NOT FORGOTTEN
'What are you doing?' he asked himself for what felt like the millionth time. Sighing, his answer was the same as it had been five minutes ago, 'I just don't know. I wish I did, but I don't, so stop asking stupid questions' he told his uncooperative brain.
A pretty girl across the row flashed him a sweet smile. Sometimes it was damned annoying having a four-foot-long braid; girls were always giggling and whispering wherever he went, not to mention the amount of conditioner he went through every month just to keep it manageable.
The bus came to a stop and several people jostled their way forward and out of the crowded seating, to lose themselves on the busy city streets. After a while the faces all seemed to blur together and he couldn't have rightly said how long he'd been sitting there, staring into space. But the part of him that still cared said that he needed to hold together until… something -whatever it was- and in order to do that, he needed to find food and a safe place to sleep. When next the bus stopped, he joined the crowd of people pressing forward, heading down a dark street in the direction opposite of the others.
Funny that this random street should bring up so many memories, so many things he wanted desperately to pretend were nonexistent nightmares, not some horrible reality he'd lived out every day of his teenage life. A life of killing and terror beyond belief, with only the memory of icy blue eyes to break the cycle of awful images. He remembered with a sense of nostalgia, that those eyes were not icy blue for their color, but more for the expression in them. Completely cold, no emotions. The only time they thawed even the barest hint was in the wake of spent passion. He never could look Heero in the eye after they fucked. He couldn't stand seeing those eyes lose their distance, and feeling so cheap, because he would do anything to have Heero look at him with real emotions. Anything, including using his tight little ass and pretty-boy face to seduce the other Gundam Pilot. He was a whore, and he was irrevocably the property of 01.
His frail body shivered in the cold winter air, fingers convulsively wrapping his long trench-coat tighter, thin hands shaking. Because all he had anymore were the nightmares, every time he closed his eyes, or let his guard down, they were there, waiting patiently for him, just like old times.
He walked faster, the shadows charging his mind with a nervousness completely out of character with who he was, or at least who he had been. It had been so long and those blue eyes, warmed by the temporary heat of passion seemed to fade every day, but that was the only thing that did, the rest stayed as fresh as if he still had to awaken to the monotonous repetition of pain and death and fear.
So what if they'd all left him in the end? He didn't need them right? He was Shinagami, God of Death, Deathsythe Pilot 02, fucking happy-go-lucky braided baka, and he didn't need anyone!
Bowing his head he blew on his icy hands to warm them. When he reached the part of town where the streetlights were broken and dark he turned onto it, not sure why. Something about the shadows here seemed so familiar. Warily he searched the darkness. A little ways down the street he saw a lonely figure silhouetted in black, hunched deceptively under an unlit street light. Drug dealer… Duo knew the type; after all, one didn't spend your whole life on L2 and not know your way around the lower streets. If fate hadn't intervened he probably would have ended up just like that man. The thought was a sobering one. As he drew nearer he smelled the sour traces of alcohol and stale smoke. Carefully he kept one hand caressing the handle of his weapon, ready to draw at a moments warning. It seemed foolish, after all, the war was over, but he still carried the blasted thing everywhere. It made him feel safe, even knowing that in some situations, guns just weren't enough.
/Crack/ the hardened fist connected solidly with his jaw and he tasted blood as he doubled over, hiding the fragile bones of his face from his assailant. Gasping in pain he felt his rib snap audibly under another blow to his side. He staggered forward blindly, falling heavily, but strong arms caught him in a painful grasp, forcefully shoving him up against the wall where he couldn't hide from the fists. Reeling he tried to catch his breath before more blows were rained on his undefended body, over and over, until all he could do was scream, waiting numbly for the release he'd come to associate with unconsciousness.
Shivering he jerked past the man on the sidewalk. The last thing he wanted now were drugs, they tended to fuck with his head in strange and unpleasant ways. What was done was done, and he should be able to move on now, and he knew from experience that drugs wouldn't solve anything when he was like this. Sure they took it away for now, but in the morning they just left you with more problems, when you had to explain to those cold, angry eyes how you'd managed to do yet another dumbass thing. That once again he'd fucked up, and yes, it was completely his fault, and no, he hadn't been thinking of the mission. He knew it was pointless to go down that line of thought; it was only one painful betrayal after another.
Rubbing his fists in his gritty eyes he turned off the shadowy street onto one with a restaurant that emitted a cheerful glow that seemed so out of place as to be absurd in this gloomy neighborhood, which was just fine with Duo. His stomach was reminding him with a vengeance that he hadn't eaten for over two days. With a last glance at the blessedly concealing darkness of outside he mounted the steps and entered the warm little building.
A plump, cheery woman bustled over to him with a surprised look on her face.
"What can I get you for dearie?" she asked in the odd Sanc Dialect of the region, smiling motheringly at him. He almost snorted. It wasn't every day that young men with braids reaching to their knees, black trench-coats and army boots got called "dearie" by people they'd never met on the streets of L2. He managed to restrain the unkindly impulse though, it just seemed out of place in this little room. Instead he ordered coffee, black of course. There had been a time when he had loaded his coffee with so much cream and sugar that it was practically pudding, and snorted at Heero, who would be grimacing as he tossed back a boiling cup of the strongest stuff he could brew. He paid the woman silently and pulled the coat closer about his thin form.
The coffee did its job and when he could no longer sit still, he left, watching the first rays of the morning sun touch the dingy houses of L2, turning each dwelling into a golden palace for a second. Shaking his head, he wondered briefly where the glory had gone. Was it him? Had he lost something in the war, or was it the rest of the world? He just didn't know anymore. As he squinted into the brightness, he suddenly realized why this place seemed so familiar to him. He could have killed himself right then. This was the last place he wanted to be. His mind whirled in panic. Of all the streets on L2, he just had to be walking down this particular one. At that moment he would have given anything to be a coward. But his morbid curiosity kept him walking straight towards the one place where he couldn't hide from the memories that haunted him.