10. Cry of the Transitioned


I woke up to darkness and winced as I rolled over and felt discomfort shoot up my spine.
Happy-fucking-discomfort! Leaning against the pillows, I smiled for a momemt. So, who
would have known? The Ice King himself has a soft side.

Getting up and finding my clothes was difficult. I didn't even bother trying to find the old
ones, I figured Heero had taken them to the wash or hung them up or done something to
get them off of the floor. Managing to find the piles that Heero and Trowa had set for me
in the darkness, I quickly slipped into my usual.

The hair was another problem. No tie.

"Screw it," I mumbled and then I got up and counted six steps. Then, I felt my way along
the wall untill it stopped and turned to my right. Two more steps were taken forward untill
I reached the stairs. I eased my way down all thirteen of them, refusing to step on the first
and last steps. My hands clung to the railing and I bit my lip. Turning left at the bottom, I
realized I couldn't remember any further. What had he said? What had he said?

The wall was slowly slipped down and I fell. I fell in a messy heap against the wall. What
color was it? I felt wood under my fingers. I felt cool wood beneath my feet. The wall was
soft.

The tears started to fall before I could stop them. It was something so beautiful, but I was
tainted. A dirty, messy little street rat.

"Duo?" a voice called out. I recognized Wufei. There were other steps in the room and I
recognized Quatre's noisy walk. He didn't sniffle or give himself away. He was smart in
that area. Trowa is so good for him.

"Sorry, I, uh... just couldn't... oh God," I broke out in tears then. I felt at my temples and
touched my bruised eyelids and hit myself hard. "Work dammit," I screamed and I felt
Wufei grab my hands.

"Maxwell," the Chinese man stated. "There was no justice in what was done to you.
They're the ones who are tainted. Not you."

I felt a hand touch my side, urging me up and I batted it away. It was Heero. Again,
danger and Ivory soap tinged with listerine and cherries. Wufei smelled of incense and
justice dancing among jasmine and dragon's blood. They were so different. Yet, I needed
neither for comfort.

"Somewhere out there is a happy little clown named Moe, guys. All he does all day is
dance and hand out balloons to the little rich kids that come to the carnival," I muttered.
"And if you bring him crack like the bad men say, he'll give you one too."

Heero picked me up. I felt him place one arm under my legs and the other around my
shoulder and lift me. My hair caught under his shoe and he lifted it, carrying me slowly up
the stairs. Setting me down on the floor, I felt him drag some pillows down and support
my body and then blankets. I understood clearly. He wouldn't touch me on a bed. He
wouldn't comfort me on a bed.

It was time to talk.

So, I talked. Should I tell you what I said? The ages of confessions I gave to Heero? Nah.
You wouldn't want to hear about all that. Take every bad story you've heard from your
teachers and every whispered horror that graced the news. Dance on graves and scream to
the Heavens. Perdition comes to us all. Just a piece sampled me, my friend. Just a piece
was granted to Duo Maxwell.

Fine, you win. Me and Heero, a heart-felt talk. I know what you're thinking. No
candlelight? No fire? No moon? No roses and confessions of love? Give me a break. We're
men. Romanticism is all good, but unfortunately mostly the dream of housewives and
teenage girls. So, you asked for it. This is how it went.


"Hn?" Heero asked silently. He had returned with a brush and a comb. His sombre attitude
was what I needed. Heero doesn't radiate some mystical compassion like Wufei. He
doesn't look like the Easter Bunny's been run over by a car whenever someone gets hurt
like Quatre. He doesn't need to be understood like Trowa. Heero is simply Heero. A
perfect soldier who is pretending to be perfect while hiding little misperfections that only I
can know about.

"I need you to listen Heero," I said softly. "Can you do that?"

He must have nodded in the darkness but I had no way of knowing, so I continued, "The
rules are that you can't say anything, alright? I couldn't stand it if you said something, I'd
hate you. But, you can't not say anything unless I tell you that you can't. That's even
worse. Judgement or sympathy are two things I hate the most."

Heero touched me. I knew he understood. A simple touch to the knee of black jeans was
all it took. I don't need soft, loving words. No kisses or dances in moonlight. I wasn't
looking for love. I guess I was looking for understanding.

"I'm trash Heero. The worst kind of trash you can imagine. They took me in Heero. That
church meant everything to me," I whispered. "But you know that story. It was...
explosions and Hellfire. I hated them so much. I hated it. I did what I had to do to survive.
I stole. I dealt drugs. I sold garbage to rich people and igloos to eskimos."

I looked away.

"I whored," I said. I bit my lip and felt his touch on my shoulder. That was almost too
much. Oh, just hate me dammit! Hate me! Curse me! Hit me! Destroy me!

Love me.

"I was quick and bright. The ultimate pickpocket and incurable kleoptomaniac," I nodded.
"That was me. I was Death. I was Shinigami. But, don't you get it? I made my choices. I
made them. If I wanted to whore myself off so I could eat, dammit I did it. I didn't have
to, but I did it."

Heero's hand had eased to my shoulder. It touched me gently. Too gently. Too softly.
Can't he see I need him to hurt me? That's what I need. I swear it is. Right?

"Sister Helen and the Father. I loved them. They're the only people that ever made me
good," I whispered. "That's the only time I was ever good. I'm going to rot in hell,
Heero."

I heard him start to speak and reached out, shoving him hard. I think he got the message
because he quieted and I continued, "I failed. My hands are dirty. If the condition of my
soul was what you saw right now, you'd be disgusted. Blood from murders, grime from
sex, stains from drugs and burns from death make up my soul, Heero. Everything I touch
dies. I guess for a while I thought that... since everything I touch dies... I must be Death."

Heero leaned against me for a moment. I could feel where he hid his gun in his pants and it
was mildly comforting.

"I'm not Death. I'll never be Death. I can't control Death, no matter how much I pretend I
can. I pretended that, if I was Death, I took those lives and it was my choice. A
power-struggle of the must delicate," I nodded.

"Those men... I had hurt them. I was Death for them. I can't prevent Death. I can't choose
who dies. I can only cause death, Heero. How do you deal with it Heero? Tell me. You
can talk. Tell me..." I broke off in a sob.

Heero simply touched me.

"I want to be innocent. I want to be like Quatre. He protected his innocence through this
entire war and you can see it shining off of him. I was dirty before they touched me. But, I
had it. I had an understanding. I had this dream that I was Death and that I was in control.
I'm not. Those men stripped me of it. I... I can't tell you what they did.

"It was bad Heero. I can tell you that much. It was bad," I whispered. "Over and over. I
can't remember being in that much pain before. I couldn't see, Heero. I can't see. I'm
completely at the mercy of others."

Heero touched my knee and stroked it softly. I nodded.

"You want to heal me."

"Hn. Affirmative," he mumbled.

"Do you want to know what's wrong?" I asked, teasingly.

"Hn?"

"I'm damned, Heero. Utterly damned."