Home
*****
The damn car is making that noise again. Thirty-two payments to go and it's making that noise again. Pulling over, I get out of the car and check under the hood, snorting my disgust for Japanese workmanship. This gives anyone behind me a rather nice view of my posterior. Of course no one is behind me. I'm alone.
My least favorite place to be.
Damn car. The way toasters and cars work these days, I'm surprised anyone gets into an Eva (I'm not the only one who was upset about Unit-01 going berserk on its own--you should have seen Ritsuko having a fit). But they do, day after day. I wonder if I get smaller as they ride, you know, if I get smaller as I say, "There they go," while something in the Angel says, "Here they come." Sometimes I wonder what it's like inside the entry plug, if I would rather be in there then alone down here, or if I got the better deal. I wonder if they forget me as they go, if we all matter less than what's right in front of them.
What's right in front of them is what matters most to them, after all, because they have to be perfect or people die. That isn't fair to them, but they don't complain, not really. Sometimes I wonder if there's a place where I cease to be myself to them, just become another face in the crowd, another civvie in the town, which is on the ground, far from the Eva.
I draw my hand across my brow, sweat sparkling like little jewels in the sun. The heat is pressing on me like it has weight. I can almost hear the dust whipping around my legs like sleet hitting a roof.
I need a hug and to erase the last twelve hours of my life. At least the former will be possible when I get home.
Home is a funny word. Home isn't so much two bedrooms and a bath and a kitchenette, or the chair in front of the TV, or the fridge full of instant food and cold beer. The closest feeling I ever get to home is to scoop the greedy bird up in my arms as he toddles through the kitchen. Home might be to feel his welcome weight, the tickle of his feathers.
Deep in my secret put-away heart, I know it's not the same. Much as I love that silly bird, he's not enough. He's not a substitute for home, for a real family. But he's all I have...
I'm not crying. The heat and dust and sweat are just choking me, you know. Irritating my eyes, so they're running. My eyes are running because the car's broken down and I miss my penguin, damn it.
*****
Part of me gets so mad at him for being so indifferent. It's not natural for a boy to have that look in his eyes. I read somewhere that everyone meets death twice, once when you die, and once when you're born, although nobody really remembers that first meeting. Something in this boy's eyes remembers, and he doesn't care. He knows he's going to die, and has accepted it.
A yell curls in my throat, but I swallow it back. I can't reprimand him for living his life in a sort of passive suicide, because I'm not any better. He's at least noble about it--putting his life on the line every day protecting people. I'm just slowly killing myself with alcohol, TV, speed-cooked food. We're both going to arrive at the same place, anyway.
I twist open the second beer and smile a little. If I'm going to get shitfaced again I might as well enjoy it. He watches me with his death eyes, tracking back and forth slowly, the color of midnight skies, hushed-hallway, dim-lit, have-to-get-up-in-the-morning skies.
I'm watching something instant rotate in the microwave on its radiation carousel. It probably isn't safe for me to be so close, but hell. It's stupid to work with giant crushing mecha every day when something as unassuming as a microwave can kill you.
Everything kills you--you can never be too careful. Sudden, instant death lurks around every corner and how can you stop it? The way I see it, when your number's up, it's up. That's why I believe in living life to the fullest. Not like him--sometimes it seems like he pilots the Eva because he just doesn't have anything better to do.
I look away from the microwave and watch him with his chopsticks, twirling ramen almost delicately, and realize that living with me could ruin everything he is. I could give him television; I could give him the snooze button. I could give him hangovers and driving lessons.
The little bell announces that my instant food is overcooked, ready to burn my tongue and render my taste buds useless for the rest of the meal. No big deal; I just bolt the food and get back to the beer anyway.
I sit back down, and we meet eyes, suddenly; I realize he sees right through me. He knows what I'm doing; he's known all along. Passive suicide.
I smile at him--I can't help it--and I know we're both wondering who's going to get there first.
*****
I slap him. I'm immediately sorry; my hand feels huge and unnatural, a paw, but I don't let him see.
He doesn't say anything, just stares at me, the color rising high in his cheek to mark my action. He just stood there and let me hit him, same as he let that ape Suzuhara hit him. Damn him! Doesn't he even care enough to defend his own person? Is he that broken that he won't even take the primal action of raising his arms to block a blow?
I'm just tired. Fury has just been here, and she's looking terrible, so I let her go and Fatigue is taking over. I don't even seem to have the strength to call him back--I'm just watching him get smaller and smaller as he goes. There he goes...
*****
The pounding of my own heart in my ears hurts me. It drowns out the slap of my feet on the ground, the jingle of my jacket zipper as I sprint, my murmured prayers that I'm not too late. My feet burn with the abuse of the pavement and my lungs are constricting with this terrible feeling of not enough air.
None of that really matters anyway. What matters is getting there. It doesn't occur to me to wonder what Aida and Suzuhara are doing there. It only registers that I have to get there. I won't be left behind.
The sound of the train is like a scream as it slides past me, but he's there. I'm not too late. My nerves are popping and sizzling and every muscle in my body is crying to be left alone, but he's there. I've made it.
He's not crying, his eyes are running. "Misato...I don't want things to go back to the way they were."
Neither do I. It isn't enough. I don't know what is enough, but I do know what isn't, and I don't want to go back to that apartment without him. "Let's go back...to our home, okay?"
He draws a shaky breath and I see the tension leave him, sloughing off his shoulders like something thick. He almost collapses against me, but I am there, rock steady to catch him, almost like I'm folding him in my wings.
I'm home.
*****
When I have a bad day, my eyes focus on a certain patch of sky and I think, (If I can just get home, I will feel better. I will be safe.) That, I think, is what home really means to me--somewhere that I am safe.
*****
The damn car is making that noise again. Thirty-two payments to go and it's making that noise again. Pulling over, I get out of the car and check under the hood, snorting my disgust for Japanese workmanship. This gives anyone behind me a rather nice view of my posterior. Of course no one is behind me. I'm alone.
My least favorite place to be.
Damn car. The way toasters and cars work these days, I'm surprised anyone gets into an Eva (I'm not the only one who was upset about Unit-01 going berserk on its own--you should have seen Ritsuko having a fit). But they do, day after day. I wonder if I get smaller as they ride, you know, if I get smaller as I say, "There they go," while something in the Angel says, "Here they come." Sometimes I wonder what it's like inside the entry plug, if I would rather be in there then alone down here, or if I got the better deal. I wonder if they forget me as they go, if we all matter less than what's right in front of them.
What's right in front of them is what matters most to them, after all, because they have to be perfect or people die. That isn't fair to them, but they don't complain, not really. Sometimes I wonder if there's a place where I cease to be myself to them, just become another face in the crowd, another civvie in the town, which is on the ground, far from the Eva.
I draw my hand across my brow, sweat sparkling like little jewels in the sun. The heat is pressing on me like it has weight. I can almost hear the dust whipping around my legs like sleet hitting a roof.
I need a hug and to erase the last twelve hours of my life. At least the former will be possible when I get home.
Home is a funny word. Home isn't so much two bedrooms and a bath and a kitchenette, or the chair in front of the TV, or the fridge full of instant food and cold beer. The closest feeling I ever get to home is to scoop the greedy bird up in my arms as he toddles through the kitchen. Home might be to feel his welcome weight, the tickle of his feathers.
Deep in my secret put-away heart, I know it's not the same. Much as I love that silly bird, he's not enough. He's not a substitute for home, for a real family. But he's all I have...
I'm not crying. The heat and dust and sweat are just choking me, you know. Irritating my eyes, so they're running. My eyes are running because the car's broken down and I miss my penguin, damn it.
*****
Part of me gets so mad at him for being so indifferent. It's not natural for a boy to have that look in his eyes. I read somewhere that everyone meets death twice, once when you die, and once when you're born, although nobody really remembers that first meeting. Something in this boy's eyes remembers, and he doesn't care. He knows he's going to die, and has accepted it.
A yell curls in my throat, but I swallow it back. I can't reprimand him for living his life in a sort of passive suicide, because I'm not any better. He's at least noble about it--putting his life on the line every day protecting people. I'm just slowly killing myself with alcohol, TV, speed-cooked food. We're both going to arrive at the same place, anyway.
I twist open the second beer and smile a little. If I'm going to get shitfaced again I might as well enjoy it. He watches me with his death eyes, tracking back and forth slowly, the color of midnight skies, hushed-hallway, dim-lit, have-to-get-up-in-the-morning skies.
I'm watching something instant rotate in the microwave on its radiation carousel. It probably isn't safe for me to be so close, but hell. It's stupid to work with giant crushing mecha every day when something as unassuming as a microwave can kill you.
Everything kills you--you can never be too careful. Sudden, instant death lurks around every corner and how can you stop it? The way I see it, when your number's up, it's up. That's why I believe in living life to the fullest. Not like him--sometimes it seems like he pilots the Eva because he just doesn't have anything better to do.
I look away from the microwave and watch him with his chopsticks, twirling ramen almost delicately, and realize that living with me could ruin everything he is. I could give him television; I could give him the snooze button. I could give him hangovers and driving lessons.
The little bell announces that my instant food is overcooked, ready to burn my tongue and render my taste buds useless for the rest of the meal. No big deal; I just bolt the food and get back to the beer anyway.
I sit back down, and we meet eyes, suddenly; I realize he sees right through me. He knows what I'm doing; he's known all along. Passive suicide.
I smile at him--I can't help it--and I know we're both wondering who's going to get there first.
*****
I slap him. I'm immediately sorry; my hand feels huge and unnatural, a paw, but I don't let him see.
He doesn't say anything, just stares at me, the color rising high in his cheek to mark my action. He just stood there and let me hit him, same as he let that ape Suzuhara hit him. Damn him! Doesn't he even care enough to defend his own person? Is he that broken that he won't even take the primal action of raising his arms to block a blow?
I'm just tired. Fury has just been here, and she's looking terrible, so I let her go and Fatigue is taking over. I don't even seem to have the strength to call him back--I'm just watching him get smaller and smaller as he goes. There he goes...
*****
The pounding of my own heart in my ears hurts me. It drowns out the slap of my feet on the ground, the jingle of my jacket zipper as I sprint, my murmured prayers that I'm not too late. My feet burn with the abuse of the pavement and my lungs are constricting with this terrible feeling of not enough air.
None of that really matters anyway. What matters is getting there. It doesn't occur to me to wonder what Aida and Suzuhara are doing there. It only registers that I have to get there. I won't be left behind.
The sound of the train is like a scream as it slides past me, but he's there. I'm not too late. My nerves are popping and sizzling and every muscle in my body is crying to be left alone, but he's there. I've made it.
He's not crying, his eyes are running. "Misato...I don't want things to go back to the way they were."
Neither do I. It isn't enough. I don't know what is enough, but I do know what isn't, and I don't want to go back to that apartment without him. "Let's go back...to our home, okay?"
He draws a shaky breath and I see the tension leave him, sloughing off his shoulders like something thick. He almost collapses against me, but I am there, rock steady to catch him, almost like I'm folding him in my wings.
I'm home.
*****
When I have a bad day, my eyes focus on a certain patch of sky and I think, (If I can just get home, I will feel better. I will be safe.) That, I think, is what home really means to me--somewhere that I am safe.