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Halo
He wondered how long the roads on Earth were. At night when
they did most of their driving, he would imagine that they ran all the way
into space, along the rings of Saturn and out to the colonies. Nodding off in
a sort of half-sleep, his thoughts would drift to safe places and
occasionally glance up at the black road. You could tell where the most
recent battles had been waged from the condition of the paint and tarmac;
cracks meant cracks in the fabric of peace. Smooth surfaces meant more hours
of traveling, more time to keep his thoughts at rest when his body wouldn’t. Sleep alluded him. Even as a boy, exhausted and spent and
starving, he would collapse into his cot and stare at the canvas roof of the
tent. Sometimes he could make out rain drops shuddering on top of it when the
moon was bright enough, other times he could see insects that were trapped.
They flapped their wings and buzzed, and he left them to struggle as long as
they didn’t come anywhere near him. The last thing he had needed was malaria.
He sympathized with their plight sometimes, though. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair, sighing
heavily in resignation. Heero looked tired, and he was glad that it was
almost his turn to drive. He preferred to be occupied, and the Wing pilot
needed all the rest he could get. Trowa wasn’t the one who had
self-destructed mere months before, after all. “You can pull over anywhere,” he commented, pulling himself
upright from where he had been slouched with his head pillowed against the
hard vinyl of the pickup truck’s seat. “I’m ready to take the wheel.” “You haven’t slept,” Heero commented. Coming from anyone
else, it would have been an accusation. “No,” he agreed, shrugging. “I don’t need to.” Somehow the
statement sounded condescending and he wondered if the other boy would take
it as a challenge. Heero didn’t seem like the type who was prone to petty
insults though, and Trowa could read people’s motives accurately so he didn’t
dwell on it. The pickup truck scratched over gravel as Heero pulled it
over to the shoulder, cutting the engine. He left the keys dangling in the
ignition as he swung his door open and hopped out, slamming it shut. It was
strange to hear everything so quiet, and Trowa’s own door creaked open as he
felt the solid ground under his feet. Dusk had settled a few hours before,
and though it was night now, he knelt down to the road. Placing a palm over the concrete, he could still feel the warmth
that the black tarmac had been soaking up all day. The breezes that whistled
lazily past him were a little cool for comfort, and he enjoyed the sensation
against his hand. “The ground is still warm,” he said from the ground where
he was kneeling, directing his voice toward where he thought Heero would be
standing on the other side of the truck. “It’s going to be even hotter
tomorrow, I think.” No response. It wasn’t as if he expected one, but he stood
up to look around and didn’t see Heero anywhere. Raising an eyebrow in slight
puzzlement, he got down onto his hands and knees and shot his gaze underneath
of their vehicle. There were no scuffed yellow sneakers to be seen. “Heero?” he asked uncertainly, feeling his body go rigid
with trepidation. His hand traveled to his gun without thought; it rested on
the weapon that was stuffed into the waistband of his jeans. As he stood back up, he looked down the road and then as he
turned to look the other way he saw a silhouette outlined by starlight a few
hundred yards away. Heero was walking away from him at a steady pace, not
really moving so quickly as to be escaping anything but quickly enough so
that Trowa had to jog to catch up with him. His legs carried him more quickly than Heero’s, and he
stopped running to fall into stride beside the other boy. For a moment
neither one said anything, and then Trowa spoke up, unnerved at the
unexpected display of spontaneity. “Where are you going?” Heero stopped suddenly, turning to look at him. “I’m not
going anywhere,” he sounded annoyed at the question, “I wanted to stretch my
legs.” Trowa just looked at him as if he was finally gone, but
didn’t reply. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, and in the back of his mind
he was surprised that Heero had told him even that much. The other boy didn’t
seem too concerned with what Trowa thought though, so maybe it didn’t matter
to him what he did or didn’t do in front of the HeavyArms pilot. “Oh,” came the sluggish, confused reply. Trowa didn’t appreciate being confused. “I’ll
wait for you in the truck.” With that, he turned on his heel to begin the
walk back to the truck. He knew Heero had to say something else though, and
he was waiting for the words as he could feel the blue gaze driving into the
back of his head thoughtfully. “Wait.” He turned around expectantly. Heero had one arm folded
behind his back while the other hung sadly at his side, looking limp and
useless. Seeing Trowa glance at the arm that he wasn’t moving, his eyes
narrowed a little and he seemed defensive as he shifted and crossed both arms
over his chest. He could tell when he was being evaluated. “Did you need something?” Trowa asked, meeting Heero’s eyes
uncertainly. He was acting strangely, most out of the ordinary to the
patterns his behavior usually followed. Trowa depended on behavior patterns
to understand people, and usually so-called spontaneous actions could be
predicted. Heero had a rash side to him that Trowa still had a hard time
understanding, and yet his actions seemed to include a foresight that few
people possessed. Most of the other Gundam pilots had considered his
self-destruction a rash action; Trowa, and perhaps Zechs, had been the only
ones who had seen it for what it was. Trowa wondered if Heero was planning something now, but he didn’t
seem to be. In fact, he looked quite lost with his arms crossed over his
chest and his face trying to mask his thoughts. “No,” he stated efficiently. He abruptly turned around with
his back to Trowa and tipped his head back to look back at the sky; the other
boy followed his gaze, but all he saw was stars and no answers. Is that what
Heero was looking for? Answers? “Have you ever felt… guilty, Trowa?” he asked quietly. “No,” was the immediate response, though Trowa felt no
shame in admitting the truth. He had no fear of judgment because there was
jury to pass sentence; his sentence had been passed long ago. Trowa’s life
couldn’t be called a punishment; there wasn’t enough substance that would
justify anyone calling it that. If his life could be described as anything,
he could have described it as being condemned from birth. “I only feel regret that I couldn’t have been better when I
needed to be.” “Regret,” Heero echoed, shaking his head as if he thought
the reply was foolish. “Regret for what?” “For not being more like you,” Trowa replied, his voice
growing a little softer. He regretted so many things, but his regret was
without bitterness or remorse. Trowa’s sense of regret was more that of
shame, of emptiness and of inadequacy. For him, regret and remorse were never
the same thing. Heero turned to look at him and Trowa could see surprise in
his eyes, and then acceptance. “You don’t want to be like me,” he said, though the
statement lacked self pity. “I’m a failure.” “Maybe to yourself,” he replied, “but you’re a soldier, not
a savior.” How terrible to be Heero Yuy, he mused. To die yet not reach
death, to fight yet not reach peace, to sacrifice yet not reach a means to an
end, to be perfect yet find imperfection in your actions. Yes, fighting in a
war must have been small game to living in the mental space that Heero did. You wear guilt Like shackles on your feet Like a halo in reverse I can feel The discomfort in your seat And in your head it's worse “It doesn’t matter,” he said, as if accepting his destiny
as a heavy burden that he would have to bear alone. “Quid pro quo. My life
for the lives that I took. My life for the world that I may have ruined when
trying to save it.” “What do you mean?” Trowa asked, a dark premonition
blooming in his gut. He didn’t like where this was going. Heero didn’t speak for a moment. He seemed like he was
alone, and for a moment Trowa wondered if he was still standing in front of
the other boy. Trowa didn’t seem to exist for the Wing pilot as he looked
past him, past the pickup truck, past everything to focus on the expanse of
road that they had traveled so far. It extended like a black ribbon over the
land to meet the line of dark horizon and disappear into a black pinpoint of
lost sight. “I’m going to give Silvia Noventa the chance to take her
revenge,” he finally said, turning those unsettling eyes to look harshly at
Trowa, judging his reaction. He didn’t get one for a moment, just a blank
stare. Suddenly there was a flood of green as the iris contracted. Trowa’s
blood pressure shot up as he processed the words and then re-processed them. Trowa physically felt his heart leap into his throat and he
practically had to swallow to stop the ghostly sensation of something trying
to choke him. The information and realization crashed through him again and
again, the insanity of the whole thing, the pointlessness of it, the
stupidity and foolish chivalry. But then he realized that this wasn’t about
chivalry, and it wasn’t even about guilt. It was about Heero. So he asked the only question that he
could think of, the only proper response he could muster and he felt like the
declaration required some sort of reaction. “What do you want me to do with your body?” Heero blinked at him, and then shrugged. “Burn it.” He studied him for a moment, his gaze calm though inside he
was still reeling. He hadn’t quite expected this, though Heero had a tendency
to do that to him. In fact, Heero was the only one who was capable of doing
that to him. “You seem confident that she’ll pull the trigger,” he said,
evaluating Heero’s expression carefully. His eyes flickered for a moment and
then his lips pursed in agitation, coming together to form a flat line of
tension. He frowned. “You seemed confident that you would die that night at the
circus,” he countered, effectively deflecting Trowa’s challenge to his
resolution. Trowa just shrugged though, unaffected. “I was wrong.” “I might be wrong now,” he said, “but it is necessary to go
and try.” Trowa hesitated, not sure if he should ask the question
that was on his lips, poised to come out at any given moment. He had a policy
of not prying into other people’s thoughts for two reasons. One: he didn’t want
them trying to pry into his. Two: he didn’t have to know and didn’t want to
know. But strangely, right now, he wanted to know what Heero was thinking. “Do you want to…” he trailed off as Heero looked at him
sharply and doubt crept into his mind again. He pressed on anyway. “Do you
want to die?” it came out as a whisper instead of a question. There's a pain A famine in your heart An aching to be free Can't you see All love's luxuries Are here for you and me “We’re all going to die eventually. You and I will probably
die sooner than most others,” Heero replied carefully, choosing his words
very precisely. He shifted uncomfortably. “What is it like?” “What?” “To want that,” Trowa explained, moving closer to the other
boy. “To want death. Not just accept it, but to want it. What is it like?” “I never said I wanted to die,” he said, but he wasn’t even
convincing himself. “But you do,” the HeavyArms pilot continued, staring at
Heero unabashedly, “you want to die. Does living hurt that much?”
He wasn’t resentful or discontent, but needed to maintain a
proper balance of what belonged and what did not. War and peace balanced each
other. Anger and contentment balanced each other. Love and hatred balanced
each other. Soldiers and death balanced each other, and Heero had never
been anything else but just that; a soldier, a fighter, maybe even a savior.
It was a title that had been inflicted on him, a title that had stolen away
what he might have become. Trowa had never been anything but a soldier, and
would have never become anything else. For the first time though, he felt
jaded on Heero’s behalf. The world certainly wasn’t as just and fair as
people like Treize and Wufei thought it was capable of being. “So you’re hoping she’ll shoot you?” he asked to Heero’s
rigid back, and received no response. Eventually he turned around and began
walking again, brushed right past Trowa and fell into a steady stride towards
the pickup truck. Trowa stood still for a moment, tilted his head back to
look at the sky and saw the stars again. He knew there was something else
there, something that people marveled at, but he still wasn’t sure what it
was. He still couldn’t see it. Abandoning the sky, he turned and began to move, catching
up to Heero when the other boy was almost all the way to the truck. The Wing
pilot heard Trowa behind him, the rustle of fabric and the quiet tread of his
feet; he stopped and stiffened. “I can drive now,” Trowa said, thinking that Heero was
waiting for him to give the approval to get into the passenger side. As he
moved to the driver’s side and opened the door though, Heero didn’t move. The
rapid beeping of the truck that signaled a door was ajar broke into the
silence between them and the light from inside the cab fell through the
windshield and across Heero’s face. He looked like hell. “No,” he said, abandoning his place where he had been
standing and coming to lean against the side of the hood where Trowa was. “I already told you that I didn’t need any sleep,” Trowa
informed him indifferently. “No,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I’m not hoping she’ll
shoot me. It doesn’t matter what I want anyway.” Trowa regarded him pensively, starting as Heero moved
forward and slammed the door of the truck shut. The bleeping stopped abruptly
and the light shut off. Starlight covered them. “What do you want?” Trowa asked, curious about the
implications of Heero’s statement. “You said it doesn’t matter, and maybe
you’re right. But what is it you want?” He wondered what it felt like to want
anything; he had thought Heero and himself were similar, but he was finding
out how different they really were. “I’m not sure,” the Wing pilot stated honestly, and then
quite suddenly took a step towards Trowa and closed the distance between
them. “But I think part of it has to do with you.” Trowa swallowed; his mouth had gone dry. “In what way?” Heero didn’t answer, just leaned closer to him until
Trowa’s back was pressed tightly against the truck. He flattened himself to
get away from the other boy, not sure what he was intending to do though he
had some idea. It panicked him, and he didn’t want it to happen. “Don’t,” he growled, suddenly defensive and shivered a
little. “Why?” Heero asked lowly, but moved back a step, looking at
Trowa appraisingly. “I don’t need a reason,” he said, and closed his entire
expression to Heero. His face went blank and his entire body calm and limp;
he looked at him as if he was a stranger, and Heero felt a pain work its way
into his mind. This hurt in a different more inconsequential way than
anything else had; at the same time, it hurt more. Trowa had turned his back to him, staring hard at a spot of
rust on the truck’s cab door that Heero had slammed. His body didn’t look
tense, but Trowa’s version of tension was to be passive. He was so rarely
incensed however that his only method of defense was to withdraw into himself
even more than he already did naturally. “You asked me what it was like to want to die,” Heero said
to the silent boy’s back. Trowa made a noncommittal noise in his throat.
Heero moved towards Trowa again, and he knew that the HeavyArms pilot could
hear him drawing close. He swung around to face Heero rigidly, his eyes
intense and demanding something, though the object of their focus wasn’t
quite sure what it was. “It feels like this,” he ground out, and wrapped his arms
around Trowa all in one motion, holding him against the truck. He just let
his face hover a few inches away from the other boy’s, staring at him,
studying him, taking in the range of emotions that suddenly flittered through
his eyes. They came like unexpected shockwaves, sensations that weren’t quite
sure how to tread through the maze of Trowa’s synapses, getting lost and then
finding their way back again. Heero was barely breathing, his lips close enough to touch
the other boy’s but not close enough to stay in contact with any movement he
made. He had never kissed anyone, and he wasn’t sure if he should kiss Trowa
or not. He didn’t have to make the decision because Trowa kissed
him instead, and he kissed him hard with an unforgiving, experienced mouth.
Tenuous actions were abandoned as Trowa reversed their positions, pressing
the Wing pilot against the truck with his body and running a hand down his
arm. He broke their lip lock and grabbed Heero’s hand without
thought, lifting it to his mouth to swallow a finger. His tongue flew over
the knuckle, and then he sucked hard, not looking at Heero, just staring at
that same rust spot blankly. Heero reclaimed his hand by force, and Trowa just looked at
him dispassionately. “Is that what you want?” he asked. “I can give it to
you, if it is.” “It’s not,” was all he would say, and shifted
uncomfortably. Trowa could see that he was hard, and his eyes were blazing,
but he held back. His good hand was fisting and unfisting tensely. “Not like
this.” Trowa raised an eyebrow, still feeling stirred up about
Heero’s unexpected advances toward him. “Are you a virgin, Heero?” “If you mean have I ever had sex,” he stated clearly and
without shame, looking straight at Trowa without letting his gaze waver, “no.
I haven’t. I never had time, and I never really thought about it with another
person.” “Why now?” Trowa asked, more confused than ever. “I told you,” he sounded frustrated, “it has something to do
with you.” Trowa felt regretful that he had acted the way that he had. If
there was anything he valued, it was Heero’s respect. Respect was a dangerous
thing; once you had a taste, you could never go back to being treated like
dirt and being made ashamed of who you were. It struck him right then, out in the cold night with warm
pavement under his feet, staring at a rust spot in front of Heero’s brooding
expression, that someone valued him. Heero Yuy valued him. He didn’t know
why, but he knew that the other boy did. “You want to touch another human being,” he answered Heero,
beginning to understand. “You want to touch...” “You,” the Wing pilot finished, looking down. “I want to
touch you. I’ve wanted to touch you.” He scowled at the warm road, both of his hands curled into
fists, his hair disheveled as it always was, his shoulders hunching inward
and away from Trowa. He didn’t seem ashamed or even angry, just malcontent. “Go ahead,” Trowa said, letting his arms drop to his sides,
suddenly feeling free. “Do what you want.” Heero looked at him with a dark expression, seeing Trowa’s
passive stance, arms at his sides and face relaxed. “No,” he ground out, and
with that turned and walked away. Trowa blinked, and stood still for a moment, not quite sure
of what had just happened. Had Heero just turned him down? After... He heard the opposite door slam as Heero climbed in the
passenger side. He could see him leaning over to start the truck, and the
engine roared to life along with the headlights. It sounded very loud in
Trowa’s ears, and still in a slight daze, he climbed into the driver’s seat. Heero was faced away from him, his head against the door as
he began to fall asleep. Trowa studied the back of his head for a moment and
felt a twinge of something in his chest that he didn’t quite notice; he
sighed and turned the wheel to pull back onto the road. And when our worlds they fall apart When the walls come tumbling in Though we may deserve it It will be worth it He couldn’t give Heero what he wanted or needed; only
Silvia Noventa could do that. He couldn’t touch Heero the way that he needed
or wanted to be touched; only a virgin could do that. He couldn’t be as good,
as strong or as useful; but for the moment, he didn’t mind quite so much. For the moment, he felt something akin to joy, because he
was valued. Bring your chains Your lips of tragedy And fall into my arms There above the road, Trowa saw heaven stretching over
them, and he smiled at its brightness. |
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The song “Halo”
is © Depeche Mode.