27-Dec-2001

Title: Long December
Author: Jay (carboxylated@yahoo.com)
Category: Angst!fic (just in time for the holidays, too)
Timeline: Post EW
Pairings: 13+5
Archive: Well, if Tyr hasn't kicked me out of GWA yet on account of my inactivity... ;D Ash, if she wants it. All other offers are appreciated, but ought to be extended to the more deserving. ^_^
[Full fiction index @ [www.gwaddiction.com]
Disclaimer: Mobile Suit Gundam Wing is not mine, but belongs to Bandai, Sotsu and Sunrise. ;_; The characters and timeline have been borrowed for my own fiendish fangirl ends. The title and the lyrics are from the Counting Crows 'A Long December,' off their Recovering the Satellites album and are used without permission, but I doubt the music industry has sent lawyers undercover into fanfiction lists to track down people like me. ^_~
Rating/Warning: R, just in case. It's sort of heavy, sort of light, sort of lots of things, but not enough of anything, really. There's Wufei!angst-- apologies to the 05 crowd there (I'm backing away from the G-boys with my hands in the air...), and the ending *is* rather... er... dark. Don't read it if you feel uncomfortable with either a rather sad little story or horrible writing. ^_^;; Oh, and this might be Emasculated!Wufei. ^_^;; I'm *really* bad at writing him. Heh.
Spoilers: Ep. 48, Episode Zero
Feedback: Comments, criticisms, ramblings, death threats, and marriage proposals all welcome.
Note: The three ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future were stolen from Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_ and perverted into twisted little shadows of what they once were. Um. I stole from another Christmas story, too, but the credits for *that* are at the end.
This will make no sense to you, I realized, if you don't know about Wufei's Episode Zero. #^_^#
Thanks: To all the wonderful people I've met in fandom. Cheers to you all. ^_^

{... ...} = thoughts
//... ...// = flashback
*... ...* = bold
/... .../ = italics
_... ..._ = underline

Long December by Jay

"And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe,
Maybe this year will be better than the last.
I can't remember the last thing you said as you were leavin',
Now the days go by so fast." -- Counting Crows, 'A Long December,'
Recovering the Satellites

He came home and slammed the door fiercely. Outside the door to his townhouse, a few off-white doves scattered and flew into the crisp December air, and two elderly women looked up in shock and clucked their tongues in disapproval. There were shallow snowdrifts piled against the sidewalks, and the sound of jingling bells chorused distantly, tinny and sweet.

The end of December seemed holy and sanctified in ways that Chang Wufei could not fathom. He had silently endured the Christmas party that afternoon at the Preventers HQ, sipping his hot chocolate in a corner and staring dismally at the glittering lights and tinsel that had bedecked the staff lounge. Une had set up a miniature Christmas tree on the table laden with slices of rum-soaked sponge cake, and she had lit a small, golden menorah that had flickered and gone out twice before burning steadfastly. There had been fluted glasses of champagne, drunk liberally, and tiny hors d'oeuvres on silver platters, but Wufei had been content with his hot chocolate, which had eventually gone lukewarm. Duo Maxwell had arrived in a Santa Claus suit (with sprigs of mistletoe pinned to his hat) and cheerfully announced that Heero Yuy wasn't showing up because he couldn't find his dress spandex, and almost everyone had laughed bewilderedly while Quatre Winner had dissolved into helpless laughter.

Even Trowa Barton had been there, and they had stood together for a little while, murmuring softly underneath the holiday music. Eventually, Trowa had been called away by a panicked Quatre who could not stop hiccupping and said he needed someone tall to sling him upside down, claiming that as a surefire cure. Quatre had looked rather rosy-cheeked by that time, and his eyes had been suspiciously bright, but Trowa had gone outside with him and had not returned.

Wufei had excused himself around six, drawn on his jacket, and walked out. It had been flurrying outside, and he had grumbled to himself the entire way home. There had been carolers abroad, too, and by the time he had gotten home, found his key, and opened his door, he was heartily sick of carols and had slammed the door in a resounding response to the cheer of the world.

He stood for a moment, panting heavily, and stared at his tidy apartment. Wufei muttered a few, brief lines of something unpleasant in Mandarin under his breath and pulled off his Preventers' jacket, which was folded onto a hanger and put away in the hall closet. He kicked off his shoes and found his house slippers sitting neatly by the black futon in the living room. Loosening his tie, Wufei strode into his kitchen and fumbled for the tall brass canister of green tea leaves that Heero had given to him as a Christmas present (as an afterthought; he'd gotten the garishly-wrapped package one day last March). He put his battered kettle on the stove and sat by the window as he waited for the water to boil. There was a vase of roses on the countertop, dropping withered petals like old blood on the tiles. He had forgotten to water them, he realized, and berated himself for his forgetfulness.

Wufei told himself it was the insomnia, and that the insomnia was the long office hours, and the long office hours-- well, they dripped down somewhere inside of him and everything was so slow and so hollow that he didn't know if he was filling himself up or wearing himself away.

He rubbed his eyes and tried to think pleasant thoughts, pleasant thoughts that would feed dreams of freefalling and loose rose petals and the soft touch of white-gloved hands.

Une had been kind this holiday season; before he had left the party, she had pulled him aside and told him that he was on paid leave for a week, to get some rest.

"You deserve it, Wufei," she had said, resting a hand on his shoulder. Her brown eyes had flickered sympathetically over his features, and she had looked like she wanted to say more, but then he had pulled away with a low, murmured thanks and left.

She saw, he supposed, more than anyone the lethargy that had crept over him; the wandering reports that were always a few days late, the wrinkled state of his uniform, the way he forgot his passwords and scattered his passcards, and the swift flashes of disorientation across his face...

When Une had asked about him, Wufei had curtly told her that it was nothing, nothing at all.

She had hesitated in her response and brought out a cream-colored business card, closing his hand around it. "Please. Think about it."

It had been the card of a DR. HAMLET BALDWIN, a psychiatrist on E. 112th, Suite 6. It lay at the bottom of his jacket pocket, creased and unused.

The shrill ringing of the phone interrupted his thoughts; he waited stoically for the answering machine to pick up.

"Hello. You have reached Chang Wufei. I am unavailable; please leave a message with your name and phone number, and I will respond."

His voice sounded terse on tape, tighter, somehow; or maybe he always sounded like that, he mused.

The message was almost drowned in the jabber of voices and loud music. "Hey, Wufei! It's Duo. Some of the party's moved to our place, so-- yeah, if you're not doing anything tonight, we could always party like it's AC 195." There was a burst of laughter, and Duo said, aside from the phone, "Quat, put down the lampshade," and continued, "Yeah, everyone's here. You should be here, Wu. We'd like that." He sounded unusually pensive. "Or give me a ring, afterwards. Heero'll be up, at least, and maybe we need to talk. Okay? Okay. Well. Merry Christmas, Wufei. Over and out."

Suddenly the kettle was shrieking, loud and insistent. Wufei hurriedly poured a heap of dark tea leaves into his cup and added the steaming water; his cup blossomed green, and he stirred it slowly. Wufei shuddered a little at the first sip, scraping his tongue along his teeth at the hotness. He waited for it to cool and then slowly drank from the white porcelain until he tipped the last of the tea into his mouth and let the damp leaves slide to the bottom. He set his cup down on the table and peered into it, humoring himself as the leaves traced dark designs on the bottom of his cup. Wufei pushed his tea aside and set his head down for a moment, letting his eyes flutter close.

He did not know how long he was asleep, but then he was awake again, and he raised his head and looked at the figure sitting across from him. Wufei was wordless for a moment, and something clenched in his ribcage; his heart stuttered in his chest.

"The First Noble Truth is that all life is suffering." Her voice was light and soft, and she folded her arms, draping her red silk sleeves across the polished walnut of the table. Wufei's eyes traced the gold embroidery on her dress-- he remembered the first time he'd seen it, when they had been fourteen and so brash and afraid and many other things together.

It had been a long time ago, and they were no longer so young. But she had not aged, strictly; her ghost had grown, it seemed, and now she was what she would have been: fine eyebrows arched over almond eyes, black hair loose and long. Chang Meiran reached one pale hand across and laid it over Wufei's, and her expression was grave and serious. The touch of her was like ice, but he clasped her hand tightly anyway.

"Meiran," he said. His dead child-bride sat and studied his face for a moment, and Wufei wondered if she was a phantom of his imagination, something he had concocted in his loneliness and his weakness.

"And it is passion and want and desire, Chang Wufei, that begets suffering." Her voice was sad, and it was colored with reproach. "Why do you desire such things that breed misery?"

He wanted to ask her many things-- questions about her desire, her suffering, her peace-- but he looked away from her, ashamed, and brought her cold hand to his cheek. "Is he there?" he asked, dark eyes glittering. "Tell me." His voice was dulcet, but there was a hard edge to it. "Meiran, tell me. Tell me, quickly."

She shook her head. "I cannot, Chang Wufei." Meiran stared at something he could not see, shook her head, and remarked, "It draws near."

"What? What draws near?"

She did not answer him, but continued, "I do not know about these ways, so I cannot understand-- such affairs of stars and crosses and grief and joy and exclamation. We did not walk these paths." There was a quiet empathy in her words, and he felt something warm grow inside of him, but before he could respond with quick and eager understanding, she went on. "But I am the messenger." Meiran looked at him solemnly. "And the message is all I can offer."

"What is your message?" he breathed. Wild thoughts spun in his mind, quick and bright.

Her lips were frost against his ear, and she whispered, "Fly."

The words crept into his ear, and he froze, too.

{Fly.}

//"Milliard... I'm going on ahead of you."//

He thought about the light, bright enough to mute the light of stars, so bright that his eyes had been burned, and the black afterimage had been terrible under his eyelids.

Wufei denied the sound and the fury of the ache of it out with a furious shake of his head, but something clawed at him, a clamoring guilt and sadness that could never be even half-forgotten.

//"If human life is taken out of the equation, victory and defeat will become something miserable. God will not extend his hand to either side."//

Meiran drew away from him and tucked her arms into her sleeves. "There will be three. Watch for them."

"Three?" Wufei asked, dazed. "How will I-- Meiran?"

//"How dare you use your pretty rhetoric on me!"//

She would not say anything, and a sudden vertigo overcame him, a sickness of space; it had been something long forgotten, that endless vacuum, that wide expanse of celestial graveyard, and now it returned. He tried to ask her more, but a thought surfaced in the back of his mind: {In space, no one can hear you scream.}

He remembered the light of the explosion, how it unfolded and flashed across space; but the sound had compressed into a great and terrible nanosecond of crushed metal and machinery.

//" You just fight for your ego! How many people do you think have died for your sake?"

"Would you like to know?" There was a buzz of static in the moment of contemplation. "As of yesterday... 99,822 people."

His head hurt, suddenly, and the straps across his chest seemed too tight; everything seemed so small, so clustered. "What?"//

Meiran took his hand again and pressed something into his palm. "Three," she said. "You will know." She turned away and disappeared, and Wufei was left with an empty cup of tea and something in his fist.

He opened up his hand and stared at the dried rose he held, and then he curled his fingers and crumbled it into red dust. The smell was sweet and acrid and sickly, and he inhaled it; it smelled like certain mornings did ten years ago when he tumbled from bed, away from the press of a warm, familiar body. The dust rose into his nostrils and filled his lungs, and then he fell asleep and dreamt of nothing.

"Wake up," a deep voice rumbled. It was clipped and precise. "Wake up, Wufei."

Wufei lifted his head up drowsily and peered up through sleep- thickened lashes, and then awoke fully with a start. "You," he began and suddenly ended. "You."

Master O folded his arms and nodded in agreement. "Me," he said. "Hello, Wufei."

They were alone in a long room with high slitted windows, and the bright sun peeked through them. Wufei sat at the single desk, and he looked around himself, baffled. "We are--" His throat constricted. "We are on L5, on Colony A0206, in the Great Hall of the Dragon Clan. You taught me my lessons here. They were always such hard lessons--"

"And you always learned so well," O murmured. He motioned for Wufei to rise, and the two of them walked out of the long, echoing room and outside, under a thick, leafy canopy that filtered the sun.

"What did I teach you, Wufei?"

They crunched the gravel under their feet. Wufei stared at the groves of bamboo and said, "You taught me many things."

"What did I teach you foremost?"

"Honor," Wufei answered slowly. "Honor and justice."

"Yes," O said. "I taught you those things, and you followed them well." The path was curving up now, up and over a hill, and when they stood at the crest of it, they stopped and looked down.

Below them, in the shadow of a giant mecha, a young boy knelt in a field of flowers with a girl in his arms.

"Honor," O said quietly. "She fought for the honor of the Dragon Clan, and she would die for it. She was such a strange thing, but strong."

"Yes, she was strong." He stared at the tableau of sorrow before him; the flowers were swept by the wind. "And now she is dying."

The boy lifted his head, and Wufei saw himself cradling Meiran, his dead wife, half a lifetime ago. The howl resounded over the field, reaching his ears as thin anguish.

"NATAKU!"

"And justice," O said. "This was your justice."

"They killed her," Wufei said. "I heard his name for the first time that day, and I swore, I swore..."

"You swore on your honor," O offered gently.

Wufei's hands fisted into balls by his side, and he gritted his teeth. "I swore on my honor, on her honor," he said softly, bitterly, "that I would kill him. That I would see justice done. I dirtied it all-- my honor, my justice, my memory... all tainted, all for a few kisses and touches in the night, whored because I was weak and I did not know such things could be."

"No, not because you were weak," O said heavily. "Why do you burden yourself needlessly now with such regret?"

Wufei's eyebrows arched in question and surprise. "With regret?" he asked.

"I taught you honor and justice, and he taught you things electric. You betrayed your honor and your justice for what you call a few kisses, a few touches in the night. I will not reprimand you-- you bear the weight of your guilt already. Our time is short, so answer me a question."

"Yes?"

"Why?"

{Because he taught me things that blurred the lines between the absolute, because he taught me things about two people that made them *burn*, because he taught me that there is no neatness in life, no simple partitions, no easy judgments. Because I--}

"I don't know," Wufei said thickly, and looked away. When the silence had stretched thin, he looked back; O was gone.

"Hello!" This voice was spastically cheerful, and Wufei felt a twinge of panic go through him. He slowly turned around. Duo Maxwell winked at him and tugged at his priest's collar. "Don't worry," he added, "Duo's not dead or anything, but I thought that you might be a little more comfortable with this." He offered Wufei a familiar, wry smile. "Death isn't that pleasant, I know-- well, *I* know, you know."

"You are--"

"Death, the Grim Reaper, good ol' Shinigami himself." Another broad wink. "Just think of me as another one of your war buddies." There was steel in that gaze, a slight glint of hard humor. "We're well acquainted."

"What are you doing here?" Wufei asked.

Duo's-- it was easier to think of the apparition before him as Duo-- braid twitched, and he replied, "Ah, no, what are *you* doing *here*?"

It was then that he felt the burn of fire and the heat of the smoldering wreckage around him. It looked like an OZ base, but he did not recognize which one. Wufei realized that he never really thought about them; they were just targets, red dots on a map, mission objectives. He glanced uneasily at the scene around him, discomfited by the nearness of it.

"You did this," Duo said, with a hint of pride in his voice. "One fifteen year old kid with a cause and a mission. Hell, yeah." He clapped Wufei's back. "You showed those Ozzies, and you showed *him*. This is what he used to be to you." He gestured at the debris and flaming rubble. "A target. Something you could firebomb and destroy. Something you could strike against. Funny how these things are."

"What are you saying?"

"Wasn't it simpler back then?" Those large violet eyes twinkled with good grace. "Just allies and enemies. Peace and war. Life and death."

"Nothing is that simple," Wufei said. "I was young, naïve-- I thought... I do not know what I thought, only that--"

"Only that everything got a hell of a lot more complicated when you weren't just slamming ammo into a pair of coordinates."

"But what are you trying to tell me?" Wufei asked desperately. "What is it? And what is it for?"

The braid twitched again, and its owner shook his head. "I'm not telling you anything, Wufei. Nothing that you don't already know. You just need to admit a few things to yourself, man. Don't fight these things." He considered his own words for a moment and then said, "Come on, I'll show you."

Duo grabbed Wufei's hand, and Wufei was pulled into a swirling vortex of ice; he choked on his breath, gasping for air, and when he could draw it into his lungs again, the spinning had stopped.

They were on someone's balcony; through the glass doors, a party was in full swing. Holiday music swirled over men and women who clasped glasses and took deep draughts.

"What are you afraid of?"

Wufei thought for a moment, still staring at the scene before him. "I'm afraid of many things," he said slowly. "I'm afraid--"

"Are you afraid of dying?" Keen eyes cut into his own, prying.

"Perhaps," he murmured. "Not the act, but-- the postscript itself."

The glass doors slid open suddenly, and the real Duo Maxwell tumbled out, Heero Yuy in tow. Duo wore a bright Hawaiian shirt, probably inherited from his beloved Sweepers friend, Howard, and bright orange beach shorts, and a pair of pink flip-flops. He had a can of beer in one hand, and his other arm was draped across Heero's shoulder.

"Hey, it's a beautiful night," he said, oblivious to their company. "Look at that moon, Heero. Look at it. Gorgeous. A beautiful night. Beautiful." He leaned in for a sloppy kiss, which Heero acquiesced to.

"I think you had a little too much to drink, Duo," Heero said somberly, but a smile played over his lips.

Duo waved his beer dismissively. "I'm fine! I could down another *case* and be fine, really. Really, really, really, Heero-babe. Heero, my hero, Heero... Just look at that moon. *Look*." His eyes shimmered; the thin sheen of liquid threatened to break, but held. "It's a fucking beautiful moon, Heero."

"I know," Heero said. "I know."

The couple stood in silence for a moment longer, and then Heero said, "We should go in, Duo. Come on," and pulled Duo back into the light and the dancing and the laughter.

Wufei looked up at the sky and scrutinized the moon. It was pale and waning. The figure in black shifted at his side and said quietly, "He's dying."

Shock pulsed across Wufei's face. "What? Who?"

"Duo. He's dying." Pale hands moved to the white priest's collar. "He was sick all through the war, really, but it wasn't so bad when the virus was in remission. It started gearing up, though, when Mariemeia was doing her conquering-the-free-world thing, and... well. He's spent a lot of the last six months in and out of doctor's offices on the weekends. Lots of shots, lots of medication cocktails, lots of treatment that did nothing but make him lose all of that hair..."

"His hair?" Wufei whispered. "It's--?"

Duo-- no, Death, he was Death, he bore so little real resemblance to the boy who called himself Death-- fondled his braid and nodded. "Gone. It's a wig-- a shade too dark, but no one really said anything, or noticed. It's just one of those things that eats you up in the morning, when you just wake up. People are alone in the mornings like nothing else, Wufei. But anyway, it was actually one morning that he woke up and decided to cut the crap. He decided no more shots, no more pills, no more radiation. Because he figured something out, and that something is what you have to figure out."

"What?" He clutched at the edge of one black sleeve. "What did he realize?"

"What," Death asked again slowly, "are you so afraid of?"

There was a rush of cold air, and when Wufei blinked, the specter was gone. He turned to look around, but realized that he had gone, too, that he was somewhere different. It was somewhere familiar again, and when the lights clicked on, he stared in wonderment.

He was in Une's office. It was neat, with dark carpets and mahogany paneling. Her desk was very well organized; pens and pencils put away, a heavy paperweight weighing down texts of import. Something silver caught Wufei's eye, and he reached for a small picture frame on the upper left corner of her desk.

It was a photograph of Mariemeia Khushrenada, smiling under a mass of cropped, copper hair.

Une had loved that little girl in a way that made people's hearts wrench and made them forget that Mariemeia-- they called her Marie now-- had once been the little flesh-puppet that nearly overran them in a bid for tyranny. When Une accepted her appointment to the Preventers staff, Marie came with her and spent her afternoons wandering the long halls, going from office to office, chattering and chattering. In her daily travels, she always stopped at Wufei's office, tapping at the door and waiting for his "yes" to enter. She was always very polite and asked how he was doing, how was the coffee that morning, and she always lingered a few moments after the brief conversation had died.

Wufei had never been entirely comfortable around her. He supposed that it was because she brought back memories he would have rather forgotten; she was another reminder of another sin-- sins of the father, he supposed, and sins of his own folly.

She had always been a weak child after her injury; the bullet that flew from her grandfather's hand had pierced her right lung, and she had spent two weeks afterwards recovering in a bed, strapped to machines. Marie was always hard-pressed for breath; when she finally stepped out of her wheelchair, she did so slowly.

One afternoon, while making her rounds of office visits, she collapsed in the hallway.

She died just as the ambulance reached the hospital. Une only sat and cried against one still, pale shoulder, weeping at a blow that tore open old wounds.

Wufei put the picture down carefully.

"Hello, Mr. Chang." The door shut with a small click. "How are you today?"

He stared at her and finally answered, "I am well. And you, Marie?"

Mariemeia gave him a small smile. "I'm fine, Mr. Chang. But I have to say that you don't look very well. How are you, really?"

Unlike Meiran, Marie had not aged; she was still the same eternal child of nine or ten, small and delicate, taking long, slow steps and huffing breaths.

"I may not be entirely well, Marie," he replied.

"That's too bad," she announced. She looked around the office and asked, "How was the coffee this morning?"

"It was-- good."

"We had better go," Marie said. "Maman will be back soon, and I don't think she'd like for us to be standing around her office." She turned back towards the door. "Come on, Mr. Chang. There are things you must see."

He walked out after her, and they made their way through the empty halls, until they reached Wufei's office at the end of the same floor. Wufei thought he could hear the distant chorus of a Christmas song, but he shook it from his head and looked at Marie expectantly.

"I don't have to knock this time." She gave him a sweet, sad smile. "I don't think it matters."

She opened the door, and Wufei had to grab the frame from falling over; his knees utterly failed him. He slowly sunk to the floor and tried not to weep, leaning against the back of his hand.

The blinds were drawn, and the only light in the room was the bright halogen lamp sitting on an empty desk. There were no papers, no file folders, no pens, no paperweights, no picture frames. The walls were bare and desolate; there were no shelves, no books, no pictures.

There was only himself, sitting at the desk, his hair loose and disheveled, staring blankly at a crystal vase brimming with dying roses.

"You forgot to water them," Marie said sadly. "You never remembered, and then they began to die, and maybe you began to die, too." Her eyes were bright, sharp points of light that he could not bear. "You can't forget to water them, Mr. Chang; things will die, you know, and when they die they never really come back. And then you've got to wait until you go to them. Maman always said that Papa thought that when he died, he would go to a place filled with all the roses that had died in his life."

Wufei watched himself sit at the desk, mute, unmoving, and pale; frail hands surrounded the vase, cupping it lovingly, and heavy, black eyes placed their weight on withered blossoms.

"Everyone's at the party, downstairs," she said. "Maman is there. And Miss Po is there, and Miss Noin, and Mr. Merquise is there, too. Mr. Barton and Mr. Winner are there, but Mr. Yuy is not, and neither are you."

"And Duo?" Wufei asked. "Is he there, too?"

"Mr. Maxwell is not there," she answered. Marie bowed her tiny head and said, "He wanted me to tell you something; Papa wanted me to, too, and you musn't be afraid, Mr. Chang, because this is the worst of it." She gestured towards the silent man sitting in the chair. "I think it's okay if you're afraid of this, because I don't think it's _right_, not at all, to be sitting alone on Christmas Eve and watching flowers die. Maman used to read me a story about a prince whose life was linked to a single rose, and when the petals fell, he began to fade away. And do you know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think he should have watered it more," she said with a definite nod of her head. She walked into the room and took one bloom from the vase and walked back towards Wufei. "Let's go," she said.

She closed the door behind them, and they moved away from the soundless round.

They rode the elevator up to the roof, and Marie opened the door for him and said, "After you." The roof was cold and inhospitable.

"Do you have a question for me, too, Marie?" Wufei asked.

The child shook her head. "No, Mr. Chang." She held out the flower to him, and when his hands touched it, the petals smoothed their creases and folded up, and the red returned to the patches of brown. They stared at the rosebud, and she smiled. "Everything goes back, Mr. Wufei, and you'll go back, too, and there will be an endless garden of roses, all the red roses that ever died in the world."

He closed his hands around the flower and nodded. "Thank you, Marie," he said slowly.

She gave him another smile and faded, and he was left alone on the rooftop, cold and shivering. Wufei stared up at the stars and wondered how he had ever lived there, so far away, so detached... Something bright flashed overhead, and he looked down again. He walked over to the rim of the roof, sliding one hand across the metal railing.

"Fly."

Wufei turned around. Meiran looked at him with warm, brown eyes. Her red dress shimmered in the starlight, and she said again, with urgency, "He waits for you, Wufei. Fly, Wufei, /fly/."

//"Milliard... I'm going on ahead of you."

Something thick and heavy wrapped his heart in cold heat and squeezed. He wanted to scream declarations of love and adoration and fascination into the void, but he knew that it was only a void, empty and black and sucking, and he could never pry it back from space if he lost it.

And then the final transmission came, almost as an afterthought. The voice was low and intense, and it reached Wufei's ears just before the explosion drowned out all sound in one swift fraction of a second and then the comm. failed and there was no sound at all.

"Fly, Wufei. Fly."//

And suddenly he understood, and it did not matter that it seemed like madness or folly. It was like reemergence, like folding outwards instead of in. Wufei smiled at Meiran, and she smiled back, her pearl white teeth glinting.

He did not ask what it would feel like, and he did not ask to hold her hand, and he did not ask if Treize would be there, waiting for him. A cold breeze stirred his hair, sweeping it back. There was no time for such questions when the answers were so close.

He leaped over the railing, his lean, nimble body pausing on the metal for a brief instant before he pushed forwards, into space and gravity; he threw his arms out and turned his eyes upwards. There were brief flashes of light, and he saw something distant that he wanted to grasp. Something warm rose in his throat, and the laugh escaped his mouth.

{Fly.}

"Treize!"

He was flying now. Something fierce and wonderful had bloomed from inside of him, something immense and efflorescent. More and more fell from him, out of him, and his doubt and fear spilled in the wind. {Fly, fly...}

He could see the gardens now, endless rows of red and green, all the red roses of the world that had curled into fresh rosebuds and eternal blooms. He was falling into them, and his eyes caught something blue and gold and ginger, glowing, ascending, and when he closed his eyes because the tears were too great, he felt the touch of white-gloved hands on his cheek.

"You flew," a voice breathed. It was rich and warm and loving. "Oh, Wufei, that was *magnificent*."

They found him after New Year's, when the city was calm and sober, curled into a corner of the roof. His body was frozen stiff by the nights of icy wind, and he was half-buried in wind drifts of snow. His lips were blue, as blue as the hottest flames, curved strangely like a smile.

It was a secretary who had wandered up to the roof for a smoke that saw the raven-black hair over a coverlet of snow. She had burst into the office below in hysterics, and when the police finally came, she had already fainted and Sally Po had already pressed two fingers to the inside of his wrist and shakily pronounced him dead.

When they pried his hands open, they found a perfect red rosebud.

The End

End Note: Well, of course you know which other Christmas story I used- - 'The Little Matchbox Girl,' which I allways thought was so sad and so poignant. Sigh. ;_;

The Four Noble Truths happen to be Buddhist beliefs, for the overly curious. I don't know why I'm speculating that Meiran is Buddhist, but I thought it was sort of fitting.

- jay 'feeeeeddd me!' c -