Here I am for another "2-chapters" update. Again, 15 pages seemed like too long to read through at once, so I split it up into Chapter 5 and 6. (I write way more than need be . . .) Chapter 5 is the shorter of the two. Keep in mind, both of these chapters will have a lot of Out of Character-ness in them. I apologize in advance.
These two chapters were very hard to write (hence the long wait—Sorry!). There was so much to easily "get wrong" that affects the overall believable flow. I may not have done the best of jobs with this, but I hope I did alright. Reviews and critiques are quite welcome.
CHAPTER FIVE -- All Wrong.
"Who?"
His stare, though gentle in its touch, never wavered—not in the least. Ever so slowly, all the strength John had focused began to crack and crumble.
"You know . . ." John countered, fixing his own glare. "Mu . . . LaFlaga. . . ." Mu kept staring, kept drinking.
"The Hawk . . ." John muttered through gritted teeth. As he drifted off, Mu cocked his head, slightly, waiting for more. The tall, metal glass had rested itself back on the table, though Mu's fingers never left it.
The silence was aggravating to say the least. "Well," John snapped, "are you him or not?"
Mu broke into a smile, lifting his drink up for another taste.
"Oh. Mm-hm," he nodded.
All the tension that held John straight broke then, the man's shoulders sagging forward. His face twisted, staring back at his blond counterpart.
"That's it?" John gaped.
"What? Were you expecting someone else?"
"Yes." John answered, not skirting around any words. He didn't know how else to put it. Unfortunately, a small crowd of school kids had passed by the table, filling the air with their meaningless chatter. John didn't know whether the blond had heard him at. Probably not, since Mu's expression didn't change. "There's no way someone like you could be—"
"Hm? Oh! Sorry, do you want a drink?" Mu cut in politely with a smile, remembering his earlier offer. John blinked. "—They make the best mixes here. I swear to it. This place is the only place you can get one of these . . . this good." Mu grinned broadly, face shining as he tipped his glass for another gulp. John could only turn his face away, every moment, his view of the man changing.
"Uh . . . No thank you. I'm not thirsty. In fact, I have things I need to talk to you about."
"'Things,' eh?" Mu slurred, understanding completely. "Of course. But before we start talking about 'things,' ya sure about the drink? You don't live around here, right? You should try one of these while you've got the chance—Or I bet you'll regret it." Mu lifted his arm in the air as he spoke, effectively hailing over the same Maitre-D' of the café as before.
John's eyes widened over the blond stranger sitting in front of him.
"No, no, I don't think I'll regret it," John flustered, having to refuse a second time. "I'm very particular when it comes to these things. I—I know I wont like it. Trust me. No."
"Aw, but you should try it anyway," he smiled. "Don't worry. My treat, of course." With Mu's insist, the attendant appeared beside their tiny table, two tall, metal glasses in his steady hands. Setting both of the chilled drinks on the table, the young man picked up Mu's already empty glass, smiling at the blond before disappearing again. Mu chuckled as he instantly claimed his own, leaving the one behind for John to take.
Mu smiled a child's smile as he downed his favorite concoction.
John refrained from gawking.
"There's no way. . . . You can't be him."
"Who?"
John gritted his teeth. He repeated it again—slower this time.
"Mu LaFlaga, the Hawk of Endymion. There's no way you can be the same man as him."
Mu cocked an eyebrow. "Have you met 'him'?"
"N-no."
"Then how do you know 'him'?" he smirked slightly, resigning to his chilled glass and taking a long swig. "And you just said my name was Mu LaFlaga, didn't you? My name'll never change. Nor will my tastes."
"I know enough about him to say that someone like you . . . can never be a soldier like that. Just from us talking now."
"So, you're saying that it's possible that—"
"I'm saying it's im-possible," John countered.
"Nothing's impossible," Mu grinned back.
"Are you joking? It's impossible that nothing's impossible. . . . especially in this world."
"Believe what you want. I've never been one to argue," Mu shrugged as John looked on. Seeing the other metal glass in the center of the table, he pushed it closer to the other. "Drink up, Kid," Mu muttered—instantly inwardly grinning at his habitual 'mistake.' He wondered if John had noticed, but when Mu glanced over . . . all he could see was a straight, serious man—defiance blazing hatefully within those dark eyes.
"I don't believe that you're the Hawk," John murmured. "And if you really are him, I wont accept it!"
Mu's returning gaze softened.
"But . . . if you really are the Hawk of Endymion, then you should be able to answer this one question," John murmured, sliding his fingertips along the glass tabletop. "You'll answer me?" Mu nodded, curious by the fire he could spot flaming in those amber eyes.
"In the middle of the war, a solider was transferred beneath you. A pilot from our ship. His name was Gale Harding." Mu's laughing eyes flickered in ice—if only for a moment. John leaned forward in his seat, staring Mu down—strength returned as his voice bordered on accusing. ". . . Do you remember him? Tell me, where he is now? What did he go on to do after the war?"
"Gale . . ." Mu sighed. "Yes, I knew him. Sweet kid. . . . A shame."
John stiffened in his chair, easily connecting the words. Mu's heart tugged coldly, for he knew exactly where the conversation was headed.
John closed his fist beneath the table.
"'A shame'? That's all you can say? You were his commander, weren't you? The one in charge? He goes down by your watch and all it is, is 'a shame'?" John "Well, I shouldn't be surprised. He was placed under you after all. I hear you went through a lot of it . . . Losing soldiers. If you're such an amazing pilot, don't you think that number would be lower? Or perhaps . . . non-existent?"
"My rank, skill and experience have nothing to do with any of that."
"Oh, so you mean he was the one under-trained? Are you saying he needed more skill? That all of them just 'couldn't match up'? I've read reports I've never wanted to see. Those who don't make it back . . ."
"There is no rhyme nor reason to the casualties of war," Mu interjected quietly. Any one could see that he fought to control his even tone . . . his words coming from experience. John opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
The blue in Mu's eyes softened as he looked over John's face.
"John. . . . Sometimes the most skilled, the most powerful, the most deserving are the ones to be taken away in an instant while the complete idiots," Mu suffered a small chuckle, "somehow live to see the end. Those situations can easily be reversed too, you know. The age and skill of young Gale may have been a small factor, but . . . in the end . . . it means nothing. . . . Not in my mind anyway. We can't help who war claims."
"You're wrong," John cut in, quiet as well. Even with the street's crowd, the soldiers heard every leveled word. "It did matter. Then, skill and age did matter. Gale . . . wasn't the best pilot on the ship. He wasn't even supposed to be transferred off. I mean, if it's something where you're—where the Hawk of Endymion is needed, of course they're going to call on the best—due to the danger involved. Right? That's what I would imagine. Why else need the amazing Hawk? He . . . wasn't supposed to be transferred to you. I was."
Mu could only keep himself steady beneath the news. John's voice shook inaudibly as he spoke, memories of the past reliving themselves within his mind.
"I was going to go, but at the last moment, they changed their mind. They needed the best left behind—to protect the ship. Gale may have been second in skill . . . but not a close second. Not at all. Understand? If I was the one transferred, Gale wouldn't have died. It's simple.—He wouldn't have been there to die."
"But do you understand?" Mu countered quietly, trying to control his own emotion. "He . . . Gale, could have easily been killed elsewhere, too, right? And besides, if you were there, it could have been you instead."
"No. I'm better than that. I would have lived. Who knows. . . . Maybe you would have been the one to . . ."
There was no reason to finishing. Mu understood exactly what John meant. He wasn't surprised.
Mu sifted in his chair, smoothly adjusting his seating.
"Ah, but where would that leave your ship now?—Without their star flier? How would they be? Perfectly alright? Or . . ." Mu drifted. The was no reason to finishing. John understood.
Mu sighed. "It's truly useless to wonder. There's no way of knowing. I've already said that there is no rhyme nor reason to who war claims. Listen. If you had been transferred . . . in that battle, instead of Gale, you may have lived through it. I believe that. But you could have also easily died."
Mu's truth finally made John's eyes flicker away, unable to stand the heated gaze any longer. Mu sighed, shaking his head. His own eyes drifted off, lazily landing across the square, behind John.
". . . It doesn't change, does it?" The blond muttered. "That . . . odd, guilt-ridden happiness you feel? When you think about that 'what if' you somehow feel happy . . . because he was the one . . . instead of you."
John stiffened in his seat, eyes wide with the accusation. He couldn't believe it . . . how . . . true? Mu, on the other hand, slowly shifted his vision back to reality. To see John sitting there, that way . . . it made Mu smile. A sad, knowing smile.
"Don't worry about it. Every soldier thinks that way at least once. More than twice."
. . . Silence . . .
John struggled to find words to say back, but none of them would hold a minute beneath the weight of what had been said. The words spoken, they reverberated in each man's mind—hanging, haunting. Mu blinked at the sudden void before breaking into a crack of laughter.
"What? What am I saying? The last thing two ex-soldiers need to talk about is war.—Sorry." Apology said, Mu reached and quickly emptied his glass. John's face turned.
". . . 'Ex'-soldier? You mean . . . ?"
"Hm?" Mu glanced up. "—Ah! You haven't touched it yet! Aw, come on, not even a little taste?"
John became instantly confused. Mu pouted. "Not even to try?"
"I'm fine without it," he scowled. He had 'declined' the same thing three times already.—Or was it four?
"Trust me, you'll want this. Take a risk, eh? I see, is it too much for you? Yeah, they do make really tall glasses here. . . ." Mu reached forward, hands clasping around the two metal glasses, pulling them closer. ". . . You mind?"
"N-No . . ."
"Good. See, maybe you'll try it now, when there's less in the glass to look at," Mu grinned, pouring 'a bit' of the beverage from John's glass into his own, empty canister. Thick, white and nowhere near smooth, it slowly ran through the air between them. John nearly jumped when he saw.
"What is that?"
Mu cocked his head, confused, sipping at his fave mix.
"Hm? I thought you knew when you refused it." He began to laugh. "Can't you tell? It's ice cream!"
John deflated in his chair, suddenly lost. He struggled to keep his composure, since he hadn't been doing as good a job of it as he wanted.
He had expected some form of liquor, at the very least, by the way Mu was going at it. Hard liquor.—Mu only grinned, tossing some golden curls from his face.
"Yep, like I said, it's never too early in the day for ice cream.—Nor is one ever too old," he teased, playfully, unable to stop himself from the subtle jab at John. "But . . . They really do make the best drinks here. You would have known that if you had tried it before, hm?"
John brushed at his short hair. Sitting there, like this, with this man, talking over chilled metal glasses filled with drinks mixed with ice cream, of all things . . . Nothing seemed right, yet . . . nothing seemed wrong.
Yet everything was wrong.
John's focus drifted from Mu, to his ticking watch, to Mu's tanned face again, up and over his mop of golden hair and on out through the thinned out crowd behind him. Almost lazily, his sharp eyes flicked from one stranger's face to another, until . . . they caught a vision he could never consider as a "stranger".
John instantly pushed himself to his feet.
Murrue!
She was moseying about across the square, sliding a small shopping bag into her purse, pushing some stray hair behind her ear. There was do doubt it was her.
John glanced down to see Mu staring up from his seat, bemused confusion riddling the younger man's eyes.
"S-Sorry," John apologized—instantly hating for how he completely belittled himself to . . . him. "I have to be going now. Many things to do today. Errands."
Mu chuckled. "Then go." John took a step. "Wait!" John looked back; Mu was grinning, pointing to the metal glass across the table.
"Aren't you going to finish this?"
"N-No. You can have it," John muttered, wanting to get away. Part of him feared Mu would turn around as he left. If Mu turned around . . . he would certainly see her too. But John was lucky—Mu only lit up, grabbing the creamy drink.
"Really? Ya sure?"
"Yes . . ." John left again. This time, though, he made it a couple steps before he heard Mu's voice. However . . . it was . . . strained.
"John . . . Wait."
He turned. Mu was sitting in his café chair, fingers laced before his chin, looking away intentionally. His back was still turned to John, and John could not see his face, either. Neither moved to be seen.
"John. What you're worried about . . . don't be."
"What?" John was breathlessly confused. "What are y—?"
He could hear Mu's wry smile slip its way into his tone as he reached for John's glass to sip. "I could never replace you."
John flared, but the strong amber of his eyes broke. With his best accusing voice, John took a step closer. "How? How are you so sure of that?"
A wry laugh. "Simple.— . . . I've never tried."
John watched as Mu turned in his seat, just enough to lock his light eyes with John's. John watched as Mu tried to flash that grin—that laughingly, knowing grin—but failed. John watched and could recognize the attempt from that time he'd been with Mu in the flower shop. It was the same basic grin, but the emotion behind it was gone.
So, even the Hawk of Endymion had moments of emotion he couldn't completely smooth over with composure. It may have been only a flicker, but it was still there.
When John left Mu for the second time, everything was suddenly different. Mu's quiet words brought forward every thought that had run through John's mind before. Coming away from that 'chat,' John could only realize that everything he had sat down wanting to say . . . never came to light. Somehow, the conversation had become not under his control. Somehow that man had steered everything that was spoken to . . .
John coughed in the center square, unable to process it.
The Hawk of Endymion had done the impossible. Murrue wasn't even mentioned until after it became an afterthought . . . ?
---
With John gone, Mu reached down into his pocket, fishing out a small box. He popped open the velvet casing, eyes softly flickering over its contents.
The diamond sparkled in the mid-morning sun, reflecting it's brilliance onto everything.
"It's blue," he sighed. "Blue. . . . I gave her—"
"Sir?" The attendant broke in, awkwardly standing there. He pointed towards the two metal glasses on the table. "Are you done?"
Mu looked up from the ring and nodded.
". . . Yes. I'm done."
The box clicked close.
---
When he found Murrue again, John could only look through the store's window. Part of him didn't want to enter. But, with a tight sigh, John walked into the flower shop. Sour memories flashed back, but they all became just shadows in his mind, when he saw:
Murrue, unaware he was the one who'd entered, was still immersed in a small stand of roses, displaying all the different shades and hues they could be found in. Her fingers never left the soft velvet petals of the reddest one.
The pain shot at him, as he watched, recognizing the flower from the bouquet that man had chosen for her.
John swallowed, gathering his voice.
"Red roses, huh?"
Murrue jumped and spun around, eyes catching with John's as she whispered his name. He attempted to smile.
"I didn't know you were so . . . 'old-fashioned' . . ." The other man's words rolled over John's tongue, unnatural to the taste. Murrue didn't seem to notice his pause and just smiled with the memory.
Her fingers ran over the red rose.
"Hm. People have told me how red is my color, and I guess that just been transferred over to flowers too. . . ."
"Heh, people like Mu?" John muttered, dark.
Murrue's bright eyes flickered into sadness—if only for a moment. She breathed down a sigh.
"No, John. . . . People like you."
He blinked, mouth open. "What?"
"Don't worry," Murrue 'smiled', assuring with a small shrug. "I can see why you might not remember. . . . It's been long time since then, after all. Any one would forget, right?" John's mind whirled, blurring everything as he struggled to find his words.
"But—But I distinctly remember you saying blue—!"
"For you, John," she corrected, softly. "Dark blue is a nice color for you. . . ."