by: Dacia
warnings: none, really, 'sides the angsty Duo POV
notes: this was about one of the last things I wrote *months* ago before my muses went screaming to horrible, lingering deaths. >_< It never got to where I wanted it to go, but I like it well enough that I want someone, somewhere, to read it anyways. Heh...
more notes: not beta-ed or posted cuz... well... even though *I* like it, I'm not at all sure it's all that good...
even more notes (heh...): the tone of this is suspiciously like that of my Boy From Ipanema... so much for originality. I even steal from *myself*... >_<

Solo: a fragment

Life is funny. Hell, it's fucking hilarious. I should be laughing my fool head off, but just the thought of that makes me feel like crying. And I don't cry. Not anymore. So I'll just sit here and smile and hope like hell that someone will finally let me in on the joke.


In my dreams, life isn't nearly so funny, but I laugh more often. Not the laughter that pours out of me even when I'm being beaten bloody, but a real, true laugh that feels so good that it's kind of scary. When I sleep, it's like I'm another me -- one that's really happy instead of just pretending to be.

It's wonderful.

Until I wake up and turn back to myself.


I wasn't always aware of lifes' hilarity. If you'd asked me my opinions on life when I was about six, I'm sure I would have told you that life sucked. Sure, it had its moments. Stealing apples was always good for a kick. Stealing money was even better. But beyond that was a lot of cold and pain, emptiness and loneliness. I couldn't have overlooked that, even with my six year old eyes. To do that I would have had to have been blind, and blind was something that only the innocent and the stupid could be.

I don't think I've ever been either.


The first time life reared its propensity towards the hilarious is the day Solo died. Death has never been new to me. I think I was born with an innate knowledge of it. People died every day on L2, in more public ways that you'd expect. So I was familiar with death, even then. But Solo's death was the first to be accompanied by a sense of loss, and that loss hurt more than anything I've ever known. Sure, he used me. What was I put here for if not to be used? Hell, I think I would have been insulted if he hadn't used me. But he loved me, too, and that made all the difference. I held him as he died. "Don't cry for me," he said. "Don't cry..." And then he was gone.

The pain of losing him was almost unbearable, but I didn't cry.

I never...


I used to cry. When I was little, tears were a daily occurrence. Life was shit and I used to cry myself to sleep every night, alone -- quiet, breathy sobs which I don't think anyone could hear but me. I could afford the luxury of tears, then. They were a balm for the agony of living, the torture of existence. When I met up with Solo, I didn't cry as often -- I was no longer alone. It was the first time I broke out in tears in his presence that I realized I had never seen Solo cry. I thought then that it had to do with growing up. He was, after all, quite a bit older than I. Maybe, I thought, life doesn't hurt so much after a while. Maybe it gets better. Solo watched me in my expression of anguish with a look on his face that I didn't then have a name for. He reached out with a dirty hand and wiped the tears from my eyes as if he had never seen the like before. In my shock, I forgot my tears, and in the moment that followed he locked his gaze with mine. He had never been so unguarded before, not even with me.

I don't think I loved him until then.


Solo was the first person in my life to take care of me and not hurt me in the process. He taught me to laugh and smile when you're down. While he was alive, it was all a game. I laughed because, all things considered, I was happy. I may not have known where I was going to sleep that night or if I'd eat the next day, but I had a home. Solo needed me. He was proud of me. If I smiled, it was for him. He was my world.

When he was gone, I lost something I hadn't even known was mine. When I smiled then, it was with bitterness, for with his death I learned what true irony was.


Solo holds the distinction of being the first person I ever loved.

He is also the first person I ever hated.


What could be more funny than that?



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