Well, I finally did it! I finally got up my courage and write this fic, and now I'm going to post it before I loose my nerve. I really wish it were longer (and edited), but I knew I had to finish it tonight before I loose the mood (and the nerve). So...here it is!

WARNINGS: yaoi, rape, dark, probably sacrilegious
 
 

Cold Hands

I once met a boy who told me that he didn't believe in God. It was during the war, and I think you know of him. Duo Maxwell, with his dark attire and cheerful attitude. He told me a lot of things when he didn't think I was listening. He said that he didn't believe in God because he's never seen a miracle. Once, when he thought I was asleep, he told me he loved me.

Though I've never witnessed a miracle or stepped foot in a church, I believe in God. Back in those days before the war I had to believe in something, and God was as good as any ideal. Or anyone. Some nights  when I was sure no one would be watching I would lay in the dark and close my eyes and imagine that God was looking down at me. I would whisper to Him my soul, carried on the breath that never passed my lips because I didn't know what J would do if he thought I was talking in my sleep. I thought that, maybe, I could trust God to safe guard my soul for me for a while. For a year. For a few years. For one night. For some nights in particular.

Quatre knows. I don't know how, but he knows. All that time we were hiding out on the Lunar base with the Treize Fraction I could feel his eyes traveling along the bond between J and me, and I could see how he cringed away from the doctor. I don't care. I don't care. I haven't seen J since the end of the war. I don't care, but I hope he's dead.

I know he's not.

It always happened on particularly warm nights. Warm nights and cold fingers that cooled my flesh until it froze to my bone and stayed like that until morning. He'd come to me in the dark, and he never said a word. Eventually, I let him take what he wanted. It was easier that way.

The first time was violent and bloody. I was ten. I fought as hard as I could, but he drugged me. I wasn't strong enough, he'd said as his hands ghosted it's way down my spine. I wasn't quick enough. Imagine, to be over taken by a man in J's condition. I should have been prepared, he lectured as he thrust into me without any preparation at all. I should have seen it coming, he whispered to me as he came. I should have been better, he muttered as he wrapped me up in my blanket and kissed my cheek.

So I trained harder.

During that quiet time in the war when I was recovering from self-destructing my gundam I used to watch Trowa handle the animals. It was so fascinating to me, because the pilot reminded me of both him and myself at the same time. I meditate on that strange thought sometimes, but I still don't know why I thought it. Maybe it was because Trowa was always so conflicted, but never so conflicted as to be distracted. I think about it, but I never find a satisfactory answer.

After the war I stayed as far away from circuses as I could.

At first I was scared. The routine of waking and sleeping and training and killing that had become my foundation during my years with J had been broken; there was now an extra activity that needed it's time allotment, but there was no time left so the time table had to be broken like a crocked nose that had to be fixed. After a while, I started getting scared if he didn't come every once in a while. He always kissed my cheek afterwards. It was a gentle brush of lips and foul breath, and that was the one comfort I ever got in my years at that place.

Inevitably, I got angry. I didn't know it then, but the war was coming sooner than J had anticipated. He started pushing harder and harder that last year, in more ways that one. Go there, destroy this. Come here, burn that. See him? He must be eliminated—get to it. Then come back to me and if you succeeded I will be gentle. If you failed....If I failed...

I only failed once during that year before the war. I still have the scars, and I'm proud of them.

We compared scars, Wufei and I, when we were both captured by OZ. He has an impressive one on his stomach, long and jagged. All sharp edges and white, raised flesh. Duo refused to take part in this activity. It was too bad; I bet he has some good scars to show. It's a shame all our best scars are invisible.

I only failed once during that year before the war. From a certain point of view, it was a spectacular failure. From another point of view, it was a great success. I see one with each eye. If I close my left eye...or maybe I don't want to do that. Maybe I should close my right eye instead.

It was an accident. You are probably familiar with the story; the girl and her puppy, the military base standing right beside the apartment complex, the mis-placed bomb. The girl and her dog were killed in my accident; her parents were probably killed as well. That was my failure.

J was caught in the explosion. I smiled when I heard that news. All those threats that were aimed at me, and when I failed he was the one with the physical scars. The explosion had taken off his arm. His eyes were rendered useless thanks to shrapnel, and one of his legs never worked the same way afterwards. Training and killing and sleeping and waking remained, but J never ghosted into my room in the dead of night again except to administer those cross-shaped burn scars I have on my back.

So you see, God does exist after all. Some days when I close my eyes, I imagine I can feel Him with me. His fingers would travel down from heaven, guided by the light of the moon. They would ghost down my back, tracing over my scars and under His touch they would fade. Then He would sink his hand into my body until I can't tell where I stop and he begins. Some days I ask for my soul back.

It gives me some comfort to feel that His hands are always cool. When I drift off to sleep, I imagine Him reaching down and touching my cheek with gentle fingers and scent-ladden winds.

I am still waiting for my soul.
 

~ END
 

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