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I can see Quatre and Heero just failing at cooking.
You know those idol animes where they have cooking contests but imagine all different Gundam pairs from the Gundamverse and you have Quatre and Heero and just….
At the end of the day Quatre is paying a bill for setting the studio on fire.
Bonus: All the other gundam pilots fear them now. :p
See….now I know Quatre is the little rich brat of the Gundam Wing universe, but I have always imagined him being quite proficient in the kitchen. He spends more time with the maguanac and doesn’t always have a butler on hand to bring him tea like in that one episode. So he would, no doubt, have needed to learn some basic skills to get by. On top of that, I imagine that living as the sole male amongst all of his siblings, he might’ve found cooking, baking and making tea to be quite theraputic (especially during his most self hating days) and an activity he did to bond with his sisters. It gave him something to make him feel proud and feel like a person when he felt he was just a replaceable commodity. Like….he bakes a cake but it’s not perfect but it tastes good. A machine would’ve made it perfectly, but would it have tasted as good as with human hands.
Now….Duo, on the other hand….I feel like he could burn water. lol
-I just think cooking isn’t a skill Heero would have been trained in outside of making sure he won’t die if left to fend for himself. So while he won’t die if left in the kitchen, everything he makes comes out as either horribly bland or edible but only because he was trained to ignore his taste buds too. All the food he makes is perfectly nutritious though, so there’s…that.
Duo: can cook and will if needed
-Duo was probably taught to cook for practicality. He would have learned a bit at the Church orphanage (who would have cooked for loads of people) and then took his turn cooking while with the Sweepers, ‘cause when you’ve got a kid running amok, you give them chores to make them useful and so you know where they are most of the time. He probably doesn’t cook the healthiest food, but it is the most filling and convenient; he’s the one that gets “the most bang for the buck.” He also probably makes too much at once because he’s usually only ever cooked for large groups, so there’s always leftovers too.
Trowa: can’t cook but does
-Trowa was also taught to cook for practicality but he just…sucks at it. Maybe his passion is BBQ. Maybe he’s the type to just throw everything into a pot of boiling water and declare it done. Look, it’s fine, he’s kept himself alive this long, so whatever it is, it’s working for him.
Quatre: can’t cook but tries
-I just feel like he would have been waited on for most of his upbringing (and I don’t think it was much different for his sisters, so I just hc that all Winner’s can’t cook for the most part), and the Maguanacs didn’t have the same kind of relationship with Quatre as Duo would have had with the Sweepers, where it would have made more sense to take turns cooking. I do think Quatre can make his own tea, it would be ridiculous if he waited for someone to steep his tea for him - but if the Maguanacs are eating together, it’s not too much trouble to throw on a little extra for tiny Quatre. He probably has some artistic pursuits, like playing the violin, to balance out the ‘I’m just a commodity’ mentality - but cooking had not really been a concern until he started working with the other Gundam Pilots. Then he felt like he should at least try, but wartime isn’t the best time to learn how to cook, so he’s still pretty bad at it.
Wufei: can cook and should
-The only one who cooks and cooks well. It’s a skill that he would have learned as part of his upbringing, and everything he makes is both delicious and nutritious. The only downside is that most of the dishes he can make take forever to cook and he’s picky about the ingredients, so he only cooks when there’s time to do so.
SO in short, I just kind of want a fic where Wufei is trying to teach the rest of the pilots how to cook.
Yess! Cooking headcanons! I love these :) I’m gonnna add, expand and echo :)
Heero
Interest in food: 5/10 food is fuel. Fuel can sometimes be nice.
Natural raw culinary talent: 5/10. This boy is a rote, by the book chef. He can master technique, but lacks creative inspiration. Most of his dishes are well balanced and simple. At best he will end up with one or two signature dishes he does really well by dint of having done them forever, and that’s it. The dishes won’t be anything fancy, but on a cold night you bet someone’s gonna flashback to the one time Heero made them all omelettes.
Biggest flaw as a cook: Repetitive menu. Often a little bland.
Chef Stereotype: Dad.
Duo
Interest in food: 9/10 but also 3/10. Duo is both highly focussed on food, and willing to try anything once… but also to a certain extent, his interest is that there IS food, and to a certain extent, Duo actually genuinely likes ‘bad’ food.
Natural raw culinary talent: 7/10 could definitely pick up the technique and also be fairly experimental if he puts his mind to it. Would definitely be keen to try new foods and try them together with more familiar flavours. Tends to pick up new ideas from TV rather than checking recipes. Beware, you’re going to eat a lot of burnt offerings before he perfects anything.
Biggest flaw as a cook: questionable taste. zero sense of portion control.
Chef Stereotype: Nailed it!
Trowa
Interest in food: 6/10 highly interested… if someone else is cooking it. Trowa likes eating out - he IS a foodie, but he’s a born food critic not a chef.
Natural raw culinary talent: 4/10 Trowa could be a good cook if he tried but he’s not going to so it’s a wasted talent. He can happily survive on sandwiches, things on toast, basic fried things and basic pasta dishes. If he’s following a recipe that is. Otherwise it’s the good old ‘put things in a pan, boil. done’.
Biggest flaw as a cook: Apathy. Cohesion - adds all the spices, none of it makes any sense. 5 second rule.
Chef stereotype: Constantly stood in front of the drawer someone else needs to open.
Quatre
Interest in food: 6/10 Has good knowledge of food and its varieties. Is interested in food and how it melds with culture, and enjoys the warmth of sharing food. He has a reasonably good palate.
Natural raw culinary talent: 5/10 But mitigated up to a good 7/10 because Quatre would be a careful cook - double check his measurements, always cooking with the diner in mind, times everything, very clean. Finds it exhausting. Knows he is not a great cook, so tries very hard because he wants to please. Tends to overreach himself trying to make it better, and it’s usually delicious, but you do wonder if 3 hours is too long for spaghetti in tomato sauce.
Biggest flaw as a cook: Lack of time to practice. Fusspot.
Chef stereotype: Ingredient list longer than method.
Wufei
Interest in food: 8/10 highly interested… but doesn’t want to admit it in case people think anything of it.
Natural raw culinary talent: 4/10 knows about what good food should be but doesn’t know how to make it… except he’s learning. Wufei takes notes. He reads up on nutrition but there’s always a bigger priority so he only gives his cooking intermittent attention. Absolutely would not cook for anyone else because what if it was bad? If forced to cook for or in front of others will create something decent but unmemorable.
Biggest flaw as a cook: Secretive. overly perfectionist.
Chef stereotype: Get out of the kitchen while I’m cooking!
I've always been fascinated by the dynamic between these two, whether you read it as romantic or purely platonic. There's something quietly intense about them, something that feels both restrained and deeply charged. Trowa is cool to the core, while Heero is magma sealed beneath stone. Irresistible.
To celebrate their day, I'm sharing a few excerpts from my much longer work, Penumbra. These scenes function as flashbacks to the early days of Heero and Trowa's bond, and while they're part of a larger narrative, they can stand on their own.
If the flow feels slightly fragmented at times, that's because these pieces were originally woven together with present-timeline scenes in between.
If you're interested in the full fic (still a WIP), and you're in the mood for something dark and introspective, you're welcome to check it out. For full transparency, this fic earns its tags - so read them (these excerpts are safe, though). It's for mature audiences only and deals with heavy, explicit themes. It's a slow burn, uses real-life character casting, and very firmly falls under the "Don't Like, Don't Read" category.
You can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51689812/chapters/130672246
Onto the Excerpts:
* * *
The morning sun pierced through Heero's eyelids, pulling him back into the world of the living. A warm numbness spread through his limbs. He was floating just above the cot... or, at least, it felt like it. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light that bathed his prone figure. He was nestled in a narrow space, a blanket draped over him and a cushion under his knees to alleviate the pressure on his spine. The cot beneath him vibrated, each hum resonating in his mending bones.
As his vision cleared, he found himself captivated by the dance of light and shadow on the ceiling above. Sunlight filtered through a window, casting golden silhouettes against the gray padding. It was like watching a forest sway in the breeze, a tranquil scene that belied the jarring jolts of the cot under him.
He was moving, rough asphalt sending vibrations through his broken body. A truck?
Pain flared through him as the truck hit a pothole, jolting his injuries awake. Heero groaned, the agony momentarily eclipsing his surroundings.
When the pain subsided, he took in his surroundings again. He was in the sleeper cab bed behind the driver's compartment of a truck, the back of the driver's head visible from his position.
Trowa, he realized, exhaling in relief as he sunk into the cot. He was safe.
The truck jolted over another pothole, pain shooting through Heero. He bit back a groan. "Do you hit every pothole on purpose?"
A brief silence followed, then Trowa's voice floated back to him. "I have to take the back roads," he said, his tone apologetic.
Heero closed his eyes, entranced by the dance of light and shadow above him. The shadows grew dimmer, or was the light intensifying? It reminded him of a time walking through the forest, or was it flying Wing between the clouds? Everything seemed to flow together. Was it sunrise or sunset? Time seemed to blur, making it hard to distinguish between moments. The sun was setting when he met Sylvia at the cemetery, wasn't it? So, Trowa must have been driving all night to escape Marseille. This was sunrise, then.
The truck hit another pothole, the impact sending a fresh wave of pain through Heero. He bit back a groan, his voice strained as he asked, "Did she make it out...?"
"Who?" Trowa replied.
"That pretty blonde girl..." he mumbled back, hopefully suppressing that goofy smile pulling at his face, "with the short-short skirt..."
Trowa chuckled softly, "You're really feeling those painkillers, aren't you?"
"Everything hu'ts..." he slurred, unable to keep the pain from his voice. "You're the worst driver..."
"Says the guy who flipped over a truck," Trowa muttered, his head disappearing behind the tall backrest. Some rattling sounds followed, and then a click of a fastening mechanism. The glove compartment, most likely. Trowa straightened back up, throwing a small box over the backrest.
"It's been over twelve hours – " Heero caught it with a bandaged arm – "You can take another one of these."
A packet of painkillers, Heero realized, grateful. The strong stuff. He doubted he would have survived the last couple of weeks without them.
"Try not to do anything reckless just because you don't feel the pain," Trowa's calm tone carried a hint of amusement.
"The wheel slipped," he grunted as he fumbled with the foil, stiff fingers straining to pop a large white pill out of the blister packet. He grabbed a sports bottle standing within reach.
"And I'm a bad driver," Trowa gave a sarcastic reply, which Heero ignored. He downed the oversized pill with a sip of water, wincing when it scraped its way down his throat.
"Where are we?" he asked, his voice scratchy with the rawness left by the large tablet.
"You wanted to go to Sicily, right?" Trowa turned to look over his shoulder, sending him a quick glance from behind the backrest. "We're just past Rome. I estimate about ten more hours until Villa San Giovanni." He turned back to face the windshield, adding, "I know people who can get us across by a cargo ferry. No questions asked."
Frowning at the back of Trowa's head, Heero let out a confused "Why are you helping me?"
A few meters of driving passed in silence before Trowa gave his reply.
"The CLO has been keeping quiet since Siberia. Une had us by the balls, using the Colonies as a shield. The higher-ups are being careful now. No missions for over forty days. And besides – " he turned to offer a subtle smirk – "I feel like it."
Bright yellow light beamed through the windshield, presenting the morning sun against Trowa's sculpted face, green eyes shining like a pair of emeralds. Thin lips lifted further, the curl morphing from a cynical smirk to an actual smile. "Act on your emotions, right?"
Unable to look away from the open honesty shining softly in those usually sharp tiger eyes, all Heero could do was dip his chin in a slow nod of agreement.
Trowa turned to face forward. "I'm guessing this is why you're doing this," he added in a graver tone of voice, "Apologizing to the Noventas?"
Heero returned his attention to the roof. "I guess," he mumbled, studying the play of light patches dancing across the padded gray surface; "This is a first for me."
"A first?"
"Following his advice..."
"His?"
A single square of glowing yellow traveled slowly along the bland gray above. Tracking it lazily, Heero heaved a dazed little "My father..."
"Hmm," Trowa let out thoughtfully, keeping his eyes on the road, "Sounds like a wise man."
The light patch disappeared, swallowed by shadows.
"Not really..." Heero turned his head aside and closed his tired eyes; "but I hate to speak ill of the dead..."
Trowa responded with a short scoff, perhaps a chuckle. "One of the perks of dying."
Opening his eyes, Heero stared at the gray leather coating the back of the driver's seat, his vision blurring, eyes numb.
Sunlight came as woven strands streaking the faded leather. Flowing into his narrow berth, it made even a simple gray surface enchantingly beautiful. A latticework of faded lines embedded in the leather... like a cracked soil thirsty for rain... lines criss crossing and flowing... an endless maze... countless crossroads... the possibilities... so many paths to choose from... he couldn't possibly follow them all... Where did they all lead? Which destiny should he follow? Was there really such a thing as the right path?
"It's easier to forgive the dead... isn't it...?" he murmured, dazzled by splinters of light and leather.
Trowa said nothing.
Fascinated by the dance of light, Heero watched dust particles play in the sunbeams, floating between light and shadow. Each silhouette was art; every beam, magic. This tiny sliver of the spectrum, merely 380 to 740 nanometers, breathed life into their world.
The Earth, with its daily rhythms and routines, was a marvel of simple complexity. To his Space-born eyes, every Earthly sunrise was a marvel, a spectacle to cherish. Today, lying in this cot, Heero chose to embrace the golden light, momentarily forgetting the war raging between Earth and Space.
"Is your name really Heero Yuy?" Trowa spoke again, breaking the spell. Heero frowned, but then Trowa clarified, "I heard you give the name to Sylvia Noventa. I was just wondering if it's real."
"Is yours?" Shifting his gaze aside, he caught Trowa's neck stretching up, his posture tensing. "Trowa Barton is dead," he revealed his intimate familiarity with the Barton Foundation, watching Trowa closely. The boy didn't move this time, though his neck remained rigid.
"So is Heero Yuy," he retorted, somber.
"Hmm..." he uttered, his attention stolen by a shimmering dot of light flickering above. "Bet you didn't get thrown into the Tank for that one..."
"You knew Dekim?" The alarm in Trowa's voice was as clear as his own screaming inside the sensory deprivation tank.
"Didn't you?"
"Only by reputation."
"Lucky guy..." his mouth replied without consulting his mind, "the old man didn't take too kindly to his son's death..."
Heero opened his eyes, just to make sure the light was still there. He raised a bandaged hand to the brilliant sun rays, longing to touch the brightness of a fresh day, the kind of warmth that brought a grateful smile to his face, even as he let his eyes rest for a moment. The Dark couldn't touch him when so much light washed over his face. He was thousands of miles away from Dekim's isolation tank... from skeletons better left in the closet.
"IF YOU EVER TELL YOUR MOTHER WHAT HAPPENED HERE TODAY – I WILL SNAP YOU IN TWO!"
The Dark couldn't touch him here, in this little shelter of sunshine rocking him to sleep. Only sunlight lived here. The sort of brightness that kindled something beautiful within, and at the same time stirred a fear of its exact opposite. Bathed in a pool of light pouring into the narrow sleeper cab, his soul trembled in his chest. Restless and vibrant, it merged with every living thing until it was one with nature, pulsating and breathing life. Radiating. Resonating. Elevating. Taking off to the sky, it flew out through the roof and soared above the truck, leaving behind the pain, the body, the earth. It rose above the road, the trees, the hills of grass and pasturing cattle. Up... up... to the endless blue sky.
In his dreamlike state, he imagined soaring over ancient villages and lakes, wings spread wide, feeling utterly free.
"I take back what I said..." he murmured, half asleep.
"About?" Trowa's voice responded from a distance.
"How I wouldn't recommend it..." he murmured with a secret little smile on his lips, still hovering somewhere far away; "It's kinda nice being dead..."
Trowa laughed. A beautifully rich sound. Light and melodious. Like birdsong. A pack of bluebirds flying across mountains of fluffy white clouds...
"Must be the painkillers talking," Trowa sounded amused, "because you said it hurt like hell."
"Hmm... doesn't feel like hell..." Heero murmured, lulled to sleep by the rumbling vibrations of a truck speeding down a pastoral Italian country road.
Trowa's presence, the truck's hum, and the cot's softness enveloped him in a warm embrace, lulling him into peaceful slumber. He surrendered to the inviting darkness, sinking into the depths of a dreamless sleep.
* * *
Heero's foot caught on a gnarled root, causing him to stumble. He gasped, clutching his injured left arm. He had lost count of the number of times he had reopened the stitches, blood soaking up the thick bandaging that Trowa had been dressing around the wound for weeks now.
Trowa, a few paces ahead, paused and turned, concern evident in his gaze.
"You alright?"
Heero straightened. "Lost my footing."
Trowa's lips gave in a half-smile. "Not many roots in the Colonies?"
Heero dusted the dirt off his trousers, slapping it off harder than necessary. "None," he grunted. Squinting against the high noon sun, he studied the winding dirt path before them, and sighed. "The Noventas really don't want company, do they?"
Trowa shrugged. "When did that stop you?"
"Hn," Heero acknowledged as he took a moment to catch his breath, feeling the weight of his injuries under the oppressive heat. Dark patches of sweat stained his white button-down, under his armpits and along his spine. He was terribly out of shape. Even a leisure-paced walk down a countryside road was too much for him.
To be fair, only two weeks had passed since he had woken up in a circus trailer, opening his eyes after a month-long coma to find himself under the care of Catherine and Trowa. He was pushing his body too hard, too fast. Trowa constantly told him he should take better care of his body, but Heero was eager to get back in shape and feel useful again. He resented how Trowa had to take care of him day after day – from fending off any OZ Intelligence pursuits, to helping him tie his shoes because it hurt too much to bend down and do it himself.
"Should we have taken the scooter?" Trowa asked, taking a step closer.
"No," Heero slipped a finger under his buttoned collar, "I need the exercise," he muttered, twisting the collar. He would have killed for a tank top or a T-shirt right now, but the shirt was necessary to conceal his injuries.
"Let's keep moving," he said, determined.
Trowa nodded, leading the way.
Winding roads, dotted with occasional livestock, led them past ancient stone houses and abandoned monasteries. Amidst scorched-yellow meadows of early June, Heero questioned his decision to travel on foot.
After evading OZ Agents in Taormina, a cliffside town overlooking sandy coves, they ventured inland on a scooter Trowa had stolen. Heero then suggested walking the rest of the way on foot, to avoid their pursuit.
Initially, he had marveled at Sicily's landscape: volcanic mountains, wheat fields, and vast olive groves. Rustic towns and ancient stone houses dotted the island, with the occasional modern touch disrupting its timeless aura.
However, several kilometers into an endless olive grove, the landscape became less appealing and more of a ruthless enemy. Thick gray trunks twisted out of the ground. The terrain was rough, often inclining uphill.
As they trekked through the olive groves, the silvery leaves rustling softly in the breeze, the rugged terrain beneath their feet was a mosaic of sun-baked earth and stubborn grass. Suddenly, a sea of moving, breathing obstacles emerged: a herd of cattle with glossy coats and curious eyes, their slow, rhythmic chewing and the occasional lowing creating a pastoral symphony, leaving Heero momentarily lost in this unexpected tableau.
Trowa glanced back, amusement in his eyes. "Never seen a cow before?"
"Only on my tablet," Heero responded warily, "They weren't this big."
Trowa let out a quiet chuckle. It wasn't the first time Heero had made Trowa laugh. For some reason, Trowa found him amusing.
"They won't harm you," Trowa assured, walking slowly towards a large brown cow with long menacing horns. "They're gentle creatures," he reached a hand slowly towards the beast, "If you don't threaten them, they won't harm you," Trowa petted the cow gently. "See?"
Trowa was so good with animals. Heero had noticed that during their time with the circus. Reassured, he stepped carefully around the cow, looking it in the eye as they passed each other. Trowa joined him, and they kept walking down the dirt road.
Watching a calf and its mother, Heero remarked, "Earthers have odd habits. Eating these creatures, for instance."
Trowa raised an eyebrow. "Never had meat before coming to Earth?"
Heero shook his head.
"Dairy?"
"I had chocolate once," he recalled.
"Special occasion?"
Heero found it remarkably easy to share intimate details with someone who had tended so closely to his physical. Painkillers and fever had broken through his defenses more times than he would have liked to admit, yet Trowa responded with nothing but respect. Never judging, never pushing for more. During the past few weeks, Trowa had gotten to know him inside and out; not so much because of what he had shared, rather for what he hadn't concealed. There was no point hiding anything anymore. For once, he could speak his mind and not be punished for it.
Eyes on the road, Heero shared, "My father used it to bribe me to leave with him. To take me away from home."
Trowa, also gazing forward, mused, "Candy from a stranger."
"He was no stranger," Heero shot back.
They walked in silence for a bit more, Heero taking in the view. He was glad he didn't go along with Operation Meteor. Dropping a Colony on the Earth would have destroyed all the beauty he saw before him. Billions would have died. Innocent lives – from cattle to people.
"He had family here, on Earth," he found himself continuing the story, "Somewhere in Russia. I was supposed to go live with them... get away from all the fighting in Space. It wasn't easy to secure transport back in the 80's, but he kept trying. Taught me Russian in the meantime, so I'll be ready for the day he sent me away."
"I gather things didn't work out as planned."
"No... they didn't."
They had moved past the herd, making a sharp turn that led them further uphill, towards the villa.
"Do you ever think about seeking them out?" Trowa asked, "Makes more sense than going after the Noventas."
"There's no point. The boy who was supposed to live with them is long gone."
"So instead you're going door to door, offering the Marshal's family a chance to kill you? There are easier ways to die."
"I know. I recently tried one. Didn't work out as planned either."
"Slim chance it would work this time around. You can't just come knocking on someone's door, offer them a gun and ask them to execute you on the spot."
"I've changed tactics since meeting with Sylvia," Heero said. "I'm going to give them a chance to turn me in. OZ would decide my fate afterwards."
"Is that what you call redemption? Sounds more like surrender to me."
"I surrendered weeks ago. I didn't mean to survive, and now I'm in no condition to fight. Even if I do recover fully, I have no Gundam with which to fight. This is the only option I have left."
They walked in silence for a while longer. Heero's pace was slowing down. He was panting and sweating, trailing behind Trowa.
Trowa stopped by a large olive tree with a curving trunk that offered comfortable seating. He set his backpack down and took out a bottle of water, sitting down to drink. Heero joined him, his aching muscles gratefully settling on the trunk. Trowa offered him the bag, and Heero pulled out a second bottle of water, gulping it down quickly.
"What if they refuse to turn you in?" Trowa asked while tucking his own bottle back into the bag.
Heero paused his sipping. "Then I'll go to the next of kin."
"And if they all refuse you?"
"People aren't that amiable."
"You'll be surprised," Trowa argued, "There are some good people left on this planet."
"Feels like I killed the last of them," Heero mumbled, looking down at his water bottle. "I played right into OZ's hands – twice. I'm not cut out for fighting in this war."
"You chose to discard your orders in Operation Meteor. You essentially saved the planet by disobeying the CLO. I say you are exactly what this war needs."
"No one in their right mind would have played along with Dekim's plan," Heero turned to look at Trowa, tilting his chin up slightly to meet Trowa's gaze, "You didn't, and neither did the other pilots. This has nothing to do with competence. It's just common sense."
"War is too senseless to make any sense."
Trowa pulled a book out of his backpack, opening it somewhere close to the beginning.
"Whoever undertakes a long journey, if he be wise, makes it his business to find out an agreeable companion. How cautious then should he be, who is to take a journey for life whose fellow-traveler must not part with him but at the grave..."
Heero frowned at him. "What was that supposed to mean?"
Flipping through the yellowing pages, Trowa explained, "It's 'Don Quixote'. A tale of a man who, disillusioned with reality, found solace in chivalry over contemporary values."
"A guide for those who lost their way in life. Don Quixote was a man who chose what to believe in and what he should fight for. Even now, hundreds of years later, you can't really say that the priorities are set straight on the global level, and that we are on the right track. People are being bombarded with information, exposed to propaganda, whereas the moral and ethics have been relativized to the point of absurdity. Don Quixote turns to old ethical codes that still have a shred of honor. He gets lost in books to find himself. He reads so much until he goes insane and goes fighting windmills he claims to be giants."
"And you find that relatable?"
"This book taught me that in order to stay sane, you need allies by your side. You have to fight for what you believe in, even if others don't acknowledge the value of your fight. Until death – it's all life. Even if we do live in a crazy world, there are plenty of things to learn from Don Quixote and his own madness, especially when keeping in mind that what's considered as normal is always defined by a blind majority. Just because they condemn your cause, it doesn't make it any less valid."
Heero's ears still rang from the blast of self-detonating Wing, yet here Trowa was giving him an earful about some archaic book. It was a bit too much to process when his pulse was throbbing in his temples, his face flushed with exertion, and his brain still rattled from a bumpy ride through the Italian countryside.
Trowa offered the book with reverence. "Perhaps you'll find some answers within."
Heero reached his bandaged hands to accept it, examining the cover. Thick brown leather. Golden embossed writing. Ragged, battered, obsolete.
He looked up at Trowa. "I gather you did?"
"I spent my whole life on the battlefield. Books helped me escape into a fictional world even while I sat inside a cockpit waiting for the order to strike. I didn't feel like my life had any value, but something about these ancient books made me feel like I should keep living. Keep fighting for those who don't deserve our sense of duty."
"These are just fairytales," Heero argued, "Make believe."
Trowa gave a weak smile. "There's a moral to every story. Even ours."
"Don't blow yourself up with a Gundam?" Heero offered with a smirk, which Trowa mirrored with his own amusement.
"Now there's a start."
Heero, never much for literature, found solace in "Don Quixote" during their travels. Ancient English was a challenge, requiring him to cross-reference with Colony Common Language [1], a blend of proper English, with borrowed words and pronunciations from the numerous nations who had established the Colonies: The United States of America, Canada, Japan and Russia – which was the predecessor of space colonies in general, along with the wealthy Arab nations who had brought Arabic to space, as well as Hebrew.
He had never realized how much CCL lacked in terms of synonyms, or how out-of-context most Earth idioms were to Colonists. Yet, this only deepened his appreciation for the book.
It was easy to sympathize with a man tilting at windmills, fighting an enemy who was impossible to overcome – the madness within him. He had found many quotes throughout the book quite relatable. Why he shared his discoveries with Trowa was beyond him, but some of them had ensued invigorating debates, which passed the time driving.
"Hn," he had hummed in amusement one rainy night, lying curled under the covers in his cozy little sleeper-cabin. His bandaged body throbbed under thick dressings, yet he had never felt so comfortable in his life. Pain faded to a minimum when his mind was engrossed in Don Quixote's journey into madness.
"Another good one?" Trowa, who lay on the driver's seat up front, spoke from behind the backrest.
"For he who falls today may get up tomorrow, unless indeed he chooses to stay in bed..."
Trowa peeked over the backrest, and Heero looked up, smirking.
"Pretty much sums up my situation," he said, laying the book over his lap.
"Don't give way to weakness and don't pluck up fresh spirit for fresh battles," Trowa completed the quote, disappearing behind the backrest as he laid himself back down. "In other words," he said, yawning, "get some rest... and live to fight another day."
Such were their interactions in the war's early days, a mix of camaraderie and introspection. But "Don Quixote" taught Heero a bitter truth: loyalty was complex. Sancho's loyalty was a blend of self-interest and genuine affection. Life was relative; feelings, ever-changing. Anyone claiming unwavering loyalty was deluding themselves.
"‘All I can say is, there's no making you out, Sancho," Heero paused at a particular passage, reading aloud; "One minute you're talking like a doctor, and the next you can't string two words together. But I've always noticed that you complain without being hurt, and make more of a threat than you mean to keep.’"
He looked up at the partition concealing Trowa, pondering the meaning. "Sancho's loyalty seems to waver when personal gain is involved."
Silence. Perhaps Trowa was already lost in sleep. Heero figured he should do the same. He snapped the book shut.
* * *
Fire crackled. Wind howled outside a rattling window. Heero's breaths came shallow, each one a struggle against the chill enveloping him. His body felt weighted, a mix of numbness and pain. His cheeks burned with the flush of fever. He trembled under the blanket, freezing.
"Call me Ishmael," Trowa's husky voice broke through, quiet but close. "Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation."
Silence stretched, and Heero tensed under the blanket, holding his breath.
The yearning for the sound of Trowa's quiet narration festered and sizzled in his chest, a boiling mixture that produced cold sweat on his sticky forehead. Damp hair clung to his brow. Pain pulsated between his temples. Twisting his head in agony, Heero searched for Trowa's voice.
"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth," the excruciating pause ended, and Heero exhaled, sinking into the pillow. "Whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul, whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet. And especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street and methodically knocking people's hats off, then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can."
The rustle of a turning page sounded, followed by Trowa's soft voice. "This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship."
Trowa paused again. Longer this time. Long enough for something other than Trowa's soft whispers to resurface over the feverish haze. Black boots. Tall. Polished. The mental image of them filled Heero's mind. They were the first thing he had noticed when meeting OZ Colonel Zechs Merquise in person.
"Are we supposed to shake hands?" Trowa had made a snarky remark when the tall blonde officer introduced himself. Funny, wasn't it? Because they did shake hands at the end. Heero's hand had felt so small and insignificant in Merquise's firm hold. He was such a stupid little boy! He had lost to Zechs Merquise – again. First on the day Operation Meteor commenced, then in Siberia, now in the Arctic. Zechs went easy on him because of his injuries, and still he had lost! He wasn't the Champion of the Colonies, but a champion of defeat. A glorified loser. A stupid boy with an oversized toy!
The Heavyarms Gundam was the last thing his injured left arm should have been operating. Even with the modifications Trowa made to accommodate his injuries, Heero wasn't well enough to get back inside a Gundam, let alone one that didn't belong to him. Nothing belonged to him – from the clothes on his back (they were Trowa's), to the Wing Gundam he had retrieved from the Arctic (it was rebuilt by OZ!). He had nothing to call his own. His blue tablet was gone. His mother was gone. His father was gone. Wing was gone, and the restoration Zechs had his men build wasn't the suit he had trained on for seven years. It wasn't truly his. Nothing was. Just this pain in his bones and the tormenting pulse vibrating in his left arm. Everything hurt now. Everything.
Stupid move! Stupid boy! He had failed to win against Merquise in the peak of health, so why did he even try after a month-long coma? Teenage spite? Masochistic ego? A childish whim?
Trowa's book seemed to hold the answer. Whoever this Ishmael was, his curse seemed to be the sea and a ship. His was space and a Gundam. He should have stayed away, should have heeded to Trowa's request to ignore Zechs' arrogant challenge, but this was his substitute for a pistol and a bullet. He had put his life in the Noventa's hands, but they refused to take what little he had to offer. Zechs hadn't. They shook on it. Whoever wins is the better man. But he was a stupid boy. A stupid, childish boy! A pathetic excuse for a soldier.
"Heero?" Trowa's concerned voice addressed him from somewhere nearby.
"Is Heero Yuy your real name?" Zechs had asked, mirroring Trowa's question when he had first learned of Heero's alias.
"Is yours?" Heero had retorted in a tone Trowa had surely appreciated. Zechs' silence had signaled a touché.
"Heero?" Trowa probed again, "Are you awake?"
He couldn't find his voice just yet, so he merely dipped his chin in the weak nod. His eyes remained closed. A moment passed, then water dripped into a bowl. A wet cloth ran across his burning brow, wiping his thick bangs aside and leaving a cool trail on his feverish skin.
"I hope you're satisfied," Trowa's voice held a mix of frustration and care. "You tore your stitches. Bled all over my cockpit." He sighed, placing the wet cloth carefully over Heero's forehead. "Took quite the beating. Stupid move, Heero. You had barely just gotten better. When you self-detonated in Siberia, I admired you for being strong, accepting your duties fully, but now I see that you're just plain stupid."
Heero managed a raspy chuckle. "Nailed it..."
Trowa shook his head, turning to dip the cloth in the bowl again. "I understand why you wanted to seek the Noventas' forgiveness, but going against Zechs..." he turned back to Heero, placing the cool cloth on his hot forehead. "What was the point? You worked your fingers to the bone all night, and then went up against a highly skilled opponent in a suit that you're barely familiar with. What were you trying to prove?"
Cool droplets trickled down his temples. Heero closed his eyes, absorbing the chill into his burning skin. "That I'm still...." Still useful, still capable of fighting. Existing. Some kind of justification for his unmerited survival. "Alive..."
"You died two months ago," Trowa rebuked, slipping the cloth away again. "I told you that you're no longer bound to the Colonies."
"Then why..." Heero moaned the question, liquid fire burning under his skin and oozing out of his pores in cold sweat. Keeping his throbbing eyes shut, he licked his lips to dampen them, tasting salt. "Why... Why else did I survive Siberia? If I can't... if I can't fight then why... Why did you save me...?"
"Because I let too many of my comrades die," Trowa confessed in a solemn voice, wringing the cloth over the bowl. "My entire platoon... including my Captain. The man who raised me, introduced me to literature, and taught me how to read." He turned back to the bed, sighing as he tapped the wet cloth to Heero's clammy brow. "I repaid him with betrayal. I know better now."
"Someone... taught you... how to read?" Heero blinked, fluttering eyelids refusing to remain open.
"That's what you took from that story?" Trowa asked with a hint of amusement, "Your fever must be spiking again." He dipped the cloth in the water.
"I taught myself..." Heero rasped, "with my tablet..."
Trowa pressed the cloth to Heero's face, listening.
"It was blue... and it knew things..." Heero murmured distantly as Trowa traced the wet fabric along the sides of his overheated face. "It was my friend..."
"Is that so?" Trowa's voice carried a hint of amusement at his feverish babbling.
"My mother gave it to me... I lost it and she died... then... I had nothing."
A respectful silence followed. Trowa's long fingers slid the cloth away gently.
"I never knew my mother," Trowa shared softly. "All I had was the Mercs. They weren't much of a family, though my Captain did delude himself into thinking he was some kind of a father figure. But his last words to me? That I wasn't human. Nothing as inspiring as to live by my emotions. Consider yourself lucky you had a real family, even for a brief while."
"Obviously, you never met my stepfather..."
"The one who told you to live by your emotions?"
"No... The one who told me–––"
"IF YOU EVER TELL YOUR MOTHER WHAT HAPPENED HERE TODAY – I WILL SNAP YOU IN TWO!"
Heero fell silent. He turned his head to face away from Trowa, feebly rubbing away at his aching left arm to cease the unsettling chill that continued to run down his spine and made his skin crawl.
Trowa said nothing more. Cool fabric glided along Heero's cheekbones, down to his chin, neck, and collarbone. Heero turned his head to meet Trowa's green eyes, but Trowa's gaze was tracking the cloth. Cold water trickled down Heero's neck, pooling in the crest under his collarbone. His chest quivered. He was so cold... burning.
"You told me you never asked anyone for a favor before," Trowa said after a while, "I'm hoping you'd be willing to accept one more act of kindness before we part."
Heero opened his eyes, blinking away the blur. His vision adjusted slowly, and he lifted his gaze to meet Trowa's shadowy face.
"I've hidden the Gundams," Trowa explained, "We're going back to Space. I enrolled you in an L1 school. Rented a dormitory room. Lay low. Heal. I packed you some things and some money. Your flight leaves from Nuuk in two days."
Heero frowned, looking up in question.
Thin lips lifted into a sarcastic smile. "Don't worry," Trowa smirked, "I didn't use your name. Draws too much attention in space."
"That's not my name..." he whispered through a sigh, closing his eyes again. "My name doesn't draw any attention..." Not from Mother, not from anyone.
"At least you have one."
"You don't...?" Heero tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were too heavy. Despite their refusal to rise, he knew Trowa was smirking when he replied dryly – "You can call me Ishmael."
Trowa picked up the book, and resumed reading out loud: "There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me..."
Trowa was half-way into reading Moby Dick to him before they went back to space, parting ways. He left Heero at Nuuk's Spaceport with a bag of essentials and advice to lay low in space. Trowa headed to L3, while Heero, under a pseudonym, was enrolled in an L1 school. To Heero's surprise, nestled among his belongings was Trowa's worn copy of "Moby Dick." He delved into its pages during the journey to L1.
Back in the Colonies, Heero was home again, but he felt more alien than ever before. His time on Earth and immersion in Trowa's books had broadened his perspective. New words and ideas filled his mind, so many that he had found himself giving a spontaneous lecture about human nature, Earth and Space, war and peace, and all that was in between, as part of his greeting speech at his new school. Suddenly, simply giving his fake name wasn't enough anymore. Suddenly, he had so much he wanted to say, until the teacher stopped him, no doubt afraid of OZ's censorship police hiding somewhere in the crowd.
The people of the Colonies weren't willing to listen, comfortable with OZ's enforced ignorance, so Heero read in silence. Scouring the Colony for more words to consume, he had visited libraries and bookstores, devouring words no one dared to voice anymore. OZ had censored many public records, attempting to control history. Frequenting old second-hand bookstores in filthy back allies, Heero had rescued as many words as he possibly could. Human thought. Human history. Human art. Freedom of mind within the yellowing pages of an old book.
Merely a few months back, all he had ever done was passively wait for orders. Now, Heero dedicated his free time to consuming literature. With the Colonies under OZ's censorship, Heero sought solace in old bookstores, collecting and hiding forbidden literature beneath his dormitory floor, much like the Frank Family hid in an attic from the Nazis. One of his treasured finds was the diary of Anne Frank, a young girl's account from a world long past, yet eerily similar to his own. He hoped that someday, in a freer world, someone might discover and cherish his hidden collection, just as Anne's diary had been found and shared with the world.
Recalling the countless hours spent reading, Heero felt a surge of gratitude towards Trowa. Their time together had been more than just thought-provoking. It was a genuine awakening. Fleeting, yet unforgettable.
* * *
Heero extended his hands toward the cockpit's air vents, fingers splaying to capture the warmth emanating from them. He rotated his wrists, working out the stiffness, ensuring his hands were nimble enough to control the colossal mobile suit. The warmth was essential for his flexibility. Ever since the incident at Barge, his body had lost some of its former agility and resilience.
Hidden amidst the trees near a vast military base, Heero lay in wait, poised for the opportune moment to strike. He mentally fortified himself, donning his metaphorical mask, sinking into the focused mindset required to pilot a Gundam. Months prior, he wouldn't have taken such preparatory steps. There was no need to maintain a warm cockpit or to limber up his fingers before taking the controls.
The chill of the environment had never been an issue for him; he'd grown accustomed to it over the years. However, after months under the compassionate care of a comrade who expected nothing in return, his perspective shifted. Trowa's unwavering support and concern, which surpassed even the maternal care he'd once known, had left an indelible mark. Accustomed to enduring pain and pushing his limits, Trowa's consistent reminders during their "Noventa Tour" taught Heero the importance of self-care and preserving the effort invested in his recovery.
Heero frequently grappled with the notion that his diminished agility might have precipitated Trowa's tragic fate. Had he been quicker to rejoin the fray and restrain Quatre, perhaps events wouldn't have spiraled so disastrously. If he had just held out a bit longer, resisting the urge to succumb to exhaustion in his cockpit, he might've been there for Trowa. And in that alternate scenario, Quatre might not have had to divert his attention to rescue Heero from the malfunctioning Mercurius, and could have pursued the Vayeate instead.
It was his compromised state and inability to withstand the battle's demands that he believed led to Trowa's demise.
His fingers tightened, forming fists, as a wave of frustration washed over him, evident in the grimace that tugged at his lips.
FOCUS. ACT NOW, Wing Zero's system seemed to command.
Heeding the directive as if it came from a living being, Heero readied the Gundam, fingers dancing over the controls, activating systems and priming weapons.
Since the Sanq Kingdom's downfall, he'd felt directionless. He had assumed that by eliminating Relena Peacecraft, Romefeller's latest puppet, he'd disrupt the faux peace designed to quell rebellious nations. But she had garnered Earth's favor, neutralizing her as a threat. His true adversaries were in Space. Both the Zero and Epyon systems had made that abundantly clear. Those who had manipulated and harmed him, and would continue to do so, were still out there.
His mission was clear: seize this military spaceport and commandeer a cargo shuttle, propelling him and his Gundam back into the heart of the conflict. He was destined to confront Zechs Merquise and the White Fang, to defend Earth against the Colonies. The war's trajectory had become alarmingly unpredictable.
The ensuing battle was swift and decisive. The base's defense, comprised of a mere handful of Leos, was no match for him, especially given the late hour which found many enemy soldiers off-guard and asleep. Within an hour, Heero had taken control, forcing the remaining Leos into a hasty retreat. As OZ personnel evacuated, he maintained a vigilant watch over the runways, ensuring no counterattacks. By daybreak, the space shuttles, ready for launch, awaited his command.
Zero's systems alerted, UNKNOWN AIR CONTACT BEARING 070, RANGE 215 MILES. The system further identified, NO SQUAWK IDENT – NON-COMMERCIAL. POSSIBLE CLASSIFICATION: CARGO PLANE, HEAVY MS TRANSPORTER, UNITED EARTH SPHERE ALLIANCE.
"Alliance?" Heero's brow furrowed as he aimed Wing's weapon.
CONFIRMED, Zero's interface flashed a bright yellow. ENGAGING IN 3... 2... Suddenly, an interruption: IDENTITY CONFIRMED: SALLY PO, M.D., AGE 27. PREVIOUSLY WITH UNITED EARTH SPHERE ALLIANCE, NOW WITH EARTH LIBERATION MOVEMENT. NO HOSTILE INTENT DETECTED.
Automatically, Wing Zero's buster rifle deactivated, its arm descending.
"Sally Po?" Heero queried over the communication channel.
A playful voice responded, "Heard you were stirring things up around here. Luckily I arrived when I did!" She chuckled. "Hold your fire, Heero. I've got something for you. Took some effort to get it, so make sure you take it."
Suspicion evident in his voice, he asked, "How did you know I'd be here?"
"With your Gundam being the only active one on Earth, it wasn't hard to track. I've been monitoring remote spaceports, betting you'd appear."
He smirked, "Seems I'm quite predictable."
Sally's image appeared on his screen, her curly hair framing a smiling face. "Only to those who've had the privilege of knowing you."
He grunted noncommittally.
Soon, a large cargo plane landed, and workers began unloading its contents. From his vantage point, Heero observed a truck, its bed concealed beneath a heavy tarp, ropes crisscrossing to keep its contents hidden.
The sight of the truck, its cargo concealed beneath a heavy tarp, awakened a flood of memories within Heero. He remembered the rhythmic hum of a similar truck's engine, the protective embrace of its walls, and the reassuring presence of Trowa. It was a time of solace and sanctuary.
Throughout their journey across Europe, the truck's sleeper cab had been Heero's refuge, a secluded nook behind the driver's seat. Nursing his injuries, he'd rest there, shielded from the relentless world outside. Trowa's unwavering presence was a balm, a silent guardian just beyond the tall backrest. For once, Heero wasn't the one in control; he could simply rest and heal, knowing Trowa was at the helm.
Together, they had traversed the continent, with the Heavyarms Gundam securely fastened on the truck's bed. Those shared moments, a fusion of recovery and brotherhood, now seemed like distant echoes, filled with nostalgia and a touch of sorrow.
The sound of a rope snapping jolted Heero back to reality. As the tarp slid off, the iconic form of the Heavyarms Gundam stood revealed, bathed in a soft glow.
A rush of hope surged within Heero. The sight of the Gundam, so intrinsically linked to Trowa, stirred a fleeting belief in miracles. His typically stoic eyes widened, betraying a rare depth of emotion.
"You found Trowa?" The words rushed out, tinged with desperation. He swiftly activated the video feed, his gaze intensely scanning Sally's face, searching for any hint, any sign that his silent hope was realized.
But Sally's eyes, usually so confident and bright, held a deep sadness. She sighed. "No, Heero, I haven't. I'm truly sorry."
The brief flare of hope in Heero's eyes dimmed, replaced by a familiar, haunting pain. The Heavyarms Gundam was a tangible reminder of Trowa, but it wasn't Trowa. The void left by his friend's absence seemed to deepen. He nodded slowly, the weight of disappointment pressing heavily on his shoulders, and he averted his gaze, lost in the vastness of his own emotions.
Heero's voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence. "I see." In his mind, he surmised that Sally was entrusting him with the Gundam, expecting him to return it to the CLO so they could find a new pilot to fill Trowa's shoes. But to Heero, the very idea was unthinkable. No one could ever replace Trowa.
Sally leaned closer to the camera, giving him a compassionate look. "The Gundams are crucial now, and I trust the pilots implicitly. I want to support you all." She paused, fatigue evident in her posture. "Heero," she began, her gaze lowered, "It's tough fighting alone. I know you're not one for pity," she looked up, her eyes pleading, "but let me assist, even if just a bit."
The proposition resonated with him. He'd been wandering, lost in the aftermath of Trowa's death, craving genuine compassion. Not the patronizing kind he'd received from Quatre and Relena, but the sincere warmth Trowa had offered.
Not that he didn't appreciate what the two had done for him. Quatre got him out of the Moon in one piece. He was a skilled pilot, but that didn't mean he was right for the job. Quatre never experienced the same deprivations they had, never had to fend for himself. His followers revered him, ready to die on command. They even called him "Master". Such blind loyalty had no place in war, evident when Quatre's grief-driven recklessness resulted in a grave mistake. Given the Zero System's capabilities, Quatre shouldn't have piloted the Gundam in his distraught state.
In the weeks he'd spent with the 04 pilot, Heero discerned nuances that seemed to elude others. Quatre had a tendency to center situations around himself, often drowning in self-inflicted guilt. It was as if he believed his own shortcomings were responsible for the universe's imperfections. While many perceived this as a mark of humility, Heero saw it as a veiled form of self-importance.
The schoolgirls in Sanq had affectionately dubbed Quatre a "Cinnamon Roll," their giggles echoing in the corridors. Some even mistook Heero for Quatre's attendant, noting the stark contrast between his unadorned demeanor and the blonde pilot's refined presence. But Quatre wasn't the innocent soul many believed him to be. He was astute, perceptive, and strategic. He had a knack for steering situations to his advantage, all under the guise of benevolence.
Given Quatre's status as the heir to one of space's most influential empires, it was no surprise that people gravitated towards him. His wealth, good looks, and charisma made him a magnet for those seeking proximity to power. Heero suspected that Quatre saw himself as a guiding figure, always ready with advice and assistance. But when Heero resisted Quatre's influence, he sensed a chill in the blonde pilot's demeanor, a subtle indication of his displeasure.
Yet, amidst all the cold exchanges, there had been two genuine sources of warmth in Heero's life: Trowa and the woman now communicating with him over the com.
As Heero prepared to accept Sally's offer, he was interrupted by a frantic beep from Zero, signaling the approach of enemy forces.
"Enemies inbound," he declared, swiftly powering up the Gundam. "Get the shuttle ready for launch. I'll handle them."
Sally's voice, tinged with confusion, echoed from the speakers. "What are you talking about? I don't see—"
He didn't wait for her to finish. Launching into action, he sped towards the threat. Midway, Sally's gasp crackled over the radio, and a smirk tugged at his lips. She was always a step behind.
From the open com channel, he heard her murmur, "He seems different this time... He used to have such an abrasive personality, he was so hard to approach. I wonder what changed..."
Yellow flashed behind his eyelids. A cascade of memories, vivid and poignant, washed over him: Trowa at the circus trailer, helping him to eat. Trowa driving their truck with one hand and throwing a blanket over his lap with the other. Trowa picking up a flash-drive he had dropped because of his aching arm. Trowa going on his own to lose their chase in a Sicilian marketplace. Trowa punching some Ozzie in Marseilles before they were attacked. Trowa helping him walk to the hangar through a blizzard in the Artics. Trowa tampering with his own Gundam to make piloting easier on his injured arm. Trowa sticking by him week after week until he was well enough to fend for himself...
The Zero System inundated him with these recollections, each one warmer than the last. But Heero didn't need a machine to answer Sally's ponderings. He was acutely aware of the answer. Trowa. It had always been Trowa. Trowa was the catalyst for his transformation.
With renewed vigor and a surge of determination, Heero plunged into the fray, tearing through enemy ranks, carving a path back to space, and, he hoped, back to Trowa.
* * *
The cockpit door of the Heavyarms hissed open, releasing a gust of cool, stale air that brushed against Heero's face, reminiscent of an ancient crypt being unsealed.
Heero hesitated at the entrance, taking in the dimly lit interior. Sequentially, small lamps illuminated the space, revealing the flight instruments and monitors. A focused beam of light from an overhead LED spotlighted the pilot's chair, revealing a dance of dust particles in its glow. The chair stood stark and empty, a silent testament to its absent pilot.
With a slight bend of his head, Heero entered, pausing momentarily before sinking into the familiar yet foreign leather seat. The cockpit of the Heavyarms bore similarities to that of Wing, with a few additional controls. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, reminding him of leaving Wing behind on a Luxembourg battlefield. Memories of its fall, its power depletion, and the encroaching Romefeller Mobile Dolls came flooding back. He had been on the brink of defeat when three Leos, piloted by Treize loyalists, had emerged from the chaos, sacrificing themselves to save him. Their rallying cry, " Heil Treize!", still echoed in his mind.
Now, he piloted the Wing ZERO. After experiencing the might of Treize's Epyon Gundam, he had come to view the ZERO as a slightly more palatable option. Yet, to him, they were just tools, mere extensions of himself. None of them felt as right, as comforting, as the original Wing. It had been his sanctuary, a semblance of what he imagined 'home' to be.
He had spent a significant portion of his life in cockpits, navigating both real and simulated battlefields. The consequences of failure were always high, but over time, the punishment had morphed into a form of solace. Wing's cockpit had become his refuge. Confined in the dark, finding comfort in the chair, the familiar hum of the machinery letting him know that he was still alive... His punishment was a blessing in disguise, a far better fate than Dekim's isolation tank. Feeling his back aching in the chair, his skin sticking to the leather... Sensations abound in a cramped little cockpit. Despite the darkness, life buzzed all around him. He lay cocooned within the technological womb... his space-born cradle. Wing was life while Dekim's isolation chamber was death, a dark endless chasm.
As he sat in the Heavyarms, a chilling thought crossed his mind: Was this the void that Trowa was experiencing now? An endless expanse of nothingness and silence?
Heero gently lifted the compartment lid beneath the main dashboard. Wing had a similar one, where Heero kept a few personal belongings. Peering into Trowa's compartment, Heero found an assortment similar to his own: toothpaste, a toothbrush, a blue T-shirt, fresh underwear, a military-grade jackknife, and an old, worn book. In an era where digital reading prevailed, a physical book was a rarity, often found in museums or treasured libraries. Trowa's possession of such items intrigued him, and he suspected they weren't acquired through conventional means.
He carefully picked up the book, noting its title: Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, a classic from 1866 AD. [1] Intrigued, he leafed through the pages, pausing to read snippets. One passage caught his attention, holding it until the words blurred into the aged paper:
“Of course,” it read, “all these infamies can never be wiped out or smoothed over... and so it's useless to even think of it, and I must go to them in silence and... do my duty... in silence, too.... and not ask forgiveness, and say nothing... for all is lost now!”
Closing the book, Heero felt a pull towards it, a desire to delve deeper into its pages and uncover the layers of its narrative. He decided to keep it, to read it when time permitted.
* * *
Thirteen hours into their journey, Chang Wufei came aboard. After proving his mettle in the Wing Zero Gundam, he committed to their mission. Later, Heero retreated to a crew quarter, engrossed in Trowa's battered copy of "Crime and Punishment."
The AD classic, rich in its exploration of human conscience, societal tensions, and morality, was a reflection of its time, touching on controversial topics from child exploitation to ethnic tensions in St. Petersburg. The novel's deep dive into the psyche, combined with Dostoevsky's keen understanding of human nature, left Heero profoundly affected. Questionable morals and misguided goals filled his mind with questions. Should one give to charity, or should one give from oneself to change the conditions that caused misery in the first place? Should one fight for change, or step back and let events play out, blaming a higher power? Was there even a choice?
All of these modern ideas, laid out back in 1866 AD. No wonder it was considered a timeless classic. Fascinated by Dostoevsky's unparalleled understanding of human nature, he had consumed the book in less than a day. Reading it as a whole had left such a mark on his soul that Heero felt it necessary to lie still for a few good hours, contemplating in silence, revisiting whole paragraphs in his head.
“We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.”
Thinking of Trowa, he fell asleep holding the book over his chest, sinking into an exhausted slumber under the comforting shelter of a soft blanket, and the weight of Trowa's book.
Submersed in thick contemplative warmth, he nearly missed the quiet hissing of the doors opening as someone entered. However, if not with one eye open, Heero always slept with an ear out for trouble. He was awake in an instant, his mind supplying that the soft footfalls belonged to a female. The only one on board. Sally Po.
Heero sat up abruptly, the novel tumbling onto his lap, as he fixed a bleary-eyed glare on the intruder. Sally offered a remorseful smile. "I didn't mean to disturb you," she began, "but there's something you should know."
His voice, thick with sleep, cut her off, "Bad news?" He set the book aside, a sense of urgency replacing his previous drowsiness.
Sally hesitated, her gaze dropping to her boots. "I'm afraid so," she admitted, taking a seat beside him.
"Trowa?"
The young MD nodded, stepping closer to his bunk. "I just got off the com with Peacemillion, letting them know we're coming."
"What's wrong?" he made no attempt to conceal the alarm in his voice as he turned to face her. "Were you mistaken? He's not on board?"
She took a seat next to him, settling on the edge of his bed, looking at her boots. "It's not that," she sighed, pausing.
"What is it, then?" he grumbled impatiently. "Just say it already. I'm a big boy. I can take it."
Giving a sad smile, she nodded,t. "Yes, I know." She took a deep breath, releasing it with a sigh, before turning to face him, somber. "Noin gave me some troubling news," she glanced aside briefly before meeting his eyes in hesitation. "Trowa is there, and he's fine... physically. But mentally... He's not all there, I'm afraid."
Heero's brow creased. "Not all there?" he echoed, brushing the heap of sleep-disheveled bangs out of his eyes, "What do you mean?"
"He's lost his memory, Heero. He doesn't remember anything before he was found floating in space by a maintenance shuttle eight weeks ago. He was in a fugue state. Didn't know who he was."
It took the words a moment to sink in. Heero turned to stare at the wall. "I... I see."
A cold realization washed over Heero. Memories of shared battles, moments of camaraderie, and even their disagreements flashed before his eyes. All the moments that had defined their relationship, gone from Trowa's memory. The thought of facing Trowa, a blank slate with no recollection of their shared past, was a gut punch. How could he confront someone who didn't remember the bond they shared, the betrayals, the moments of understanding? The very essence of their relationship had been wiped clean, and the void it left was overwhelming.
"He might not be able to pilot his Gundam," Sally continued, her voice pained. "He's retained his skills, much like one does not forget how to speak or ride a bike when in a fugue state, but... he's in no condition to fight."
"I see," he repeated, swallowing the lump which had suddenly formed in his throat. The anticipation of confronting Trowa, of seeking answers and perhaps mending their fractured bond, now seemed like a distant dream. How could he hold onto his anger, his sense of betrayal, when facing someone who had no memory of their shared past? The very foundation of their relationship had been erased, leaving Heero grappling with a whirlwind of emotions.
"I'm sorry, Heero," Sally placed her hand over his, resting in his lap over the blanket. "I know you were looking forward to seeing him again. It's not everyday someone we care about comes back from the dead. Maybe if you just give it time..."
He pulled away, drawing his hands up to his chest, holding them there.
Sally's sad blue eyes darted down to his fingers, eyeing the crooked digits.
Heero lowered his hands back down, shoving them under the blanket.
A long tense silence ensued. Engines humming, vents whirring, fluorescent lights buzzing.
"Wufei was looking," Sally's carefully measured words broke the silence, "You put your hands behind your back."
Heero closed his eyes, pulling the blanket up higher.
"Maybe once the war is over?" Sally tried again, timid. "I can help you set them back to normal."
"When it's over..." he muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes, "Sure."
She didn't say anything after that, just watched him for a while. He could feel it. Finally, Sally stood up, the mattress shifting as her weight left the bed.
"Wufei is flying us in," she said, "We'll rendezvous in about six hours. Get some rest, while you still can. You need it."
He nodded under the weight of his arm.
Sally walked away, and switched off the lights.
"Leave them on," Heero rasped from the bed.
She paused, quiet for a moment, before she switched it back on. Another long silence followed, during which she probably stood by the door, looking at him. He didn't move, his back to the room, eyes closed, clutching the blanket up to his neck.
Sally left the room, doors sliding shut behind her with a quiet hiss.
* * *
The five Gundam pilots united for the first time on a bridge suspended over the MS hangar, where the Peacemillion crew had secured Heavyarms, Shenlong and Wing Zero for maintenance and repairs.
"Heero! Wufei!" Quatre called happily as he made his way towards them across the narrow catwalk.
Duo wasn't far behind him, grinning. "So, you guys made it without getting shot to pieces!"
Trowa was the last to approach. Watching him, Heero's heart pounded. The anticipation of this reunion had been building, and now, with Trowa's memory loss, the weight of their shared history pressed heavily on Heero's chest. He had prepared himself for many scenarios upon reuniting with Trowa, but facing a version of his friend who didn't remember him at all was something he hadn't anticipated. The weight of that reality was crushing.
"Mind if we joined you?" Wufei returned Duo's sneer evenly, standing confident in front of their little welcome party. Heero stood stiffly next to him, hands crossed over his chest as he assessed the three behind the shelter of his messy bangs. Duo sent him a quick smile, and Trowa just kept looking at the steel-plated floor. Quatre was busy smiling graciously at Wufei.
"Not at all! Stay as long as you like!" he laughed pleasantly, and Heero resisted the urge to frown at the strange reply, as if Quatre had any sort of say regarding who should come aboard the Sweeper's ship. To the best of Heero's knowledge, no one has yet to die and make him captain, but then again, Quatre didn't need to ask for anyone's permission to appoint himself to the position.
"It's great to see you both here with us," Quatre said, his blue eyes shining as they settled on Heero. "It feels like it's been ages, Heero. You look like you've been holding up well."
Heero couldn't help but notice how Quatre positioned himself, almost as a barrier between him and Trowa. It was evident that Quatre had taken on the role of Trowa's protector, shielding the memory-stricken Heavyarms pilot from potential threats.
As Heero's eyes met Trowa's, he desperately sought any glimmer of recognition, any trace of their shared history. But those green eyes, once filled with mutual understanding and memories of battles fought side by side, now held nothing. Their bond had been wiped clean, leaving a void in its place.
"We didn't come here for pleasantries," Heero said, his voice edged with a sharpness as he addressed Quatre. "The situation in space is escalating. We need to be ready."
Quatre's smile faltered slightly. "I was just trying to lighten the mood," he replied, a hint of defensiveness in his tone.
Duo jumped in, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ease up, Heero. People use humor to break the ice. Maybe you should try it sometime."
Heero's jaw tightened at the barb, but he kept his emotions in check.
Quatre's laughter, light and familiar, filled the air. It was the same sound Heero remembered from their time in Sanq.
Wufei's stern voice cut through the banter. "This isn't the time for jokes."
Duo threw his hands up, feigning exasperation. "You guys really know how to kill the mood."
Trowa's attention shifted from his Gundam to Duo, a hint of confusion in his gaze. When his eyes met Heero's, the intensity of their shared stare was palpable, even with the distance between them.
Quatre, sensing the tension, quickly interjected, "Let's clear the way for the engineers. They have work to do."
As Duo and Wufei moved off, Duo playfully nudged Wufei. "Come on, Wufei. I've got something in the rec room that'll put a smile on that serious face of yours."
Quatre gently urged Trowa to follow him, his hand resting lightly on Trowa's arm. "Let's go, Trowa."
The silent boy nodded, turning to follow Quatre in the opposite direction from where Duo and Wufei had gone. Heero remained standing in the center of the bridge.
"Trowa, a moment?" he asked, voice firm, eyes on Trowa, ignoring Quatre.
Halting his steps, Trowa glanced back, his gaze meeting Heero's. Quatre, too, paused, casting a wary look at Heero, which was met with a defiant stare. Quatre continued on, though he lingered at the other end of the bridge, waiting.
Ignoring him, Heero turned to face Trowa. "Do you know who I am?" His hands clenched into fists. The space between them, though mere feet, felt vast and insurmountable.
Trowa, hands casually in his pockets, replied, "Sorry, no. I thought you knew..."
"Yeah," Heero clasped his hands behind him, struggling for words.
"You pilot Wing Zero?" Trowa ventured, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
With a nod, Heero replied, "Yes. I..."
Trowa stepped closer, an apology in his uncannily vulnerable green eyes. Never had Heero seen them so open. It was as if he was looking at a completely different person. Trowa's ghost.
"I'm sorry," the ghostly apparition apologized, "but everything is still very fuzzy..."
"Yes, I know." The pain in his upper left arm flared up, and he grabbed it, squeezing hard, eyes on the floor. "I understand. It's okay, I..." He didn't know what to say, and he just wanted to get out of there already. Find the nearest crew quarters, crawl under a blanket, and forget all about this empty green gaze that didn't recognize him at all.
"I'm... I'm just glad you're okay," he mumbled, then turned away, not knowing what else to do. Something inside him snapped painfully, cold and piercing like cracking glass.
Heero turned, his left arm cradled in his right, to face Trowa who was now approaching with a tentative smile. "What's your name?"
Heero frowned, considering which name to give. He was tempted to give Trowa his real name and make amends for their first encounter, when he hadn't even bothered revealing his alias to the person who had saved his life. Trowa had to learn about it from eavesdropping to his conversation with Sylvia Noventa. Instead, he just let out the typically flat-toned "Heero Yuy."
"Heero Yuy is dead," Trowa remarked, a hint of mischief in his smile.
Matching Trowa's tone, Heero retorted, "So is Trowa Barton." He studied Trowa's face, searching for any sign of recognition from their past encounters.
Challengingly, Trowa tilted his head. "Then what's your real name?"
Heero hesitated. He had once imagined sharing his real name with Trowa, a gesture of trust and camaraderie. But now, with Trowa's memory gone, would that name even hold any significance?
"That's classified," he finally responded, deflecting the question.
After a brief, charged silence, Trowa said, "Well, it's good to see you again, Heero Yuy. I should get back to Quatre. Until next time?"
"Sure..."
With a mutual nod of acknowledgment, they parted ways.
* * *
After the Libra station's cannon struck the Peacemillion, the CLO flagship sought refuge in an abandoned Colony. Crew members busily mended the extensive damage. Urgency was in the air, for all knew they had little time before the next strike. Amidst the chaos, the young group of pilots had a brief respite. Their Gundams, though battle-worn, were momentarily grounded, giving them a rare chance to rest and regroup.
Dr. Sally Po ordered all pilots to the Rec Room for soup. Though Heero wanted to work on Wing Zero, Duo and Quatre insisted he join. "Doctor's orders," Quatre had said with a pleasant smile.
A dim narrow corridor led to the Rec Room. Heero trailed behind Duo and Quatre, his gaze fixated on the blonde pilot's back. Quatre's hands moved gracefully as he spoke with Duo. He possessed the lithe movement of a skilled pianist and the easy smile of one visiting a dear friend. He spoke with perfect articulation, his hands emphasizing each word. Each gesture was a dance, each word accompanied by a flourish, making Quatre seem almost ethereal amidst the chaos.
No one had hands like that anymore, certainly not an MS pilot. Every other person on the ship had calluses and scars, red welts from hard work and behind their nails was grime that no amount of washing would shift. But not Quatre. Quatre's hands were beautiful.
Heero's hands were ashen where the fluorescent light caught them; ghostly, subdued. His once firm hands now bore marks of countless ordeals, some Heero struggled to remember.
Earlier, in the hangar, those hands had clenched when Heero noted Quatre removing the Zero System harddrive from his Sandrock Gundam. Its installation had been Heero's solo decision, which had sparked tension between the two. Heero saw it as a means to an end, a tool to give them an advantage over the Mobile Dolls. And, as much as Heero hated to admit it, Quatre was the right pilot for the job. A born leader; one who people followed eagerly, blinded by his angelic glow. The way Heero saw it, Quatre had a great debt to repay the Colonies, and using the Zero System to resolve the conflict was a good start.
Lost in thought, Heero didn't realize he'd been staring intently at Quatre until the latter turned to meet his gaze. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, a myriad of emotions passed between them. Quatre's eyes held a glint that Heero couldn't quite decipher.
Suppressing the urge to frown, Heero looked away. He struggled to decipher people, but Quatre's candid demeanor was an enigma unto itself. Ever since their face-off and the subsequent capture on the Moon, Heero felt highly uncomfortable in Quatre's company. Images from the Lunar Base flickered in his mind, disjointed and unclear. His ordeal with the Zero System was more of a visceral memory than a conscious recollection. A blend of terror, rage and utter clarity that had driven him insane. It had been Quatre's voice that had reached him, pulling him back from the abyss. The rest was just... a bad dream.
"Rough night?" Trowa's quiet voice came from behind him, a couple of seconds before the Heavyarms pilot matched his pace to walk alongside Heero.
Quatre and Duo kept walking ahead; Duo chatted away, but Quatre paused to throw them a tense look over his shoulder before turning to Duo with a big smile.
Heero turned to Trowa with a scowl; he had to look up slightly to level his eyes with Trowa's. "What?"
"I sleep in the bunk above you," Trowa explained with a shrug of his slim shoulders, "Got a little bumpy there at some point."
"I'll change bunks then," Heero said and quickened his pace. Trowa reached for his hand, no doubt intended to stop him, but Heero pulled away before he could, whirling around with a nasty glare on his face.
"Heero," Trowa's jaw clenched for a moment, before his whole frame slacked. He sighed, green eyes shadowed by his slanting bangs. "I'm sorry I took Wing Zero without your permission."
"It's not mine. Quatre built it."
Trowa nodded, though his expression clearly suggested disappointment. "I know. I remember. I remember everything now."
"Good to know," Heero turned away again. Quatre and Duo were just entering the mess hall. Quatre sent them another look before he followed Duo inside.
Trowa stepped closer. "Heero, I––– We should talk."
"You died, Trowa," Heero shot along with a harsh look over his shoulder. "Dead men don't talk."
He stomped towards the mess hall, but Trowa hurried after him, stopping him a step away from the doorway.
"Oh, hey! Look! A chess kit!" Duo's voice drifted from the rec room.
Heero's gaze remained locked on Trowa, ignoring Quatre's laughter that followed something Duo had said.
"Do you know how I regained my memories?" Trowa asked, and Heero's fists balled at his sides.
"Because Quatre went after you?"
Trowa straightened his posture, dipping his head to the side as a look of unease crossed his face. "Quatre tried to keep me from making the same mistake he did," he spoke as if addressing the air before him; "He tried to remind me who I wanted to protect." Then, he turned to Heero with his jaw set into a tight expression. "Do you know who was the first person I thought of?"
"Catherine?"
Trowa ran a hand through his slanted bangs, shaking his head. "It was you, Heero," he leaned towards Heero, so close, Heero could count the streaks of gold in his green irises; "I remembered taking care of you after Siberia. I remembered how you told me I should live by my emotions. It showed me how I should live from now on."
"All Zero showed me was how I die," Heero took a step back, pinning Trowa's gaze with the full force of his glare, "Epyon showed me the same thing. You all got a fresh outlook on life, but all I saw was my death."
Trowa hesitated, then stepped back, looking down.
Inside, Duo set up a chess board as Quatre filled cups with steaming soup, sealing each with a lid and straw. Heero sat distantly as Trowa entered, eyeing him.
"Oh, hey Tro!" Duo greeted, and Quatre turned away from the countertop, two cups in his hands and a wide smile on his face.
"Say," Duo continued, "now that your noggin' is working again, feel like a game of chess?"
Trowa remained at the doorway a moment longer. Heero lowered his gaze to the table. The white lamination was stained with smears of red and brown; coffee stains and ketchup.
"Sure," Trowa finally gave his reply, his long legs carrying him lightly towards the head of the table, where Duo had set up the board. "I could use the distraction."
"Awesome!"
Quatre nudged a lidded cup towards Heero. The warmth of the cup seeped through its surface, hinting at the hot soup inside. A comforting aroma wafted up, a mix of savory broth and fresh herbs, momentarily cutting through the tension in the room. Given the challenges of low gravity in space, meals were often served in sealed cups with straws to prevent spills and floating food particles. Though the lidded cup was nostalgic of his life in space, a reminder of his Colonial heritage after spending so much time on Earth, Heero still showed no interest in the soup.
"Repairs to the engines are almost done," Quatre stepped away to join the group, holding his own meal-in-a-cup.
"Oh yeah?" Duo replied, "That Howard sure is quick when it comes to getting his work done, huh?"
"I doubt it'll make up for our delay," Trowa said next; from the corner of his eyes, Heero saw him move a chess piece on the board.
Heero zoned out, staring at the cup, reluctant to face its contents.
"...offense is often the best defense..." Wufei ranted about something in the background.
Heero didn't care enough to listen. He reached for the cup. Gnarled fingers clasped around the tall cup. Bruised wan skin, bony knuckles bulging at the joints, chipped and broken fingernails.
"Heero, wanna add your two cents?" Duo's voice suddenly registered and Heero blinked, his attention snapping back to the conversation in the room. A tactical discussion , his subconscious mind supplied, always keeping track of things. Offense versus defense.
Heero hunched over his cup, staring blankly at the straw.
"What's the matter, Heero?" Quatre was looking at him. He could feel it. "Is something bothering you?"
Behind his bangs, Heero noticed Duo and Quatre's concerned glances.
"Heero?" Quatre approached, concern evident. "Are you okay?" His voice hinted at deeper fears. Heero remained silent, lost in absent memories
"Heero?" As Quatre stepped closer, an alarm blared. Enemy attack. They all scrambled out of the Rec Room and into their Gundams before Heero had taken even a single sip from his meal. As Heero pushed off the table in haste, the straw perking from his untouched meal rocked gently from the force, eventually swaying to a slow, silent stop moments after the pilots had departed.
* * *
[1] Based on an old headcanon posted on Tumblr by “The Notorius BHG”.
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It passes too quick to be captured, but Trowa’s eyes here literally twitch in fury. He is SO many kinds of not happy to see Quatre, presumably because he really does prefer working alone, and this kid doesn’t know what the word “alone” means. Also, Quatre’s not exactly what I would call subtle, whereas Trowa is all about the subtle mission. I see Trowa as being incredibly meticulous when it comes to battle plans, and he resents the living crap out of anything that makes him change his plans. And his entire plan for this mission just went up entirely in smoke.
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