Author: Chauni

Website: www.oocities.org/asukalangley2nd/

Warnings: Angst

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or the characters, nor did I make any money off this.

Notes: I want to say that two people inspired me to write this fic, and in essence, I dedicate it to them with a great deal of thanks... Dyuo's Angel, and he knows why, and Flamika, who is an *amazing* writer and who's Solo I adore. (For any that don't know, I'm a Solo addict ^-^ ). Thank you.

Becoming Fall

He did nothing, odd in such a hypnotizing way as his honeyed lashes dipped down with the languid slowness of a dreamer as the leaves, orange and brown not unlike his plaited hair, drew up around him. He could taste the coming winter on his tongue, soft and comforting with the finalization of a summer well wasted, the death to signal rebirth, the reincarnation of himself.

While others searched for costumes and pumpkins, he sat out underneath this tree, an old maple with half the leaves pirouetting about him, content. A restless one stuck itself into his hair, diving under the silken threads to make a nest there for a moment, before a hand snuck up and drove it from it’s temporary home.

Tomorrow…

So many things, so many things to hate and to despise about yourself, about God, about the world. To be robbed of everything, of your best friend, of your life, of a childhood never dreamed of, ‘cause all dreams end with him screaming at the sky and bathed in a sheen of crystal sweat and tears he’d later deny.

He could feel Heero’s eyes on him from the safe house, and he knew that he knew something was wrong. Melancholy; this season just brought out the realist, the solemn person in him. Quatre would claim it was seasonal depression or some bullshit, but he knew better. It was just the memories.

Tomorrow…

Sometimes, he could still feel the reassuring arm around his shoulders, holding him close at night when they would both wake up from demons poking in their sleep, could feel his long hair as it would get tangled around the dirty, broken comb they have found one day, could see way he would smile around the food they stole as they shoveled it down their mouth like it would grow legs and run away if they didn’t eat it quick enough. He could feel him, feel him walking beside him on these quiet days when the wind would speak in it’s own tongue, a voice so strong, so comforting it left him feeling hollow every other time of the year.

Tomorrow…

How long had it been since he had the carved the date on his arm with a jagged knife he had found, discarded beside a bunch of needles and a shattered glass pipe in one of the alleys? It had burned with infection for days afterwards, but had died itself out and scarred to the rough glaring red he had always hoped it would, his own little makeshift tattoo. Not one whimper was sounded through his tight small mouth, not one tear was shed.

Not bad for a six year old.

Tomorrow…

Two hands scooped up a small pile of leaves, tossing them into the air and watching with a half-childlike interest as they fluttered down like feathers around him, a waterfall of weightlessness. Color danced in the dying sun, underneath the backdrop of an overcast sky. He remembered…one night, they had stolen a book and paged through it, looking at the leaves.

Someday, ‘m gonna roll ‘round in golden leaves, kid. Someday…I’m gonna become Fall.

And so he had, didn't he? Tomorrow, tomorrow again, his late best friend would become Fall, would follow the paths of leaves and dance weightless through the air in whirlwinds of autumn. Tomorrow would bring about another year of trudging to find meaning in sacrifices and love, things that sometimes skipped within his reach only to be yanked away again. He would never forgive abandonment, and he would never forget the day his world cried for him, as the weather regulator’s fritzed at the second the soul passed on and it rained for hours around him, God weeping, angels crying, or so his young mind dreamt of that night. Later, as grown bitterness settled it, he would say it was nothing more than a freak accident, coincidence, but sometimes, trapped in the corners of his dark room, when Heero was away, he would speak differently.

And they wondered why he loved the rain.

Tomorrow, another year, never-ending eternity that would some day hold some meaning, someday be explained in the violet eyes of Shinigami.

But tomorrow, September 22, it would become Fall, and his birthday would be shed without candles, without presents.

Tomorrow…

God, how he wished it would never come.