She's been dead for... how many years now? Ten. Thirteen. Fifteen? No, not fifteen years-- but too long anyway. It's true that I can't pinpoint my age, as so many war orphans, but it hasn't been fifteen years since Sister Helen died in my arms. Unlike the many dead that haunt me, the war victims who fell at my hand, her face doesn't appear in my nightmares. The face of an angel doesn't belong in nightmares- yet I always imagined, and feared, that she'd be there to disapprove of me, to scold me for my contributions to the war, to voice her disappointment. Believe in hope. Believe in yourself. Believe in God.
Footsteps in the room. I hear them- they're Heero's, slowly trotting around, on the search for clothes. The lingering scent of some shower gel- musk, cinnamon, vanilla -tickles my nose. Silence. We hardly exchange words on Sunday mornings, the only mornings we can sleep in and... be ourselves, I guess. Our days are filled with work, friends, social obligations, household chores, and the time we want to spend on our hobbies- Heero reading up on the latest computer technology developments, me tinkering on an old vehicle, rebuilding and restoring it from scratch- and each other.
"Duo?"
The silence is ruptured, but I don't register the sound. He stares at me, white shirt in his hands. Is he contemplating if he wants to wear that? To church? I blink. We don't go to church. It's something we hardly discuss- to Heero, God and religion is hardly a part of his life, and I... I didn't want to believe. Father Maxwell believed until the end, believed that he would survive, or at least that the soldier who shot him would be forgiven. Pray for mercy, believe in mercy. I used to be the God of Death- quite ridiculous to claim the title of a deity who killed instead of loved- and I used to believe that I was doing the right thing.
How come I can still feel her hands on my hair, after all these years? She was the one who taught me how to braid my hair. I came as a filthy street urchin to the church and I left with my hair braided, clothes black and heart torn. What emerged from the rubble of once a house of God wasn't a friendly, sweet-loving child, but a hellcat bent on revenge with a scythe in his hands. Revenge and hate were a large part of my life, my goals at that time, until I learned about others; caring for others, prevailing the need of others in stead of my own. My life versus the life of millions of colonists fighting for freedom. An easy choice.
"Duo?"
He's naked except for the shirt he just put on; it's funny to see, and I smile. Sunday mornings are my favorite- the slow awakening, the rejoice of being together, just the two of us, the anticipation of the day. I used to creep around barefooted in the church until Sister Helen would wake up to prepare us breakfast- and then she'd always be 'surprised' at seeing the church aisles and pews perfectly cleaned, candles in place, the bibles on the seats, while she stroked my hair and smiled. She would take my hand and lead me to her room, her own room; and there she would braid my hair, humming softly, sharing that moment of... intimacy? Mother-son? Love? with me. She wouldn't utter a word. She would be totally silent- just the rustling of my hair as she braided it.
"Duo, do you hear me?"
Maybe that's why I can only stomach silence on a Sunday morning. Heero complains, the neighbors complain, my colleagues complain that I'm too loud, that there's always noise and rumbling around me. I hate silence. I loathe silence. Heero complains about the loud music at home, but I know he uses the type of music I play to figure out the mood I'm in. The neighbors complain about the noise I make when I'm working on the vehicles I love to restore and the machinery I use for it, but they use it as an excuse to come over and comment on my work, meanwhile sipping on coffee. My colleagues complain that I'm too loud on the telephone, that the music on my radio is too hard, but they use it as a method to talk to me, to keep me from lapsing into too much deep thought on a subject that they know haunts me and hurts me.
"Duo, I'm talking to you."
I see him and I hear him. I love him and I adore him. There is so much to live for, if only to see Heero Yuy naked, with only a shirt on, looking at me. He's my present and my future. I want to believe. I want to believe in my life, where my past will be a part of, naturally- but not a dominant part, just a part that contributed to the person I am today. I don't want to get lost in the past- I want to hold hands and face the future with a head held high. I searched so long for something to believe in, only to have my beliefs proved wrong; I searched so long for a savior, someone or something to look up to, only to realize that I had to start with myself. We share our lives. We share our bodies. We share our hearts. There's still something I haven't shared with him.
"Heero?"
Silence. I'm sitting naked on the bed. I don't know how long I've been sitting in the same position and I don't know what time it is. It's Sunday morning, and it's silent. Heero takes a few steps towards me, an uncertain look crossing his face. He hasn't got a sound to rely on, and my voice croaked a bit. He's probably thinking that I'm in a pensive, introspective mood- and he's not far off. My heart wants to burst from joy and I want to leap up and scream that I'm ready for the future, ready for a life with him, that I'm content, happy and deeply in love with him; but there's still one thing I need to do.
"Will you braid my hair for me?"
I have made fun about his poker face before, until I realized his intensive training as a Gundam pilot made him able to control emotions displaying on his face to a perfect extent. Even now, three years after the latest war, he still can tell me the greatest joke in the world without pulling some facial muscle. He certainly has softened over the years, in his face, in his eyes, but still- there would've to be a substantial earthquake to make him even quirk his eyebrow and then some. I shiver when I hear him gasp- quite loudly. I know I haven't asked him this before, but he didn't bat an eye when I told him I was in love with him. He cried on our wedding day, not caring for the world whoever saw him that vulnerable. He may appear monotone or unemotional to outsiders, but I know his range of emotions on the inside.
"Are you sure?"
His voice sounds... so childish, like a kid that has been granted... his wish. He likes to play with my hair, sifting it through his fingers, grasping it, smelling it. He never offered to braid it, and I never asked him to, until now. I can't recall if I ever told him that Sister Helen was the one who taught it to me; her long, slender fingers dividing the strands in three parts. She taught it by showing, not telling. So little words were spoken by her, but each and every word was a treasure I hung onto. Believe in hope. Believe in yourself. Believe in God, Duo of Maxwell Church.
"Please."
Silence again. Maybe I will, once. Believe in God. There must be at least one deity who brought Heero and me together, and it wasn't the God of Death. He brought nothing but sorrow and sadness and silence, and Heero certainly doesn't belong to any of that. We had our share of sorrow and sadness and silence, and we shared that with each other, banning it, exterminating it from our lives. The mattress sags under Heero's weight, springs creaking slightly. He moves to sit behind me, fingers already tangling into my hair. He doesn't utter a word.
We've both left death and destruction behind us. He overcame his loneliness, his personality-stripping training, his walls and his shells. I overcame my habits of claiming to be a God I don't believe in anymore, hiding and running, as I'm sitting naked before him, offering him my hair. I already gave him my heart, body and soul. There's nothing more for me to give than this. He's silent as he starts dividing my hair. We don't need words to share. I don't need to know his thoughts, as he carefully works his way through the chestnut mass. This is a Sunday morning, a silent Sunday morning and I get lost in thoughts in this silence.
In this silence I believe.