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" Everywhere I Look "Written By: Presser
Disclaimer : I do not own Gundam Wing or its characters. This work of fiction is written and shared freely without any attempt to profit financially from it. Rating : R Pairings : 1x2 Warnings : Wistful romance, AU, after Endless Waltz, and departing quite a bit from canon direction Summary: Duo Maxwell is a young, upcoming artist with a hole in his heart. He hates himself for never confessing his love to Heero Yuy, a war-weary mecha pilot running from his past all the way to the Phobos Project—the first manned mission to Mars. Duo longs for the man he loves, but doesn’t know where he is. Can they find love in each other’s arms? And what of Heero’s mysterious collapse when he arrives on Earth to search for the one he loves?
"Everywhere I Look " Chapter 4 Joy stopped at the threshold of the Phobos Alpha gym door and scanned the room. She had already visited the media center, observation deck, and Heero’s personal quarters, prime suspects among places on the massive ship she knew he went during off hours. She was hoping to run into him without seeming to be looking for him, though she had no plan for what to do or say when she found him. She saw him in the far corner of the gym doing bench presses. He wore only shorts and sneaks, and sweat beaded everywhere on his face, neck, and torso. His arms, extended in an effort to perform a final rep of his bench-press routine, shook with the inevitable arrival of failure, the paradoxical sign of a successful workout. She dithered about whether to approach her mech master or leave him alone. No, look at him. He’s got to be almost done. And if I’m going to talk to him, it might as well be now as later. She walked toward him. Heero groaned loudly as he ordered his arms to lift. He forced a full extension, but had to lock his elbows to keep from dropping the weight to his chest. Joy saw that he was in trouble and hurried to him. As she reached him, she felt shock at the appearance of his face: contorted and harsh, almost menacing. She fought the urge to flinch at the intensity of his expression, which vanished when he saw her hands appear on the barbell next to his. Joy guided the weight to the resting hooks as he grunted and pushed up the rest of the way. “Thank you,” he said, trembling with relief. He unwrapped the fingers of one hand from the barbell in slow motion and used them to pry loose the fingers of his other hand. He sat up and reached for his towel. He wiped his face, then worked downward. He got to his pecs before he realized that Joy hadn’t spoken. He froze in position and looked at her, raising an eyebrow over a frown. “You’re here to—are you all right?” Joy pressed her lips together. Just say it. “That’s what I came to ask you,” she said quietly. Heero’s eyebrow fell. “Yes?” “At dinner you were obviously disturbed at seeing Duo Maxwell on the—” She stopped in mid-sentence when Heero closed his eyes and resumed wiping down his body. He switched the towel to his arms, then to his abs. She continued with a meek tone of voice. “I… I know it’s none of my business.” “That’s right.” He twisted at the waist, away from Joy, as he wiped a shoulder blade. “But, we’re more than professionals,” she said. “Aren’t we? More than fellow crew members?” Heero opened his eyes and slung his head sideways. He stared at his workmate as he continued toweling off. “At least, I hope we are. I hope we’re friends, too.” Heero bent over his knees and worked on his legs. “So, I, uh…” The man’s non-response was intimidating. Joy faltered. “I just, uh, want you t- to know…” She stopped and took a breath. Heero draped his towel over one thigh and raised the other foot to the bench, busying himself with retying a shoe. Joy’s eyes narrowed. Without warning she raised her voice and spoke words with serrated edges. “Oh, fuck you for being the strong, silent type. It’s obvious that something’s bothering you. I think talking about it will help, and I’m your friend, or want to be, and if you—oh, hell. You know where to find me if you want me to finish destroying whatever friendship I thought we might’ve had.” Joy spun around and marched from the gym. Heero straightened and watched her go, his hands limp in his lap. He tilted his head toward a shoulder, mouth open, eyes wide with bewilderment.
After showering, Heero pulled on white boxer-briefs. Over those he slipped black spandex shorts that reached to mid-thigh. He poked his head and arms into a green tank top, then added white ankle socks and his favorite mustard-colored sneaks. He smiled as he dressed, remembering a throw-away comment by Duo during the war: “Must’ve studied fashion at the Steve Jobs School of Wardrobe,” which he had said when he discovered that three sets of the outfit was the only clothing Heero stowed in Gundam Wing. His smile disappeared as he recalled the mix of hurt and anger in Joy’s eyes when she blew up at him in the gym. Gotta find her and talk. He took the Alpha’s corridors at a slow and steady pace, using the time to think as he headed from his quarters toward the conference hall, which doubled as an entertainment theater when not used for general meetings. Science or Fiction?, the current film series, caught Heero’s attention when it was announced the week before. He suspected Joy would be interested in the retrospective on classic SF films because of her chatter about her favorite sci-fi flicks during their many construction EVAs on Staging Platform One. He had thought about asking her to view one with him, but hesitated over whether it would look like he was asking her out on a date. And that is exactly the problem. After the war, Heero was astounded by the attention given him. The media instantly dubbed him the Pilot Who Won the War and descended on him with the vengeance of out-of-work paparazzi offered a weekend with English royals. But since the age of eight, he had lived in a world of strict discipline and training that focused on honing efficiency in mind and body and learning how to eliminate all distraction. The urgency of his mission was unrelentingly drummed into him. Above all he was taught that stealth was his primary weapon, more vital than any technology or technique he mastered. He learned to see emotion as an impediment to successful completion of his work and a weakness to master and dismiss. Heero found the lift that moved from staff living quarters to the middle decks where the executive offices and meeting rooms were. He stopped and looked up at the numbers above the door. What Joy doesn’t know… His goal for almost half his life had been to be as efficient as the machines he used to accomplish each job at hand. He learned to treat feelings as gnats and mosquitoes, irritants to be batted out of his way or ignored as he worked. …what she couldn’t possibly know… When the war ended, the need for secrecy vanished like cigarette smoke on a windy day. Without warning he was on permanent public display. The famous shot of him riding the wire down from his Gundam’s cockpit after the final battle, helmet under one arm, showed him looking every bit the hero: a handsome young boy turned man prematurely by the rigors of war, battle weary yet resolute. The entire Earth Sphere fell instantly in love with the Heero Yuy the media told them they wanted: a handsome, dashing role model ready to lead, perhaps to be groomed for high office or a star appointment to a significant commission. The single interview Heero gave at Relena Peacecraft’s insistence had the opposite effect he intended. Give them what they want and they’ll leave me alone, he mistakenly reasoned. I have to explain it to her. But before I can do that, I have to understand it myself. He responded to the interviewer not as the celebrity he was expected to be, but as the quiet, unassuming man he was: completely unimpressed with himself, utterly unflappable, and rather put out that anyone wanted to shine a spotlight on him for merely fulfilling his duty. He answered the first and most predictable question—How does it feel to have singlehandedly ended the war?—with a simple, matter-of-fact statement: “I only did what I was supposed to do.” After answering the remaining questions put to him in as few words as possible, Heero walked off the set assuming that was that, expecting to get on with his life. But the Grid exploded with material churned out by the ceaseless engines of tabloid blogs and twenty-four-hour news cycles. Boys, even grown men, began cutting their hair the way he did. Everyone everywhere wanted more of him. All of this hampered his limited ability to interact socially. Heero responded in the only way he knew: he withdrew, not anticipating that even that could be—and was—used by a media-entertainment complex eager to excavate the richest vein of star potential to come along in twenty years. He rejected the advice he received from Quatre Winner, the only one he knew and trusted who had dealt with these issues. “It’s all about balance, Heero. You can live the life you want and still take advantage of the opportunities that come to you. I can help you find the right people to—” He ended the call in mid-sentence, glad he hadn’t opted for a face-to-face with his friend. “Sir, are you getting on?” Heero blinked. He realized he was blocking the lift’s open door. “I—no,” he said. He stepped aside. “I’m sorry.” He looked to the right and saw a ladder bolted to the corridor wall which led to a circular opening in the ceiling. Bright blue block letters behind the ladder labeled it IMAP-12: Inter-deck Manual Access Port number twelve, casually called “the stairs” by the Phobos Alpha crew. Heero began climbing.
He spied Joy in the exact center of the auditorium. Just where she said she sat during movies. He walked halfway down the center aisle and took the seat beside her, easing into it without looking at her. She saw him from the corner of her eye but didn’t look up. She kept her focus on her DocPad, reading critical commentary on Brazil, the evening’s film. Heero sat and stared at the blank screen as the room filled. When the lights dimmed, Joy closed her DocPad and shifted in her seat. She glanced at Heero. His face was blank, his eyes were stony. She opened her mouth, then closed it without speaking. Why is he here? Is this his way of—of what? She touched his arm. He turned his head. “I didn’t think you liked science fiction,” she whispered. “I don’t,” he whispered back without turning his head, a shy smile on his lips. The lights went out.
The lights rose slowly as the audience stood and chattered softly over the ending credits. Heero sat impassively and stared blankly at the screen. “Care for a bite?” Heero jerked his head to the side. “What?” “It’s traditional to discuss the film over coffee or drinks after. I’d love to know what you thought of this one.” “I’d… like that, Joy,” Heero said.
“The thing is,” Joy said as she popped the last of a caramel wafer into her mouth and sipped iced tea to wash it down, “Gilliam never planned any of it.” “Never planned it? How can you write, direct, and produce something as complex as a movie as bizarre as this one without planning?” Heero brought his cup of Earl Grey to his lips. “What I mean,” Joy said, “is that the idea came from out of nowhere. In his commentary on the original Brazil DVD he says he suddenly saw a man sitting on a beach with sand black like soot listening to the 1930s song ‘Brazil.’” “That was his inspiration?” “Yep.” “Terry Gilliam must have done a lot of drugs.” Joy laughed at Heero’s deadpan delivery. Heero smiled back. “Listen,” Joy said, suddenly quiet and sober, “I’m sorry for what I said. I mean, I’m sorry for blowing up at you.” Heero considered the woman before him. Joy’s hair was coal black and curly, cut short to keep it out of her way. Her eyes were sea green with flecks of gold and set in a pale complexion freckled so lightly that, when they first began working together, Heero had had to sneak moments to stare outright at her to determine whether or not he had imagined them. When they stood it was nose to nose, their height exactly the same. But Joy was slimmer and looked taller somehow, and not just to Heero; everyone assumed he was shorter. They won a half-dozen bets together during initial Earth-side training once teams formed and began prep routines. When Heero first mentioned it, Joy gave him a Cheshire-cat grin and drawled “bone structure, darling” in an awful southern accent. Heero’s puzzled expression was so pronounced that Joy’s laughter almost shook her out of her chair. She is my friend, even though I’ve gone out of my way to avoid showing it. I owe her an explanation. But I don’t know what to say.
Heero spent his time climbing the stairs to the auditorium thinking about why he had joined the Phobos mission. In no small part it was a reaction to the media attention that hit him after the war. He recalled his first anxiety attack. It came during a lunch at Tico’s, a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant near his apartment famous for a bewildering variety of tacos. He had walked from home and taken a seat at the counter. He was looking at The Mighty Ninety, as the menu was called, displayed on whiteboards wrapping the four walls of the place near the ceiling when he heard his name first whispered, then spoken, then shouted. He sat stunned as a crowd gathered around him and seemed to grow exponentially in seconds thanks to cell phones and a few customers who dashed into the street to spread the word. He took Quatre’s advice and politely said, “Just out for lunch today. Please, no photos or autographs.” But the crowd didn’t like that response. They closed on him, pleading in their voices and eyes. A man jumped onto the counter and pointed his phone’s video cam at Heero. He stepped on a plate of food and slipped. The crowd lurched away, jostling him. The arms and legs of strangers pressed against him. He felt fingers stroke the back of his head. A woman squealed, “I touched him, I touched him! His hair is so soft!” Suddenly his throat constricted and his heart thundered. More hands found him. They tugged at his clothes. Heero broke into a sweat. “Don’t touch me,” he said too softly to be heard. The crowd pushed and pulled him. Questions and compliments tumbled pell-mell over each other in a bewildering babble. He couldn’t catch his breath. “I said, ‘Don’t touch me,’” he said more forcefully. Someone grabbed the back of his shirt. Heero jammed his arms out to the sides and shoved people away. “Leave me alone.” The crowd’s demeanor shifted from smiles and hopeful looks to frowns. “I thought you were supposed to be a hero, Heero,” came a sneering voice from nowhere. His head spun. He stood and shouldered though the press of people around him. “C’mon, Heero, it’s just an autograph picture question.” He ran.
Heero blinked. He realized he had been staring blankly into Joy’s eyes. “I—” “Lot of things on your mind, I guess.” “Um, yes.” Joy shifted in her chair. She drew snaky lines down the condensation on her glass of tea. “Listen, Heero, I don’t—” “Joy,” he said, “I think it’s time I opened up to you.” She stopped moving save for her eyes, which darted left-right-left as she looked into his. “About—certain things.” He told her about his training, the end of the war, and his unwanted celebrity; explained how the anxiety attacks began and grew; how his confusion grew, too. How helpless he felt without a mission, uncertain about what to do without orders to direct every move he made. “In the end, I did something I’d been trained to never do: I panicked.” He looked away. “I ran,” he said, his voice hoarse. He paused, lowered his chin, then mumbled softly, “All the way to Mars.” Joy sat quietly as Heero poured his heart into sharing things he’d never verbalized to anyone, not even himself, and saw pain, and anguish, and pleading for understanding. Heero fought the desire to ask for forgiveness. He knew that his actions hadn’t been forced on him; he chose them. Above all, he knew how to take responsibility for what he did, as his fellow pilot, Trowa Barton, knew well from his travels with him to visit every living relative of General Noventa after he had mistakenly killed the military leader who worked the hardest for peace. Why have I told Joy all this? What is it I want from her? What? Finally, Joy looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his distress. The silence between them grew. Her heart filled with empathy. “I guess,” Heero said when the tension became unbearable, “I should—” He stopped mid-sentence when Joy looked up with eyes shining with compassion. “He’ll understand, Heero,” she said quite softly. “What?” Joy put her hand on his and squeezed gently. “He’s the luckiest man on two-and-a-half worlds.” “I don’t—” Joy squared her shoulders and smiled bravely. “Go find him, Heero. Go find Duo.”
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