A/N: I have been absent from 1xR fanfics for over a year pondering this fic- -my final good-bye to 1xR fanfic writing. As of now I have already written five chapters in advance and I do not expect the fic to be longer than ten chapters. Now that I've reached the halfway point, I decided it was safe to share. Please note that all ratings will be per chapter.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. I am making no profit through the online distribution of this fic.

Chapter Rating: PG-13; for mature content

Categories: Drama, Angst, Romance

Reading Note: Please keep in mind that there will be three separate storylines of the overall fic. The parts told in first-person present tense describe the 'past,' The parts in third-person past tense describe the 'present,' and the parts in third-person present tense are meant to loosen your impression of time, but generally coincides with the scenes in the 'present.' I have been told by previous readers that it is not very difficult to follow, but I wanted you to be informed.

"An Ideal Match" By: Moonkitty

Chapter I "De-added"

"A Chinaman of the T'ang Dynasty-and, by which definition, a philosopher- dreamed he was a butterfly, and from that moment he was never quite sure that he was not a butterfly dreaming he was a Chinese philosopher. Envy him; in his two-fold security."

--Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

".Can you hear me? I'd like to fling my voice out like a cloth over the broken fragments of your death and tug it till it was all in tatters, and everything I ever said was forced to go clad in the rags of that torn voice and freeze."

--Rainer Maria Rilke, "For a Friend" of "Requiem for a Friend", 1907

I walk up to the podium, wincing at the bright flood lamp on my face. I'm more nervous than I thought I'd be.

"Hello, my name is Heero Yuy, and my life has no meaning anymore."

"Good work!"

"Well done!"

"We're so proud of you!"

The entire crowd is applauding me, cheering for me, taking my success into their hearts to motivate themselves.

And then I wake up.

That's the travesty my life has become. I don't pretend to have interest in other people, and they don't have interest in me. I'm not obsessed with Relena Darlian. I'm not the warped experiment of a deranged mind,

I'm Heero Yuy, world hero and mass murderer, thank you very much.

Its five o'clock, Feburary 18th, AC 202. I am tangled up in a mass of sheets, and the neon sign running down the side of the hotel pours red light into my room. The sink upstairs is leaking (drip-drip-drip) into the bucket I set out last night. My laptop is sitting on the desk. My suitcase rests on the dresser. I sleep in my clothes.

It's easier that way.

I have been traveling for a while, enrolling in schools across the colonies and leaving after a couple of months. The hacking skills I picked up during the war have proven to be even more useful in the years afterwards.

I eat a meal bar for breakfast (processed proteins, tastes like newspaper). They're strangely addictive.

I often eat in front of the hotel's vid screen (usually malfunctioning and only getting one channel, which either features the news or infomercials). If it's the news, I'll watch it. I often see Relena then, raising money for starving children or settling a negotiation dispute. She's chief foreign minister these days, and she ties her hair back more often (which is a shame, because I've always liked it long and loose and free).

But she seems to be okay. I've lost direct contact with her.

It's easier that way.

I don't sleep well.

I usually have bad dreams, shameful dreams, tempting dreams. Life.before was so much easier than now. After solving problems with violence for so much time, it becomes hard to loosen your hold on it. It consumes you.

Someone is pounding on my door. The gun is in my hand before I even think about it. I get up close to the doorframe and wait.

"Who's there?"

"You're two weeks behind on your payments. Are you going to pay or do I have to kick you out?"

The landlady. Fun. She is a square-shaped sort of woman with a matching square jaw and long red fingernails shaped like claws. Her nails-across-a- chalkboard voice stirs fear into the hearts of anyone who hears her.

She probably rented out this hotel during the war. She probably lent it out to OZ soldiers. She probably didn't care about their suppression of the colonies. She is guilty. I know it. She is guilty of harboring the enemy and indirect promotion of oppressive governments.

If I kill her, no one would really mind. They might even thank me.

I'd thank me.

I check through the keyhole. She's waving a huge ring of keys and making threats of opening up.

Stupid, ugly woman. No one would mourn you.

My gun is rising up without mental command. I'll swing open the door. She'll gape at me with her mouth open like a fish. Her red-clawed fingers will loosen on the key chain. The keys will hit the floor at the exact moment my gun goes off. She'll fall back against door 483. I will slam my door shut again, put my laptop in my suitcase and leave through the fire escape. I'll wipe down my gun with my shirt (to remove the fingerprints) and slip it in with the spaceport garbage as I board my next ship. If the gun is found, it won't matter. I bought it under a false name and ID anyway. They'd never know.

"I don't.I don't have to kill anyone ever again."

I close my eyes. I try to force the image back, but it only comes up stronger. A girl is smiling at me, blue-eyed and blond haired. Her bangs fall into her face, but she brushes them away, still smiling. Her eyes are like the ocean, playful and bright at first glance, but dark and sad deep below the surface.

She reshaped the world. She made people like me unnecessary.

She has relieved me of my greatest burden but has left me with a vacuum within.

I don't need to kill anyone anymore.

I lower the gun.

"You hear me in there? Come down and pay or I toss you out!"

The landlady moves down the hall to disturb more tenants, the fading jangle of her keys the only signal of her retreat.

She'll never now how close she just came to death.

The gun clanks on the floor like the sound of manacles clinking together.

I've got to get away.

.

It is one of those summer days that burns so brightly that everything the light touches seems yellow-tinged. Heero has never enjoyed the summer. He does not understand why the colonies insist on following the seasons of Earth. The older citizens, who still remember Earth, treasure this sentimental tribute to home. When Heero was small, all of the young men and women of the colonies had resented the seasons. They hated emulating the planet that treated them like second-class citizens.

Heero struggles to remember the hatred that he himself felt, but he finds it has all burnt away and left cool ashes in his heart. His desire for retribution and revenge during the war had melted into an earnest fight to keep alive and then, eventually, to stop all fighting completely.

He hears the vidphone ringing in his house, so he hurries in from his garden to answer it. His plants, all curled up and yellow from the heat, rustle in the breeze he kicks up in his rush to the phone.

The video is turned off, meaning the call is probably an official message. Heero feels a flash of disappointment, but picks up the phone attachment anyway.

"Is this Heero Yuy?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"We're calling to inform you that Relena Darlian is dead."

Dead.

"Dead?"

Dead.

"Dead. There was an assassination attempt-"

De-added.

"-at 7:46 PM Central European Standard Time-"

Subtracted.

"-Three bullet shots to the chest, a triangular pattern-"

One minus one.

"-still trying to trace the group claiming responsibility-"

Oneminusone

"-believe it was a lone gunman, though. We've taken him into custody."

No more.

The phone clanks on the floor like the sound of manacles clinking together. Heero has fallen to his knees. His spine loses the power to remain straight, and it curls forward, as if the force of gravity had become impossible to resist. When Heero's head touches the carpet his eyes slide shut and he lets out a hard breath, as if he is willing the air out of his body.

He can hear the phone on the floor by his ear calling, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

When his eyes open again, he is in the same position, but the room around him is white. He wonders absently if he's dead (de-added, subtracted, one minus one, oneminusone, no more) but he doubts it. His heart feels heavy. It's so heavy that he doubts he can sit up. He always imagined death to be emptiness-a long, endless sleep with long, endless dreams of simple things of no great importance or emotional depth. There is no emptiness here-just a sharp, deep pain that worsens with every breath he sucks in and eases only slightly when he exhales. The result is a slow, painful throb of pain that can only be stopped if his heart stops beating, his lungs stop pulling in air, and his body falls completely still-

He blinks. He has had the exact same thoughts before. He wonders how many times he has awakened like this. He wonders how many times he has thought these thoughts. He wonders how many times he has felt the sharp, deep pain and longed to be deadde-addedsubtractedoneminusoneoneminusonenomore.

He must have been captured. He wonders what cause he is fighting for. He wonders which enemy has captured him. Faces flit around in his skull like bits of paper on an empty street. The firm, noble face of Trieze Kushrenada, The delicate face of Zechs Marquis. The cold, childlike features of Mariemeia. The steely and determined glare of Wufei. Duo. Quatre. Trowa. OZ. White Fang. Himself.

He wonders if they are torturing him. He wonders what they want to know. He considers escape and disregards it. His heart is far too heavy for something as strenuous as escape. He really doesn't care anymore.

A sound startles him into rolling up his eyes to look at the blank white door with a round window at eye level. There is no doorknob on this side of the door. The door swings open. A young woman with long hair the color of sand and eyes the color of the sea (playful and bright at first glance, but dark and sad deep below the surface) searches the interior of the room, "Hello?" she asks, "is anyone-"

Heero blinks.

"-there?" Relena does not finish her sentence. She is not the woman at the door. It is a small, lumpy sort of woman with fading red hair and too many dimples. Her clothing is white, like the room. She is holding a tray in her hands. She smiles vapidly.

And then Heero realizes that Relena was never there at all. It was this woman all along. Relena couldn't be here. Relena is dead.

De-added.

Subtracted.

One minus one.

Oneminusone.

No more.

"Oh! There you are, Mr. Yuy! I've brought you your lunch. It's your favorite today: green jello and custard! I've always been partial to the blue jello myself but.Why are you looking at me that way? You stay where you are! If you come any closer, I'll-"

But the nurse does not get a chance to finish her sentence. She is shoved out of the room. Her bottom goes squeeeeeeee across the polished hallway floor. The tray and bowls of goop soon follow, cracking against the opposite wall and clattering on the floor like manacles clinking together.

Heero does not try to escape. He does not care enough to. After this sudden violence he shrinks back into his cell and curls up on the floor. He looks up at the bright, bright light above him and is blinded by the glare. It looks just like the sun. His eyelids close, but he can still see the light burning through, exploding in a vision of color and brightness that dazzle him into breathlessness.

.

"You saw him today. Minerva has come to Heero's room and served him lunch for the past thirteen days. He has never reacted to her presence. He always accepted the food, ate it all, stacked the bowls, and handed it back to her. Today, he attacked her physically with no visible cause of provocation. He never speaks, and when he does, it's in some sort of code that only he understands-disjointed words that have no meaning together. For instance, last week he simply could not stop going on about 'wings.'" Doctor Inquiz steeped his hands and placed his elbows on his desk. His sat with his back to the window, forcing Duo to stare into the bright afternoon sunlight streaming in.

Duo thought it was funny that he could feel so much like the person being analyzed when he was the one called in to help the doctor. He leaned back in his chair and tried to look more relaxed, "How well does your office keep the confidentiality of its patients?"

Doctor Inquiz was a tall, gangling man whose body never left the 'all knees and elbows' stage with a bald white dome of a head. He was not very impressive to look at, but Duo knew that the man was very highly credentialed. The comment Duo had just made confused Doctor Inquiz: he was not sure if it was meant to be offensive or not. He furrowed his brow, but he gave the young man in front of him the benefit of the doubt, "We've never disclosed possibly damaging information, or handled any lawsuits regarding such a complaint, if that's what your asking." He frowned again, and then his brows lifted, "Why? Do you know something about Heero Yuy that his records do not state? Something that could have caused his condition?"

It was Duo's turn to look grim. The doctor regarded him with new eyes. The man in front of him did have an air of something secretive about him. Behind the long braided hair, the cheerful eyes, and the relaxed posture, there was a definite darkness to him.

"Do you know something, Mr. Maxwell? Anything?"

Duo shook his head, "Never mind, doc. It's nothing of importance. It can't be the cause. I was just paranoid."

"'Paranoid,' Mr. Maxwell? I don't think you understand the severity of the situation here."

"Actually, doc, I do. Give him some pills, suggest further counseling, and let him out. You keep him locked up like this and you'll drive him even more crazy. Trust me. Heero doesn't have any happy memories of being stuck alone in some room."

"Mr. Maxwell, I doubt anyone has any happy memories of being locked alone in a room. Mr. Yuy does not have a single record that points out claustrophobia or any similar situation that would cause him harm." Doctor Inquiz flipped open the manila folder on his desk and browsed through it, "He grew up in a suburban section of L1, attended high school on Earth for a while-the same school as Relena Darlian, if you can believe it-entered into a prestigious college, and is now a third-year engineering major. His record did point out that he lost his entire family tragically in a shuttle accident several years ago. You vidphone code was the only one we found in Heero's house."

One side of Duo's mouth quirked up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, "Do you mind?"

Doctor Inquiz shook his head and waited patiently as Duo sparked his lighter and lit the end of his cigarette. He expected the dark haired young man to let the flame go out, but instead Duo leaned forward and lit the corner of Heero's file. The flame curled the papers and Doctor Inquiz jumped back and threw the file into his metal wastebasket. The flames roared to life as they consumed the files and then petered away to nothingness once more. Duo took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew out a long breath of smoke.

"What in the devil's name are you doing?" Doctor Inquiz practically shouted, "You could have lit my office on fire! What possessed you to burn Mr. Yuy's file?!"

"It's garbage, doc." Duo replied, "I'm just making sure it goes where it belongs. It won't help you if you want to save Heero Yuy."

Footnotes:

The extract from Stoppard's excellent play was one of the first motivations to write this fic. Stoppard's comment on humanity's inability to understand who they are was one of the inspiring phrases for the development of the characters in this fic.

"For a Friend or "Requiem for a Friend" was originally published in Rilke's book of poetry called Requiem in honor of a close friend and painter (Paula Modersohn-Becker) who died in childbirth. In his poem, Rilke discusses Paula as a mother, as a fellow artist, and as one of the dead in an attempt to understand these three roles. There is such purity of emotion in the substance of the poem that I wish I spoke German to embrace the full depth of its meaning. The emotion and the construction of the poem was the main inspiration for this fic.

The song "I've Seen It All" performed by Yorke and Bjork also inspired the post-war character of Heero.

An intense re-reading of Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison really influenced my writing style and several of the main themes, especially Milkman's meeting with Circe near the end of the novel.

On a more personal note, four weeks ago, a few days after reading Banana Yoshimoto's Asleep (a book of three stories devoted to the process of mourning), I lost a close family relative. Over the past year I have not had time to mourn the two other people I had lost, and this death, accompanied by the deep emotional pain brought on by the book, put me into a very bad state. The problem was that I had no way to vent my grief. So I started writing.

The story you have begun to read is a intermingling of all of these inspirations, good and bad. As the fic progresses, I hope to make more notes of similar quality explaining the varying influences.

I welcome all comments and criticisms.