Title: Eve of Change
Author: Keithan
Disclaimers: Gundam Wing and its characters belong to their respective owners.
Rating: PG
Timeline: Spire (Fic guide found in my fic lj, keitn dot livejournal dot com)
Series: Hm. Happens at the end of EW. I want to say one shot, since it's still is, but follows This Race We Run for now (but there's supposedly another yet unwritten/unfinished fic in between)
Warnings: speed fic? More of short writing practice in a short amount of time
Characters: 1/4
Summary: The coup d'état was over. The last Eve War was fought and won. Soldiers are not needed anymore in the coming times of peace. Heero has every reason to leave, but does he have any reason to stay? (1/4)
Notes: *hides under a rock, in a deep deep cave somewhere under a tall tall mountain* Born out of writing practice to let me get the hang of writing GW again, because I've been on a forced hiatus that would last until at least March and have not touched GW for some time since it's just been so busy. But.. this.. this came out instead, and it's just a snippet, because I have something in mind before this but this just wrote itself first so I'm sorry, I'm babbling...*hides hides hides*
Set myself a word limit for this, 1k words, exceeded it once, set it to 1.5 k, exceeded it a second time, but trimmed it down so 1.5k words it is.
Eve of Change
by Keithan
He woke up and the first thing he saw was the turned off fluorescent lamp above him. The white ceiling was dark, a faded gray illusion that the moonlight created. He glanced at the window, decided it was enough if he couldn't leave through the door. He brought his arm up to inspect—a needle and tube, nothing he couldn't take out himself. The dull prickle on his other arm told him he had another set there too. He sat up, slow enough to barely make the sheets rustle, and started on the tube on his right.
The drugs he had been given last night must still have some effects, because it took him a few seconds longer to notice the shadow on the chair against the wall. He snapped his head to the direction, saw the glint of gold reflecting the moonlight. It wasn't the drugs after all, he thought as the shadow stood up and took a step forward. It was Quatre, and his senses and intuition had never considered Quatre a threat after that first meeting, almost too long ago.
"You're leaving."
It wasn't a question. He looked away, continued to remove the tubes strapped to him. He listened to the footsteps as Quatre walked to him, echoing so loud in his ears in the silence of the room.
"I understand." The smile in Quatre's voice was apparent, but it was not one of cheer. He frowned at the tube as his hands paused, briefly, minutely, merely a fraction of a second—wondered if Quatre had noticed.
The hand on his shoulder almost caught him by surprise. But he didn't jump, didn't reach out to twist the wrist away, didn't reach out for a gun that—he was sure—was not there. He was calm, always, always calm when it came to Quatre.
He just sat there, looking at his arm and thought when had he finished removing all the tubes and tapes and needles? He had nothing to do, nothing to occupy himself with. Instead he waited, and waited, until the silence became too much, even for him. It was Quatre, and Quatre always knew how to speak with him.
"I would have told you," he said, needing to break his own silence. He was surprised to know that he meant it, surprised to feel the relief of saying those words to Quatre. He owed him that much at least. The hospital bed shifted, and Quatre sat next to him. And as if to reassure himself that he was heard, he said again, "I would have let you know."
"I'm glad," was the only answer, and he glanced sideways, watching as Quatre, with his soft, soft smile, bowed his head, and he almost forgot why he was leaving.
"I need to leave," he said, the words sudden and abrupt as though he needed to hear it, needed to remind himself of what he had to do.
"I know, Heero. I understand," Quatre said, and he knew Quatre really did—probably understood better than he did. "Happy New Year, right?" a tilt of his head, a smile on his face. "This peace… This is a good start as any."
He closed his fists, finding crumpled white sheets in his hands, before he shifted and moved. He swung his legs quietly to the side of the bed and stood up, not a trace of drowsiness in his movements. He looked down at his hospital gown in distaste, already thinking where he'd grab a change of clothes along the way.
"I brought your clothes with me, and a thicker jacket. It's cold outside." Quatre always, always knew. "And the Preventers guarding your door are taking rounds at my orders."
He looked at Quatre, and when their eyes met, he needed to look away. He'd say thank you, but Quatre was smiling, and he had known Quatre long enough, fought alongside him long enough during the wars to know that it was not a smile he wanted to see on Quatre's face.
He frowned, remembering a grieving son and comrade and moonlit beaches, empty smiles, and hidden tears, once long ago.
"Tomorrow will be different. The war is over."
"I know," he answered. "I will not be here tomorrow." There was a weight just below his chest, heavy and weary and resigned. He didn't look to see the blond head that now rested there. His eyes focused on the window instead, at the light streaming from the outside, leaving a bright square imprint on the otherwise dark floor. He balled his hands into empty fists.
"Would you not say goodbye to them first?" Quatre's voice was soft, coming from below, almost, almost muffled by his hospital gown. "Won't you need to let them know?
"I'd rather go quietly," he said, shaking his head. "This…" and his hand almost lifted to wave, to indicate here and now. But Quatre wouldn't see it anyway. "This is enough."
"And Relena?"
"Relena is strong," he said. He'd thought it over. He knew she'd understand. She didn't need him, a soldier, in a time of peace. "She is needed in the coming peace."
Each of them had their own lives to live especially now, when such peace had finally come. He imagined Duo would probably shake him saying, what the hell? Maybe followed by an honest inquiry of you're not going to kill yourself, are you? He almost snorted.
He felt Quatre nod, and waited for him to say anything more. But they were silent for a time. He didn't move, not yet, and Quatre remained where he was, forehead resting on his chest, face hidden.
"Quatre," he started, breaking the silence again. It was a question, perhaps a request as well when he said, "Wufei—"
"He'll be all right," was the easy assurance.
He thought back to their duel, which reminded him of how it was to fight someone he knew he shouldn't be fighting, of the despair in their pathetically young lives as soldiers, and of suddenly not being needed anymore, unnecessary soldiers. He remembered Quatre, and the Zero system, and how would they be able to move past it—the memories, the experiences, the lives they had once lived, the lives they no longer needed to live.
But he trusted Quatre, and knew that Wufei would be all right.
He heard a sigh. "Promise me you'll get your life back," Quatre said. Quatre knew, he thought once more. Quatre understood.
He didn't answer, not wanting to promise something he was not sure he could fulfill. He frowned in thought then, and looked down at Quatre's head on his chest, realizing that not once had the other brought up the question of his return, if or when, or asked him to stay. But perhaps Quatre knew—Quatre always knew—that he'd be honest if he didn't plan on returning and would say so, or that he'd probably stay when asked. And Quatre… Quatre never asked for more than one can give. He pursed his lips to a tight line, clenched his hands into tighter fists.
"I'll…" He clenched, unclenched and he raised his right hand, hesitated, nearly dropped it again. He tightened his hand into a fist again, but when he laid it on Quatre's head, it was open, a whisper of a touch, enough for him to feel the soft strands between his fingers. "I'll be—"
"Don't," Quatre said. He felt a hand encircle his other wrist, the left one, as if it could stop the words. "You don't have to."
He thought of Trowa, quiet, somber Trowa, and how he had shared to him the one advice he could easily give: follow your emotions. He silently apologized to the tall pilot. It was easy, in a life of war. His emotions then were simple, straightforward. But in this time of peace, it seemed it was one advice he would constantly struggle with. He laid his hand fully on Quatre's head, felt the strands slide under his fingers, felt the warmth from Quatre's scalp.
"I'll be back, Quatre," he said—final, sudden. He moved his hand, just slightly, on Quatre's head, ruffling his hair just so—a quiet reassurance, though to Quatre or to himself, he wasn't quite sure.
Quatre didn't answer, didn't say anything more, but the hand on his wrist tightened. He had to leave, and he looked at the folded clothes on the night stand that he only noticed now. He had to get moving, before the guards finish their rounds, before he changed his mind. Because he needed this, needed to find himself first before he could face them, before he could move forward, before he could live his life as merely Heero Yuy, not Heero Yuy, Pilot 01.
He glanced at the window. He would leave, but the moon was still high up in the sky, the moonlight still too bright. Maybe he could stay a while, just a little while.
Happy New Year, Quatre.
End
01.09.09
Additional notes: Because this is initially just writing practice (turned fic), I didn't plan this to be part of the Spire timeline, but it wrote itself into the series. And because this is not planned, I still have a fic in my mind and in my drafts somewhere that happens before this, so if this confused you, I'm sorry. I just have the whole story in mind and this is already like, the middle chapter and I probably failed in writing it to stand alone... and it's Heero, it's Heero, and I really lack practice in that pov. *wonders if she can hide again*
I tried to write a short AU, really I did. But I realized that what makes 1+4 work for me is everything that they had gone through (alone and together). Take that away, and I will spend so much time on thinking of another history of them together, which defeats the purpose of a fast and short writing practice that I intended. :P