Okay, it took a while (10 months) and I'm really sorry! But we're back now! So here is the next chapter. It's not as sad as the previous ones. I'm sure you'll be able to tell who it is.
Reviews:
Kaeru Shisho: Thanks! I'm glad to have you reading. Hope you're still around. I'd like to make a side-plot but I'm not sure what would be a good equivalent. The entire purpose of this is to show Duo traveling. I suppose I could involve more chars. Any suggestions? You're always one of my best reviewers . . . lol, I don't always have something in mind. But I try.
Sutoomu: Thank you so much! You are far too kind to me.
Omnicat: Wow, your words for chapter 5 are truly a complement. I would say I was trying very hard, but to be honest I was deeply entrenched into the char when I wrote this. That might be how I get so good. Lol. I just let the characters write through me and they end up doing so many things. I cried as well at this chapter, at that exact place. I cried as I wrote it. As for chapter 6, you know I love you. Actually when it comes to music, I wrote this chapter exclusively while listening to Imogen Heap. She's amazing. I need to look up Katie Melua. And yes, things will get easier for Duo slowly. I think at this point I might need some new ideas, but I don't want to leave this at the wayside.
Purdy: Yeah, it's definitely sad. I'm still not sure all the time where I'm headed with this fanfic. I'm so glad you didn't forget it! Please don't forget it again, please review! I really appreciate them.
Shadow: Here you go, shadow! I have continued it. I really hope you like it, please review and let me know! Hugs Sorry for the torture.
ShadyLady666: Thanks for the review. As for Duo's parents and being at the church, if you believe Ep. 0 he arrived at the church as a kid, so I don't think anyone can say for certain what happened before he was 6 or 7.
Fractured
Alone
we stand, against the darkness,
Is
it possible that others exist without us?
Or
does the universe spin alone, quietly mourning
Those
that passed before whom left without warning
And
here we are, abandoned, betrayed –
All
this for what? The false life that we lead . . .
Or
the pain that we suffer upon one another?
Do
we truly benefit from such things?
Or
is time just a demon, pulling our strings . . .
The dissonant melody of electronica shudders through my sinuses, and I can acutely recognize and catalogue the emotions deep within the keening of the songstress in my ears. And yet, such feelings still do not touch me but for singular moments in the past.
The audial implant has become quite popular in the past five years, ever since the bio-electric technology previously used by militaries at war was released to the public. Upon the disclosure, manufacturing plants that previously made weapons sped production of high-tech toys, body implants, robotic assistants and bodysuits for the infirm.
I open my eyes at the slight reverberation against the stone floor, and see Relena entering the kitchen, no doubt aware that once again I am sequestered within the music I hear, this music I attempt to feel something from beyond the emotions I already have deep inside. I nod once to her, then turn as my internal chronometer reminds me to act.
She watches me quietly as I return to the omelet upon the stovetop, flipping it once, then stirring the bisque beside it three times, each being one-point-three seconds of rotation, before setting down the spoon. She thinks I am a perfectionist. I've never been able to tell her the truth. There are many truths I've never told her.
I can see her smile, and know that she enjoys watching me cook. I've told her that I find it enjoyable, but I'm still not sure if that's true. Does it count as enjoying something when you feel you're being useful? Or when you are satisfied that you've accomplished your goals correctly? I suppose it does. I'm not accustomed to failure.
The beat of the music is heavy. Sometimes I find my heart beating in sync with it, and force it to slow back to a regular rhythm. I suppose my body isn't used to having such background noise; but conversely I think I'm getting accustomed to having my own soundtrack. It's a strange luxury I've given myself. I'd never been permitted to indulge myself before. The mere idea of allowing myself to allow such a thing had been alien to me for so long, that making choices was a difficult state to achieve.
I had once told someone that they needed to live according to their emotions in order to have a good life. But it took me years to believe that my life is worth being "good." Now that I do, I try to live according to what I feel every day of my life. And I try to not follow the emotions of guilt, pain and anger more often than I follow those of hope, love and devotion. Yet the former still sit heavily within me, while the latter are evasive, slipping through my fingers more often than I prefer.
I stir the bisque again, and beyond the music I feel Relena's heartbeat joined by another, and the snap of feet upon stone. Raising my head, I find Quatre stepping up behind her, and I nod to him as well.
He breaks the verbal silence more willingly than Relena or I would have had we been alone. "Good morning," he attempts a wane smile.
Clearly it's hardly good at all. Still, it's a required formality, so I flatly return it. "Good morning." I turn and open the oven, a small, satisfied smirk on my face as I see how well the quiche turned out. Perfect, as always. I've decided to allow myself a little pride occasionally.
"Would you like any help in carrying the food to the table?" the aristocrat asks, and I nod curtly.
"Is he awake," I ask as I remove the pie, and I notice the slight pause in his steps as he nears.
"No," Quatre replies, "his room's silent, the shower's not running—"
"Quatre," I say gently as I put the quiche on a cold burner of the stovetop, "did you check?"
His pale face turns paler, and he shakes his head. "No. No, I didn't."
I'm sure he thought that things would get easier now that Duo was with us. He's been away from combat for too long, no matter what nightmares he has that he doesn't think I notice when he spends the night. He's lucky that Relena sleeps deeply when I'm awake.
Frowning at her, I say, "I'll go check on him, finish for me."
She nods and gives me a smile, and without even speaking I know she sends her luck, and I'm warmed by the fact that she trusts me to handle something so delicate by myself.
I'm not the delicate type.
I lower the volume on the music with a simple mental exercise and head towards his rooms, my concentration primarily on audial and tactile sensations. The wide rooms of Relena's house help with echoes but the thick carpet muffles sound well. She refused my suggestion to put in all wood and stone floors. It was too cold for her in the winter, and too impersonal. I suppose it makes sense that my tactically sound advice isn't personal enough. However, it's a good compromise, for the carpet helps me to stalk any intruders who lack my agility and stealth. Either way, I win. I like those odds.
The halls are empty and dark but for the sunlight streaming through well-placed windows along the lengths, and at his room I hear nothing through the door. Entering swiftly, I find the room empty, the bed a mess of sheets, blankets and coverlets, pillows splayed. The sight confirmed what I had sensed last night, that his sleep was fitful and uneasy. His heartbeat had raced the entire night, a vibration even the music couldn't drown out. And yes, I know when the mailman is delivering, or when solicitors arrive as well.
Sunlight flashes across my retinas from the two glass doors, across which the drapes have been pulled wide open, one ajar. My eyes adjust immediately as I step forward, and I look out onto the garden, the life within it barraging me with minutia. I find him there, sitting on a bench staring into the pond alive with cloned frogs, koi and turtles, all dining leisurely upon the plethora of insects similarly created.
"Hey," he greets me as I approach warily. His long hair is unbound and he's picking through its unwashed mass.
"It's time for breakfast," I tell him, studying his figure. In the bright light of day, I confirm what I'd felt in his weight last night. He's leaner, an unhealthy lack of mass, apparently due to a starvation that wore away at his fat and went on to the muscle. His figure still appears defined, though, and I'm sure he'd do well as a male fashion model, if one got past the hollowed emptiness of his eyes. They look up at me, surprisingly bright and wide with an orchid hue, as he replies.
"Sorry. I . . . um, guess I wasn't hungry."
"And now?" I ask, allowing my concern to show with a frown.
He blinks at me, then looks back as a fish leaps into the air to catch a dragonfly. "Um, sure. I could stand to eat."
"Good," I tell him, then grab his arm to pull him up when he doesn't rise immediately. "Because you're going to."
"Hey!" he struggles at first, but he's weaker than he was and comes along sullenly afterwards. "C'mon, man, stop manhandling me!" he whines as I bring him through his bedroom. "You jackass, let go of me."
With a smirk, I release him there before gesturing towards the closed door into the hall. "After you."
"Yeah, well, I look horrible," he mutters, tackling his mass of hair in an attempt at a quick braid while he stands before a mirror. "Can it wait a few . . ." My glare silences his words, and he pouts with a moment of bravado I would applaud were it appropriate. "Okay, so . . . breakfast," he tries to smile weakly at me, and I nod, lifting a hand to touch his shoulder.
"It's just Relena and Quatre," I tell him, and his strength shudders from his features for an instant. Fear flashes across his eyes and he swallows once before the mask returns.
"Thanks, man," he mutters softly, and I nod once more before following him from the guest room.
I watch my old comrade walk with forced ease down the hallways and corridors of Relena's home, feeling the tension of his movements and hearing the speed of his heartbeat within my ears. I concentrate on that sound. It thumps out of time with the electronica that flows through my mind, and for a moment, the organ within my own chest struggles to decide which sound to match. After a fierce three point eight seconds of indecision, it chooses.
And I shut off the music . . . and listen.
Dreams
spin around us
Our
solid forms unmoving
When
the past plans attack
And
the future defends against
Do
we ever find a stable mid-ground
To
prove ourselves upon?
I
go into battle every day
With
myself, with you,
With
everyone
And
whatever made us
Is
whatever broke us
And
that's here, too
For
me to charge in battle
And
provide defense
