One: All the Things She Said
People change. Times change. Everything changes, and over the course of eight years, one begins to get nostalgic about the past. Everyone starts thinking about the good old days when everything cost less and crime was at an all time low. People remember past sins and transgressions as well as those perfect moments that are etched into the annals of time. It's the perfect feeling of bliss; the longing for that bittersweet fruit known as your life from before. No one can deny it and no one can escape it.
But there are those that nostalgia contaminates like a poison.
It slowly strangles their sense of being while their past comes calling, drudging with it memories so horrible and so murky that they had simply ceased to exist in the person's own mind before the terrible and insane remembrance creeps round. To some, nostalgia is like a railroad spike to head, or a gunshot wound to the chest. Their feelings bleed them dry; leaving them for vultures to pick at. It's another name for suicide and a dead-wringer murder.
It's a shame though, when someone considers nostalgia to be a curse. It means they've led a hard life, maybe one that they didn't choose. Can you imagine living a life that was a total waste? Doing something you hated; regretting every moment you were alive? So to them, it's understandable that memories of the past would cause pain. A pain so intense that there's a pounding in your head; having to pop pills to dull the screaming in your soul, and with every valium you take it's another nail in the coffin made for you and your tears. A drugged up, miserable shell of a person - that's the kind that nostalgia kills. It's a slow killer, sipping away at the happiness in your life until there's nothing left to sip, but it's an efficient killer. So efficient that nobody even notices it.
They both had the kind of memories that kill.
He always walked around aimlessly in the streets, looking for some kind of sign. Now he was just willing to go on anything. Optimism and pessimism had become obsolete, and now he was just looking for a lead to check, anything new to go on. He was every Freud's dream. He was the perfect test subject for a psycho-therapist to research, analyze, and rehabilitate. Hell, they might even get in some good poking and prodding the way his life had been going.
He was tired of caring, but part of him wouldn't quit. He was twenty-five, broke as he could ever be, and living in a small apartment, clinging to a memory from the past that even Christ himself had forgotten about by now. He had turned to alcohol and smokes in search of that perfect high - that zen like feeling where his balls weren't in his stomach and his head wasn't up his ass.
Now, he looked out the window, praying to Christ or to Buddha. He didn't care who answered, just as long as somebody did. The streetlights twinkled in a weird kind of light show while sirens and cars driving by created a soundtrack to the scene he had grown so accustomed to - poverty. He had made himself poor in his search for the one thing that he was convinced could save him. The angel in his hell, the light behind the thunderstorm - she had caused him to lose everything in the last three years. He spent a few months in the Sudan, a while in what was once India, just searching for his her. He was like a kid digging around for the ring in the Cracker Jack box, only, it had taken him a little over 38 months to even get close to the piece of plastic.
He looked up at the sky and saw a star fall from depths unknown. Maybe it wasn't a star, maybe it was some metal scrap burning as it hit the atmosphere, someone's creation melting away in seconds. Everything they'd worked so hard for. He took another drink from his six or seventh half-empty beer, he couldn't remember. It made him sick - how life could be destroyed with the simple flip of a switch, a simple wave of the hand. He took a smoke from his cancer stick and blew out the air.
She really shouldn't matter this fucking much. Stupid gir-- no, not a girl anymore. She was a woman, a mother, and a whore of a wife to some asshole man who took her from him. His blood boiled over, and the sick taste of jealously ruined the beer in his mouth. He threw the bottle against the wall and kicked over a chair. Stupid whore! The stupid bitch! She didn't care how he felt! She just wanted him to wither up and die like a damn dog!
"Well I'm not! I'm not going to stop until I've found you and made your life so fucking miserable you can't stand it and come running back!" He screamed to the girl who was only in his head, to the girl that stole away his thoughts during the day and corrupted his dreams at night. For everyone else she was just a ghost, but to him, she was a bittersweet memory he intended to get back.
The alcohol took over his brain, and words and feelings weren't his anymore. He stumbled around - pathetic - his stolid features not so stolid anymore. He was pale; he hadn't been eating. The shock of failure was too much. He was so sure he was going to find her today. That the woman he had been chasing after for seven months was her..
But it wasn't, and the failure was killing him.
The boy turned man fell over onto his couch. All his money was gone. He was going to have to stay in this God awful little town for a while; try and recover before he went on the hunt again.
Three years. It had been three awful years and he still wasn't any further ahead than where he had a been. He had run the race, but somehow managed to make it back to start. And if a miracle or something didn't happen soon--
He was a wreck and he knew it. He had once been so on top of his game that nobody could have stopped him. Nobody could have made him feel like he did now. And now, now he just looked like your average drunk, some guy who, life had kicked too many times in the ass, and he couldn't stand to be like this. If he couldn't get out of it, he'd take the shot that would.
Yuy laid down on his couch and tried to forget. There was no sense in remembering now, although memories were the only things that kept him going. He just needed to clear his head. He was older and wiser - his boyish good looks had morphed into appeal and sexual charm.
Now why was he thinking about that? Heero smiled a little and closed his eyes.
Yeah, if he just went to sleep, all would be better in the morning. He could start anew. New clothes, new job, and a new goal - money.
And the idea seemed fantastic as he drifted to sleep, but when he woke up, it didn't seem so great. For one thing he had the hangover of all hangovers. He decided that six beers was his limit before he totally flipped out. There was the issue of broken furniture and the hole the cigarette had burned into the carpet... And the chair and drapes. Heero shakily stood up, took a step, and found himself faced with another issue, the vomit he just contributed to the floor.
Oh yes, all was anew in the morning. New problems, new needs, and of course, new bills. Wasn't life just dandy?
Biased anyone?
He took a shower, ate some breakfast, and then left his apartment. He needed both air and to find a job, so he left.
It was eleven o'clock in the morning and the city life was just bursting with different races, faces, and opportunities. But walking down the street, Yuy, in his black jacket and jeans, just looked morose and depressed. An artist would have said the perfect picture of defeat and pain in a human.
Yuy would have called it his life.
The wind blew a little, rustling his hair and freezing his nose. It was December in the town of San Muerte and Heero had a feeling it would be August before he left it again.
August, frickin' August before he got out of this hell hole...
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He'd find a nice job, get into a healthy non-smoking, non-drinking routine, and stop hating life. Those months would probably just fly by. San Muerte could even turn out to be somewhat of a nice place, when it wasn't thirty-six degrees. And as he watched the people walk through the streets, the smiles etched in their faces, he saw the snow on the ground and realized why he had such a hatred for himself; for his life. It was December 19th. It was six days before Christmas.
Christmas, a holiday that had meant nothing to him from the moment he was born. It always made him depressed and angry. He had never had anyone to spend it with, anyone to hang lights with. Heero grinned a little as he looked at the window treatments that had toys and presents and reindeer in them. Somewhere, deep down, the thought of having that kind of joy made him happy, made him feel like the world wasn't over.
Yuy walked through the heart of San Muerte, taking the same route he did every day. He past rows of stores, houses, and law firms. He looked up at the signs. It was weird. He had went by these places everyday for what seemed like forever, but it was like he was seeing them for the first time. Taylor's Dry Cleaning, Bakery King, Maxwell Furniture - Heero blinked and looked at the sign again. It said Maxwell Furniture. Maxwell. He wondered how the son of a bitch was doing. In reality, it had been, what, three years since he walked out of Duo's house? Heero shook his head and laughed a little to himself. He had actually jumped out the window of Duo's house.
Pilot boy turned the corner and walked into a little shop called "Ferguson's Library." A tiny bell did it's job when he opened the door and an old man looked up with a smile on his face, one that faded the moment he saw Yuy. The old man waved his hands.
"Oh, it's you." He said in a deep Irish accent. He ran his small and fragile fingers through his silver hair.
"Nice to see you too." Heero said as he took off his black gloves and stuck them in his back pocket. He shook off the cold a little while the old man went back to his work.
"Is Anya working?" Yuy asked.
The Irishman raised his head and narrowed his eyes. Heero was doubtful if he'd receive any kind of answer at all.
"Are you going to buy something if I tell you?" The man asked.
"I can always just start screaming her name." Heero said as he started to open his mouth and shout. That was when the old man waved his arms in frenzy.
"Don't, just don't!" The man looked at Heero and Heero looked back, obviously not willing to budge until he knew if the girl was working or not. The Irishman rolled his eyes in an act of withdrawal. "She's stocking shelves in the Eastern books section."
Heero nodded his head and said thanks while the old man just grumbled.
The shop's layout was simple and small, and Heero walked down the three steps that led him into the gallery of bookshelves. There were at least twenty full sized shelves on either side of the store, which added "a cramped but cute feeling" as Anya had put it. He walked over to the Eastern book section and saw her, with her headset on, doing something that was supposedly dancing, but looked more like a seizure to him. There were books on the floor and a few in her arms that she was randomly throwing on the shelves while closing her eyes and moving her hips seductively to the beat of whatever she was listening to. If Heero hadn't had conversations with her, she might have turned him on.
"Anya." He said loudly, but she didn't hear him and kept dancing. The music was extremely loud and fast, she was singing the words softly and the words were Russian.
"Anya!" Heero shouted. When she started to break dance, he figured he didn't hear her again.
He waited a second and then bent forward and tapped her on the shoulder, sending the books crashing to the floor and getting punched in the face by a very skinny, but extremely powerful blonde Russian. Heero stumbled back a little, feeling the cartilage snapping and the blood flowing. Anya's eyes got huge and she slipped the headphones down around her neck as she grabbed onto his shoulders.
"Oh Christ! I'm so sorry, Cyka!" She said with a deep Russian accent as she titled his head upward. "I didn't break it did I?"
"Well I don't know. I can't feel it." His voice was nasally now. He knew it wasn't broken, but it still hurt like hell.
Anya rolled her eyes. "I hit you hard, but not that hard."
"But it still hurt." Heero looked up at the ceiling while she wiped the blood away with a tissue.
"Woman. I thought you used to be in the Army, ya?" She quipped.
"And I thought you were supposed to be delicate and graceful." He hissed.
Anya smiled. "Cyka."
Heero growled. "Russian."
Yuy let her inspect the damage. He had learned from experience that it was the best thing to do. She was being extremely gentle, but then again, she was always gentle. She was a tall girl, somewhere around five-six or five-seven and her long slender fingers combed over his face with a grace that was as sensual as it was elegant. There was nothing between the two besides a loose acquaintance turned friendship, but still, whenever they touched - no matter what the reason - there was always a kind of chemistry and a strange silence that covered them both. They cracked jokes on each other all the time; she called him Cyka, he made cracks about her being Russian, but, in reality, if things had been different - really different - who knows what could have happened.
"I think you'll live, ya?" She said as she patted him on the cheek and turned around to pick up her books.
Heero rubbed his face and sighed. Anya Korvchek was someone he had found out of sheer accident, and someone he had learned to trust. He met her the first time he had come to San Muerte, looking for his phantom. She was working at a hotel back then, and he was looking to talk to her manager about some information. And while the manager had nothing, Anya set Heero up with some contacts in the city that could help him find anything.
From there on in, she was somewhat of his confidant - he's replacement Duo, sort of. Anya was there for him throughout all his successes and failures. She had picked him up when he was so drunk he couldn't walk; she had house sat for him while he was out of the city. She was the sister he never had, the mother he never needed, and the soul mate he could never be with. Anya loved him unconditionally, and never asked for anything from him except his friendship. Which, in a weird turn of events, Heero gave to her completely.
Korvchek was from Moscow with the bluest eyes anyone could have ever seen and a smile that made men weak in the knees. She was the most gentle woman you could ever meet, and she never hesitated to help someone out. She could hold her own in any fight and spoke seven languages ranging from her native Russian to Chinese and back to English. She was funny, witty, and for a reason he couldn't understand, Yuy felt drawn to her.
But regardless of how perfect she was, Anya had a side that was harsh, shameful, and depressing. The life she had led before had been so horrible and so toxic, it was a miracle she survived. Abusive father, abusive boyfriends, drug addictions that still flared up from time to time - Korvchek was a bleeding angel who passed out in a ditch on her way to the hospital.
When she lived in Moscow she was a high-class call girl. When in Bangkok she made tapes for money and did lines of coke like it was candy. She had been shot by her fiance - who beat her so bad once that she was in a wheelchair for three months - and had been mugged and raped on her way to a Sunday night service at a local church. She tried to kill herself once with pills and just wound up in a mental institution outside of San Muerte. Two years later, she's clean and living straight - working at the bookstore and slugging Heero in the face. And that was another thing, Korvchek had a black belt in everything you could think of and took kick-boxing classes every Tuesday night.
Heero had felt a sympathy for her, a kind of pity, and took her under his wing. She did the same for him and their friendship was cemented when Yuy beat the hell out of her fiance "Luka" with a baseball bat. Rumor had it he was still in the hospital with "critical, but stable" wounds and such.
"So what the hell is you doing here anyway, Yuy? Looking for a good bang, bang." She shot him with her fingers, putting emphasize on the 'bang, bang'. That was another thing they joked about - her having a background of professional whoring and him with his "military background". Bang, bang was just their common bond, so to speak. Heero rolled his eyes and pulled the tissue out from his bleeding nose.
"No. Just, thought we could get a coffee or something."
Anya looked up at him with paranoia and confusion in her eyes. "You and me?"
Yuy nodded quickly, dabbing at his still bleeding nose.
Anya took a step forward and turned her head a little. "Coffee?"
"So glad you can reiterate everything I say." Heero hissed. Anya smiled at him, and he rolled his eyes. "Jesus, it's just a hangover! I need coffee!"
Anya grinned and turned to put the books down. "Right."
"Consider it your Christmas present." Heero mused as he handed her her coat. She signaled to the Irishman that she was taking her break and the two walked out the front door. The snow had begun to fall a little bit and there were carolers and holiday decorations everywhere. Anya laughed.
"I'm surprised you even remembered it was Christmas, ya?!"
"Russian." Heero whispered under his breath.
"Cyka." She whispered back.
They walked a while before they came to a tiny coffee place that was way to expensive and tasted like death on a stick. Heero laughed to himself at the parallel. Anya was a vegetarian, she'd probably never had meat, or "death on a stick". He had roasted a rat or two before over a fire in the middle of nowhere.
Poor Korvchek, some people just haven't lived.
The odd couple took a seat by the window and ordered a coffee, black and straight, and an espresso with cream. It didn't take a genius to figure out who had what. The silence had fallen on them again, while they watched the people walk by, absorbed in their own little worlds, allowing the pilot and Russian to get lost in thoughts of their own.
The walls of the cafe were deep red and they always reminded Heero of blood.
After awhile, Anya pulled out a cigarette and smoked, sipping on her coffee all the while. It was nice, just being there together. No words, no mindless chatter, they were just lingering in each others presence, feeling each other in quiet ways.
But silence was meant to be broken.
"You didn't find her, ya?" She asked as she tapped her ashes into the tray. Heero's stomach and back tightened at the question he had been dreading, and yet, had wanted her to ask more than anything else. He kept staring out the window, reliving the devastating blow when he realized it wasn't Relena he had been chasing, but someone entirely different. He shifted his gaze towards the table in an act of shame, one he knew he didn't feel alone. Anya had felt the shame of failure too; the crushing defeat that swallows you whole and laughs all the while. Maybe that was another reason he kept her close -- she could understand.
"I'm sorry." Her voice overflowed and drowned in sympathy. She hung her head a little, before raising it only to get a tote from her cancer stick. Heero looked up from the grease spot he'd been focusing on. He heard the remorse in her voice and it made him angry. She should never have to be sorry, not ever and definitely not for any mistakes that he made; the thought of it made him sick.
"It's not your fault." He said sharply, hopefully cutting through whatever delusions or feelings she might be having. He met her eyes, and the softness in them made him weak. The perfect soldier turned his head. "I should have realized it wasn't her sooner."
"But you didn't, so don't worry about it." Anya commanded with the tone of general and the voice of a mother. Heero's temper flared and he peered up at her, a fire in his eyes burning. Anya stared back with an rage equaled in fear and understanding.
"I have to." Heero hissed, his memories taking him back to places he thought he'd forgotten. A lump rose in his throat as he thought of her eyes and her smile. He could still smell her perfume, the way her fragile skin had felt against his neck as she cling to him before she left. His memories kept him controlled and kept him wild. Jealously and loss, they were emotions that haunted him, just like she did every night in his cold and bitter dreams.
Heero blinked hard. "It's the only thing that keeps me going."
And if Anya hadn't have known where to look, she would have missed the glassy look that came over his eyes. And if she hadn't of known what to listen for, she would have missed the hint of mourning and the inaudible crack in his voice. Her heart fell from it's high pedestal, and she remembered things that no one should ever have too, and by doing this, she could relate.
The tension was strong enough to choke the life out of anyone who dare speak, so they just sat there, bathing themselves in their bloody and killing-kind memories. The seconds melting to minutes melting to even more. There was a pang inside, just below their breast bones. They could feel it. The soft and subtle hurt that lingered. They could feel it rise slowly, up through their chests and into their throats. And while they could feel the tears well up in each others eyes - while they both knew that they felt the same losses and felt the same cruel hatred - neither had the strength to look at the other. Neither one could let them see each other so vulnerable, so raped and violated, as they were sitting in the chairs by the window, faintly aware that the world was passing them by.
Anya's cigarette burned itself out, and neither of them woke from the dream until the waitress asked if she could get them anything.
"Oh!" Korvchek explained, coming around. "No, no thank you we're fine." The waitress smiled the way waitresses do when they want a tip and told them she'd bring the check over. Heero shook his head and rubbed his eyes.
"If I didn't know you better, I would think that you're nothing but a drunken stalker, ya?" She said with a smile as she took a sip from her cold espresso. Heero looked out the window, still stone cold.
"Maybe that's all I am."
Anya made a noise that resembled a snort of disgust and reached down to grab her purse. "Ya, and maybe I'm nothing but a whore."
Heero quickly turned around and looked at her. "You're not a whore." He said sternly.
She looked up at him, a twisted version of a smile gone frown.
"And you're not a failure."
She had read his mind, just like he knew she would. A shiver went down his spine and he realized that that was exactly what he needed to hear. He wasn't a failure. He had just made a mistake. He had made one mistake - true it was one massive and huge mistake - but it was just a mistake. He bit his lip and sighed. Anya smiled. "You're just a Cyka."
Heero frowned and leaned back in his chair, somewhat relieved that the conversation was taking on more of a lighter mood. "You've got to stop calling me that. I'm not a bitch." Anya smiled as she pulled out a mirror and started to re-apply the make-up that had come off between her morning dressing and her brunch.
"Yes you are my sexy friend." She said while she applied a pink-orange color to her lips. "You are love's bitch and there's not a thing wrong with it."
"If I'm a bitch, than you're a whipping girl." Heero grinned slightly as he yawned a little. It always made him feel better to have a go with Korvchek, in the non-sexual sense.
The snap of her make-up compact sent a tiny echo throughout the little cafe.
"That's something that only I and the thousands of horny people who saw that video will ever know." She mused, and all though it was meant as a joke, a sick realization jabbed at her because what she had just said was very true.
"What if I saw that video?" He asked, letting off his guard and giving a faint smile.
Anya lowered her voice and eyed him seductively. "I could make it a reality."
"More like a nightmare." Heero said as he took the check from the waitress who looked nervous. She had obviously heard some of the conversation.
"You know you'd like it." Korvchek said sarcastically as she looked down at her watch.
"What'd I'd like is to get out of here." Heero growled, a little tired and annoyed by the conversation. Tired because it was idle banter, annoyed because he knew it was true. Somewhere deep down, he probably did want to take Anya and do the things that he couldn't bring himself to say. Besides, he was never one to really sit and talk to anyone.
Anya waved her hands in the air. "Than go, please. Leave me the check!" She commanded with a dramatic flare she had picked up along the way. "My crummy ass pay will cover it." She whined loud enough for him to hear under her breath as she scanned over the bill.
"Goodbye, Anya." Heero said in a way that was meant to end the conversation as he stood up and began to walk towards the door.
"Wait," Anya shouted, confusion and sarcasm coming from her voice, "isn't this my Christmas present?" Yuy turned around puzzled and looked at her. She had a funny habit of saying things right at the last minute that would save her own ass that weren't necessarily true. A habit, he guessed, that came from years of having to look after herself and fight to stay alive.
"Your words or mine?" He asked as he walked back over to the table, her eyes following him all the way. She looked at him, as if to say 'are you serious'?
"Jesus, you really do have a hangover. How much did you drink?" She asked as she reached into her wallet to pull out the cash. Heero sighed.
"Enough to wake me up from the stupor I was in."
Anya looked up at him and her smile seemed to humble him in a way he couldn't understand. Her smile put him at a peace he hadn't felt in a long time, not since he had seen the ghost of his dreams on the beach. "You don't have to pay Yuy." She said as she pulled out her wallet. "I know you're tapped for a while."
"Not enough to stick you with the check." Heero said harshly as he reached into his back pocket for his own money.
"Get out of here." Anya commanded when she saw what she was doing. She laid the money on the table and stood up. "Besides," she said as she took his arm under her's, "I still have a lovely savings account from the whoring and the whoring."
"That's sad." Yuy said, never more serious in his life.
"That's life!" She chirped as they walked out of the cafe, arm in arm, or rather, clinging to his. Then, all of the sudden, she threw his arm down and her natural exuberance and zeal for life kicked in. "Oh God!" She exclaimed as she dug through the war zone they had both dubbed her purse. She pulled out a piece of paper and tried to hand it to him. "Here. Speaking of broke, I think I found you a job."
Heero immediately pulled back his hand and shook his head. "No thanks."
"Oh, what?!" Anya shouted annoyed and pissed as she turned around in a circle. She pushed the paper back at him. Heero pushed her hand away.
"The last time you found me a job it involved security detail at a Chucky the Rat's," He explained bluntly, and with sarcasm oozing from every part of his body, he said, "which, I might add, was single handedly the worst job of my life." Anya frowned, hands on her slender hips. Her long, dark green skirt blew in a wind that brought with it a new chill and a new patch of snow. He thought she looked like an angel.
"Hey, you said money, I found it." She pointed out.
Heero nodded his head. "I'll pass Korvchek." He started to walk away.
"This is totally high-class." She yelled after him, but he kept walking. Anya made a noise of disgust and jumped around, then ran up to catch him. Heero could hear her black boots clacking up against the pavement as she came up next to him. She shoved the paper in his face. "Rich guy's looking for body guards."
Pissed and tired, Heero looked at the paper. Finally, in act of benevolence and sheer generosity towards her efforts, he asked, "Why is he looking for those?"
Anya was obviously caught off guard by the question, but in her graceful if not overly sarcastic demeanor, she said, "Why not?" Yuy stopped walking and faced her.
"Look, I appreciate the gestu--
"Take it." She interrupted, placing it in his hands. "Besides, I just paid for my damn Christmas present, I'm not really in the mood to be much more charitable than this, ya?"
They exchanged looks, both with their own intensity and meanings, but in the end, it was pretty obvious who would win the war.
"Fine." He said as he took the paper and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Anya squealed a happy squeal and clapped her hands. She felt like she had done a good thing, but not just any good thing, she had done something good for Yuy, and that brought her a joy indescribable.
"Trust me! I have a good feeling about this one! Something big is going to come out of this, ya?!"
"Yeah, no 'ya'". Heero said as he rolled his eyes. "And besides, that's what you said about the last one too. And you know what happened with that," he paused for effect, "rats."
Anya gave him a smile and ignored the comment. She hugged him, and got a small return. Heero wasn't much a of hugging person, no matter how much time had gone by and no matter how humbled he had become. But it didn't matter to Anya, she would always hug him, even if he did hate it.
"I've got to go. I don't want Ferguson getting all bent out of shape." She said as she started to walk away.
"I don't think you'll have to worry about that." Heero shouted after her.
Anya turned round, walking backwards. "Yeah, the guy probably hasn't been bent in years!"
Heero stared at her in disbelief. "I meant the time."
Korvchek stopped in her tracks and gave a nervous laugh. "I... meant that too."
"Right." He said as he shook his head.
"Much love!" And with a wave, the Russian turned and started to walk briskly down the street, turning a corner in the snow. Heero sighed. If things had been different, he could have really loved that girl in a way that he would never understand.
People change. Times change. Everything changes, and over the course of eight years, one begins to get nostalgic about the past. Everyone starts thinking about the good old days when everything cost less and crime was at an all time low. People remember past sins and transgressions as well as those perfect moments that are etched into the annals of time. It's the perfect feeling of bliss; the longing for that bittersweet fruit known as your life from before. No one can deny it and no one can escape it.
But there are those that nostalgia contaminates like a poison.
It slowly strangles their sense of being while their past comes calling, drudging with it memories so horrible and so murky that they had simply ceased to exist in the person's own mind before the terrible and insane remembrance creeps round. To some, nostalgia is like a railroad spike to head, or a gunshot wound to the chest. Their feelings bleed them dry; leaving them for vultures to pick at. It's another name for suicide and a dead-wringer murder.
It's a shame though, when someone considers nostalgia to be a curse. It means they've led a hard life, maybe one that they didn't choose. Can you imagine living a life that was a total waste? Doing something you hated; regretting every moment you were alive? So to them, it's understandable that memories of the past would cause pain. A pain so intense that there's a pounding in your head; having to pop pills to dull the screaming in your soul, and with every valium you take it's another nail in the coffin made for you and your tears. A drugged up, miserable shell of a person - that's the kind that nostalgia kills. It's a slow killer, sipping away at the happiness in your life until there's nothing left to sip, but it's an efficient killer. So efficient that nobody even notices it.
They both had the kind of memories that kill.
He always walked around aimlessly in the streets, looking for some kind of sign. Now he was just willing to go on anything. Optimism and pessimism had become obsolete, and now he was just looking for a lead to check, anything new to go on. He was every Freud's dream. He was the perfect test subject for a psycho-therapist to research, analyze, and rehabilitate. Hell, they might even get in some good poking and prodding the way his life had been going.
He was tired of caring, but part of him wouldn't quit. He was twenty-five, broke as he could ever be, and living in a small apartment, clinging to a memory from the past that even Christ himself had forgotten about by now. He had turned to alcohol and smokes in search of that perfect high - that zen like feeling where his balls weren't in his stomach and his head wasn't up his ass.
Now, he looked out the window, praying to Christ or to Buddha. He didn't care who answered, just as long as somebody did. The streetlights twinkled in a weird kind of light show while sirens and cars driving by created a soundtrack to the scene he had grown so accustomed to - poverty. He had made himself poor in his search for the one thing that he was convinced could save him. The angel in his hell, the light behind the thunderstorm - she had caused him to lose everything in the last three years. He spent a few months in the Sudan, a while in what was once India, just searching for his her. He was like a kid digging around for the ring in the Cracker Jack box, only, it had taken him a little over 38 months to even get close to the piece of plastic.
He looked up at the sky and saw a star fall from depths unknown. Maybe it wasn't a star, maybe it was some metal scrap burning as it hit the atmosphere, someone's creation melting away in seconds. Everything they'd worked so hard for. He took another drink from his six or seventh half-empty beer, he couldn't remember. It made him sick - how life could be destroyed with the simple flip of a switch, a simple wave of the hand. He took a smoke from his cancer stick and blew out the air.
She really shouldn't matter this fucking much. Stupid gir-- no, not a girl anymore. She was a woman, a mother, and a whore of a wife to some asshole man who took her from him. His blood boiled over, and the sick taste of jealously ruined the beer in his mouth. He threw the bottle against the wall and kicked over a chair. Stupid whore! The stupid bitch! She didn't care how he felt! She just wanted him to wither up and die like a damn dog!
"Well I'm not! I'm not going to stop until I've found you and made your life so fucking miserable you can't stand it and come running back!" He screamed to the girl who was only in his head, to the girl that stole away his thoughts during the day and corrupted his dreams at night. For everyone else she was just a ghost, but to him, she was a bittersweet memory he intended to get back.
The alcohol took over his brain, and words and feelings weren't his anymore. He stumbled around - pathetic - his stolid features not so stolid anymore. He was pale; he hadn't been eating. The shock of failure was too much. He was so sure he was going to find her today. That the woman he had been chasing after for seven months was her..
But it wasn't, and the failure was killing him.
The boy turned man fell over onto his couch. All his money was gone. He was going to have to stay in this God awful little town for a while; try and recover before he went on the hunt again.
Three years. It had been three awful years and he still wasn't any further ahead than where he had a been. He had run the race, but somehow managed to make it back to start. And if a miracle or something didn't happen soon--
He was a wreck and he knew it. He had once been so on top of his game that nobody could have stopped him. Nobody could have made him feel like he did now. And now, now he just looked like your average drunk, some guy who, life had kicked too many times in the ass, and he couldn't stand to be like this. If he couldn't get out of it, he'd take the shot that would.
Yuy laid down on his couch and tried to forget. There was no sense in remembering now, although memories were the only things that kept him going. He just needed to clear his head. He was older and wiser - his boyish good looks had morphed into appeal and sexual charm.
Now why was he thinking about that? Heero smiled a little and closed his eyes.
Yeah, if he just went to sleep, all would be better in the morning. He could start anew. New clothes, new job, and a new goal - money.
And the idea seemed fantastic as he drifted to sleep, but when he woke up, it didn't seem so great. For one thing he had the hangover of all hangovers. He decided that six beers was his limit before he totally flipped out. There was the issue of broken furniture and the hole the cigarette had burned into the carpet... And the chair and drapes. Heero shakily stood up, took a step, and found himself faced with another issue, the vomit he just contributed to the floor.
Oh yes, all was anew in the morning. New problems, new needs, and of course, new bills. Wasn't life just dandy?
Biased anyone?
He took a shower, ate some breakfast, and then left his apartment. He needed both air and to find a job, so he left.
It was eleven o'clock in the morning and the city life was just bursting with different races, faces, and opportunities. But walking down the street, Yuy, in his black jacket and jeans, just looked morose and depressed. An artist would have said the perfect picture of defeat and pain in a human.
Yuy would have called it his life.
The wind blew a little, rustling his hair and freezing his nose. It was December in the town of San Muerte and Heero had a feeling it would be August before he left it again.
August, frickin' August before he got out of this hell hole...
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He'd find a nice job, get into a healthy non-smoking, non-drinking routine, and stop hating life. Those months would probably just fly by. San Muerte could even turn out to be somewhat of a nice place, when it wasn't thirty-six degrees. And as he watched the people walk through the streets, the smiles etched in their faces, he saw the snow on the ground and realized why he had such a hatred for himself; for his life. It was December 19th. It was six days before Christmas.
Christmas, a holiday that had meant nothing to him from the moment he was born. It always made him depressed and angry. He had never had anyone to spend it with, anyone to hang lights with. Heero grinned a little as he looked at the window treatments that had toys and presents and reindeer in them. Somewhere, deep down, the thought of having that kind of joy made him happy, made him feel like the world wasn't over.
Yuy walked through the heart of San Muerte, taking the same route he did every day. He past rows of stores, houses, and law firms. He looked up at the signs. It was weird. He had went by these places everyday for what seemed like forever, but it was like he was seeing them for the first time. Taylor's Dry Cleaning, Bakery King, Maxwell Furniture - Heero blinked and looked at the sign again. It said Maxwell Furniture. Maxwell. He wondered how the son of a bitch was doing. In reality, it had been, what, three years since he walked out of Duo's house? Heero shook his head and laughed a little to himself. He had actually jumped out the window of Duo's house.
Pilot boy turned the corner and walked into a little shop called "Ferguson's Library." A tiny bell did it's job when he opened the door and an old man looked up with a smile on his face, one that faded the moment he saw Yuy. The old man waved his hands.
"Oh, it's you." He said in a deep Irish accent. He ran his small and fragile fingers through his silver hair.
"Nice to see you too." Heero said as he took off his black gloves and stuck them in his back pocket. He shook off the cold a little while the old man went back to his work.
"Is Anya working?" Yuy asked.
The Irishman raised his head and narrowed his eyes. Heero was doubtful if he'd receive any kind of answer at all.
"Are you going to buy something if I tell you?" The man asked.
"I can always just start screaming her name." Heero said as he started to open his mouth and shout. That was when the old man waved his arms in frenzy.
"Don't, just don't!" The man looked at Heero and Heero looked back, obviously not willing to budge until he knew if the girl was working or not. The Irishman rolled his eyes in an act of withdrawal. "She's stocking shelves in the Eastern books section."
Heero nodded his head and said thanks while the old man just grumbled.
The shop's layout was simple and small, and Heero walked down the three steps that led him into the gallery of bookshelves. There were at least twenty full sized shelves on either side of the store, which added "a cramped but cute feeling" as Anya had put it. He walked over to the Eastern book section and saw her, with her headset on, doing something that was supposedly dancing, but looked more like a seizure to him. There were books on the floor and a few in her arms that she was randomly throwing on the shelves while closing her eyes and moving her hips seductively to the beat of whatever she was listening to. If Heero hadn't had conversations with her, she might have turned him on.
"Anya." He said loudly, but she didn't hear him and kept dancing. The music was extremely loud and fast, she was singing the words softly and the words were Russian.
"Anya!" Heero shouted. When she started to break dance, he figured he didn't hear her again.
He waited a second and then bent forward and tapped her on the shoulder, sending the books crashing to the floor and getting punched in the face by a very skinny, but extremely powerful blonde Russian. Heero stumbled back a little, feeling the cartilage snapping and the blood flowing. Anya's eyes got huge and she slipped the headphones down around her neck as she grabbed onto his shoulders.
"Oh Christ! I'm so sorry, Cyka!" She said with a deep Russian accent as she titled his head upward. "I didn't break it did I?"
"Well I don't know. I can't feel it." His voice was nasally now. He knew it wasn't broken, but it still hurt like hell.
Anya rolled her eyes. "I hit you hard, but not that hard."
"But it still hurt." Heero looked up at the ceiling while she wiped the blood away with a tissue.
"Woman. I thought you used to be in the Army, ya?" She quipped.
"And I thought you were supposed to be delicate and graceful." He hissed.
Anya smiled. "Cyka."
Heero growled. "Russian."
Yuy let her inspect the damage. He had learned from experience that it was the best thing to do. She was being extremely gentle, but then again, she was always gentle. She was a tall girl, somewhere around five-six or five-seven and her long slender fingers combed over his face with a grace that was as sensual as it was elegant. There was nothing between the two besides a loose acquaintance turned friendship, but still, whenever they touched - no matter what the reason - there was always a kind of chemistry and a strange silence that covered them both. They cracked jokes on each other all the time; she called him Cyka, he made cracks about her being Russian, but, in reality, if things had been different - really different - who knows what could have happened.
"I think you'll live, ya?" She said as she patted him on the cheek and turned around to pick up her books.
Heero rubbed his face and sighed. Anya Korvchek was someone he had found out of sheer accident, and someone he had learned to trust. He met her the first time he had come to San Muerte, looking for his phantom. She was working at a hotel back then, and he was looking to talk to her manager about some information. And while the manager had nothing, Anya set Heero up with some contacts in the city that could help him find anything.
From there on in, she was somewhat of his confidant - he's replacement Duo, sort of. Anya was there for him throughout all his successes and failures. She had picked him up when he was so drunk he couldn't walk; she had house sat for him while he was out of the city. She was the sister he never had, the mother he never needed, and the soul mate he could never be with. Anya loved him unconditionally, and never asked for anything from him except his friendship. Which, in a weird turn of events, Heero gave to her completely.
Korvchek was from Moscow with the bluest eyes anyone could have ever seen and a smile that made men weak in the knees. She was the most gentle woman you could ever meet, and she never hesitated to help someone out. She could hold her own in any fight and spoke seven languages ranging from her native Russian to Chinese and back to English. She was funny, witty, and for a reason he couldn't understand, Yuy felt drawn to her.
But regardless of how perfect she was, Anya had a side that was harsh, shameful, and depressing. The life she had led before had been so horrible and so toxic, it was a miracle she survived. Abusive father, abusive boyfriends, drug addictions that still flared up from time to time - Korvchek was a bleeding angel who passed out in a ditch on her way to the hospital.
When she lived in Moscow she was a high-class call girl. When in Bangkok she made tapes for money and did lines of coke like it was candy. She had been shot by her fiance - who beat her so bad once that she was in a wheelchair for three months - and had been mugged and raped on her way to a Sunday night service at a local church. She tried to kill herself once with pills and just wound up in a mental institution outside of San Muerte. Two years later, she's clean and living straight - working at the bookstore and slugging Heero in the face. And that was another thing, Korvchek had a black belt in everything you could think of and took kick-boxing classes every Tuesday night.
Heero had felt a sympathy for her, a kind of pity, and took her under his wing. She did the same for him and their friendship was cemented when Yuy beat the hell out of her fiance "Luka" with a baseball bat. Rumor had it he was still in the hospital with "critical, but stable" wounds and such.
"So what the hell is you doing here anyway, Yuy? Looking for a good bang, bang." She shot him with her fingers, putting emphasize on the 'bang, bang'. That was another thing they joked about - her having a background of professional whoring and him with his "military background". Bang, bang was just their common bond, so to speak. Heero rolled his eyes and pulled the tissue out from his bleeding nose.
"No. Just, thought we could get a coffee or something."
Anya looked up at him with paranoia and confusion in her eyes. "You and me?"
Yuy nodded quickly, dabbing at his still bleeding nose.
Anya took a step forward and turned her head a little. "Coffee?"
"So glad you can reiterate everything I say." Heero hissed. Anya smiled at him, and he rolled his eyes. "Jesus, it's just a hangover! I need coffee!"
Anya grinned and turned to put the books down. "Right."
"Consider it your Christmas present." Heero mused as he handed her her coat. She signaled to the Irishman that she was taking her break and the two walked out the front door. The snow had begun to fall a little bit and there were carolers and holiday decorations everywhere. Anya laughed.
"I'm surprised you even remembered it was Christmas, ya?!"
"Russian." Heero whispered under his breath.
"Cyka." She whispered back.
They walked a while before they came to a tiny coffee place that was way to expensive and tasted like death on a stick. Heero laughed to himself at the parallel. Anya was a vegetarian, she'd probably never had meat, or "death on a stick". He had roasted a rat or two before over a fire in the middle of nowhere.
Poor Korvchek, some people just haven't lived.
The odd couple took a seat by the window and ordered a coffee, black and straight, and an espresso with cream. It didn't take a genius to figure out who had what. The silence had fallen on them again, while they watched the people walk by, absorbed in their own little worlds, allowing the pilot and Russian to get lost in thoughts of their own.
The walls of the cafe were deep red and they always reminded Heero of blood.
After awhile, Anya pulled out a cigarette and smoked, sipping on her coffee all the while. It was nice, just being there together. No words, no mindless chatter, they were just lingering in each others presence, feeling each other in quiet ways.
But silence was meant to be broken.
"You didn't find her, ya?" She asked as she tapped her ashes into the tray. Heero's stomach and back tightened at the question he had been dreading, and yet, had wanted her to ask more than anything else. He kept staring out the window, reliving the devastating blow when he realized it wasn't Relena he had been chasing, but someone entirely different. He shifted his gaze towards the table in an act of shame, one he knew he didn't feel alone. Anya had felt the shame of failure too; the crushing defeat that swallows you whole and laughs all the while. Maybe that was another reason he kept her close -- she could understand.
"I'm sorry." Her voice overflowed and drowned in sympathy. She hung her head a little, before raising it only to get a tote from her cancer stick. Heero looked up from the grease spot he'd been focusing on. He heard the remorse in her voice and it made him angry. She should never have to be sorry, not ever and definitely not for any mistakes that he made; the thought of it made him sick.
"It's not your fault." He said sharply, hopefully cutting through whatever delusions or feelings she might be having. He met her eyes, and the softness in them made him weak. The perfect soldier turned his head. "I should have realized it wasn't her sooner."
"But you didn't, so don't worry about it." Anya commanded with the tone of general and the voice of a mother. Heero's temper flared and he peered up at her, a fire in his eyes burning. Anya stared back with an rage equaled in fear and understanding.
"I have to." Heero hissed, his memories taking him back to places he thought he'd forgotten. A lump rose in his throat as he thought of her eyes and her smile. He could still smell her perfume, the way her fragile skin had felt against his neck as she cling to him before she left. His memories kept him controlled and kept him wild. Jealously and loss, they were emotions that haunted him, just like she did every night in his cold and bitter dreams.
Heero blinked hard. "It's the only thing that keeps me going."
And if Anya hadn't have known where to look, she would have missed the glassy look that came over his eyes. And if she hadn't of known what to listen for, she would have missed the hint of mourning and the inaudible crack in his voice. Her heart fell from it's high pedestal, and she remembered things that no one should ever have too, and by doing this, she could relate.
The tension was strong enough to choke the life out of anyone who dare speak, so they just sat there, bathing themselves in their bloody and killing-kind memories. The seconds melting to minutes melting to even more. There was a pang inside, just below their breast bones. They could feel it. The soft and subtle hurt that lingered. They could feel it rise slowly, up through their chests and into their throats. And while they could feel the tears well up in each others eyes - while they both knew that they felt the same losses and felt the same cruel hatred - neither had the strength to look at the other. Neither one could let them see each other so vulnerable, so raped and violated, as they were sitting in the chairs by the window, faintly aware that the world was passing them by.
Anya's cigarette burned itself out, and neither of them woke from the dream until the waitress asked if she could get them anything.
"Oh!" Korvchek explained, coming around. "No, no thank you we're fine." The waitress smiled the way waitresses do when they want a tip and told them she'd bring the check over. Heero shook his head and rubbed his eyes.
"If I didn't know you better, I would think that you're nothing but a drunken stalker, ya?" She said with a smile as she took a sip from her cold espresso. Heero looked out the window, still stone cold.
"Maybe that's all I am."
Anya made a noise that resembled a snort of disgust and reached down to grab her purse. "Ya, and maybe I'm nothing but a whore."
Heero quickly turned around and looked at her. "You're not a whore." He said sternly.
She looked up at him, a twisted version of a smile gone frown.
"And you're not a failure."
She had read his mind, just like he knew she would. A shiver went down his spine and he realized that that was exactly what he needed to hear. He wasn't a failure. He had just made a mistake. He had made one mistake - true it was one massive and huge mistake - but it was just a mistake. He bit his lip and sighed. Anya smiled. "You're just a Cyka."
Heero frowned and leaned back in his chair, somewhat relieved that the conversation was taking on more of a lighter mood. "You've got to stop calling me that. I'm not a bitch." Anya smiled as she pulled out a mirror and started to re-apply the make-up that had come off between her morning dressing and her brunch.
"Yes you are my sexy friend." She said while she applied a pink-orange color to her lips. "You are love's bitch and there's not a thing wrong with it."
"If I'm a bitch, than you're a whipping girl." Heero grinned slightly as he yawned a little. It always made him feel better to have a go with Korvchek, in the non-sexual sense.
The snap of her make-up compact sent a tiny echo throughout the little cafe.
"That's something that only I and the thousands of horny people who saw that video will ever know." She mused, and all though it was meant as a joke, a sick realization jabbed at her because what she had just said was very true.
"What if I saw that video?" He asked, letting off his guard and giving a faint smile.
Anya lowered her voice and eyed him seductively. "I could make it a reality."
"More like a nightmare." Heero said as he took the check from the waitress who looked nervous. She had obviously heard some of the conversation.
"You know you'd like it." Korvchek said sarcastically as she looked down at her watch.
"What'd I'd like is to get out of here." Heero growled, a little tired and annoyed by the conversation. Tired because it was idle banter, annoyed because he knew it was true. Somewhere deep down, he probably did want to take Anya and do the things that he couldn't bring himself to say. Besides, he was never one to really sit and talk to anyone.
Anya waved her hands in the air. "Than go, please. Leave me the check!" She commanded with a dramatic flare she had picked up along the way. "My crummy ass pay will cover it." She whined loud enough for him to hear under her breath as she scanned over the bill.
"Goodbye, Anya." Heero said in a way that was meant to end the conversation as he stood up and began to walk towards the door.
"Wait," Anya shouted, confusion and sarcasm coming from her voice, "isn't this my Christmas present?" Yuy turned around puzzled and looked at her. She had a funny habit of saying things right at the last minute that would save her own ass that weren't necessarily true. A habit, he guessed, that came from years of having to look after herself and fight to stay alive.
"Your words or mine?" He asked as he walked back over to the table, her eyes following him all the way. She looked at him, as if to say 'are you serious'?
"Jesus, you really do have a hangover. How much did you drink?" She asked as she reached into her wallet to pull out the cash. Heero sighed.
"Enough to wake me up from the stupor I was in."
Anya looked up at him and her smile seemed to humble him in a way he couldn't understand. Her smile put him at a peace he hadn't felt in a long time, not since he had seen the ghost of his dreams on the beach. "You don't have to pay Yuy." She said as she pulled out her wallet. "I know you're tapped for a while."
"Not enough to stick you with the check." Heero said harshly as he reached into his back pocket for his own money.
"Get out of here." Anya commanded when she saw what she was doing. She laid the money on the table and stood up. "Besides," she said as she took his arm under her's, "I still have a lovely savings account from the whoring and the whoring."
"That's sad." Yuy said, never more serious in his life.
"That's life!" She chirped as they walked out of the cafe, arm in arm, or rather, clinging to his. Then, all of the sudden, she threw his arm down and her natural exuberance and zeal for life kicked in. "Oh God!" She exclaimed as she dug through the war zone they had both dubbed her purse. She pulled out a piece of paper and tried to hand it to him. "Here. Speaking of broke, I think I found you a job."
Heero immediately pulled back his hand and shook his head. "No thanks."
"Oh, what?!" Anya shouted annoyed and pissed as she turned around in a circle. She pushed the paper back at him. Heero pushed her hand away.
"The last time you found me a job it involved security detail at a Chucky the Rat's," He explained bluntly, and with sarcasm oozing from every part of his body, he said, "which, I might add, was single handedly the worst job of my life." Anya frowned, hands on her slender hips. Her long, dark green skirt blew in a wind that brought with it a new chill and a new patch of snow. He thought she looked like an angel.
"Hey, you said money, I found it." She pointed out.
Heero nodded his head. "I'll pass Korvchek." He started to walk away.
"This is totally high-class." She yelled after him, but he kept walking. Anya made a noise of disgust and jumped around, then ran up to catch him. Heero could hear her black boots clacking up against the pavement as she came up next to him. She shoved the paper in his face. "Rich guy's looking for body guards."
Pissed and tired, Heero looked at the paper. Finally, in act of benevolence and sheer generosity towards her efforts, he asked, "Why is he looking for those?"
Anya was obviously caught off guard by the question, but in her graceful if not overly sarcastic demeanor, she said, "Why not?" Yuy stopped walking and faced her.
"Look, I appreciate the gestu--
"Take it." She interrupted, placing it in his hands. "Besides, I just paid for my damn Christmas present, I'm not really in the mood to be much more charitable than this, ya?"
They exchanged looks, both with their own intensity and meanings, but in the end, it was pretty obvious who would win the war.
"Fine." He said as he took the paper and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Anya squealed a happy squeal and clapped her hands. She felt like she had done a good thing, but not just any good thing, she had done something good for Yuy, and that brought her a joy indescribable.
"Trust me! I have a good feeling about this one! Something big is going to come out of this, ya?!"
"Yeah, no 'ya'". Heero said as he rolled his eyes. "And besides, that's what you said about the last one too. And you know what happened with that," he paused for effect, "rats."
Anya gave him a smile and ignored the comment. She hugged him, and got a small return. Heero wasn't much a of hugging person, no matter how much time had gone by and no matter how humbled he had become. But it didn't matter to Anya, she would always hug him, even if he did hate it.
"I've got to go. I don't want Ferguson getting all bent out of shape." She said as she started to walk away.
"I don't think you'll have to worry about that." Heero shouted after her.
Anya turned round, walking backwards. "Yeah, the guy probably hasn't been bent in years!"
Heero stared at her in disbelief. "I meant the time."
Korvchek stopped in her tracks and gave a nervous laugh. "I... meant that too."
"Right." He said as he shook his head.
"Much love!" And with a wave, the Russian turned and started to walk briskly down the street, turning a corner in the snow. Heero sighed. If things had been different, he could have really loved that girl in a way that he would never understand.