Category: Gundam Wing; 2+1
Rating: PG-13+ (mainly for the strangeness)
Summary: AU Duo paints himself a hero, a Heero just for him.
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai;
Spoilers: None, this is an AU fic.
General Notes: This idea came like a bolt of lightning! Okay, I wish it was a bolt of lightning. More like a random inspiration from nowhere that led to me writing a weird fic…anyway, truth be told, I was watching this Rahexphon (no, I don’t actually know how to spell it) music video, and there was this section where I saw the guy cutting up the picture he drew of the girl in yellow. And yea…personally, I have no clue what Rahexphon is about, apart from my friend telling me something about red blood and blue blood people, or something to that effect. Hopefully, I did not unwittingly rip of some random idea…but I offer my apologies if I had. Still, I’m rather proud of this fic…in a strange and slightly distorted way.
Music: I Must be Dreaming – Frou Frou
Genre: Angst; Romance; some weirdness
Summary: AU Duo paints himself a hero, a Heero just for him.
Duo Maxwell sat stiffly in a room of white. White bed; white walls; white ceiling; white everything. There were no windows and only one door, currently locked by a large bolt. Slowly, he lifted his dull gaze to stare at the clock hanging above the door. Nine-fifteen, the doctor should have been here five minutes ago. Duo did not believe doctors had a right to be late. If he was anybody else, he would be cursing and swearing and throwing things at the camera which watched him carefully from the corner adjacent to the door. It was high up, and protected by a box of thick glass. Duo supposed many cameras must have been destroyed before they began protecting them with boxes. He wondered dully how easily the glass would shatter.
Nine-twenty, and the doctor still was not here. Duo felt a detached sense of irritation as he stood from his bed to walk towards the door. There were no windows, not even on the doors. He stared up at the clock, watching the second hand wander slowly across the face. He supposed he should be bored, should be angry. But nothing came. Slowly, he wandered back to sit on the edge of his white bed. The sheets were still perfect, they were always perfect. He did not want to disturb the neatness of the sheets, nor was there any need to. He did not feel like sleeping again.
Nine-twenty-five. He could hear hardly anything, just the sound of his own breathing, the beating of his heart and the ticking of the clock. The second hand continued to trail, and he found his eyes fixed on the face once more. He remembered he used to spend ages sitting on the couch, staring at the clock, watching the hands tick. He could not understand why then, but he supposed he could now. Time continued to move regardless, and yet he was frozen in time. Duo wondered if he could ever be frozen as well.
Nine-thirty, and the doctor entered. He greeted Duo calmly, allowing Duo a small glimpse of the corridor beyond his heavy door. He could make out a few guards, and a few other doctors. There was noise – hurried footsteps; rushed breathing; mild chatting – and then the door closed, and there was nothing again. The doctor grabbed a chair, and sat before Duo, a mere three feet of air separating them from each other. The doctor pulled out his pad as usual, and balanced his pen in his hands. He wanted Duo to speak, but Duo had forgotten how to. He asked Duo questions, and yet the braided boy did not answer. He knew the doctor was losing his patience, but he could not help him. Duo had been in this room for two months now, two months without sleep, without food or water. The doctor tried to speak to him, the other doctors tried to feed him, but Duo did not want any. There was no point to eating anymore, no point to sleeping. If there was no point in such exercises, then why practice them? He wanted to ask the doctor, but he could not remember how. The doctor asked Duo some more questions, but the braided boy could not understand him. Words brushed past Duo’s consciousness like wind through a tree, Duo felt and realized he was being spoken to, but they were not important.
The doctor stood up with a sigh, and Duo watched him turn to leave. This happened everyday, and neither had been anticipating anything different. Duo’s gaze flicks to the clock on the wall. Nine-forty. The doctor is at the door, and he is saying something, bidding Duo goodbye for the day. Duo stares at him, waits for him to open the door. The white door opens, and the sounds of a busy corridor, together with a brief visual of it fills his mind. Then the door closes, and there is silence once again.
Duo remains sitting on the bed, his eyes fixed on the clock overhead. The camera is still watching him, ever so diligent. Duo wonders why he is here at the hospital, why he is sitting in this room that is not his. He never liked the color white. The walls in his room were a light shade of blue, and his bed covers were a bright shade of cream. His desk lamp was black, his desk mahogany, his carpet indigo. His stereo was black, his cell phone was a dark shade of green, and his laptop was silver…
He did not have a laptop.
But there was a laptop there, a silver laptop which sat on his mahogany desk, next to his stereo and lamp, adjacent to his painting stand, on which there was always a blank canvas. Yes, Duo liked to paint. It felt wonderful to paint, to express himself in vibrant colors and lines and strokes. But he always put a blank canvas on the stand when he was done, so that he could paint some more the next day, or the day after depending on when he felt like it again.
Only the canvas in his memory was not blank.
The background was a sky blue, with white clouds. That was strange, Duo never painted skyscapes (1). There was a hill before the sky, and the hill was covered in green grass. That was strange, Duo never painted landscapes either. And there was a person on that hill, a person with brown hair and piercing blue eyes, a person who only smiled for him.
Ah yes, Duo remembered that. He painted a boy all for himself, a boy who loved him and only him, a boy with a beautiful smile that he would only show to him. Yes, Duo remember that boy. His hero. His Heero.
But there was such a large slash across the canvas, a large slash from one corner to the other which ripped the canvas in half, and severed Heero’s upper body from the rest of him. Duo felt anger surge through him. How dare anyone injure that canvas, how dare anybody injure his Heero. Heero was only for Duo, a strong person whom Duo would rely on, a kind person who would hold Duo when he was feeling depressed, a nice person who would always smile at Duo and nobody else. A person only for Duo, not for anybody else.
Duo stood up abruptly, detaching himself from the bed as suddenly as if he had been stung by something invisible. He raced across the room, reaching for the door. His hands curled around the handle and he pulled.
A distraught sound escaped his lips, the first time he made noise in ages. Somebody had been touching his canvas, his Heero! He needed to go home, to see that canvas, to see that painting. He needed to keep it away from everybody else. It was his Heero! Heero whom Duo created from paints on a canvas, a person Duo shaped to be everything he needed. A person who held him, who protected him, who loved him.
Where was Heero now?
Duo painted Heero to protect him, and yet the boy was not here. He had always protected Duo before! When Duo was at school and the students made fun of his hair, he would laugh it off because he knew he could return home to his Heero. Heero would hold Duo, would protect Duo, would smooth the pain away. Duo would be safe in Heero’s arms, Duo was always safe when Heero was there.
A Heero drawn by Duo for Duo.
Duo could remember the first time he saw Heero. He met him at the local reserve on his way back from school. Heero was standing on a hill, with the blue sky behind him, just like in Duo’s painting. Duo had hugged Heero, and Heero hugged back. Heero was only for Duo. They walked home together, him and Heero. He would talk about everything and anything, and Heero would listen. Heero never spoke, did not need to speak. Duo spoke for them both. They watched television together while cuddling in Duo’s bed. Heero held Duo, always Duo, only Duo. Duo was happy, very happy. He had his hero, his Heero.
Heero always stayed at home during the day. He did not need to go out. He was for Duo, only Duo. Duo would leave for school, for work, for whatever, and Heero would stay behind. Heero would remain at home, and he would not complain. He would be smiling when Duo left, and would be smiling when Duo returned. Duo was happy, very happy. Heero smiled only for him.
Duo bought a laptop, a device to finish his homework on. But he never used it. Heero used the laptop, finished Duo’s homework for him. Heero’s work was always perfect, flawless, Duo did so well in school thanks to Heero. And he would teach Duo when Duo did not know something, taught Duo better than all the teachers at school. Duo was happy, very happy. A perfect Heero, just for him.
But when he returned home again, Heero would no longer be waiting at the door with a smile. He was always in Duo’s room, working on the laptop. Heero liked the laptop. He would do all of Duo’s homework, and then do some more work. Duo never understood what Heero did. It was always a black screen, white letters and numbers, long phrases scrolling continuously, making his head dizzy. But Heero understood it, liked it, loved it. Duo was angry. Heero was just for him, not for the laptop. He cut off the power cord when Heero was not looking, and hid the adapter away. When the batteries died, the laptop died. Heero did not have a laptop anymore. Heero did not complain, and Duo was happy. Heero loved him and only him, nobody and nothing else.
But when Duo returned home again, Heero was not standing by the door with a smile. He was sitting in the lounge, eyes fixed on the clock hanging off the wall. Duo asked Heero what was wrong, but he did not reply. He only turned and smiled, but it was not a nice smile, not a natural smile. It was a forced smile, a smile that came only because he had to smile. Duo did not understand. He asked Heero again, but Heero did not answer. Heero never answered. Heero never spoke, did not need to speak. But Duo wanted him to speak, so wanted him to speak. Wanted to hear what Heero would have to say, hear what Heero sounded like.
But Heero just smiled.
A smile just for Duo.
Duo finished high school, finished college, finished university. He grew taller and older, and the girls at school loved him. They said he was handsome, but there was only one person who he wanted to call him handsome. But Heero did not speak, could not speak. Heero would just smile when he saw Duo, that smile that Duo had come to despise. It was so forced, Duo wondered if it was ever natural.
Heero did not grow, did not age. He remained the way he always was, a handsome boy with sharp blue eyes and brown hair. Always a boy. Duo wanted Heero to grow, but Heero could not grow. Heero was timeless, frozen, something only for Duo. Growing was not necessary. Duo was sad. He did not want Heero like that, to be left behind. He wanted Heero to age like him, to experience life like him. He told Heero about it at night, when they were both cuddled in bed as always. Heero just gave him a look and smiled. He did not need words.
I don’t know life Duo.
Duo took Heero out with him, took Heero to job interviews. People scoffed at the teenage boy who could not speak, but were thrilled by his skills. Heero got a job as a computer programmer for a security company, and Duo worked for a law firm. Some nights, they would go out for dinner at restaurants, and sometimes, they would go for walks at the local parks and reserve. Duo showed Heero where they met years ago, and Heero only smiled.
I don’t remember Duo.
Lots of girls liked Heero, lots of boys like him too. Heero was popular amongst teenagers, even though he could not speak. Duo felt proud, but also slightly jealous. Heero was only for him, was he not? Heero never accepted anything, went anywhere without Duo’s permission. And Duo would never let Heero venture far away. Heero was his, nobody else’s.
It was during their walk home from work one night when Duo stumbled. He tripped over something on the footpath, and fell onto the road. Cars came, and he thought he would die. But Heero saved him, pushed him off the road. The car collided with Heero, and he rolled several yards down the road. Duo was frantic, he leapt after Heero to check the other boy. But Heero was unscathed, his perfect body just as it always was. Duo was glad, he carried Heero home and set him down on the bed, crying while he did it. But Heero smiled, as always.
I can’t feel pain Duo.
Duo made Heero stay at home again, did not want him out where he could be hurt. Heero told him he could not be hurt, but Duo did not care. Nobody would be allowed to hurt Heero. Things slipped back to their original routine, and Duo came home everyday to see Heero sitting on the couch, eyeing the clock, a small smile on his face. The smile was forced. Duo was angry, he could not understand Heero’s obsession with that clock. Always staring at it, watching it. What was so brilliant about a clock anyway?
I have no time Duo.
And finally, Duo understood. He dragged Heero upstairs with him, into his room next to his canvas. He cried and he held onto Heero ever so tightly, and the boy returned the embrace as always. He held Duo, always held Duo, held him for the last time. Duo’s tears increased, but Heero continued smiling. Smiling as always. Duo pulled out his pocket knife, and drew it across the canvas in one diagonal slash.
And then, Heero was gone. Fading away, as if he had never been there. Duo held onto his hand until he finally disappeared. He was crying, and his throat was hoarse. He wanted to say goodbye, but the words did not escape his lips until it was too late. Heero was gone, never to return.
The next day, Duo approached Heero’s boss, but the man did not know a Heero Yuy. Duo approached the high school teens who adored Heero, but they could not remember him. Heero vanished, as if he never existed in the first place. Duo was angry, these people should not forget Heero. But Heero was made for Duo, only Duo. Nobody needed to remember him, except for Duo.
Duo could not remember why he came to the hospital for the mentally deranged. He could not remember if he came willingly, or if somebody had dragged him here after finding him drunk in some random alleyway with no money and a bottle of strong liquor in his hand. It did not matter, nothing mattered. Duo felt his hands slip from the door handle, and he returned to his seat on the bed. He was the one who hurt Heero, the one who released Heero by destroying him. Nobody knew Heero, nobody remembered Heero. They did not need to. Duo was the only one who mattered.
A hero just for him.
A Heero just for him.
A Heero to love him, to care for him, to smile at him. But most importantly, a Heero for Duo to love, to cherish and adore. A Heero with a blank smile, and a wordless mouth.
Heero smiled when he left.
It was a real smile.
(1) I am actually not sure whether that’s what you’re supposed to call them. I figured, if you call paintings of the land landscapes, then paintings of the sky must be skyscapes! Yes, I am slightly deranged and my logic…well, let’s just say it works for me and keeps me going, but is not particularly feasible in the great, wide world.