Death and the Devil Arc
--The Truth

Pairs: possible 2-6-2 (but not intended), mention of past 2-H

Warnings: direct sequel to "The Love Life of a Broken Marquise," language, adult situations, drunkenness, Ep Zero sorta-kinda-maybe spoilers for Duo, Cozzy sap, anti-Holidays angst, OOC?

'The Truth' was originally written for the gw500 lj community, challenge#49 'Thanksgiving.'

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"What about you?"

Even drunk, his voice is smooth. I have to wonder how he does that, but then I remember that this is Zechs Marquise, the man born on smooth talk. If he's anything like his sister, I'm sure he does it without fully knowing how to control it. Relena always was the smooth talker, wasn't she?

Yeah.

I snort.

He sighs in his drink and looks at me significantly. He told me about his love life, and now it's my turn.

I shrug. "Nothing to tell," I say, and of course that's a half-truth. I may never lie, but I can twist like yoga. By the flash in his lilac eyes I know that he knows but he says nothing, waiting for the spill.

I wait beside him.

Damn Hilde anyway, what she did have to do with anything? I don't suppose I loved her... well, maybe I did, but not real honestly. I mean, I...

Hell. I don't fucking know. He's asking the wrong guy about love.

"You ever love anyone?" I'll give him credit, the man is persistent.

I shrug again, trying desperately to retain my dignity. "I..." I can't lie. I can't lie...

I cannot lie to Zechs...

Damn it. "Yes," I say. "I've loved a lot of people." I wave a hand, as if to signal the mass of ghosts luring around me, following me in my steps through the passage of life. "Too many people." I know he can hear the pitiful sigh in my voice.

He just nods in silent understanding and mutters. "...Dead?"

Hm. Can't hide anything, can I? I shrug.

He snorts and I look at him, wondering the reasoning of this conversation. He just shrugs with me, all of us shrugging, shrugging away what was taken from us. We don't want it anymore.

He reads me silently, my soul an open book, its chains unbound. He says nothing and I shiver under the scrutiny, my walls building over again, the brick blocks sealed with cement. I have to fill the silence, cruel and demeaning as it is. I have to hear myself talk, to know that I'm still alive, still breathing, still moving, still trying...

"You know what today is?" My voice is hard and I wince in the aftermath.

He waits, his eyes flickering. He doesn't know. He probably never celebrated; Sank isn't exactly American soil.

"Thanksgiving," I mutter. The thought brings me back to L2, to the cold streets, the ghosts, the fires, the markets, the... church. Again I shiver, and I silently curse my weakness. Why am I brooding about this? Why do I care? I haven't cared for six fucking years, why should I care now?

But as I look at him, I do. I care. I care because I know he knows that I have always cared, and I've been lying to myself the entire time. He's just made me remember again.

Strange, isn't it? The Devil made me care. Made me whole again. Ha.

"Never liked Thanksgiving. Never did." I slump into my stool, my eyes darting away from the intense lilac storm probing into me. He is no longer smooth--or rather, the smoothness of his skin is exposed for the roughness underneath. He is scarred. Jagged. Broken. Like silk over a bed of nails

"Why not?" He is genuinely concerned and for some reason, I smile at that. It's been a while since anyone really listened to me speak. Wanted me to.

I give it to him. I don't want to dodge anymore. "Back on L2... they used to have parties on Thanksgiving. The gangs would join with their allies and pig out on the combined prizes that they'd all stolen. It was never anything much, but it was good. I remember So--a friend... used to steal a chicken for us, every year. Meat is extremely hard to come by on the colonies and chicken was off the wall--let alone a turkey--and they used to barricade the grocery stores with AK-47's and shoot orphans on sight when they spotted them trying to snatch one. But this... friend... was good at what he did. He would track the richer people going in and out of the store and would follow them when they drove off to home. The richer ones always had good security, but Sol... was the best stealth for miles around and no one ever stopped him. He'd just go right in, take their chicken out of the fridge and disappear without a trace. He never even had to hurt anyone, he was that good." I pause then mutter. "I never did catch on to that trick..." I frown thoughtfully to myself and I know my voice is starting to drone in the onslaught of memories.

I don't care.

"I didn't like Thanksgiving then, because I would always have to spare my meat for the younger kids, would always have to be on the lookout for trouble, always watching the allies warily and always playing the strong one, the good one, the one that..." I swallow a hard lump in my throat. "The one that wouldn't die. I... didn't have anything to be thankful for, I was just some ungrateful bastard--literally--who had nothing. Nothing, you know?"

He doesn't answer, doesn't move. I don't expect him too.

I sigh again and take a swig of the drink, coughing when it burns my throat raw.

"Years passed, and So--he... died, and I ended up in a church... an orphanage. Had real thanksgiving dinner, not the best from what I hear, but definitely good. We had chicken again, like always, because it was so much easier to get a hold of. It was a good-sized chicken too... she made it real, with the gravy and everything. It was one the best dinners of my life. I loved that family, even if I wouldn't say grace when the Father asked me to." I snort bitterly. "They died the next day."

It was true. The day after Thanksgiving was the day Father Maxwell and Sister Helen died. I suppose that's another reason why I can't stand this holiday.

"During the war, I was captured on Thanksgiving. Spent it playing tickle-me-bloody with a bowie knife, screaming my ass off. Even after the first war, in between Mariemeia, I hated it. I was supposed to have dinner with Hilde and the guys and I walked out on them. I walked out because..." I shrug yet again. "...because I had to. This holiday is the day I pretty much lost everyone I've ever loved. This day... sucks."

I drink to that, tipping my head back to swallow the last of it. I signal the bartender for another. I want to be stone-fucking-drunk now.

"That's why I asked you if you've ever loved, Ze--Joe." He raises an eyebrow and I nod. "It just seems to be you'd be able to understand the fear of that word, that L-word. The fear of the fact that if you l-love anyone... they'll die. Fear for their life at the expense of your companionship. Raped by a man's pursuit of happiness..."

I shiver as I feel his eyes on me.

"Why?" It's all he says.

But I know what he's asking. Not 'Why tell me this,' not 'Why did it happen,' only... 'Why.' Just why. The big fat why.

Why?

"Because," I answer. "Just because."

He looks at me critically, his eyes roving my body and he nods. In a silent voice he says, "I believe that is the first time I have ever heard Duo Maxwell tell the truth."

I laugh hysterically, tears flowing fresh from my eyes for the first time in my life.

I believe him.