Details in the Fabric
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He smelled like guns and roses.
And no—not the band; he literally smelled like guns and roses. That's probably the clearest memory I have of him. Unfortunately, all other memories we shared have welded themselves together in my mind like a hunk of sheet metal spanning the length of my psyche. All the dreams are malleable, ultimately susceptible to the hands of war's traumatic remnants. My dreams of him are like reflections on broken shards and all that burns clear is the fragrance of dark night, ocean, Iraqi soil, guns, and roses.
It was the fifteenth year of the Iraq "conflict." We were chosen from the brood of inexperienced and spirited youth that mistakenly put themselves through hell to make it into the reinstated Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance. We were accidental roommates—little did we know that being put together under such training conditions would become like a blood pact between us.
The odds of real success in Force Recon were slim for the likes of us. We were skinny orphan boys that had no place to run but forward, to the dawn of a foreign land on a sandy horizon, to fight for a country that only grew to hate our uniforms before they even knew our name. Even so, we carried through. We traded those names for the strength to carry what the rest of the country could not. We become nobodies; phantoms.
Celer, Silens, Mortalis. We became swift, silent, and deadly.
calm down, deep breaths
and get yourself dressed
instead of running around
and pulling on your threads
and breaking yourself up
It was a different kind of trauma. It was a trauma of choice; a trauma with no trace of surprise. It was a trauma we sweated for and bruised for and bled for. It was a trauma that turned us into men—into our definitions of real men—and for that, we were proud. We were the few.
We were sent into the platoon as squad snipers, but moreover we became unspoken partners. Together our fingers grew muscles that complied only to the curve of a trigger our standard sidearm—the MEU(SOC) pistol. Our eyes were stained with the crosshairs on the scopes of our M24s. Our skin had long ago absorbed the MARPAT of our uniform. Like that old Tim O' Brien story I'd memorized, we carried everything we could in our multitude of pockets, but there was nothing like the burden of death on our shoulders. There was nothing like the things we carried.
Together, we descended the amtracs like black mambas on the shores of Kuwait, slithering towards the destination of our true mission. We were glued to each other's side for no other reason than the fact that our lives depended on it. In our hearts and minds, there was nothing wrong about the faded boundaries of proximity allowed between men.
if it's a broken part—replace it
if it's a broken arm—then brace it
if it's a broken heart—then face it
He was a quiet guy. He was a little shorter than me, which makes sense since he was at least half-Japanese (he didn't really know himself). He had shaggy dark-brown hair and dark blue eyes that seemed to hold back nothing. Not that there was anything to hold back; he rarely expressed anything other than righteousness. Not even pain. He was reckless as hell with his life, even only in training sessions. I found myself having to recon on a training recon session in order to save his ass. As payback for getting him off the hook from doing extra work for his rebellious abandon, I'd ask him questions that he'd have to answer truthfully.
My first question was, "Are you trying to die?" And his answer was, "No."
I never asked a "yes or no" question after that.
But he'd gradually warm up to me—after all, who wouldn't? I was fucking Disneyworld compared to even an hour alone in a room with the guy. After the hell we went through, we couldn't afford to lose our minds and so we took every liberty, every avenue of escape, from what our jobs necessitated from us.
hang on—help is on the way
and stay strong—i'm doing everything
Slowly but surely, the one who named himself Heero Yuy (after a man he'd claimed "was the closest thing to a father" he's ever had) came to trust me. He never said it explicitly, but I knew it. He'd internally chosen me—by accident or not—to be the one to watch his back, to be the one who held his life in my hands. And I had done the same for him.
But what I felt was a little more complex than that. Sure, nothing's as complex as deciding to trust a man with your life, but for me, there's something more. See, having gone through Force Recon training—any military training, really—convinces you really quickly that there's nothing quite as dispensable in this world as life. But only those who've lived know how painful it is to know that and still continue living, trying to ease your mortality out of your own knowledge. And with it aside, there are few things that can reduce a man to nothingness as fearsome as death itself.
I knew it before I felt it. I regretted it before I knew it. Anyone in love with a soldier always does.
During the nights, I'd listen to the merging of our sleeping breaths as one. I'd dream, somewhere not in Iraq—maybe Lisbon, New York, or Berlin—that we'd be coworkers or meet on the street somewhere and things would fall into the same places that they've fallen in now. But then I'd wake up with a tent in my pants and the realization that we were the last thing that could ever happen on this godforsaken world. I wouldn't be able to sleep and toss around for hours. Sometimes he slept through it. When he couldn't, he'd turn to me with those blue eyes and tell me to go to sleep. And I would—like a fucking baby.
He'd always get up earlier than I did to get a head start on breakfast before any of the other guys woke up. He hated mingling—I figured he was just an elitist, preferring not to mix himself with non-Special Ops, but later on I understood that it was because he had no idea how to connect with another human being. Later on, he'd let me know that he knew nobody and that this was the only job he was meant to do: to be a muscle contraction in the sword arm of the Leviathan that is the United States.
He was the kind of person that would make a good soldier. Hell, maybe even the perfect one. If it wasn't for the fact that he knew me. And I made him remember that fact every chance I could get.
Whenever he'd leave, I'd get up and sneak over to his bed. The first time, it was just to satisfy my curiosity about what he smelled like. I wanted to know everything I could, down to what shampoo and conditioner he used, or if he drooled, what cologne, what's his favorite color—all sorts of things. I know—like a teenage girl with a crush. If you knew him—if you'd only been there to see him as he was then—you wouldn't be able to help yourself either. It was like diving into Narnia for the first time. There was nothing I didn't want to know, see, smell, hear, and touch. I had to have it all.
And that's when I smelled roses. It was all over his sheets, as if he was all roses inside and at night the perfumes would seep out of his pores and into starchy, clinically-white cloth. I stayed with my face buried in his pillow for a good five minutes, memorizing the details in the fabric, until I heard his footsteps approach as measured and collected as ever. Sadly, I left the side of his body's ghost and I moved to sit at the edge of my own. He came in, looked at me quizzically, and told me to get dressed.
"Merquise is giving us a ride to base," He said, tone as unquestioning of me as ever. "Better get a move on or we'll be forced to separate."
all the details in the fabric
all the things that make you panic
all your thoughts, results of static cling
That statement—along with the fragrance of his roses—stuck on my mind, falling viscously down to my heart like ambrosia from the gods. It drove me mad for the rest of the day and caused me to make bad mistakes that resulted in the shot-down carcass of a twelve-year-old boy who intended to blow up an IFAV containing six good comrades and a blown tire. Luckily, he'd seen the boy coming from far away and with his sight was able to identify the bomb hidden under the back of his dirt-trodden cotton vest. I barely heard the frenzied warnings they shouted at the child in my sick stupor, and before I knew it the kid was down and disappeared in a sea of dynamite smoke and fire, but not before he fired a pistol much too big for his small hands and hit our lower-left tire.
all the things that make you blow
ain't no reason, go on and scream
if you're shocked, it's just the fault
of faulty manufacturing
I was silent and embarrassed for the rest of the ride until I felt a strong, rather painful jab at my arm. I turned and I was looking straight at him, and I was instantly afraid that he'd seen right through me with everything I let slip in that one look.
"I saved your ass this time," He said lowly, but loud enough for only me to hear in the noise of the IFAV on desert ground.
"Guess there's a first time for everything," I replied. I gave a false laugh, trying as hard as I can to erase the morning and my feelings, but to no avail. I leaned my head back against the driver's back window and I feel him closer than I ever had.
With his mouth inches away from my ear, he said, "So I get to ask the question this time."
"Point and shoot, buddy," I said. I closed my eyes and prepared myself for the onslaught of disgust he'd probably heap on me once he'd got the question out. Are you one of those fags? Are you in love with me, you fag? Can I kill you, you sick son of bitch, you fa—
"Are you okay?"
My eyes snapped open, and I turned to him with a look of utter incredulity. "Say again?"
"Don't fuck up the rules," He answered seriously. "I ask a question and you give me a real answer. You can't answer with a question."
I stared at him for a while, in complete awe of both his blindness and his kindness. I could tell he was getting impatient—but, seriously, how the hell do you reply to a question like that anyway?
So I replied the only way I, Duo Maxwell, knew how. I smiled, wide as I could, and I put my arm around him and squeezed him to my side like all good partners did. Unable to help myself, I put my head right next to his and let my senses drown in the smell of his roses and the polished M40 resting threateningly in the scabbard on his back.
"Of course I'm okay, dumbass," I joked. "As long as I got you by my side, I'm covered. I got the best man coverin' my ass, too, so I'm better than okay. I'm great!"
hold your own, know your name
and go your own way
I felt him stiffen beneath me. He didn't have to look at me in order to tell me what he was thinking: You're lying. That's what he was thinking. And he was right to think it, but for reasons that he didn't—no, couldn't—know.
"We're here," He said, shrugging me off. I felt a shudder of fear the moment I realized that I'd blown it with him. Inwardly, I could feel the tightness in my chest take over again, like a familiar beating of a steel bat against my ribcage as a young boy but worse. I turned to hop off the vehicle, carrying more on my shoulders than I thought I'd have to in this sun-fried, war-torn country.
But then I saw his outstretched hand and somehow all of it left me. Just like that.
and everything,
everything will be fine
everything in no time at all
hearts will hold
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NOTES
The title is taken from the song I used by Jason Mraz called "Details in the Fabric" which he does with James Morrison. I love them both. And Mraz's new album is great, so go get it!
This song-fic is a companion piece—well, more like an introductory piece—to my next project, which will be called Sinnerman. It will be, in fact, an Alternate Universe (AU) fic set a few years ahead of now, well into the 2010s, and it will be greatly Duo-centric (can't help it, I like to write him). However, do trust that it will not be about Duo and Heero fighting the war in Iraq (god help me). If I tell you any more than that, I will probably end up ruining any anticipation for it (if I've managed to build up any) so I will stop while I'm ahead. I hope you guys enjoyed this piece of fic candy I've written. There may be more of these things while I sort out the plot details just so you guys don't forget me. ;) See you then! –L.