One Possession
Disclaimer: Not mine. Seriously. Not mine.
A/N: Written because it came to me on the bus and I thought it would work as a good story.
Warnings: Implied previous character death, 1x2
It was the only decoration in his bare bedroom, his bare apartment, his bare life. A frame, three feet in height and only a foot across. No one ever got a chance to see it unless they already knew it was there. And the ones who knew never needed to see. Quatre had asked, once. He'd wanted to know what Heero had done, what Heero had decided he needed. And his breath had caught in his throat, had choked him into silence.
Normally, it remains covered in a black cloth cut from an old priest's outfit, the white collar attached carefully at the top. The bedroom was left dark, hiding the black cloth and the black frame against white walls he'd never bothered to repaint. There was a small cushion beneath it, a pillow he'd bought on one of his rare whims, one of the rare times he'd simple seen something he needed to have.
And once a month, one night, when the moon was gone and the sky was so black there was nothing to see, he would remove the cloth. And kneel before the shrine he'd created, the frame that rose and held his most precious item, the only thing Heero Yuy had ever kept, the only thing he would rush into burning buildings to save and had spent hours lacquering to preserve in perfection.
Beneath the Plexiglas, on a backlit sheet of thin black plastic, cradled serene and still, lay Duo's braid. They'd rescued it from his body, though Heero refused to think of that. He'd been the one to cut it off, unwilling to allow anyone else near that precious hair. Every strand had been delicately cut, slid between his fingers. The cold flesh, the colder hair, wet and dark beneath the moonless sky… the memories that bubbled up were clamped down, pushed aside and forgotten. This was not a night for mourning.
Slowly he leaned forward, touching his cheek to the glass, letting the sensation cool his skin. Every hair had been smoothed into place and anchored to each other, had been pressed into place so the shape would never be lost. Those moments had been silent, desperate moments he wanted to forget and yet would never let go. And the very base, tied with a golden cross on a golden chain that almost glowed, had been the crowning touch. This was his memory box, the frame of everything he'd ever lost.
And there he would remain, pressed against the smooth plastic, breath focused away, never even fogging the surface. There was no movement, no sound, not even a hint of anything but him and the glass, the braid so close he could almost touch it. The night would pass until dawn broke, sometimes even ignoring the bright light the tried to invade through blackout curtains.
The spell would be broken by pain, pain in his knees and his arms and his face. Only then would Heero slowly move, pull his cheek off the warmed glass and stare. His fingers traced along the edge of the frame for a moment before the cloth was re-draped and he stood. Everything was gone again and he stepped back, turning to the light switch and leaving the room in darkness, leaving the dark room alone.