| By: Lyssira
Disclaimer: Don't own em. Do you?
Warnings: Shounen Ai. Romance, Violence. Blood.
C&C: Please! Pretty pretty please with pocky and nekky G-boys on top!!!!
+ Part 1
Glaring white surrounded him, nearly blinding the onlookers, light shining
from the walls, the ceiling, every machine and tile on the floor. There
was no relief of the color, or lack there of, simply unending luminance,
cold and unforgiving. It consumed everything to be found, color, sound,
even speed itself seemed slowed down by the brightness. Unmercifully the
walls and flourescent bulbs cast their light upon one frail-looking figure,
cheap cotton blankets not hiding the half-starved, almost skeletal appearance
of the occupant. Light shone its truth upon his battered limbs, bronze
skin lacerated so many times it became difficult to determine where one
scarlet line began and another ended, crimson patterns spreading across
flesh and fabric alike. What was not marred by cuts, bruised, dark and
sickly patches mingling with the red. Bones hung at awkward angles in
his wrists, both forearms twisted in ways Nature had never intended. Almost
comically large hands lay limp at odd angles, fingers clenched in pain
or death; one could not be sure.
Tough, sinewy muscles in his chest rose and feel erratically, as though
the body's internal beat had been thrown off, a broken metronome that
could not be repaired. Had one listened to his heart they would find it
just as unpredictable, pounding twice then once then four times out of
rhythm, always faint, just barely audible. In fact, the child laying helpless
amongst polyester sheets and nearly deflated pillows made not one sound
to be heard, the only echoes consumed by the white of the walls being
the chirps of several machines, logging his progress. The boy had not
stirred once since he'd been placed in the room, devoid of any life, alone
in a white tomb as though humanity had forsaken him. Thick, almost black
lashes did not flutter, tortured limbs did not twitch. There was only
the shallow rise and fall of his lungs, time between growing longer with
each breath. He dreamed through his pain, forgotten in a sleeping mind,
perhaps hoping he might dream forever and not remember pain at all.
Past the sealed doorway noises filled the corridor, that passageway just
as bleached and cold as each room inside the complex. A weary group of
surgeons, medics and assistants gathered, watching the limp form carefully
through bullet-proof glass. One waved his chart about wildly, aging, wrinkled
face flushed with anger. He seemed the most animated however, no other
face showing even a glimmer of feeling towards the boy at all, as though
he was as soulless as the machines that did their work, a toy to be fixed
if possibly but nothing more. They barely stirred at their comrades raging,
many dubbing the man a fool in their thoughts, hearts hardened to granite
from too many years of failed cases in the charity hospital. 
Only did the men and women glance up when a newcomer approached, a slender
form clad in shadow and bloodstained ash. Stormy violet-blue eyes glared
from within the dirt marring his face, challenging any to dare be in his
way. They took the dare unknowingly, moving between himself and the door,
though it remained locked against such characters who might do harm to
its patients. Only then did the boy (for it was a young man despite a
long braid trailing down his back) bother to acknowledge their presence,
a cold rage settling over his features.
He did not yell, as might have been expected, instead murmuring, "Move,"
cooly, his tone empty.
"I'm sorry, but this patient is due for an operation, If you'll excuse-"
one nurse began hurriedly, once perhaps a pleasant looking woman now ruined
by early aging.
"Yes. His left leg has been shattered below the knee. It will have
to be amputated or infection will set in," she replied flatly, as
if commenting on the weather, not a boy's loss of a limb.
"Shattered? You're positive?"
The flushed surgeon stepped forward, casting a disgusted glare at his
"No. We do not have the time to examine him to the best of our ability.
It is very possible I could save that leg if-"
"If nothing!" another doctor snapped, "This child is not
a paying patient. and we do not have the time to give him that sort of
They faced each other off, mouths open to yell, fists waiting for the
first strike, only distracted from their argument by a low growl from
"You will let me pass, " snarled the other boy, standing before
them, fists clenched, "And you will save that boy's leg. By
whatever means necessary. I'll pay for whatever bullshit you need to figure
out how to do it."
"You're going to pay for it? Street trash like you two hasn't got
that kind of money. How are you going to get it? Murder? Bank-robbery?"
the same man spat sarcastically. He barely had a moment to gasp when strong
hands lifted him off his feet, against the wall, throat tightening quickly
from lack of air.
Whatever anger, feeling, had remained in Duo Maxwell's voice died,
leaving behind a cool monotone almost not human, devoid of compassion,
of hate, of whatever stirred within the braided boy's soul, "I'll
get it. By any means necessary," he whispered, "Now. Get. Out.
Of. My. Way."
The taller, older man slouched against the wall for several moments past
that, heaving for oxygen to refill his lungs, through a windpipe that
quickly began to ache and swell. His colleague, now studying the broken
pilot's chart with professional care, took over swiftly, orders filling
the air while a locked door swung open and shut.
Duo circled his friend's bed cautiously, eyes narrowing as he realized
the extent of Heero's injuries. He watched the monitor's lining the room
with almost cat-like fascination, finally settling himself to sit on one
of the empty cots filling the room, all identical to the one Wing's pilot
occupied in their overuse and design. It creaked under his slight weight
apologetically, though soon forgotten in the stillness of the atmosphere.
He slid it closer, finally leaving mere inches between them, wrapping
his hands around one limp, icy fist. Duo's head bowed for one moment,
whispering a forgotten prayer to no one in particular.
"I will get that money," he murmured, no longer killing the
weariness in his soft baritone, "But I know better than to leave."
Two Days Prior
Earth shook as five monstrous machines settled in her depths, modern titans
stored away from prying eyes and loose tongues. Heero felt the tremors
through sneaker-shod feet, not needing to recover his balance despite
the nearby mechanics who grabbed frantically at shelves and bunker walls
in order to steady themselves. Nonchalantly, he passed them, nodding in
greeting but otherwise those who would care for his Gundam while it remained
here, more of Howard's trustworthy men to save them the trouble. Most
of them were friends with Duo, Pilot 02 having warned them far ahead of
time not to expect much in the way of gratitude from Heero.
The American himself followed his friend into their temporary living area,
sharing a few slaps on the back and friendly greetings with his friends.
Yawning slightly, ignoring the twinge of sore ribs against his lungs,
Duo stretched and trailed after Heero. The Wing pilot seemed aware of
his presence, though he said nothing, instead reaching the kitchen and
pulling out some water. Tossing one bottle to his partner, he greedily
gulped it down, parched throat welcoming the fluid, as his skin would
welcome a shower later. Now, he turned to meet amaryllis eyes, shadowed
and weary, reflecting his own mood back into Prussian mirrors. Resting
a hand on one bare shoulder, Duo pulled him closer, not demanding, fully
giving the dark haired pilot time to retreat and escape. Both knew he
would not, instead meeting his braided counterpart halfway. There was
no caring in either's eyes, despite the warm embrace, only sympathy. Respect.
"That one was pretty easy," Duo sighed against Heero's cheek.
"There will be a harder one soon," he replied, savoring the
contact, a reminder he wasn't alone just yet. Neither of them were alone,
not when they needed that selfish support, sharing the protection they
could offer each other, but only for their own purposes. And not one nor
the other would take anything farther, would bother to give more. There
was no reason to.
"There's always a harder mission."
"No. One of these days there will be one that will be too hard,"
Heero growled softly.
"The last one."
"Heero?" Slender hands tightened their hold.
"Hm?" he repeated the gesture, body pressed to body in comfort.
"Maybe..." Duo trailed off uncertainly. He felt a pulse against
his own, hearts beating in unison, the world focusing until there was
nothing but those two rhythms.
"Never mind," Deathscythe's pilot shook his head, bangs tickling
He pulled away, confused, wondering at the frustrated expression his partner
"It's a discussion we don't need to have, " Duo muttered half
to himself, half to Heero.
Gently, completely unlike any other kiss they'd shared, he let his lips
touch Heero's, none of the violence and anger from their usual encounters
found at all. Instead, he found himself returning the gesture, no longer
being merely a support or a stress-reliever. This was something different.
The bruising force, angry punishing touches they'd shared before were
long forgotten, buried beneath this.
The insistent beeping of a laptop drew both boy's attentions away from
each other in an instant . They un-entangled themselves quickly, greeting
the other three as they had only moments before, separated, alone, as
was the way of Gundam Pilots.
Soon all five had exited once more, launching their demons into the air
for another battle, no war waiting for the rest and recuperation of its
soldiers. A group of startled mechanics left the scene heading for their
hammocks, sending unspoken prayers and well wishes along for the ride.
[part 2] [back to