Title: Angel on a Prayer
Author: Solo Noraneko
Warnings: Veeery minor blood, angst, shonen ai/yaoi
Pairings: 1x2
Archiving: My site; if anybody else wants this, please
let me know FIRST.
Comments: Need 'em, crave 'em, want 'em! Send it to
l2_orphan@yahoo.com
Notes: Mah head hurts...*swoon*
Angel on a Prayer
By: Solo Kitsune
Even after the wars, V08744 was a very noisy, crowded
colony with noisy, crowded cities and noisy, crowded
minds. And through the crowded throng a boy of around
sixteen years of age walked. He seemed just like any
other person in the crowd, but he was set apart,
special. He was a killer. He was Death. And he
never walked alone. No, even though he looked alone,
it wasn't so. The boy never ventured alone. It was
that eternal presence that allowed him to survive the
hell of war. That allowed him to go on smiling
despite the kaleidoscope of death that spiralled
around him. But there was no smile on Death's face
today. The blue-violet eyes of the boy where very old
indeed, and etched with much sadness.
The crowd pushed and flowed by him, noisy,
disorganized and chaotic, like a herd of cattle going
to the slaughter. Some would stare at those ancient
eyes with looks equally bovine and dumb. They did not
know. They did not know that Death walked among them.
Death in the form of a boy whose innocence was dashed
to pieces long ago. The boy looked as if he was
searching for something that could not be found. He
was clad in the garments of a priest, and his
sandy-colored trenchcoat billowed in the wind as he
walked by. Even though the fighting was over, the war
that Duo Maxwell waged was never over. It raged on,
bloody, chaotic and bitter. Without rhyme nor reason.
It waged on in his dreams. Dreams of giant toy
soldiers and bloodstained soil reeking of copper.
Over and over, he could never erase the memory of the
slaughter of his childhood.
Duo paused in front of the burnt out hulk of the
church on Maxwell Street. His heart skipped a beat.
There was nothing much left of the Maxwell church,
save for its crumpled stone shell with its fragmented
stained glass windows. No longer would faithful
parishoners pay a visit to the rectory, which too,
laid in ruins. And no longer would the convent be
teeming with screaming children and nuns toiling over
buckets of water and filthy clothes. But even now
life seemed to go on, to repair itself. The ruins of
the church where flecked here and there with green
patches of wild-growing foliage and fungus. Birds had
made homes in what remained of the roofs. Duo could
hear the soft whispers of their feathers in his ears
as they fluttered here and there from their dusty
lofts, nests now abandoned and useless from the winter
weather. Yes, life went on, with or without the poor
souls of the Maxwell Church Massacre.
Duo hesitated. He was stricken with an unknown fear,
as if he was about to go to court for murder. But he
was a murderer. Despite the presence that had
protected him all these years, saved him from the
virus and had kept him company in the silent vaults of
space and oppressive enemy prison cells, it could not
wash away the blood. No matter how hard he tried,
there was no way to wash off the blood dripping from
his hands. And now, he thought, I will have to pay
for that. Sooner, or later.
He stepped into the ruins of the church, and as he did
so a large flock of pidgeons rose before him and
ascended into the sky, leaving behind lazilly floating
dust motes and feathers which seemed to glitter in the
cracks of light which seeped through the fractured
windows and brittle walls. The stale smell of dust,
mold and rotting vestments hung in his nostrils as he
approached the altar. He walked by rows of pews, some
of them burnt and broken, grey with dust and pidgeon
mutes. Somewhere in between the aisles he found a
pile of bottles and beer cans, and a sick feeling
entered his stomach. How anyone could sit here and
defile a place where so many people died was
unfathomable. But then again, he thought, I was a
defilement to this place, too.
Before Duo reached the altar, he stopped at a spot
where the sun showed through a fracture in the
ceiling, leaving a golden patch of light on the dusty
ground. He reached inside his trenchcoat and produced
a red rose with a bow tied around its stem. He stared
down at the patch of light for a long time, eyes
growing hot with tears.
"Boys don't cry, boys don't cry, boys don't cry, boys
don't cry..." he repeated in a quivering voice. He
did not even realize how hard he was gripping the rose
stem. The thorns bit hard into the palm of his hand
and long rivulets of blood flowed forth, snaking along
his skin and dripping to the ground, forming scarlet
red patches and splotches. Soon he eased his
white-knuckle grip on the rose. He took it in his
hands, supporting it as reverently as a newborn baby,
and slowly knelt down, placing the rose in the patch
of light. He stood back up again, and a single tear
escaped his eye, falling downward. It landed on one
of the rose's tender, fleshy petals and twinkled for a
moment in the sunlight before it slid out of view,
leaving a long silvery trail.
"I'll never forget you, Sister Helen. Oh, why did you
leave me? Was it because I stole the mobile suit, or
called Father Maxwell stupid, or didn't believe in
God? I...I'm sorry. Its all my fault this happened.
Do you still love me? Do you think about me in
heaven? Too bad I'll never see you again. There's no
place in heaven for those such as me."
He turned away then, trying to erase the memory of her
soft touch, her warm embrace. Like the embrace of a
mother, he thought. He continued his way down the
dusty aisles. The altar loomed up before him, a
rotting wreck of torn and disintegrating cloth and
broken marble. With a cry of despair he fell just
short of the shallow altar steps, kneeling prostrate
on the dirty ground, hunched over and head bent, hands
clasped in a bloody white-knuckled motion of prayer.
Yes, for the first time in so long, Duo Maxwell began
to pray.
"Oh why, why damn you, did you allow me to live, when
everybody else around me died? They where good
people. Sister Helen, she was always there for us.
She comforted me when everbody else around me left and
went away. And Father Maxwell, he was a fool, but he
meant well. Or did he?"
He stared imploringly at the large dusty cross at the
altar, but it stood silent, offering no answer. Duo
continued.
"Oh Father, I...I killed all those people. You, who
talked of peace and nonviolence...you would hate me
now. I'm stained in with the blood of thousands. I'm
an ingrateful brat. I wasn't worthy of your kindness
Father...I never was. Yourself and Sister
Helen.....Momma a-and Dad, S-Solo...You didn't deserve
death. It was I who deserved it! Oh why Solo, why,
why did you shield me from that damned disease?! I
wanted to die, oh I wanted to die so bad, and now I'm
left like this, left to suffer. Is that my
punishment? Is that why I was left to live? WHY?!"
Some birds who had remained scattered in the rafters
with Duo's pained cry. Then everything fell silent
again. Silence. Oppressive silence. A sob escaped
from Duo's throat and, as much as he tried to repress
it, the tears came harder. They streamed down his
cheeks, leaving silvery trails, and landed on the
dusty floor to mix with the blood from his lacerated
palm, which began to sting from the salt of his sweat
and tears. His voice took on a pleading tone.
"Please, tell me something, anything. Oh please...a
word, a message, a sign. Something. Oh please oh
please..." The tears overtook him, and he cried
freely. Everyone had abandoned him. I am unworthy of
their love...Everyone in my life left me, died because
of me...
"The others told me I'd find you here," a voice said
flatly from behind him. Duo snapped out of it with a
start at the sound of the familiar voice, his heart in
his throat. He turned around to face him, the boy
with a shock of dark brown hair and burning cobalt
eyes that lanced straight through his soul. Of course
he can see my soul, Duo thought. He's been through
the same things I have. He understands me. Or, does
he truly? Had he been worried about him? Or was he
just sent on behalf of one of his companions. Quatre,
probably. It was then a wave of shame came over him.
He, kneeling prostrate on the ground, face glossy and
wet with tears, blood seeping from the cracks between
his tightly clenched fingers. Boys don't cry. And
here he was, a wreck, and crying in front of the
Perfect Soldier.
But there was something in the war-hardened boy's
features that changed suddenly. In a motion that
surprised Duo, he knelt down and touched Duo's
bloodied hand ever so slightly, a touch as delicate as
mist after a hard rainstorm.
"Duo...I've always envied you, from the first time we
ever crossed paths."
Duo seemed perplexed. This was so not like him.
"He-Heero?"
There was something in those deep blue eyes that Duo
noticed. Something...Could it be? Pain? Sorrow?
Regret? He wasn't sure.
"Duo...do you think...maybe...you could teach me how
to cry?"
Heero took Duo's bloodied hand in his, and held it
tenderly. Duo moved closer to him, and found himself
in a warm embrace. He could almost feel, as they
huddled there in the gloom of the broken-down church,
soft feathers brushing against his skin, enveloping
him in a protective shield of warmth. It was then
that he got his answer, an answer that was long in
coming, even though it had been under his nose the
whole time.
God had sent him an angel.