The following morning I am woken by the sound of the radio down the hall - The morning's news report. The bile rose in my throat and goosebumps flutter across my flesh.
The sombre journalist is cataloguing the annihilation and the death. His monotone voice struggling to hide the shock that himself, along with innumerable others around the world are awakening to. I can imagine his blank face, trying to hide the emotion as he focuses on the text in front of him.
"A school trip to the Southern Manchester Airbase resulted in the death of 10 local children and their 2 teachers yesterday. The base that primarily deals with the distribution of the state-of-the-art OZ mobile suits, the Virgos, around the world, was attacked by the terrorist space colonies mobile suits, the Gundams. At this moment it is thought that Gundam 02 is responsible for this atrocious act on the youngest of our community. This comes after a string of Gundam attacks on various OZ bases and factories throughout the Earth Sphere. Our thoughts and prayers go to the families of the children and their teachers…The school and OZ have been contacted for comment…"
I peel myself from the bed sheets, blood from last night crusted onto them, their undoubtedly bleeding again now. I don't even register the pain anymore. I stumble from my bed, back to the bathroom, trying my hardest to ignore the blood splatters everywhere from the night before, and eventually manage to empty my stomach violently into the porcelain toilet bowl. A combination of shock, stress and last night's alcohol escape my lips.
Vaguely I can hear the radio is switched off, but my mind races over the intense self-hate brewing within me. 10 children! I sob between each hurl as my body contracts painfully forcing all liquid from my body. My fingers are turning white as they grip the edge of the toilet, but I cannot feel them. My body is numb but my soul is screaming in agony.
The movement has tugged at the cuts from the night before, and again they are beginning to run red rivers across my arm. It is only when the pool of vomit is joined by droplets of blood am I brought to my senses. I scuff at my face with the back of my hand, willing the tears to stop. When I glimpse the reopened wounds I want to vomit again, but I know nothing will come, only the stomach wrenching pain of dry heaving.
Worthless, weak, pathetic, idiot… The words swim in my mind. Sister Helen's face flashes across my eyes. Where the hell are my blades!
I left the bathroom in one hell of a state last night. Blood everywhere, an empty bottle of rum… I must have tried to clean up at some point as a once white towel now lay on the floor stained pink with my blood, tears, and now my vomit. But where were my blades?! Panic rose inside me as I tried to find them in my hungover stress induced stupor. My vision blurred from tears, I struggled to find my blade bag. It must be here somewhere! I needed to cut. I needed to feel anything but this. My skin crawled; a thousand tiny ants marching over me.
I wrapped my arms around myself and sunk to my knees heavily on the icy tiles, possibly causing huge dark bruises to form. Fuck! My fingers dug into my scarred flesh, almost as if I was trying to dig the pain and guilt out of my soul. Blood began to pool in the small moon shaped welts, and I was soon scratching myself all over, digging at half-healed scabs, hitting myself, punishing myself. I deserve this. The pain was muted but I couldn't stop myself. Why couldn't I feel it? Desperation coursed through my veins as I began to uncontrollably shake.
Fuck. I had never been like this before. Why? Why? Why the fuck had what started as a simple mission had me rocking back and forth on a safe house bathroom floor, crying, boys don't cry, and clawing at my own skin. Was this even real? Was I real? My breath now comes in short gasps, trying to focus on anything but what I am feeling; A constant unachievable mission of its own. Why can't I feel this pain? I scratched harder and gouged deeper.
Sister Helen, I'm sorry I don't know how much more of this I can take! I'm not sure I can keep my promise to you anymore. The guilt burns like I had already been thrown into the fires of hell.
When my panic attack started to ebb I was left feeling raw; the physical pain finally biting my nerves. The shivering was indistinguishable from the shaking, or perhaps the alcohol withdrawal?
I try my hardest to calm my nerves and breathing as the feeling eventually passes. The whole ordeal probably only lasted a few minutes but it feels like it lasted forever.
Soon I felt calm enough to stand up with the aid of gripping onto the bath. A bloody handprint left behind as I stumbled back to hide in the bed; to hide from my demons... I knew at some point I would have to face the other pilots. My stomach painfully lurched at the thought. Face Heero... That perfect soldier, with the perfect eyes, I mean perfectly stoic expression. That man doesn't feel a thing. I can't help but feel envious at that. Groaning, I pulled the duvet over my head.
I don't know who will be first. Who is in the safe house at the moment? Who was listening to the radio? If only I could put off the inevitable forever. But dreams are made for the pure of heart, and that definitely is not me.
A knock came twice at the door. I didn't answer. It came again.
"Duo?"
Fuck, I definitely wasn't with it enough to have to deal with Heero. I remained silent, praying as hard as I could that he would go away, or that my door was locked. I couldn't remember if it was or not, but this is the perfect soldier and locks would not keep him out forever.
"I heard you vomiting. I'm coming in." Not even a request, just he is… Typical Heero. I held back a groan and gripped tightly to the duvet, silently remembering to punish the stupidity which lead me to leaving the door unlocked last night when I raced in.
I hear the door open and I feign sleep. I know he can see through the façade but anything to make the silence last as long as possible. I imagine myself as a corpse, as still as possible.
The sound he makes is almost a gasp but I cannot imagine him showing any emotion. This man does not get shocked! He must have seen the state of the bathroom; the blades, bottles, blood and vomit. I can see him in my mind standing there, perfectly straight and tense, his hands clenched into fists by his sides as his eyes catalogue the crime scene for future reference. But his face that typical familiar blank mask. I can't but help wish I was back in the bathroom hiding over the toilet, as the bile threatened to emerge again.
It must be the shock. He's sitting on the edge of the bed next to me. "I heard what happened." I reply with nothing but silence. "Where did you hurt yourself?"
My body clenches involuntarily, but the shame I feel refuses to let me answer him. I think it's pretty obvious from the bathroom that I am obviously wounded. He silently moves to me and pulls the duvet back, a similar noise to the one before escapes his lips. But my eyes are closed so tight, I cannot bear to see the expression on his face, the look of disgust. But instead when I open them I see only pity and sadness, along with something else that I cannot quite place. I can only imagine what I look like: my eyes puffy from crying, blood everywhere, my braid messy, the hollow expression that I can feel on my face.
"Duo…" His voice is a quiet whisper, but there is still the critical analysing look on his face as he checks over my wounds and plans. I can tell that he is taking on my 'treatment', whether it was physical or psychological, with the detachment of accepting a mission, just as if he had been asked to go and blow up the Moon.
"Stay here…" He leaves the room but somehow I can tell that he is trying incredibly hard to keep the emotion out of his voice. He's angry, he must be. There is no other emotion that I would expect from him. I am nothing but weak in his eyes, pathetic. Not like Heero. Not like the perfect soldier. I am far from perfect. I try my hardest to stop the tears threatening to flow down my cheeks, but a few manage to escape.
He returns swiftly clutching the first aid kit, I know it is the one specialised for intense 'trauma' wounds. He looks at me expectantly and I know he will not take no for an answer, so I sigh and sit up, swinging my legs round to sit on the side of the bed. He's seen my scar tissue now, so there is no point in hiding the rest of it. His expression doesn't change as he opens the kit on the bed and proceeds to start cleaning off the crusted blood, checking the depth of the cuts and for any infection.
It had been roughly 6 months now since the beginning of Operation Meteor. In 6 months none of the Gundam pilots had seen me like this; had seen my scars or fresh cuts. And here I was, a trembling wreck in front of Heero, baring all to him. We had shared rooms in the schools we had hidden at. Had he ever suspected, had he ever seen, had he ever cared before? Was this caring? Was this what it felt like? It had been so long…
I let him touch me, trying to focus on the pin pricks of pain when I move, and the throbbing burn of alcohol wipes cleaning them. It feels good. No one has touched me since my days at the Maxwell Church. Sister Helen… This is a different touch but it is still soothing. His hands are calloused, years of training and fighting. But they are still gentle. He carefully moves my arms, trying the hardest to not cause me pain and I try not to blush at his caress. I'd never seen him like this before. He resets his broken bones without a second thought, but treating me... it's different, it's kind.
He starts on the left, focusing on the deep cuts from last night that mar my forearm. Turning the arm I can tell that he is considering stitches but instead he decides to close them with steri-strips. By the end of his treatment my arms have been carefully and systematically cleaned, covered in antiseptic cream, then gauze and finally wrapped in bandage. They burn all over from the treatment, it was inevitable.
As he finishes wrapping my right arm, his fingers falter ever so slightly and after typing the bandage off he stays kneeled before me his head bowed, his hands resting on mine lightly, the warmth of his skin against mine. I focus on it, trying my hardest to distract myself from the feeling of the itch beginning underneath the bandages.
"Duo… Believe it or not I know how you feel…" He looks up at me, catching my gaze. His cobalt blue eyes intensely searching mine.
The admission is unexpected and causes a blush to rise on my cheeks and I am forced to look away from him, my gaze instead falling on the door knob. Suddenly every facet of it is important and it is crucial that it be committed to memory.
"There was a girl… A girl and her dog… It was my fault…" He said quietly, barely above a whisper. "A fuel transport truck had parked near where I had set the explosives. I didn't see. I should have calculated for it. I should have stopped the bomb… The Leo nearby was thrown into the residential block by the blast." He paused before looking down. His hands fell from mine, and he clutched the material of his shorts tightly, his fists going white with the pressure. "I found the dog first. I think I did. It was burnt so badly. Then the girl… She was… She was…"
I fell to my knees in front of him, wrapped my arms around him and he allowed me to just stay there and hold him. Both in silence and both reliving the pain of our pasts.
And suddenly I didn't feel so alone anymore.
So 6 years and I come out with that. Wow. Even I think wow. But the more I think on it the more I see so many other Gundam Wing stories in this one. I tried my hardest to hint at a bit of romance in there, but I don't think I succeeded. I really actually want to continue this. My bipolar has settled somewhat in the last few years, that I want this to be almost a recovery, learning to rely on, protect, and love each other sort of story. Maybe. That said, maybe I will finish my other Gravitation fanfiction too. Who knows :)