always made himself a of hof hot chocolate, adding some cinnamon to it. Or how he only liked bitter-sweat chocolate and no other kind of chocolate. Heh, my father, twenty plus and hadn’t lost his sweet tooth. But I miss those little things. I miss them dearly. His vision still haunts me at night. It’s not always about his life. Most of the time, it’s about his death. I still wake up at night, screaming his name. His hoarse voice and desperate cries still echo in my mind:

//“Jurei [i] ! Jurei!”//

I spent years in therapy, trying to get rid of them. But they won’t go. I think that there’s only one thing that can make them go away. I have to face Him. The killer. My father’s killer. I have to ask him why.

He’s been in prison for almost eleven years now. Locked up from the world in a high security prison. They sentenced him to death and the verdict is about to be executed soon. Three days to be exact. I have to go to him before they kill him. Now is my last chance to ask him why.

My mother objected, of course. She says I have no business going there and I should just forget about it and move on. Easy for her to say, she seemed to do it quite well. She’s now remarried and still handling the world as if it was hers to be handled by. She can forget about my father, but I can’t. Besides, she didn’t mind me being in the trail, so why should she bother now?

Yeah, I was in the trail. A frightened and traumatized seven-year-old boy, sitting in the stand, telling all about his father’s horrid death. I remember the killer; he was sitting there with his lawyer. He didn’t lift his eyes off the floor. His head was bowed, no; his whole body was bowed, as if in shame. He didn’t dare to look up. Not at my mother, not at the three who had fought along with my father, not at anyone. Only one time, he had slowly raised his head up, and looked at me. I was on the witness stand, sobbing and trying to speak coherent words, and he looked at me. His eyes... I’ll never forget his eyes. They were so sad, bitter and haunted. They shone with hot tears that slid down his haggard face. But he wasn’t sobbing. Just shedding silent tears. For a moment, I thought he might be sorry. I thought maybe he’ll get up, say he’s sorry and then everything will be okay. My father would be back to me.

But he didn’t. Maybe he wasn’t sorry. I don’t know. That’s why I have to ask him.

The prison is filled with guards and bars. Metal doors and alarms, video cameras looking at you wherever you go. I hate video cameras. I hate them so much. Ever since that day my father died. I cannot be anywhere near a camera. So I tried to ignore them as I was led into the guest area and shown to my seat. The man in charge was very surprised I had come to visit. He said no one had visited the murderer in nearly ten years. When I had asked who it was to last visit him, I wasn’t surprised it was that Arabian blond. I remember him being nice.

I wait silently for them to bring the prisoner to me. He is kept in an isolated room, down in the dungeon. One of those rooms with no bars or windows, padded walls and you are chained to the bed. I shudder just by thinking of it. I would rather be dead.

I hear the sound of rattling chains, and I take a deep breath, slowly looking up. I see him, shoved by one of the guards, walking slowly and nearly tripping because of the cuffs around his ankles. Those cuffs are connected to a metal chain that goes up and around his waist, and then up to the handcuffs around his wrists. He is wearing an overall, which has a bright and strong orange color. His head, it’s still bowed. He won’t look up from the floor.

“Sit!” The guard orders and pushes him down to a chair, which is in front of me, and behind a bulletproof glass wall.

He shifts in his chair a little, as if uncomfortable, or stretching, I’m not sure, and I hear him sigh.

“You have an hour.” The guard spits in my direction. “Have fun.” He snarls and walks away.

I take another deep breath and then look away from the retreating guard. I slowly turn my head to face the man sitting before me.

He had changed since I have last seen him. I guess that he is the same age my father would be if he were alive. Humph! If he were alive! This man killed him!

My eyes narrow as I examine him further, my body flooded with haHis His head is still down, and all I can see is the top of his head, covered by thick and messy hair. His hair, chestnut brown, is tied back in a short ponytail, reaching no longer than his shoulder blades. He used to have longer hair. I remember. It was covered with blood when they arrested him. My father’s blood.

“Look at me.” I let out coldly, glaring at him.

“I’d rather not.” He answers quietly, voice hoarse.

My eyes narrow. “Why not?”

He sighs and shifts in his seat, leaning back. “Because you look just like him.”

Again anger flows through my veins. My glare intensifies. “And you hate that.” Just like he hated my father, right? That’s why he killed him! How can anyone hate someone so much to so brutally kill him!?

“No.”

His answer startles me. I look up again and I see him leaning back in his chair, hands on his lap, his eyes on me. He has such dark eyes. So bitter and sad. Haunted, just like my own. I have the feeling they used to be much brighter. I think they used to be as bright as my father’s eyes were when he looked at me. Now, they look dead. Just like my father.

“Chk!” He snorts, and I turn my attention to him. “You’re the first visitor I had in more than a...” He frowns, and then sighs. “A decade.” He runs a hand through his messy light-brown hair, pushing a few bangs out of his eyes. I can’t help but notice the scars on both his wrists, as the fabric is pulled down a little when he raises his hand. I feel angry that he tried to kill himself. I don’t think he deserves such escape.

He blows out air, to push the messy strings of hair away, and then turns to me with a sad smile. “You look just like him.”

I don’t know what to make of his statement. I know he’s right. I look in the mirror and I see the resemblance is there. I have my father’s eyes. The same dark blue pools that seem to be bottomless. The same sharp but yet haunted look in my eyes. My features, high cheekbones composing a sharp and well sculpted face. Just like his. I look just like him. Well, except for one thing.

“But your hair,” He continues, again shifting in his chair, a frown on his face. “Is just like hers.”

I stop myself from flinching at the pure hatred in his eyes. I swallow and shift uncomfortably. He’s right. I have me mother’s bright blond hair. Not nearly as messy and thick as my father’s. Blond and blue-eyed. That’s what I am. And he doesn’t seem to like it.

“You hate her?” I ask, voice cold and emotionless.

He snorts and pushes a few more stray hairs out of his eyes. “You sound liim tim too.”

“Answer my question.” I demand coldly.

He sighs and looks at me again.

“Why do you hate her? Why did you hate my father so much?” I have a hard time controlling my emotions right now. I have to fight to keep myself from shedding tears, though they flood my eyes.

He studies me for a long while, face dead serious. He then breaks eye contact and sighs. “I don’t hate anyone.”

“Bullshit!” I burst, punching the table in front of me. “How can a man who ki ano another man claim to have no hatred!?”

“I killed a lot of people.” He answers calmly, his intense gaze on me. “So did your father.”

“My father was a hero!” I shout, my fists clenched.

Again he snorts. “I don’t think he would like to hear you say that.”

I gape at him. “What?!”

He leans towards the window, looking me in the eye. “I’m saying that your father, he would never consider his acts as heroic. He killed people. He felt guilty. Not heroic.”

“You knew my father?” I have never considered this before. I had never imagined that that man, the man who had killed my father, did it after he knew him. And knew him so well, he knew about his past, about his thoughts, everything. If he knew all of this, then... why?

“What’s your name again?” He finally asks, after a long period of silence.

I scold at him. “As if you don’t know.” I snarl, voice bitter.

//“Jurei! Jurei!”//

“As if you didn’t force him to call my name over and over...”

//“Jurei! Jurei!”//

“Until he died.” I finish, closing my eyes as images assault me.

//”Call him! Call for him!!”

“. . .”

“CALL HIM!!!!”

“Jurei.”

“Louder!”

“Jurei!”

“LOUDER!”

“. . .”

“NOW!!!”

“ARGHHH!!!! JUREI!!!!”

“AGAIN!”

“ARGH!!!!”

“CALL HIS NAME! DO IT NOW! NOW!”

“JUUUUUUUREIIIII!!!!!!!!”//

The man in front of me sighs and leans back in his seat, again brushing a few bangs aside. We sit there in silence for a while, and I sink back into the haunting images of my nightmares.

I was standing in a field; I don’t even remember how I got there. My mother, she was standing behind me, two of her trembling hands on my shoulders. Cops were all around, hiding behind their cars, aiming large guns at the center of the field. There, at the center, was a large, white, gazebo. We were all facing it, looking at it anxiously. I remember they told me not to move.

//“Don’t move an inch! Please boy, it’s VERY important”//

It was only a few years later that I learned the killer had a gun and a camera pointed at me, and at my slightest movement, he would shoot me.

“Why you you ask me to come?”

He looks up at me, startled. His face then takes a solemn look again, and he bows his head.

“Why did I have to be there?! Why did I have to see it!?” I yell at him, again hitting the table with my fist.

“Your father...” He whispers, not looking up from his fidgeting hands. “He was so strong...”

“And I was his weakness.” I whisper in horror, bowing my head in shame. It was the only way to make my father succumb.

//”CALL TO HIM!”//

I ch ach and close my eyes, memories rushing inside my head. He held my father in the gazebo. It was a closed structure, so we couldn’t see what went on inside. By what the heat detectors read, I once learned, my father was lying on the floor, the kidnapper on top of him. The police reports later said that my father was facing a small monitor, and he could see me as the small camera was recording me. That’s how the killer knew if I moved or not, I suppose.

“Why did you force him to call for me?” I dare to ask, looking back up at him. The sound of his whip still echoes in my head as if crashed onto my father’s exposed flesh.

//”Call him!”

“. . .”

WHOOSH!

CRACK!

“ARGH!”

“CALL HIM!”

“. . . Ju--r--eiiiiii. . .”//

“I was angry.” He answers, voice shameful. He takes a deep breath and looks up at me.

My eyebrows draw near and I frown.

“I hated the fact that he loved you more than he---“ He stops and my frown deepens. What was he about to say?

“You thought he didn’t deserve having a son?”

He sighs again, fingers fidgeting. He shakes his head. “That’s not it.”

“What then?” I demand, glaring.

“She didn’t deserve a son. She didn’t deserve him. You. Nothing.”

“My mother?”

He ignores me and continues, brining both his cuffed hands up to scratch his head. “But yet, he choose her over...” He sighs, dropping his hands down. He looks up at me, eyes serious and intense. “Why are you here?”

He shouldn’t think for a moment that I would let him change the subject or control the conversation. I’m the one asking questions here, not him.

“Why after all this time?” He continues as he brings his ponytail forward and plays with the messy strings of hair. He then begins to braid it. My gaze follows the movements of his fingers as he fixes his hair. His movements are quick, almost automatic.

I flinch in my chair as another image assaults me.

After it was ove over, they placed him on a gurney. I remember standing a few meters from the ambulance, my mother’s hands still on my shoulders as we watched them wheel the gurney into the ambulance. They put a large white sheet over his body, covering him all the way to the head and up. There was blood on the white sheet. So much blood... marks of bleeding welts, dozens of dark red lines criss-crossed over the white fabric. And his hand... It peeked out of the sheet, swinging from side to side as they wheeled the gurney. It was covered with blood. My father’s slim white hand was covered with blood. Fingers stretched as if he had been reaching out for something. Or someone. To me, maybe.

The vision of his blood-covered hand, reaching out from underneath the white sheets repeat over and over in my dreams. I wanted to run to him then, shake him awake, but my mother held me in place. I couldn’t go to him. It was the last time I saw him, and I couldn’t go to him.

//”DAAAAAAAAADDYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!”//

The man notices I am staring at his hand, and he slowly lowers it down. He seems a little uncomfortable.

“What’s your name?” I ask him, just to pick up the ‘conversation’.

He smirks, this bitter smile playing on his lips. But it is betrayed by the sadness in his eyes. It reminds me so much of my father’s eyes.

“You can call me Shinigami.”

I snort, the meaning doesn’t escape me.

“Don’t you have a real name?”

“No.”

I frown, trying hard to remember his real name. I’m sure he had one. I just never bothered to ask. I didn’t want my father’s killer to have a name.

“So,” Shinigami calls causally, leaning back in his chair. “How’s that bitch doing anyway?”

I glare at him. “Don’t you dare call my mother a bitch.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, isn’t she?”

I bite down my lower lip, to keep myself from answering. He, of course, seems to know the answer.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm down my anger. “Cut the bullshit, will you?”

“You know, I was at the wedding.” Shinigami announces casually. He then chuckles bitterly. “But then again, you were too.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

Again he snorts, pushing a few hairs out of his eyes. “The bitch was two months pregnant.”

My mother was pregnant before marriage?! She never struck me as the type... but then again...

“And my father?” I mumble, mostly to my.
.

“Don’t worry, Heero was your father.” He spits in a sour voice, looking very unpleased.

I look down at my sweating palms, and inhale deeply. I close my eyes slowly, trying to see in my mind’s eyes the photo album from their wedding. I remember this one picture, taken at the alter. They were both dressed in white. Heh, but no matter how formal my dad tried to look, his hair was still an untamable mess. And his eyes... the usual dark blue depth. There weren’t sparkling with joy, like my mother’s eyes. In the picture, she was smiling broadly at the camera, her arm wrapped somewhat possessively around my father. My dad, he was looking aside, not at the camera. It always puzzled me what he was looking at. As a child, I assumed that the camera caught him off guard. But now, considering the way my mom was ready for the shot, I think differently. He had this sad and sorrowful look on his face, and he was looking at someone somewhere in the crowd.

I look up at Shinigami and my eyebrows draw near.

He turns his head back up to look at me, raising an eyebrow in question.

I think my entire young life just ran before my eyes. I remembered all these things about my childhood, especially about my parents. All these little things I have failed to notice. How my mother always got pissed when my dad played with her hair. I remember he asked her to braid it once, for a party, but she only yelled and shrugged him off.

And on parties, the formal ones she dragged us to, all the other couples looked genuinely happy as they danced or spoke or held hands. My father, he never smiled once at those parties. Only at me. He would sit with me by the dinner table, while my mother went around the place and flirted with everything that moved. I remember she would later come and drag my father to the dance floor. He would send me that look then, so sad and mournful, I would always smile at him to make him feel better. I remember she always had her arms locked tightly around my father’s slim waist. At the time I took it as a sign of affection, but now I see it as it is: possessiveness. He was nothing but an object.

They didn’t love each other. Or at lease, my father didn’t love my mother. I mean, they slept in separate rooms most of the time! How could I have missed that as a child? Was I that stupid?

Maybe I just didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to acknowledge that my parents were different than all of my friend’s parents. That they didn’t love each other like I knew they should have.

Did he marry her just because of me? Aa I the one to blame for his unhappiness?

“It’s not your fault.”

Shinigami’s voice startles me, and I flinch, gasping. I look up at him, still dazzled.

He smiles kindly at me, and for a minute there, I think he looked like my fat

“Your father loved you very much.” He continues quietly. He lowers his gaze down, looking down at his fingers as he plays with the tip of his braid. He takes a deep breath and sighs, closing his eyes. “He loved you until the moment he died...”

At that, anger flares inside of me. My eyes snap wide open and I glare down at him angrily. “Then why did you fucking kill him?!”

There. I asked it. I finally asked the question that has been haunting me for year. Though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

There’s a long while of silence. Shinigami just continues playing with his braid, and I look at him anxiously.

Finally, after some endless minutes, he looks up, eyes sliding shut.

“Because I loved him.”

“LOVED HIM?!?!?!?” I burst, jumping out of my seat. “Loved him!?” I punch the table in front of me.

The guard at the door looks up at me warily.

But Shinigami remains calm, looking up at him with cold eyes.

“Yes. I loved him.”

“YOU FUCKING KIDNAPPED HIM!” I shout, wanting nothing more than to strangle him. Stab him over and over. Feel his flesh rip and see the blood gushing out of the wounds. I want him dead! DEAD! Like he did to my father! How dare he say he loved him! People don’t’ kill people they love!

“How can you say such a thing?! You don’t have the RIGHT to say it! Love? A bastard like you don’t know ANYTHING about love! You starved him and beaten the hell out of him for days! You fucking RAPED him! Is that love? Is that your love for him!? What kind of sick love is that?!”

His eyes, his voice, his face... they’re all so calm. Cold and unfeeling. Like the monster that he is. He isn’t the slightly bit affected by my shouting.

“I was angry.”

“ANGRY?!” I punch the glass that separates us, and it cracks. “Angry?! Well fucking hell- I’m angry too! You took my father away from me! You... You took my father...”

Slowly, the anger rushes out of me, and I am left feeling drained. Tired. I slowly slide back into my chair, burying my face in my palms, trying to stop the tears.

I can feel his gaze on me. It feels cold and fierce and it cuts through my very being. I can’t bring myself tok upk up at him. Tears slide down my cheeks and I sniffle, trying to regain my composer. Loosing it in front of that damn killer will do little good.

But I think I can see it now. I know why he was angry. I understand now. After all this time, I finally understand. I will never forgive him, but I think I can understand him. I too would grow crazy with hate, love, longing and loneliness. I can only imagine what it had been for him, to love someone so bad but to never be able to hold that person. Never be able to hold and love him, because that person was already bonded. Bonded by marriage and by family.

My father, he was too kind and selfless to leave us for anyone or anything. He would never cause any of us pain, especially me.

An image of my parent’s wedding picture flashes before my eyes again. I see the desperate look on my father’s face and I follow it with my mind’s eye. I follow it and I complete the picture by myself, my gaze falling on a face of another young man, with sad and bitter violet eyes and a long, chestnut brown braid.

I open my eyes and look up at the man sitticroscross of me. He is still looking at me, awaiting my judgment.

But I remain silent and quietly get up, packing my things. From the corner of my eye, I can see the disappointed look on his face. He looks away from me as I turn to leave, and I know he had expected another outburst or at lease a few more words of anger and hate.

But I will give him none of that. He doesn’t deserve that relief, no more than he deserves forgiveness.

I hear him sigh quietly and his chains rattle a bit as he moves. Though my back is facing him, I can sense his tears. I can hear his silent whimper and sniffling. I stop in my tracks, but I do not turn. A guard walks through the door, preparing to take my father’s killer away. I hear his chains rattle again as he slowly, heavily, gets up.

But I won’t let him leave.

Not yet.

I want to give him what he deserves.

Slowly, I turn around to look at him. My gaze is fierce as his own had been, my features cold and emotion.
.

Shinigami looks up at me, tears running down his pale and haggard face. He has this vulnerable expression, looking like a lost and helpless child. There’s no bitterness in his dark and violet eyes. There’s no hope either. Just pain, tears and remorse.

I narrow my eyes; my jaw muscles tense as I speak the words:

“He loved you too.”

Shinigami’s eyes widen for a moment, and a small, sad, smile tug at his lips. He nods his head a little, eyes thankful.

I stand there, watching, as the guards drag him away. His head is bowed again, and his braid swings from side to side as he slowly disappears behind a thick metal door.

* * *

I am now visiting my father’s grave for the first time. It’s been three hours since the execution of his killer, and now I finally managed to find the courage to come up here.

His grave is on a tall and green hill, at the edge of the cemetery. It sits by a lone oak tree, which is tilted over the headstone, shielding my father’s finale resting place. Like the day of his funeral, the skies are perfect blue, not a cloud to stain him. It is also the day his killer had taken his finale breath. I would have expected the skies to be dark and condemning, but they aren’t. I wonder why is that.

At some point of my staying, the bright blue skies have turned into a heavenly mixture of color- yellow, gold, pink and purple painting the skies as the sun began to set.

I kneel down before his grave and place a garland of lilacs, my father’s favorites. My hand slowly traces over the soft grass over his grave, and a few tears escape my eyes. I lift up my head as the wind plays with my short blond hair. I look at his gravestone and slowly reach for it, my fingers tracing the carved inscription:

“Here lies Heero Yuy. Born AC 180, died AC 205.”

Underneath that, is another inscription:

“Heero Yuy- a face of cold rock-hard gundanium, and the most kind, warm-hearted and forgiving of souls.”

I smile a little, remembering it was the nice fourots ots who had put that carved inscription. They couldn’t have been more right.

I slowly get up to my feet, and the wind continues to blow, playing with my messy bangs of golden hair. I shove two hands into my pocket and close my eyes. I lean my head back, inhaling the sweet breeze of spring air. After some time, I look back down and smile at my father’s grave.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long, dad.” I whisper to him.

Only the sound of the wind playing with the nearby oak tree answers me, but I do not mind.

“I’m sorry you’ve been alone for so long.”

Again I am answered with nothing but the sound of the wind whispering secrets to the green branches.

“I turned eighteen this week.” I send him another smile, blushing a little. “And I think I gonna be married soon.”

The wind picks up, as if startled or surprised by my statement.

I blush and bow my head a little. “Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her. But we have been together for three years now, and I really think that she’s the one.” I smile, and look up at him again. “I can’t explain it. It’s just that... it’s just that I feel that it’s the right thing to do.”

The strong wind suddenly calms, and only a gentle breeze remains, playing with my hair.

“I think I want a child too.” I say, still smiling sheepishly.

The wind picks up again, playing happily with my hair, as if caressing my face.

“I’m gonna name him after you. I hope you don’t mind.”

Again the gentle breeze caresses me softly, and I close my eyes for a moment, trying to picture my father’s gentle hands on me.

I re-open my eyes and look down at the silent grave, still smiling. “And if it will be a girl,” I continue, a mischievous look in my eyes. “I’ll call her Yuy.”

The soft wind picks up again, playing with the leafs and grass and trees, as if laughing.

I laugh too. “I hope you don’t mind, dad. But it’s really important to me.”

The wind quiets down again, going back to a mere soft breeze.

The smile disappears from my face, and I look seriously down at his grave.

“I’m happy, dad.” I say, though I bet I don’t really sound like it. But I am. I can finally move on with my life. Start a family. Start living.

A small smile creeps back up to my lips, and I look up, at the tall tree, seeing the blue skies filter through its thick leafs and branches.

“I hope you’re happy too,.” I.” I whisper, my eyes sliding slowly shut. “I hope you’re both happy.” A few tears escape my shuteyes, and slid down to my ears. “I hope you’re finally together...” I whisper, nearly no sound coming out of my throat. I open my eyes and look up at the skies lengthily.

“Ai shiteru, to-san.” I whisper, voice hoarse from tears. “I know he didn’t get to say it to you while you were alive, so I say it for him too...”

Again the soft breeze caresses my face and I close my eyes, indulging in the feeling of his presence surrounding me.

“I promise I’ll come visit more often.” I say, as I prepar lea leave.

The wind plays with the top of the tree again, the branches moving as if waving me goodbye. I smile at the tree and turn to walk away.

Just as I do, the first few stars appear up in the sky. I stop to look at them, and for some reason, I turn back to look at the grave on top of the hill. My eyes widen a little as I see that right above the tree, right above the headstone, two stars are shining. I narrow my eyes to see better, and a wide smile appear on my lips.

Two stars, one blue, one violet, both sparkling up in the night sky, twinkling with laughter.

* * *

And now, tenderly, in my heart
We can share and comfort each deep sin
In this universe the future unwinds endlessly...
Take off to the sky

And now, fiercely, we can feel each other's bodies,
Each hidden pulse,
The passion I struggled for, the wings I embraced...
Take off to the sky . . .

“Take off to the sky” - Hikaru Midorikawa as Heero Yuy.


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OWARI.

*sobs brokenly* AHHHHHHHHH!!!!! I killed my two favorite characters!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!!! *continues sobbing*

Naomi


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[i] Jurei means life.