A/n: Death-fic. Er, double death-fic. Sadness in spades. Shounen-ai, 1+2... suicide... very very bleak. :: sniffle::
" It all comes down to life.
Human life is why we fight. Not just to preserve, to improve.
At the cost of our own souls. Ask the others, how many remember days when there wasn't that metallic taste of battle in our mouths, the knowledge we could die tomorrow or in half a day or in two minutes?
I know I don't. It's always been bitter, bloody battle. And the need to reclaim my soul is turning me poetic; I can hardly read what I write without wondering if my sudden outbreak of sentimentality is going to endanger our mission.
Sounds like someone else saying that, ne?
But I'm so tired of the never-ending battle...there's nothing glorious about waking up, matted with blood and sweat and tears, and remembering you were too tired to take a shower last night when you stumbled in after the latest bloodbath.
The normal people denounce us for fighting, brand us as rebels.
It...hurts.
What an incredibly stupid word to describe the feeling.
It's like...your child, whom you've been protecting with your life, who you've suffered for and sold your soul for. It's like that child renouncing you, and reaching inside your chest, pulling out your heart and stomping on it, using the blood to sign the contract whereby they are formally no longer your child and have no connection to you and WANT YOU DEAD, and you can't stop it.
Or maybe it's just me who feels any of this. Quatre and Trowa are happy in each other. Every now and then I hear a flute and violin playing together, and after a little of that an entirely different kind of 'sweet music'. Makes me lonelier.
Wufei is....Wufei. I see him watching me, but who knows what he's thinking? If any of us will stay sane after this, it will be him or Heero.
Heero... he, I know for certain, wouldn't feel this sense of wrongness I feel. He's the perfect soldier. He lives for war; he nailed his emotions on a cross and left them to die to make himself stronger; he doesn't bend, he breaks, but he thinks he's stronger now.
If I took him in my arms like I've dreamed of, he wouldn't bend to accommodate. He'd just shatter, breaking one of us; probably me.
Why am I writing this, anyway? We're in a war. There's a million things I should be, could be, would be doing... but look at me here, pitiful, writing things no one will ever read. Confessing things I shouldn't feel, if I want to keep alive and undistracted. Having someone by my side, for even a moment, a day, would ease it for as long as he was with me, but afterwards the euphoria would fade and the guilt, grief, hatred would slowly encroach again.
As much as I joke at him ( I can't say with him, he doesn't smile ) about his dedication to the mission, in a way I share it.
I love him, the silent unfeeling uncaring prick, and if I try anything he'll turn away, and then we can't work together anymore.
Maybe one day there will be an ending to this endless existance bathed in blood, and THEN...then, maybe, then I can tell him I love him. Maybe then I can make him feel. Or maybe not. If I tell him, and he turns away... there's nothing left for this life, and it will be time for me to leave it. "
Heero Yuy took one last look at the diary of the newest entry in the Winner Cemetary, pulled out a gun, and calmly shot himself through the head.
" It all comes down to life.
Human life is why we fight. Not just to preserve, to improve.
At the cost of our own souls. Ask the others, how many remember days when there wasn't that metallic taste of battle in our mouths, the knowledge we could die tomorrow or in half a day or in two minutes?
I know I don't. It's always been bitter, bloody battle. And the need to reclaim my soul is turning me poetic; I can hardly read what I write without wondering if my sudden outbreak of sentimentality is going to endanger our mission.
Sounds like someone else saying that, ne?
But I'm so tired of the never-ending battle...there's nothing glorious about waking up, matted with blood and sweat and tears, and remembering you were too tired to take a shower last night when you stumbled in after the latest bloodbath.
The normal people denounce us for fighting, brand us as rebels.
It...hurts.
What an incredibly stupid word to describe the feeling.
It's like...your child, whom you've been protecting with your life, who you've suffered for and sold your soul for. It's like that child renouncing you, and reaching inside your chest, pulling out your heart and stomping on it, using the blood to sign the contract whereby they are formally no longer your child and have no connection to you and WANT YOU DEAD, and you can't stop it.
Or maybe it's just me who feels any of this. Quatre and Trowa are happy in each other. Every now and then I hear a flute and violin playing together, and after a little of that an entirely different kind of 'sweet music'. Makes me lonelier.
Wufei is....Wufei. I see him watching me, but who knows what he's thinking? If any of us will stay sane after this, it will be him or Heero.
Heero... he, I know for certain, wouldn't feel this sense of wrongness I feel. He's the perfect soldier. He lives for war; he nailed his emotions on a cross and left them to die to make himself stronger; he doesn't bend, he breaks, but he thinks he's stronger now.
If I took him in my arms like I've dreamed of, he wouldn't bend to accommodate. He'd just shatter, breaking one of us; probably me.
Why am I writing this, anyway? We're in a war. There's a million things I should be, could be, would be doing... but look at me here, pitiful, writing things no one will ever read. Confessing things I shouldn't feel, if I want to keep alive and undistracted. Having someone by my side, for even a moment, a day, would ease it for as long as he was with me, but afterwards the euphoria would fade and the guilt, grief, hatred would slowly encroach again.
As much as I joke at him ( I can't say with him, he doesn't smile ) about his dedication to the mission, in a way I share it.
I love him, the silent unfeeling uncaring prick, and if I try anything he'll turn away, and then we can't work together anymore.
Maybe one day there will be an ending to this endless existance bathed in blood, and THEN...then, maybe, then I can tell him I love him. Maybe then I can make him feel. Or maybe not. If I tell him, and he turns away... there's nothing left for this life, and it will be time for me to leave it. "
Heero Yuy took one last look at the diary of the newest entry in the Winner Cemetary, pulled out a gun, and calmly shot himself through the head.