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"Son Of A Preacher Man "Written By: Jo Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing. Have nothing.
I write for the fun of it. Rating: PG (for now) Warnings: AU, shounen-ai, slight OOC(?) Pairings: 1+2 (for now), developing to 1x2 at
the end. Summary: The boys are a little older but still
not old enough to..*cough*..yeah. I am reserving that for the "college
year". Still fixated on Heero's personality so I'm trying to
explain the why's and the how's. This is also the first time I worked
with betas. Thanks so very much to Andie, DMx04 and Ryouga for being
such wonderful betas. I never realized incorporating all the revisions
could be such a challenge! If I missed something..gomen ne! Next time
though I'll do better! I thought of a system now.yeah now. Big cyber
hugs!
Son Of A Preacher Man Chapter 2 The summer of 1989, the world was just coming off the shock of Tiananmen Square, the Voyager 2 spacecraft flew by Neptune capturing haunting images of the distant planet and the imagination of all humanity. Safely tucked away in the undergrowth of small town America, our lives remained untouched and unscathed, mostly. My biggest problem then was my changing body. It was as if I was two different personas, inside and outside. The inner me, a confused child cowering in a dark corner, stealing peeks at the outer me, mortified as I constantly tripped over my own feet, cringing as I snapped at my mother for no apparent reason. My body was shooting upwards faster than it could round itself out. I was a lanky, skinny kid with long arms and legs, I felt like a spider. When the dreams came, they came like a siren's song, soft and alluring, wrapping me in a veil of secretive bliss and guilty pleasure. I plunged helplessly overboard every time. My dreams were some times filled with broken, distorted images of a familiar figure whose face I never quite saw. That summer I learned to rise before my mother and made mad dashes to the laundry room. For a long while, my mother and I never ran out of clean clothes, clean towels and clean sheets. My summer took an upturn one morning in June. Fresh from doing yet another load of laundry, I sprawled lazily on my bed, shifting in and out of consciousness, trying to remember my dream from the night before. I was sweating uncomfortably into my sheets but I was reluctant to get out of bed. I vaguely heard the doorbell and my mother's footsteps trotting towards the front door. Muffled voices wafted up through the floorboards and still I was reluctant to move. Moments later a series of soft yet persistent knocks on my bedroom door startled me into a new awareness. I pretended to be asleep hoping my mother; I assumed it was my mother, would give up and leave me to my own misery. Nevertheless, the door opened and someone entered uninvited. The pillow I threw over my face earlier was abruptly peeled away and I was suddenly staring into a pair of twinkling violet eyes. Without a word, he pinched my nose and I sat up sputtering. I glared as he fell off my bed laughing, his familiar braid shaking violently, his arms wrapped around his midsection. I was surprised to say the least, finding him in my room. Duo and his father spent every summer on missionary trips to South America. As much as I dreaded spending summer without my best friend, I was thrilled with the "treasures" he brought back for me. We would spend hours going through the pictures he took, souvenirs he picked up, and the folklore he seemed to soak up like a sponge. Oddly, that summer Pastor Maxwell had decided somewhat belatedly, that Duo should stay home and my mother had graciously offered to house Duo for six weeks. Hearing the news, I was at first flabbergasted, and then overjoyed, all done in my own quiet way of course. The schoolteacher in my mother, knowing fully what two bored adolescent boys could do, was determined to keep Duo and I from idling. Truth be told, Duo alone was capable of wrecking havoc and turning the house upside down. He's naturally curious and exceptionally energetic. I always thought he suffered from ADHD [1], though that seemed like a strange word to use. His constant exploration was draining to those following in his trail but his irresistible charm warmed and soothed to no end. Duo could get away with anything and I loved watching him try. My mother had us working in her vegetable garden every morning, pulling weeds and watering the plants. She even cleared a small patch of her garden so Duo and I could plant anything we wanted. We went with strawberries. It was a win-win situation; we loved strawberries. Unfortunately so do the birds, and, Mrs. Johnson's stunted Malamute [2]. When the sun climbed high enough to burn our skin, my mother would take us hiking in the nearby wooded mountain trails. We stopped often as Duo took pictures of everything he deemed interesting; and when we found a beaver dam, he got so excited I thought he was going to burst. By the end of summer, we had a fabulous collection of Duo's pictures. Countless close-ups of yellow flowers we couldn't identify, frame by frame pictures of a lady bug slowly crawling across a leaf, a few shots of a suspicious squirrel, his fluffy tail and his back as he turned and ran from Duo, and pictures of the beaver dam. On really hot days, my mother would take us to the town pool where the entire town seemed to congregate. I hated the crowds, but loved the water even though the pool often smelled like hot dogs, onion, sweat and chlorine rolled into one. Mysterious floating objects in the pool couldn't deter Duo and I from having a good time. It never occurred to us that most boys our age were busy chasing girls our age at the pool. I was only interested in learning how to do a headstand, Duo was just too eager to show me. The evenings were my favorite time of the day. My mother worked tirelessly on her endless projects, sometimes a quilt and sometimes a pair of mittens for winter. Sometimes, she would read to us from books that we picked, a childhood habit I was fond of and didn't mind that we were a lot older. Just as I always sat in an armchair across from her, Duo always sat curled up next to her on the couch. Eventually, his head would come to rest on her lap, his hair loose in a silky pool. As much as he was soaking up her presence, I was committing the very image of them into memory. I remember thinking that they looked right together. I remember thinking that I was lucky because they were mine to have. I wished life would just stay that way forever, uncomplicated and safe. It was during those evenings that the wall I built around me slowly crumbled. I was having the best summer of my young life until fate decided to make an unexpected house call. It was a stormy day in July when the call came. The heavy downpour drenching and obscuring everything in sight. Duo and I were in the kitchen staring out the back window. Our faces pressed up to the glass watching intently at our strawberry shrubs being blown haphazard as puddles formed in the backyard. We were debating if we should run out and save the helpless shrub when the shrill ring of the phone broke the monotony of the rain. My mother darted out from nowhere, shooting us a glance before picking up the phone. I heard her answered in her usual jovial tone before an anguish cry escaped her. Duo and I were immediately alarmed, a grave feeling of dread washed over us. When she finally hung up the phone, she came into the kitchen ashen-faced and lips pressed tightly into a thin line. Something was terribly wrong. I watched as Duo ran up to my mother, thrusting his hand in hers, his eyes searching her face for clues, fear and concern evident on his face. She gripped Duo's hand tightly, and then let go after giving him a gentle little pat. She turned to approach me, her eyes hardened with determination. I knew whatever it was that she was preparing to tell me; I wasn't going to like it. She gently wrapped me in her arms as if she was afraid that I would break and then she began telling me that my father, the man who walked out on her years ago, was dead. He died of a drug overdose. I couldn't hear anything after that. The rain has finally come inside, drowning out everything. I turned around without saying a word and went upstairs to my room, crawled into my closet and shut the door. I sat in the dark, surrounded by my clothes and shoes, my mind a complete blank and a deep chill began to seep into my bones. Outside, Duo sat with his back to the closet door, softly humming an unknown tune just to let me know he was there. I was fast retreating into where I spent the summer coming out from; and there wasn't anything I could do to stop it. The service was held at a funeral home not too far from our house. We drove there nonetheless, the three of us. My mother had her hair twisted into a loose bun, her eyes red rimmed, and her smiles shaky. Getting out of the car, she walked ahead while Duo and I trailed behind. I watched the hem of her dress swaying gently as she walked, dreading what lay ahead. We walked up to the arched entrance of the funeral home and were greeted by several men dressed in neatly pressed dark suits. My mother hugged and kissed each one of them. One of them placed his palm on the small of her back and didn't let go. I glared at him but he didn't seem to notice. Inside a small reception area was decorated with fresh flowers in vases and wreaths. Three easels were set up, lining the hallway leading into the main hall. Sitting on the first two were my father's high school picture and a family portrait of him and his parents. Both, I glanced at with little interest, but the third picture threw me off completely. The third picture was a picture of my parents. He was straddling a Harley while she leaned on his back. They were both wearing leather from head to toe. Tiny leather straps with metal clasps lined the side of his pants while metal studs stretched along the side of hers. My mother's hair was short and swept back, her head tilted back slightly, her smile was brilliant. She looked so young and undeniably happy. They looked good together. My father had been a non-factor for so long, I forgot that he existed but here it is proof that before me there was him. I wondered what happened to them, what happened to that teeth baring smile they both had. I wondered if it was because of me. We were ushered into the main hall and to the front row as people trickled in. I realized a little late that it was an open casket service. My father, he looked thin and frail in the casket, drowning in the white silk that surrounded him. He looked like he was asleep, his eyes half closed and his lips slightly parted. As I stared at him, it struck me hard that the only reason I didn't look anything like my mother was because I am the splitting image of him. His blood runs through my veins, and the thought of growing up to be just like my father sickened me. I resented his recklessness and cowardice. I resented the looks and whispers my mother and I had received because of his actions. When the service started, I was vaguely aware of Duo on my right, casting sidelong glances at me and fidgeting slightly as the service proceeded. My mother was on my left, dabbing her eyes constantly. The man from earlier was on the other side of her, holding her free hand. I sat there stone- faced and dry-eyed as the priest started his speech. When it came time for family to speak, the man who held my mother's hand stood up and moved on stage. Apparently, he is my father's brother, my uncle. There and then, I resented my father for denying me the family that I should have known. My mother was drained after the service. We went home in complete silence; even Duo was markedly subdued. As my mother shut the door to her room, Duo and I stole out of the house and made way for the hillside three blocks away from our houses. The landscape the locals affectionately dubbed as, "the prairie", was nothing but a small hill that evened out at the top. We ran until we reached the trees at the far edge of the prairie. Stumbling we fell to the ground, breathing hard to catch our breath, we lay down on the ground despite still wearing our Sunday best. Duo had an arm behind his head; another arm thrown over his eyes to block out the late afternoon sun that filtered through the rustling leaves. And then, in an unusually quiet voice he began to tell me about his mother. He had never spoken of her until that day. Duo's mother had died just before he and his father moved here. It was a big move they all had looked forward to but after she died, it became a ghost of a dream past. Duo and his father came anyway, doing the best they could, leaning on each other for strength and comfort. His memory of his mother was sketchy at best. His fondest memory of her was of her long red hair. He used to bury his face in it and breathe in her scent. It took him to a special place that was safe; it made him feel loved. He remembers a song here, a hug there, but most of all he remembers the day she died. He was at a friend's house attending a birthday party. He had had too much cake and wanted to go home badly. While the other parents showed up for their kids, his mom was nowhere to be seen. He was left sitting with the birthday girl, she was dozing off, and he had frosting down the front of his shirt. He kept looking out the front door, hoping to see her familiar figure, arm stretched out for him to run to. She never came. Duo eventually fell asleep next to the birthday girl. Her parents took him to their bed, frosting and all, and left him sleeping. When he woke, he found himself at home and his father was sobbing mournfully into his tiny shoulder. A drunk driver had ran a stop sign and ploughed into the beat up car Duo's mother was driving. She was killed instantly. It took him a while to finally understand what it meant for a person to be dead. It took him longer to finally stop asking for her. His voice trailed off as the heat of the evening sun dissipated. Thunderous emotions rolled over me and the silence between us was deafening. I felt like crying but instead I blurted out what I had been thinking since I learned about my father's death. I said I wasn't sorry that he's dead. I said I didn't know him and I didn't care. As soon as the words left my mouth, I was deeply ashamed. I became strangely aware of Duo's breathing and the arm he still had covering his eyes. I was sure he was disgusted with me knowing how much he missed his mother. Suddenly, the prairie became too small, the air too thin and I needed to leave his side desperately. I fidgeted and was just about to bolt from the spot when a soft but warm hand clamped down on mine, keeping me from fleeing. Our fingers intertwined and closed tightly around each other. Heat radiating from him warmed and calmed me like a slow burn. I breathed out a sigh of relief and leaned back on the grassy ground. There we lay in the shadow of trees, on a hill overlooking our houses, watching the first star appeared on the night sky. It felt as though the world had finally came crashing into our universe but at the same time it felt a little less scary and a lot less lonely; and for the first time since puberty forced its way through the door, I felt perfectly comfortable in my own skin. ~ * ~ AN: [1] ADHD - Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder [2] Malamute - Dog. I have a friend who has a Malamute who loves strawberries. Every summer the dog would get into her strawberry shrubs and eat them. "The Alaskan Malamute, one of the oldest Arctic sled dogs, was named after the native Innuit tribe called Mahlemuts, who settled along the shores of Kotzebue Sound in the upper western part of Alaska. The Mahlemuts are believed to have developed the breed to pull sleds and as a pack animal." -- * Someone asked me if Heero's dad was such a scumbag why would anyone go to his funeral. I like to think that he wasn't always a scumbag. He just went down the wrong path, s'all. Plus a lot of people go to funerals not because they knew the deceased but rather because they know the family or friends. * Same person asked me why would Heero's mother cry
over daddy scumbag. Well, same reason she never remarried. I am a
hopeless romantic. |
