Author: Chauni

Website: www.oocities.org/asukalangley2nd/

Disclaimer: This is done to the song, “3 Libras” by A Perfect Circle, and no, I don’t own them, or the song, or the pilots, or anything cool like that.

Warnings: Yaoi, Angst, Self-mutilation, Death

Pairings: 2+1

Notes: Sorry about the stupid format of this, guys, but I wrote this in my Scribble one day, and just cut and pasted, cause I’m too lazy to change it. ><

My Forever

Threw you the obvious
And you flew with it on your back
A name in your recollection
Down among a million say

I wanted to tell you I loved you today, but the words refused to pour forth, dead on a tongue that was immortal to the world, that had moved faster than the bullets you have released, or so they like to say.

I wanted to tell you so many things, like how I grew up, how I got my name, how I got to the point in life where I stand before you now, bright-eyed, fake, hollow, and without one true emotion that I can claim for my own...other than this love for you.

But your eyes, so purely black-holes with cerulean swirls, my indigo nights and storming days, stare impatiently at me, and I can't speak, not about this, not about me, or you, or life, or, Shinigami-forbid, love. I'm the jester, your daily comic relief, and I can't focus, so I retreat behind jokes and laughs, and annoying movements that earn your contempt, 'cause I don't know how to deal with anything else.

Disdain, contempt, hatred...is it better like this? I'm starting to think it is.

Difficult not to feel a little bit
disappointed and passed over
But I look right through
See you naked but oblivious
But you don't see me

I'm waking up from nightmares of blood and ghosts with emerald eyes and scarlet crosses, with crucifixes waiting for their fallen gods of death, and I'm caught between that agonizing area of crying and sweating, not that I'll let one tear fall, damnit. Hell no. Nothing can make me cry, just another mask, another story, another burden, 'cause that's what I do; carry the packages of all the world on my shoulders.

Martyr, savoir, demon, murderer, call me what you will. I don't mind...or at least, I'll tell you I won't.

He's sleeping in the bed beside me, tousled hair everywhere like usual, and his lips are just barely parted. Moonlight like liquid silver melted down for your metaphorical convenience, slips in through the window to bathe his Japanese body with gleaming ethereal fingers and ghostly lips.

Hate him...love him. I can't decide. He's destroyed me, broken me down, shattered me open, and I want to hurt him for it, want to tear him wide, leave him bleeding and ripped and scarred like he's going to leave me. Like Solo left me...Like Father Maxwell and Sister Helen left me...Like everyone left me.

I don't know why I think you'd even like me. You don't know me, not really. Do you have one clue how my mind works? How I sleep at night and how my dreams are of what title I steal without shame? I wear the mask that makes it easier to move, that makes you all doubt my intelligence, 'cause that way, you don't pry, don't question.

Do you wear the same mask? The one of complete indifference, of complete impassive eyes and monotone voice? Do I even know you?

Does it matter? I know what my heart, that stupid betraying piece of beating flesh that is scarred beyond repair, tells me, and I am helpless to follow it. I know you don't care...You've never tried to look, never tried to see behind what my amethyst eyes scream. You never tried to know me.

The real Duo Maxwell.

But I threw you the obvious
Just to see if there was more behind the
Eyes of a fallen angel
Eyes of a tragedy

Heh. Here I am, bleeding for you, watching the torrent of crimson slip down across the periwinkle cheesy bathroom tile into small rivers that travel through the cracks. Briefly, I wonder if I hit a vein, but figured no; this is a common concern of mine, every time I self-mutilate. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't want to die.

I want to punish.

My crimes...heh. The killing in the name of peace, for false pretenses, for my existence, for my love.

Will you notice this time when I don't wash the blade off as I come back to the stupid dorm room we're currently staying at? Or how about the blood, turning brown now as I speak, under my fingernails, will you see that? Will you see how hollow my eyes are or the lopsided, forced way my trained grin stays on?

Probably not. You haven't before, so why start now, right?

Another cut...it doesn't hurt. Intake of breath, bubble of scarlet, a river of hate...It's all perfect.

I'm Shinigami...I don't die. I just kill.

Here I am expecting just a little bit too much
From the wounded
But I see, see through it all
See through see you

What a surprise, not a word from your mouth as I come in, as I sit on the bed, as I throw the knife loudly into the dresser drawer. Not a glance as I wave my hand, as my fingers fly by with stained nails, as the sleeves of black shirt are a bit darker, a bit wetter than the rest of my outfit.

Your training makes you notice this stuff.

You just don't care.

You're looking at mission reports, typing them out, ignoring me and leaving me to my thoughts, all consuming, all devouring wild thoughts and notions that most, that I, don't understand.

I wonder...how much are we alike. I wonder if you think in black and white or in Technicolor, if you're dreams are of open fields and breakers of waves or of war-torn towns and the savagery of a life we were forced to live. I wonder if you believe in God, in Shinigami, in your gun, in me.

My hands lace themselves behind my head, fingers interlocking like I'm praying or something, and odd thoughts run through my head, like the last time I confessed, the last communion I took, and the fact that I pray to Solo and Father Maxwell rather than to God. I think of the ruins of the church, of the glass as it painted pews in azure and jade sunshine and the wooden Christ that stared down on me with judgment, with blame, cause I did this...I did all of it. My hands are tired, and the spikes hurt.

Cause I threw you the obvious
To see what occurs behind the
Eyes of a fallen angel
Eyes of a tragedy
Oh well

And Deathscythe sounds so loud in my ears, or maybe it's my own screaming. Quatre told me yesterday that he could feel my agony, but I laughed at him and gave him one of those "Who? Me?" smirks that finally, after three hours of reassurance, got him to back off a bit. No one knows my problems...No one cares. Quatre just pried...because he had to. No one wants to care. No one wants to-

The scythe is a blur of flaming green that's almost blinding in the sunlight, and I laugh like a freakin' maniac. I'm not killing people, no; it's just hunks of metal, machines that need destroying, yeah. There's no dads, no sons, no daughters, no wives inside these shells, no, can't be. I'm not a murderer; I'm a hero, defending peace, a killer with a purpose, a psycho with a written excuse.

No, my screams aren't mingling with those of the ones on my com links. My blood isn't dripping down onto my equipment, onto my radar and computers as I clutched the instruments so tightly I'm ripping open my flesh. No, I'm not killing.

I don't want to be Shinigami anymore....But He won't listen.

He's the one swinging my scythe, cutting down mobile suits and blowing apart bases. I'm the one behind the eyes, cowering in dark crevices where nothing is sacred and I'm alone except for memories of a when that doesn't exist and dreams from a hell that should never have been.

Martyr...

Oh well apparently nothing
Apparently nothing at all

"Duo? What happened to your arm?"

My eyes snap open, wide and unbelieving. Did Captain Obvious just ask the one thing I've dreamed of hearing for months now? Granted, it bore less emotion that I would have wished, but I expect such things from you now, Mr. Monotone.

Looking down, I see why such a thing has piqued your curiosity; while driven deep within my thoughts, I had unconsciously picked off the scabs that sat there, glaring, hatefully, mocking, laughing. Liquid life ran down pale, scarred arms in thin torrents, and were currently staining the cheap, scratchy bedspread provided by the wonderful staff at St. Raphael’s Mercy Boarding School.

"Got it in the last fight, is all. Why?"

Just because I wanted him to ask, doesn't mean I'd answer truthfully, mind you.

"You're getting blood on the blanket. I don't want it raising suspicion."

Hn. I shouldn't have expected anything less than that. So, why does it still hurt? Why is my chest burning and my eyes so fucking blurry? Why do I feel like crawling into the bathroom and starting all over with that knife, only this time on my throat?

"In case you haven't noticed, Heero, normal teenage kids, *boys*, bleed. It'd probably turn more heads if some blood didn't turn up somewhere, ya know."

"Hn."

Isn't he Mr. Wonderful, folks? Let's give him a big round of applause.

You don't you don't you don't
See me

Biting my lip on the tile floor to keep from screaming, as the thin crimson stream from my mangled lower tier mixes with that of wounded wrists below, to travel along the path of gout to the drain below...drifting...lost...among waste, among the unwanted, undesirable. I'm there, tainting the tainted....

You don't you don't you don't
See me

Panting with hurried breaths as my strokes come faster, as I peek through blankets to see your sleeping face, the gentle slopes of your body peeking out of borrowed covers, a sleek dark torso here, the gentle curve of your calf there. I'm making my confession with God as I move, as I breathe, as I come closer, as I achieve....

You don't you don't you don't
See me

Screaming as I fight my demons in the cockpit, as I struggle for control, as I battle inside and outside, wrapped up in war on all sides, for even I have become my own enemy. Who is real and who is fake as I swing Death and Life scatters like the dust in a hurricane? Who am I and who are you and can we dance together when these stupid battles are over in the garden of God? The other has taken over, and all is calm once more....

You don't you don't you don't
See me

Staring, a devout worshipper as the electronic emerald haloes flicker over the curve of your lips, plays and reflects in your flat eyes, as it moves almost as quickly as you do, scrolling, shadows like tendrils, skipping like children over your clean cheeks. Can you be my God? Can you be the one thing I believe in, my religion? Can you be my fury and my rage and my pacifism and my excuse? And I watch as the light stops moving and prays, and I'm following suit....

You don't see me

It hurts this time, just a little too much. Wonder if I cut something important. The waterfall is complete, is taunting, and maybe it's a trick of my eyes, but there seems more this time, more blood, more splatters on periwinkle mockery, more corruption on the tiles of the Mercy school. What do I know of mercy?

You don't
You don't

It's...not stopping...Why isn't it stopping?! What have I done? What have I done?! Goddamnit! And I'm lightheaded before I can get to the door, falling back down onto tiles that are slippery with my essence, slippery with my own life, and in the end, I still am the God of Death, I still am a killer, for I have killed none other than myself. Can you see the irony in that? I can.

Are you going to be there when I open my eyes? My God, my savoir? Are you going to accept my prayers, and take me into you, to be your singer of praise, your worshiper until the end of time?

Will I be washed of my sins, forgiven, made whole and made clean once again? Am I your son, your lover, your faithful, Heero?

You don't see me at all

I can see you, standing in the backdrop of light, standing in the doorway to oblivion.

You are my forever.

"DUO!!!!!!!!!"

~The End~