Green Eyes
I'm so angry, and it's not his fault at all. There's an ache right in the centre of my head, just above the back of my throat. My lip keeps trembling, and my eyes verge on welling up, teasing me with the idea of some kind of release. I wish I could cry, but when I try to force it out I just make strained, vaguely animal-like noises, and feel like a galumping fool.
Not like him. Everything Duo does is for a reason, and whatever it is, he looks damn good doing it.
I used to be so rational, so full of purpose, I used to know exactly where I was going and what I was doing!
I used to be a soldier, and proud of it.
What happened? What the hell happened to me?
Yes, that's a rhetorical question. I'm angry, not blind, and I've never been stupid. He makes me feel that way sometimes, by being better than I am, and smarter than I am, and younger than I am...
Not a lot of people know that, that I'm older than Duo. It's only a matter of months, really, but it's irrationally important to me. I don't know why, but it galls me to think that he got where he is on talent and spirit alone, and all by the age of fifteen.
The first time he piloted a mobile suit, I was still in school. And I don't mean an OZ military school, or even an Alliance military school. I mean school. I was doing essays, getting graded for basic algebra and taking part in after school clubs. There was no urgency back then, no need to fight. Things were bad, the Alliance made life difficult, but it was for our own good, and I knew that, as surely as I knew that OZ were in space to help us.
I don't think Duo's ever been deluded by propaganda in his life. I don't think Duo's ever been naïve enough to be taken in by something like that. The fact that he knows I was, that really, I still am, is embarrassing, to put it mildly. It's humiliating to me that this boy was changing the world while I still thought that who could skip rope the fastest was important.
I clench my fists tightly, wishing my nails were long enough to hurt the palm of my hands - but if it did, I'd probably yelp and relax them, as I'm actually quite afraid of pain. Not like Duo.
"I'm a coward," I whisper. Saying the words out loud pushes the ache closer and closer to the back of my eyes. "I'm jealous." This time my voice catches, but by naming the feeling, I give my eyes the power to finally fill up with tears, and my vision goes blurry.
"I... I can't stand him!" My voice disappears as I try to vocalise the one thing I will never be able to say. Even now, I have to take it back a moment later, with mental apologies in his direction.
I blink, and two tears roll down my cheeks. I keep my eyes open and refuse to wipe them away, appreciating the lines of coolness forming on my face.
He's exceptional, and I'm...not. He's done so much, and I just got in the way a couple of times. How could I dislike him in any way when he's been nothing but good to me? I should thank him for allowing me even to speak to him, let alone living and working with me! I should be grateful to him, not resent him - any other person would! So why can't I?
The very thought makes me angrier, and I want to scream - but I'm afraid of annoying the neighbours, so I just clench my jaw, really hard. When I stop, there is an ache, but not nearly as bad as the nagging throb in my chest.
I raise my left hand to my mouth and place my teeth on it, catching a fold of pale, uninteresting skin between them. I clamp down, pressing them closer and closer together, until I really can't bear the pain anymore. At that point I bite down hard and release it almost immediately, leaving the bitten skin tingling. Distracted for a moment, I examine my hand.
My teeth have drawn no blood (not that I expected they would) but have left a perfect imprint in my skin. I can see the slightly curved oblongs of my incisors, the small, triangular dots of my canines. Behind the bite marks, my skin is tinged a reddish, purplish colour, the kiss of envy. Lovely. It looks like a bruise, and I briefly wonder if Duo will ask about it. I'll tell him I burnt it on the kettle.
I hate my reflexes. They're all about self-preservation. He doesn't feel that, not ever. The only times I've "risked my life" were when I knew for a fact that I'd be okay. Does that even count? Does anything I've ever done count, when compared with what he did in the wars? At fifteen years old, and the top of my class, I was proud just to be chosen for OZ, proud that I was the best. But let's be realistic, I was probably only allowed to join because Duo and the others had killed so many OZ soldiers already. His success and mine, both so different, both so unenviable.
And I still find a way to envy him, in spite of that! I envy the knowledge he's picked up over all these years, the knowledge he's always faintly embarrassed to realise I don't share. I envy his abilities in a mobile suit, well beyond my own, even though he didn't sweat through the training, theory or formation work I mastered at the academy. I envy his ability to hide what he's really thinking with an open mask. That's something that just doesn't work on me, heart messing up my sleeve the way it does. The melodramatic side of me, the sick side of me, even envies his tragic past, and is intensely jealous of the fact that he has something genuine to weep for.
Even with that, even with the license to cry that I have never had, he won't. I have never in my life witnessed Duo Maxwell crying. I, on the other hand, have shed many tears, each one pettier than the next.
The ache has calmed now. It's moved away from my eyes and is back to my throat, feeling less like intense emotion and more like hunger. Those two tears were all I needed, for now, but I know that this isn't the last time I'll cry over this.
In the meantime though, I switch off the loud music I have playing, my little tantrum over for now. It took Duo a while to get used to my "cooking music" as I called it, with its loud vocals and high bass levels. He doesn't understand - and probably never will - that the only time I have to myself is when I'm in the kitchen. The last thing I need is for him to hear my pitiful attempts at crying and rush to my aid. The unfortunate side of this little arrangement is that if he walks in while I'm like this, I won't be able to do a thing.
Sometimes I hope he will find me, ask what's wrong so I can tell him honestly, we can resolve it, and I can get over myself. Most of the time I'm thankful he doesn't. I don't know if I could survive the embarrassment, and I'm not sure he could deal with the idea that I'm not as saintly as he likes to imagine I am.
I open a drawer and pull two forks and spoons from it, tucking them neatly at the side of each dish in front of me. The steam rising from each is fading - I purposefully let the stew heat up just that bit too much, so I would have this time in here on my own, waiting for it to cool down.
I don't even feel the heat as I pick them up with fingers calloused from military training. I can remember my soft fingertips practically developing scales as I learned to lift weights and control mobile suits. Years worth of training - and Hilde Schbeiker is able to lift a very hot plate.
Hilde Schbeiker: housekeeper, salvage yard worker and occasional mechanic's assistant. I wish my professors could see me now. Sighing at the unlikely thought that I actually enjoyed school, something that never occurred to me when I was there, I take the tray of food I spent the evening preparing through to the living room, where I know my boss is waiting for his dinner.
I'm so angry, and it's not his fault at all. There's an ache right in the centre of my head, just above the back of my throat. My lip keeps trembling, and my eyes verge on welling up, teasing me with the idea of some kind of release. I wish I could cry, but when I try to force it out I just make strained, vaguely animal-like noises, and feel like a galumping fool.
Not like him. Everything Duo does is for a reason, and whatever it is, he looks damn good doing it.
I used to be so rational, so full of purpose, I used to know exactly where I was going and what I was doing!
I used to be a soldier, and proud of it.
What happened? What the hell happened to me?
Yes, that's a rhetorical question. I'm angry, not blind, and I've never been stupid. He makes me feel that way sometimes, by being better than I am, and smarter than I am, and younger than I am...
Not a lot of people know that, that I'm older than Duo. It's only a matter of months, really, but it's irrationally important to me. I don't know why, but it galls me to think that he got where he is on talent and spirit alone, and all by the age of fifteen.
The first time he piloted a mobile suit, I was still in school. And I don't mean an OZ military school, or even an Alliance military school. I mean school. I was doing essays, getting graded for basic algebra and taking part in after school clubs. There was no urgency back then, no need to fight. Things were bad, the Alliance made life difficult, but it was for our own good, and I knew that, as surely as I knew that OZ were in space to help us.
I don't think Duo's ever been deluded by propaganda in his life. I don't think Duo's ever been naïve enough to be taken in by something like that. The fact that he knows I was, that really, I still am, is embarrassing, to put it mildly. It's humiliating to me that this boy was changing the world while I still thought that who could skip rope the fastest was important.
I clench my fists tightly, wishing my nails were long enough to hurt the palm of my hands - but if it did, I'd probably yelp and relax them, as I'm actually quite afraid of pain. Not like Duo.
"I'm a coward," I whisper. Saying the words out loud pushes the ache closer and closer to the back of my eyes. "I'm jealous." This time my voice catches, but by naming the feeling, I give my eyes the power to finally fill up with tears, and my vision goes blurry.
"I... I can't stand him!" My voice disappears as I try to vocalise the one thing I will never be able to say. Even now, I have to take it back a moment later, with mental apologies in his direction.
I blink, and two tears roll down my cheeks. I keep my eyes open and refuse to wipe them away, appreciating the lines of coolness forming on my face.
He's exceptional, and I'm...not. He's done so much, and I just got in the way a couple of times. How could I dislike him in any way when he's been nothing but good to me? I should thank him for allowing me even to speak to him, let alone living and working with me! I should be grateful to him, not resent him - any other person would! So why can't I?
The very thought makes me angrier, and I want to scream - but I'm afraid of annoying the neighbours, so I just clench my jaw, really hard. When I stop, there is an ache, but not nearly as bad as the nagging throb in my chest.
I raise my left hand to my mouth and place my teeth on it, catching a fold of pale, uninteresting skin between them. I clamp down, pressing them closer and closer together, until I really can't bear the pain anymore. At that point I bite down hard and release it almost immediately, leaving the bitten skin tingling. Distracted for a moment, I examine my hand.
My teeth have drawn no blood (not that I expected they would) but have left a perfect imprint in my skin. I can see the slightly curved oblongs of my incisors, the small, triangular dots of my canines. Behind the bite marks, my skin is tinged a reddish, purplish colour, the kiss of envy. Lovely. It looks like a bruise, and I briefly wonder if Duo will ask about it. I'll tell him I burnt it on the kettle.
I hate my reflexes. They're all about self-preservation. He doesn't feel that, not ever. The only times I've "risked my life" were when I knew for a fact that I'd be okay. Does that even count? Does anything I've ever done count, when compared with what he did in the wars? At fifteen years old, and the top of my class, I was proud just to be chosen for OZ, proud that I was the best. But let's be realistic, I was probably only allowed to join because Duo and the others had killed so many OZ soldiers already. His success and mine, both so different, both so unenviable.
And I still find a way to envy him, in spite of that! I envy the knowledge he's picked up over all these years, the knowledge he's always faintly embarrassed to realise I don't share. I envy his abilities in a mobile suit, well beyond my own, even though he didn't sweat through the training, theory or formation work I mastered at the academy. I envy his ability to hide what he's really thinking with an open mask. That's something that just doesn't work on me, heart messing up my sleeve the way it does. The melodramatic side of me, the sick side of me, even envies his tragic past, and is intensely jealous of the fact that he has something genuine to weep for.
Even with that, even with the license to cry that I have never had, he won't. I have never in my life witnessed Duo Maxwell crying. I, on the other hand, have shed many tears, each one pettier than the next.
The ache has calmed now. It's moved away from my eyes and is back to my throat, feeling less like intense emotion and more like hunger. Those two tears were all I needed, for now, but I know that this isn't the last time I'll cry over this.
In the meantime though, I switch off the loud music I have playing, my little tantrum over for now. It took Duo a while to get used to my "cooking music" as I called it, with its loud vocals and high bass levels. He doesn't understand - and probably never will - that the only time I have to myself is when I'm in the kitchen. The last thing I need is for him to hear my pitiful attempts at crying and rush to my aid. The unfortunate side of this little arrangement is that if he walks in while I'm like this, I won't be able to do a thing.
Sometimes I hope he will find me, ask what's wrong so I can tell him honestly, we can resolve it, and I can get over myself. Most of the time I'm thankful he doesn't. I don't know if I could survive the embarrassment, and I'm not sure he could deal with the idea that I'm not as saintly as he likes to imagine I am.
I open a drawer and pull two forks and spoons from it, tucking them neatly at the side of each dish in front of me. The steam rising from each is fading - I purposefully let the stew heat up just that bit too much, so I would have this time in here on my own, waiting for it to cool down.
I don't even feel the heat as I pick them up with fingers calloused from military training. I can remember my soft fingertips practically developing scales as I learned to lift weights and control mobile suits. Years worth of training - and Hilde Schbeiker is able to lift a very hot plate.
Hilde Schbeiker: housekeeper, salvage yard worker and occasional mechanic's assistant. I wish my professors could see me now. Sighing at the unlikely thought that I actually enjoyed school, something that never occurred to me when I was there, I take the tray of food I spent the evening preparing through to the living room, where I know my boss is waiting for his dinner.