The Casualties
The Weaver Atropos
December 10, 2011
It had been a while since he had looked him in the eye.
It had been a while since he had let himself fall willfully into the abuse that such a choice would bring him. The tumult in those prussian depths was more than he could handle, especially when it was so hard just to hold himself together. In the end, it was always the same.
There was no solace in that choice. There was no nobility in willfully self-destructing for the sake of nothing.
And was it really worth something? Tearing himself open trying to heal someone that - from his own experience - he knew didn't really need fixing. Heero was, and forever would be, a soldier. He might have moved on since the wars, and he might have adopted an entirely new persona, but there were things he'd never forget.
The type of training they'd received was a lifestyle. An existence. Ingrained and programmed into their psyche by the very forces that had turned them into casualties of war even before they'd been picked up by the doctors. They were all a product of the Revolution.
Relena had been mistaken, blaming Dr. J for how Heero had turned out. "You made him this way," she'd exclaimed, horrified at the proposition that child soldiers were nary something to blink at. And Dr. J had looked at her then, curious probably, and smiled in a way that said he understood her naivete.
Because really, Dr. J hadn't made Heero into an assassin. The series of events that had led up to that eventuality had begun elsewhere, even before the assassination of the original Heero Yuy - even before those orders had been given to the hit-man. It had started many years ago, in an era no one remembered any longer, during a time that had already been forgotten, wiped clean of any lingering remorse.
It had started the moment ambition had overpowered basic human virtue.
He hadn't been trained by the rebellion any more than he had been trained on the streets of S2, scouring the grimy streets for food and friendship with little to console him. In his eyes, the Rebellion and the Establishment were just as guilty in creating him. They were just as responsible for what he had become.
And yet, there were shreds of his humanity he clung to. It was almost comical - sardonic - the way he carried himself, desperately needing and clinging to all those things he had been denied. And why? To delude himself into some sense of belonging? Of redemption.
Heero believed in redemption.
But did he really? He wondered sometimes, as he stared glibly at his companion, if Heero really thought himself cleansed of all his sins - pure to start a life anew. And if so, did that mean he was remorseful for what he had done? Did it bear on his conscience to know he had killed - and killed sadistically - for the sake of a War?
But it was different with Heero, because Duo would never know or understand his motivations. The man was a sealed vault of all things in the past - not unwilling to share, but also hesitant to delve on things that were no longer in his control.
The past, he had said, was best left alone.
But if the past had been so crucial in turning them into what they were, then could it really ever be left alone? Could those nightmares and flashbacks ever really be ignored? Would those intrusive thoughts ever cease? Could they?
Maybe the man had attained a spiritual nirvana, one that freed him of all the preoccupations that plagued Duo on a daily basis. "It was a war," Heero might say, "and there are things that must be done in war, however reprehensible."
But would he really say that? Would Heero - the man who had imposed on himself a difficult penance for an accidental massacre - really believe that? Would the man that clung to that stuffed teddy bear like a child to a teat really cast his morals aside?
And what of himself? Wasn't he enough of a living, breathing example of the hypocrisy of an ideal? Clad in his priest's garb and spouting nonsense about being a God of Death - wasn't he as much of a paradoxical amalgam of morals and ideals as Heero? A more twisted one, at that?
Even now, living as a civilian, there were habits that haunted him. An innocuous footstep in the hallway at the boarding house had him reaching overhead for a gun that hadn't been there for years. A lingering gaze from anyone and everyone had him scoping exits and calculating body masses faster than even his conscious mind could realize. Friendships could never be friendships, he had realized early on, because he would forever be a soldier, a spy, an assassin. If there was anyone to trust, it was Heero. Heero and Quatre, and Trowa. And maybe Wufei on a good day. And maybe it wasn't even about trust.
Maybe it was just that he thought these were people that couldn't die. That wouldn't die without a fight.
Maybe he was tired of the War. Tired of all its casualties.
So what if it had been years since then? Old habits died hard.
The thought of it petrified him. The thought of anyone of them dying had his hands trembling in ways they hadn't trembled even when confronted with near certain death. He had never feared death - even back then - not even when Heero had placed the barrel of that gun to his forehead and asked what he wanted. His hands hadn't shook. He hadn't even blinked. Often, he wondered if Heero ever remembered that day, if he ever thought about whether Duo had really wanted to die. Maybe even wondered if he would have had it in him to shoot him, had he asked for it.
But now, the thought of death was crippling. His own death he could handle - his own death he had been prepared for since he was a rugrat in L2, long-hair clouding his vision as he ran from everyone who tried to hurt him.
But Quatre's death? Trowa's death? Wufei's death? ...Heero's death?
The last thought had him suddenly gasping for air and letting out a little squeak of a noise that made the brown-haired pilot turn to him suddenly, his reaction time pristine despite all those years of misuse. Concerned hands were at his cheeks immediately, and Duo thought he could almost feel the man's thought process. Choking? Negative. Myocardial Infarction? A slight pause as he calculated algorithms and made the necessary deductions. Negative. Pulmonary embolism? Prussian eyes skimmed down his torso methodically, looking for wounds, for abnormal breathing. Negative. Anxiety? And at this, there was a pause, and for a moment, as he looked into his eyes, Heero looked lost.
"Duo?" and his voice was small, unsure of how to deal with his most logical deduction.
"Yeah?" he was surprised by how hoarse his own voice was, debilitated by his fear. And he was staring into Heero's eyes despite himself, a little more than terrified that all he wanted to do was bury his face in his shoulder and cry.
The young man blinked a few times, clarity seeming to flood back into them, and gave a little nod. There was another little pause before he continued, his voice as deep and as soothing as always, "...I'm...I'm okay." And his thumb barely grazed at his jaw as he spoke, dark brown hair untamed even with regular access to a comb, "I've been okay for a while, Duo."
And his eyes lingered on his own, reassuring in their stability, thick eyelashes framing the most soulful eyes Duo had ever remembered seeing. "You could see a lifetime in Heero's eyes," he had told Relena once, miffed when she had alluded to their expressionlessness. And you really could. They were guarded, yes, and they were often challenging, and perhaps most painfully dismissing - but when they were in the company of those he trusted, they were warm and relaxed. Heero didn't really hide his feelings anymore than he did. It was just that sometimes, people were too intimidated to try and get at them.
"But I don't think you have."
And the words were as eloquent as they had always been. Heero Yuy, the alleged "Perfect Soldier" was really less of a soldier and more of a soul-reader. His finesse had always had more to do with his ability to read people than it had with his skill as a marksman. His empathy was surprisingly tied to his being. Briefly, Duo wondered what Heero might've been like in another world. In another time. In another reality. Even now, damaged as he was, he might be the most well-adjusted out of them all. He had said that last bit out loud.
"I don't really think so," Heero studied him quietly, moving a little ways away now that he was more calmed down, his prussian eyes flickering absently toward their shared kitchenette. "It's just that everyone is different."
There was another pause. "I think," and those eyes were on him again, deep and infinite, "you condemn yourself more than you realize."
He swallowed thickly, letting Heero read him and basking in that vulnerability.
"I don't think you acknowledge your own fears," Heero hesitated again, looking away to gather his thoughts, "...about your own death."
"I'm not afraid of dying," and his answer was automatic, out of his mouth and indignant before he even had a chance to really think about what Heero was saying. But Heero didn't contradict him further, satisfied that the thought had been heard, at the very least.
"I think you think you know yourself best."
That was fair, wasn't it?
"But," Heero turned to him abruptly, his eyes a little bit more fervant than they had been before, "...don't you think that's absurd?"
Duo was silent.
"Can you really understand your own motivations as well as someone who's seen your mistakes and failures time and time again - and sees the things you can't seem to recognize? Can you really be as aware of those trends and patterns as other people?"
Heero caught his hand when he went to pull at his braid, eager for a distraction, "...aren't I more consciously aware of your habits - the habits you don't even notice you have?" Heero gestured pointedly at the hand he had captured for emphasis.
Duo glanced down at their joined hands, unsure of what exactly Heero was getting at.
"I would have killed you back then, even against my better judgement."
And finally, for the first time in a very long time, Heero's voice changed. It adopted that deeper timbre that had been uniquely his own during the war - harsh and sombre, very barely alive. Duo blinked at it, its return jarring, and held stubbornly to the man's hand when this one made to pull away. "I was set to kill you, I think."
"Then why didn't you?" And his own voice was a haunted whisper, surprised that Heero's gritty admission could conjure up that moment so acutely.
Heero's eyes were back on his at the question, large and discerning, lingering as he came closer. Duo watched as the man navigated deftly across the pile of screws and chips that were strewn about him, stopping and falling to his haunches when they were nearly nose to nose. "I saw how terrified you were."
"That shouldn't have phased you back then."
"Before that moment, I had thought you were like me."
"Like you?"
Heero's gaze shifted, dropping to study the steady pulse at his neck, "...unafraid of death."
Duo didn't reply.
"Seeing your fear made me wonder if I was really as unafraid of dying as I had thought."
"I think so."
And Heero chuckled a little at that, his eyes crinkling at the edges with the sound, disappearing momentarily beneath a fringe of dark brown hair. His tone was thoughtful, "Maybe I just didn't want to kill you."
Duo smiled briefly at that.
"Or maybe I was just afraid to live."
Duo was quiet at the admission, but Heero wasn't expecting him to speak, "...For a long time, I imagined I'd die during the war. Or at it's conclusion." There was another pause, "I didn't really think people like you and I were meant to exist out of that sphere. I didn't think we'd have an idea of how to live beyond the War."
"But?" Duo ventured.
"But," Heero glanced at him again, taking in the whole of his heart-shaped face, "I don't think it precludes us from trying."
"I thought you were going to die that day."
Heero's quirked brow told him the brunette wasn't sure what he was referring to. "When Libra was hurtling towards earth. We all watched you. I think we all expected you to die."
Heero nodded, "That was the intention, I suppose."
"Then what happened?"
"I realized that being afraid to live and unafraid of dying weren't the same things."
"So you reconciled yourself to your fear of death?"
"That's not quite right," Heero shifted minutely, carefully rearranging chips Duo had been working on so as to not interfere with their distribution, "...I think it was more that I came to terms with my own future. With the idea of being a soldier outside of a war."
The two locked eyes again, and this time Duo understood what the man was trying to say. They had been soldiers for much longer than they had been human, and re-embracing their humanity was something that would happen slowly and over a long period of time, if ever. That fear that they all had of living was one that Wufei had articulated entirely with his initiation into Mariemaia's army. Is man really a culmination of his actions, or does his remorse weigh more heavily in his judgement?
Those casualties of war that had made them who they were, they had inflicted themselves upon others. With their battles, they too had created a subsequent crop of soldiers who might be just like them, if ever there was a future where war would reoccur. And it would, because the very confines of human nature dictated it. Dorothy was right in her assessment of mankind: they would steer clear of that they feared, but only so long as they bathed in the bloody and damaged rewards of that fear.
At what point in the cycle of violence had they become the very arbitrators of hatred that they had sought to eliminate? The very arbitrators who had created them?
They were the sacrificial lambs at the altar - the scapegoats - the necessary evil to achieve the ultimate good. But where did that leave them? Where did it leave their humanity? Their culpability?
"Do you remember...every single one?"
"It's only human."