Notes: The title is from the song, which I hope you all know and which
inspired me to write a fic where Duo loved Heero, but Heero didn't know.
That, of course, metamorphosed into a fic where Duo loved Heero, but Duo
didn't *want* Heero to know. *shrug*
'Nother note: Yes, it is actually 'The *Girl* From Ipanema', but on the
Red Hot and Rio CD, it's 'boy', so...
Disclaimer: *sigh* I keep asking for them but I *still* don't own them...
Boy From Ipanema
I'm in love. Head over heels
in love. I'd die for him, give my soul for him, walk the wire for him
in love. All the love songs in the history of mankind have nothing on
what I feel for this guy. You might think this sort of thing would make
me happy. After all, love is a good thing, right? Everybody wants it,
everybody needs it, everybody spends their whole life searching for it...
I think I'd prefer to live without it.
For years I thought I'd lost the capacity to love and considered it a
good thing. I had loved twice in my life, before now, and that had been
more than enough. You've heard the saying -- 'it's better to have loved
and lost than never to have loved at all'? Speaking as one who has both
loved and lost, I have the supreme luxury of being able to say
that whoever came up with that one had more than a few screws loose.
Not that love itself is a bad thing, although I must admit that I associate
it more with bad things than with good. Being in love again reminded me
of all those things I had wanted so desperately to forget. Never had I
felt more complete that when I had loved. The sun shone brighter, the
birds sang sweeter, the friggin' sky was bluer... The good things in life
were better and the bad stuff wasn't quite so bad. Sounds like a good
deal, huh? The ultimate bargain. You feel all warm and snuggly and
you don't mind that you haven't had a full meal in two days. What could
be better? Thing about love is that it's fragile. Love in the grand, universal
sense is forever. Cavemen tromping across the earth thousands of years
ago had known it, and so would the race we evolved into thousands of years
from now. But love on a personal level is the very definition of ephemeral,
as tenuous as the human heart itself. Even as love -- the concept -- lives
and breathes and fucking frolics in the spring grass, love -- the
reality -- can lie dying in your arms. And there's not a thing you can
do about it.
After love died that first
time, I didn't know any better than to not love again. Love's face, which
had been that of a beautiful blonde boy with a disarmingly crooked smile,
shifted and waxed until there were two sets of eyes looking back at me
instead of one. I had missed how love made me feel, what it did for me.
Those few years without love had been lonely and bitter. I might have
laughed through it all, I might have smiled and grinned and played the
fool, but that's only because to do otherwise would have damned me. Boys
in my situation did not cry. They did not mope and wail and tear
their hair out. And, most of all, they did not grieve. What they did was
put the past behind them because life was too harsh to not focus entirely
on what's in front of you. I lived in the present and, even though I was
well aware of the necessity, I will never argue that the present is not
a cold and sterile place.
I suppose it was no wonder, then, that when love reared its medusan head
that second time, I all but threw myself at it. Any struggles on my part
had been purely for show. My life depended on what I allowed people to
see of me, so if I squirmed and cursed it was merely to save my carefully
crafted image. I wonder sometimes if they knew, anyway, that I loved them.
I never told them. I didn't do much of a job of showing them, either.
If there was room in my life for regret... But there isn't. There can't
be. By the time I might have told them, they were gone, too, leaving nothing
but a bloody hole in my heart that I couldn't fill.
It wasn't a conscious decision to never love again. If anything, you could
call it a defense mechanism. Physical pain, I can handle. Sure it hurts,
but even the worst wound eventually heals. But that bloody hole in my
heart -- it stayed just as bloody and just as empty as the moment love
died. I couldn't face that again. That pain I locked away, deep
inside, where no one could see it or touch it. The sun didn't shine as
brightly and damned if I ever noticed any birdsong, but in time the memory
of my lost loves was dulled, its keen edge no longer so hurtful.
Besides, who has time to mourn the loss of innocence, the opalescent bastion
of love, in the middle of a war? The idea was almost laughable. Fighting
was all I knew -- all I allowed myself to know -- and when I wasn't
fighting I did my damnedest to keep my image bright and shiny, never tolerating
anyone to see past it or even to realize that anything might lay beyond
it worth looking for. And it worked, too. They all came to accept me,
but they all, also, underestimated me. There's something about love that
goes hand in hand with truth. I never lie -- it goes against what few
principles I have left. To this day I don't understand why people would
assume, then, that everything I say is truth. But they did, and in the
shadow of that false truth love didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell.
It was inevitable, considering what life has seen fit to put me through,
that my all hard work be for naught. The walls I had unconsciously, yet
painstakingly, erected around the bloody hole that was my heart weren't
torn down in a day, but they were razed nonetheless and by the time I
noticed it was too late. That damn boy and his damn x-ray eyes pierced
straight through to what was the real me and wouldn't settle for anything
I will admit that it was my own fault. He fascinated me. I couldn't help
but try to worm my way through his defenses, which were at once so like
and unlike my own. Getting close to him seemed harmless enough. What I
didn't foresee -- what I couldn't have possibly foreseen -- was that he
would choose to become close to me, too. I was his idiot, his distraction,
his reason for making 'omae o korosu' a catchphrase. As much as I might
have bristled at his rough treatment, that's how it was supposed
to be. But suddenly I was his partner, his friend, his confidante... And
damn if it didn't feel good.
I had lived without love for long enough that I had forgotten what it
was like and when I finally recognized it for what it was I was in too
deep to extract myself without ripping myself to pieces. So I'm in love.
Deeply and irrevocably. It's the miracle I never hoped for.
The only thing that makes it bearable is that he has no idea. Having never
known love, he doesn't have a clue of what to look for and I'm not about
to enlighten him. My love is not unrequited or hopeless, you see. He feels
for me -- I know that without a doubt -- but he can't see the forest for
the trees. He puts 2 and 2 together and gets 4, never realizing that love
is anything but logical and that under its influence 2 and 2 is more than
likely to equal 7. And I plan to keep it that way. It's better that way.
If I were a praying man, I would have prayed for Solo's tarnished soul,
and for Sister Helen's and Father Maxwell's unblemished ones. But I have
never believed in god.
Now I would believe in anything if only he doesn't see. Please, don't
let him see.
After all, I can't suffer the loss of him if I never had him...
[back to Dacia's fic]