Summary: They say if you live long enough, you will meet people you once thought forever lost again. What if I-No never changed history, and mankind really lost the Holy War? Sol managed to kill Dizzy, and disappeared into hiding like Testament, but mankind had suffered massive losses. In a bleak world torn apart by the grim costs of warfare, survivors of the war try to return to some semblance of peace and normalcy. SHOUNEN-AI, YAOI. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
A/N: Because you just knew someone was going to write something like this eventually and because I liked that dream I had way too much to resist. In fact, I'm amazed no one has done it yet. Yeah, I know how terribly cliché it is, but then, it just had to happen someday. So why not have fun pioneering it? My first serious Guilty Gear fic, so please tell me what you think. An extrapolation of the canon alternate universe in Drama CD Side Red, as well as a death and reincarnation fic, which therefore contains spoilers for Drama CD Side Red, the dialogue translations of which I did myself for the section used, since I unfortunately never got my hands on the translation done by Edward Chang, which would have saved me some effort. Most years are canon; exact dates were never specified and are therefore fictionalized. I try to stick to whatever I know as canon to the best of my ability, but when no canon information is available, I take my liberties. XD Since this version of reality never really existed, I had more freedom and quite a lot of fun writing this fic. I hope you enjoy it and review.
Disclaimer: If Guilty Gear belonged to me, this would be a BL anime instead of a fanfiction. Furthermore, the word FANfiction should tell you everything you need to know.
Shinigami Yumi
presents
If Your God Were Real
Sometimes destiny is what you make it
Sometimes people just can't fight it
Someone somewhere is always listening
So always be wary of what you're saying
Chapter 1: Chains
"I came to get you." The deep somewhat raspy voice was a little hard to hear after all the noise from just a moment ago, but he caught the words nonetheless.
Ky Kiske smiled despite the pain as the familiar face of his long-time rival, and perhaps the only man who had ever truly known him, even if he were often reluctant to call him friend, entered his field of vision. "Always late… You could never fix that…" he bit out almost fondly between short gasps of breath. Granted, he hadn't really expected Sol to come save him at all, and truthfully, he was rather glad he had. He could even imagine the American's reaction to hearing about what he had done.
"If that childish boy naively thinks he can save the world alone, then let him try," Sol would say gruffly to the reporting soldier. Ky would have laughed right then had the wound in his chest not been so painful. It was ironic that he was only now considering that maybe the other had been right; maybe he was an idealistic child refusing to see the reality beyond his hopes. However, he couldn't bear the thought that thousands of people were going to die if he waited for the reinforcements before acting. At least St. Peter's Cathedral was still standing. Maybe we can't afford to look down, Sol, he thought wistfully. Maybe hope is all we have left.
"You…" Sol Badguy lifted the slender blond boy he had come perhaps just a little too late to save into his arms where he knelt on the dusty pavement of Rome, the other's blood pooling around his knees like a sea of red.
"As expected…" It was hard to speak, possibly due to the blood filling his lungs, but there were things that needed to be said. "Until the end, I couldn't defeat you…" The American's arms were warm, so warm, and he had never imagined the brunet as capable of being this gentle. He almost moved closer.
"Shut up." Pointless words, utterly. Of course, he couldn't, but he didn't even know why. Not that it mattered anymore. His first glance at the boy when he arrived had told him the Frenchman wasn't going to make it, no matter how surprisingly reluctant he had found himself to accept that fact, no matter how much he suddenly realised he wished otherwise.
"I…" He just managed not to choke on the blood rising in his windpipe. "…have a request…" He blinked slowly to clear his blurring vision as his rival cradled his body closer with amazing tenderness.
"I just said shut up."
That boy was always soaring up above, carried by his ideals and hopes, like the angel he was to the crumbling world he had fought so valiantly to save. Even in the end, he refused to fall like other men, his eyes having none of that fear of oblivion Sol had often seen in the eyes of his dying brethren. Perhaps it was his blind faith in his God; as self-assured as he was of going to heaven, he probably found death nothing to fear. The kid was innocent and naïve to the end, but for him now, perhaps it was for the best.
Ky moved to fist his hand in the other's red leather jacket. "Please take over…" It was so hard to get the words out. "…the command… of the Holy Order."
"Stop it. That's your job," Sol growled angrily.
The blond reached up with the last of his strength to brush his thumb briefly against the brunet's cheek. The speck of moisture there seemed so terribly out of place. "Please… promise me…" It was getting hard to breathe.
"God damn it..." The American swore, voice unexpectedly thick with emotion as he pressed his hand fiercely to his cheek with his own.
Ky offered a faint smile at that. Sol should know that he hated it when people swore, especially when God was made a part of it, but he said nothing about it. It wasn't important now anyway. He knew that Sol was blaming himself, the way he blamed himself for too many things he'd never know about. Sol was an idiot that way. Certainly, his tardiness was at least partially to blame, but what did that matter in the end? Even if people sat around assigning blame for centuries, it wouldn't change anything. At least, he had come anyway. The Commander of the Holy Order was glad for the older man's almost seemingly grudging company in these last moments, but he would never tell the brunet that, because at least… at least, if he felt guilty about it, Sol would promise him. He needed Sol to promise him. For the sake of the world, he prayed that the Heavenly Father would forgive a little guilt-tripping.
It was cold now, and getting colder every second. It was like falling… Sol's face seemed to be growing further and farther away. He fought to get enough air in to say one last thing. "If… it's… you…" It occurred to him that he had never quite seen those mismatched red and gold eyes look so sad. "…you… can… do it…" He had hope. Hope ran eternal… even if he was no longer there to carry it on. Sol…Sol, who had always been stronger than him, would be able to carry it further than he ever could, no? Sol, who had always told him to grow up, would keep that hope alive for him maturely… He was sure of it. More then anyone else, he trusted the American; he always had, even without realizing it. He vaguely felt his hand fall to the ground as the strength to even keep his eyes open slipped away from him. Sol… If you're here, I can be at peace…he thought as he sank into the cool embrace of nothingness, away from the pain.
"OI," the prototype Gear gently shook the limp body of one of the few humans who had had anything more than a passing significance in his long life. "What happened? Oi! KY!"
The wind picked up in the half-ruined city of Rome just as the sun dipped below the horizon in the west as if to mark the boy's heroic end. Sol cradled the blond's body closer as he lifted it to shield it from the rising dust in the air, placing the long magical sword he himself had designed on its former wielder. It didn't really make any difference, but they would probably want their hope and hero brought back for a proper burial. Humans were sentimental like that. They had shorter lives and fewer memories, so they wanted to hold onto every one of those. He… He had too many memories that he wanted to forget. What was the use in grasping onto more that were already fading?
He gazed at the boy's face once more as he began walking back towards the rest of the Holy Order in the fading daylight, so peaceful in the trust that his last wish would be granted despite repeated declinations that he could have simply been asleep. Many would have wished that, of course, but it was too late for wishes and prayers now. It was too late for anything now, and once again, it was all his fault, just like it had been right from the start. That was why he was still here; he still had this responsibility even if he no longer desired very much to continue his extended existence, a symbol of everything that was wrong with this crumbling world, crumbling because he once had a dream that greedy humans twisted for their own selfish desires.
The prototype Gear almost smiled for the first time in longer than he could remember, albeit sadly. Of course he had already accepted the boy's final charge. Their ultimate goals had always been the same despite their dissent on the methods involved. Over the stench of blood and carnage carried on the wind, he could still pick up the late Commander's sweet scent of honey and vanilla. As the final rays of sunlight caught on a lock of soft blond hair, he couldn't help but whisper an almost bitter afterthought.
"If your God were real, boy, you'd still be here."
A woman screamed in pain as her body was torn by labour. Just outside her hospital room in Venice, her husband rushed towards the door, running as fast as he could to his wife's side.
"These are troubled times to have a child, signore," a man said softly as he passed.
"But perhaps new life will bring new hope," he muttered in reply without stopping, his shoulder-length golden hair flying back as he ran.
Rome had been destroyed just the day before, and Commander Ky Kiske of the Holy Order had fallen in that overwhelming battle along with a massive number of humans. The world was in mourning, and the Vatican had been quick to declare his sainthood despite the restoration works in progress. He remembered the man well, and there had never been anyone more deserving of leading mankind in the Crusade against the Gears than Sir Kiske. He had been their guiding light, always inspiring hope where there was none, and sometimes, even if it looked impossible, if he said it could be done, everyone was willing to believe it and give up everything for that elusive victory. He wished he could have been a part of the regiment that had been by the Commander's side in that battle, but he had just returned from defending Moscow from a separate Gear attack.
He burst through the door to have his ears assailed by the first cries of a newborn, more specifically, his baby. Andrea Belucci walked over to the woman he had married just three years before, and gazed silently at her as she cradled his child in her arms. With tears in her eyes and a loving smile on her face framed by her long mussed up black hair, her body covered in the sheen of perspiration, he thought his beloved Maria had never looked so beautiful. They would move to Corsica soon after this, where it was closer to the headquarters of the Holy Order in Paris and under heavier surveillance. It would be safer for them there. He smiled at her as she reached for his hand.
"I want to name him after him…" she told him, her soft voice tired but filled with joy.
"Him?" he enquired as the baby in her arms opened tiny eyes wider. He had his mother's clear blue eyes.
"The one who fell defending my hometown, Roma…" she elaborated in her gentle alto.
Andrea nodded agreeably. He couldn't have asked for a better or nobler namesake. Reaching out to touch his son's short blond strands, he hoped the child would grow into a great man and bring further honour to that name.
…On 4th July 2173AD, the Gears launched a major offensive against the city of Rome. Nearby Holy Order forces rushed to the city's defence without waiting for reinforcements upon the orders of their High Commander, Ky Kiske. The battle ended in a crushing defeat to the forces of man, as well as the devastating demise of Sir Kiske, the reinforcements having arrived minutes too late. To this day, his death is commemorated worldwide annually on what is now known as St. Kiske's Day, often with visits to Rome or to his memorial in Paris.
Following that key battle, Sol Badguy, an immensely strong fighter whom sources inside the Holy Order describe as having been a rival and possible close friend of the late Commander Kiske who made up extensively in power what he lacked in social skills, assumed leadership of the Holy Order. On 11th September 2178AD, mankind suffered yet another massive loss with a Gear attack on the United Nations' Headquarters lead by Justice herself, the most significant of which was the passing of Johnny, the charismatic and charitable leader of the Jellyfish Pirates. However, the battle also ended with the destruction of Justice, and was therefore celebrated despite the overwhelming number of deaths and casualties.
Yet just as everyone heaved a sigh of relief in anticipation of peaceful times to come, more Gear attacks had Holy Order forces once again on high alert. Unbeknownst to man, Justice had a daughter, another command-type Gear by the name of Dizzy. Evidently embittered by the loss of her mother, Dizzy had taken control of the Gear forces and resumed the War against humanity.
Finally, an all-out attack on the Gear Plant, which Dizzy was using as a base, was lead by Commander Sol Badguy on 8th February 2183AD with the added aid of the Jellyfish Pirates under the command of May, and Zeppian forces lead by Potemkin. The destruction of Dizzy at the end of the battle marked, at long last, the end of the Holy War, but at a terrible cost. Holy Order forces had been almost completely annihilated, and the Jellyfish Pirates were also no more. Zeppian commander, Potemkin, met his end at the hands of Testament, a high-level Gear who promptly vanished into hiding after the death of Dizzy at the hands of Commander Sol.
Some of the stronger Gears, having returned to instinct-driven operation, had quickly escaped upon the death of their leader, perhaps sensing imminent danger, while the vast majority of Gears, having lost the ability to function, were immediately destroyed by remaining Holy Order forces. The Holy Order continues to conduct search-and-destroy missions today to hunt down the remaining Gears under the command of Arianne Thallassa, a captain left in charge following the sudden disappearance of Commander Sol Badguy soon after the final battle…
Ky Belucci carefully closed the history book he was reading. It had been eight years since that final battle. By and large, life was peaceful now, although people still lived in fear of the occasional Gear attack. The human population was only a quarter of what it used to be before the Holy War, as disease and famine had spread along with the carnage, and while the problems had mostly been remedied, they had taken their toll on the populace. With the end of the war, people had returned to more peaceful pursuits, which was why he was sitting here going through history books to write an essay on the Holy War for his university application form. He didn't know how an essay regarding the Holy War, and occasionally his namesake, helped universities select students for any field besides history, but it was part of the application form for all programmes in all universities. Well, all universities in Paris, at least.
He still remembered the day Dizzy's death had been proclaimed. Everyone in Corsica, where he had been living with his mother then, had rejoiced, only to have all their joy dissipate with the announcement of the unimaginably massive death toll. His father had also died in the attack that day, much to his mother's distress. Personally, he hadn't felt the man's loss as keenly as she had, since his father had always gone wherever the Order sent him and as a result, had never been around much to begin with. Indeed, he barely knew the man.
Ky sat up and stretched, shaking out his golden blond hair that ended just a little below slim shoulders. The clock on the wall said that it was six in the evening; it was about time for dinner, and he was starting to feel hungry anyway. Tugging on his cream-coloured button-down shirt to straighten out a few creases, he slipped his notebook and pencil case into his blue and white sling bag, and placed the books he had been using back on their respective shelves. With that, he exited the Parisian library, stepping out into the warm summer air.
He fingered the large golden crucifix around his neck absently as he walked back towards the studio apartment he had rented just a few blocks away. He had moved to Paris to study medicine in the universities here, but his mother had chosen to remain in Corsica, where she was earning a fairly good income from teaching. Half the lasagne he had made yesterday was in the freezer and would be ready to eat after a few minutes in the microwave.
Suddenly, he paused. Something was just not right. As he stood, wondering what the sudden bad feeling he couldn't seem to shake was all about, he was abruptly almost deafened by a loud keening noise. He clapped his hands over his ears with a sharp cry, only to sink his knees as the pain started again. Doctors had never managed to figure out the cause of the severe chest pains that had plagued him whenever he was distressed from as far back as he could remember. He groaned both from the excruciating agony and the horrible timing just as a large Gear landed on the road just several feet away, crushing two unfortunate bystanders and creating a long fissure in the asphalt that ended just beside him.
So much for that university application; I'm probably going to die here anyway, he thought with a little resentment as he looked up at the Gear, which rather resembled an armoured mammoth with fangs, horns, clawed feet and a long tail in addition to the tusks. I guess it's always my fate to be killed by Gears. The creature swung its long trunk in his direction, and he forced himself to roll aside swiftly despite the debilitating pain that made even breathing laborious. Miraculously, he managed to escape the blow unscathed, but he highly doubted his blessings would last. At least it was slow for its size.
Just as the monster was about to swing the next blow, a red blur abruptly entered his field of vision, and the trunk was lying on the ground an instant later. Ky had to cover his ears when it shrieked loudly as black ichor spurted from the wound. He felt sick, but somehow managed not to throw up from the noxious stench in the air. That liquid was the closest thing Gears had to blood. He wouldn't call it blood. If they had blood, then they bled; if they bled, they were human, and that they certainly weren't. Even as it screeched, a spiral of flame shot right through it, and with a final scream, the creature collapsed to the ground with a resounding crash.
All was silent as he slowly clambered to his feet, dusting off his clothes slightly. The pain in his chest had faded into a dull ache, and he was mercifully uninjured. A quick look around told him that aside from some damage to the surrounding buildings, there appeared to be no casualties. There was nothing he could do to help the two that the monster had crushed upon landing. He suddenly wished it had landed on him instead. At least one less person would have died.
That was when he spotted a tall brunet walking away from the fallen Gear in his direction, the other's long brown hair carried slightly by the breeze blowing from the western sunset. He wore a short red sleeveless leather jacket over a tight black tank top tucked into white jeans, an outfit that fit snugly around his muscular body and lean hips. A bulky red headband rested on his tanned brow, and the belt around his waist looked like the kind Holy Order members wore. As the other neared, it finally clicked in Ky's mind that the man was probably the red blur from moments before, and that he therefore owed him his life. He could just make out the words "Rock You" carved into the headband, as well as obtain a closer look at his weapon, as the man walked closer.
"Um, thanks for saving me," he said quietly just as the brunet was about to pass him by. "Commander Sol Badguy?" he tried. He had seen pictures of the Fuuenken in some of the books regarding the Holy Order that he had read, and no one else could have been in possession of that sword.
Sol paused at the sound of his name in slightly accented English, and drove the Fuuenken into the ground beside him to grab a pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. "I wasn't," he muttered, shaking one out to hold between his lips as he took a silver lighter out of his other pocket.
Ky blinked. "Pardon?" he asked, wondering why the other man even carried a lighter, let alone used it, when he was obviously a master of fire magic.
"I wasn't saving anyone," he clarified, sounding as if he rather begrudged having done so. "Just killing Gears as usual." The lighter clicked sharply before a cloud of tobacco smoke rose up beside the blond.
The younger of the two recalled with more than a little annoyance the words of history books describing the American as lacking extensively in sociability what he had in power, and resisted the urge to snap back that the Holy Order was formed for the purpose of defending the populace from Gears. "My name is Ky Belucci," he introduced himself instead, forcing an easy tone into his slightly nasal tenor.
"Ah. One of those." The current Commander of the Holy Order slid mismatched red and gold eyes towards his slender companion. His predecessor's popularity had soared even further following his early demise and prompt sainthood. Everywhere he went not too long after that, people were naming their kids after the boy. He hadn't even saved the world. Sol couldn't imagine the level of idolization he would have been subject to had he actually lived to do so. "You're doing a pretty good job appearance-wise," he remarked with a smirk, taking in the cream-coloured button-down shirt with cross-shaped buttons and navy blue slacks the other was wearing. "Except for the hair. The boy was far too prissy to ever leave it that long."
It took a moment for Ky to realize that the other was talking about his namesake. He chuckled at the last comment. "This?" He flicked soft flaxen strands back gently. "I keep it like this because my mother says it reminds her of my late father. And you really should quit smoking, you know. It's bad for you."
"Gah," the brunet made a sound of disgust. "Even the personality's about there." That said, he pulled his sword out of the ground and resumed walking, looking as if he couldn't wait to get out of the other's presence.
"Eh, wait!" the blond called, suddenly noticing the gash in the American's right arm, most likely given by the monster he'd just felled. He had to run to intercept the other, who raised a dark eyebrow at him, evidently having been rather intent on ignoring him. He held his left hand over the wound, and it glowed briefly. "There. To say thanks for saving me." He offered the older man a sunny smile, biting back a tempting comment on the other's reluctance, before running off in the direction of his apartment just as Sol turned to look at his arm.
The wound was gone.
He awoke to the sick stench of burnt flesh and the familiar metallic smell of Gear ichor mixed with human blood. He had sunk to his knees in exhaustion. Everywhere he looked, the dead and the dying lined the ruined streets of the city they had been called to defend. Beads of sweat slid slowly down his face and dripped from his chin, fizzling for a moment on the sword he had dropped at his knees. The rescue units were hurrying around to save anyone that they could. There were so many… so many…
A heavy emptiness settled in his chest, as if his heart had turned to lead and taken a sinking plunge into nothingness. Most of the civilians had been evacuated, but there were so many who hadn't managed to escape in time and so many of his men who had fallen with them. If only they had arrived earlier, or sent an evacuation alarm sooner, or… No, now was no time to run through these bygone possibilities. Morale was important; he mustn't let the men see him like this.
He found himself slowly climbing to his feet. The wind tousled his blond hair, at least what part of it that wasn't plastered to his skin in a sticky mixture of perspiration, blood and ichor, but the air was hot and offered no respite from the dry fever of battle. Slowly, tiredly, he stepped forward, making his way back to camp. Left and right, people he had known lay unmoving on the dusty ground with blood pooling around them, most with their eyes wide open in horror, some with parts of their bodies missing.
A particularly familiar face gelled with a name in his mind and some memories. Jean had often spoken of his four hyperactive children and mild-mannered wife with a fond tone to his mellow bass. He remembered the days when the man had brought him soup and pastries from the sweet lady he'd only briefly met once. Madame Anya would be distraught. He slid his eyes shut, unwilling to see anymore, and resolutely faced forward. When blue eyes opened, they seemed glazed over, and he continued forward half-unseeing. His vision was blurring, and his throat felt tight. Maybe it was all the dry dust carried in the wind.
Suddenly, he found himself face to face with red and white cloth. He had inadvertently walked into someone as he had been stumbling along, lost in his regrets. Muttering an apology, he stepped back and pushed past without looking up.
"This is war, boy. People die," the man he'd just bumped into remarked matter-of-factly.
He spun around, feeling rage boil over at the other's cold words, such words coming from someone who'd never even made a real effort to do anything like protect something important. "You…" How heartless could he be? "You… They… They were good men! Good, respectable, God-fearing men, and they died for a noble cause!" His voice rose to a near-scream, and he just managed not to add the words, 'unlike you' as he reached out to aim a punch at the other's well-built chest. He managed to get in one punch before the other fixed a vice-like grip on his wrist with his free hand and held on. "They had families! And friends and… and LIVES! They were people you and I both knew, and fought alongside with! How could you be so… so heartless!" He nearly choked on the words as a tidal wave of emotion abruptly welled up from that vacuum his heart had fallen into and threatened to overflow. He wrapped his other arm around himself in a futile effort to stop that torrent of something that felt like it was about to explode out of his chest. He felt a familiar wetness on is cheeks and lowered his head even more than it already was. God, no… why, of all people, did he have to let this man see his tears! He'd just have the fact that he was baby rubbed into his face more than it already was. "How could you…"
The hand around his wrist tugged him forward sharply, and he stumbled, ending up with his face pressed to the soft fabric of the other's uniform. He tried to push away, but an arm snaked around his waist, and he no longer had the energy to fight the other's stronger hold. To his surprise, the other said nothing as sobs racked his body until he finally exhausted himself, blacking out in a warm embrace…
And Ky arched up sharply in bed, a loud cry escaping his lips as a familiar pain seared through his chest. He curled up on his side, wrapping his arms around himself and biting his bottom lip to keep from screaming again as wave after wave of pain shot through his nervous system. He sighed tiredly as the pain finally receded, rubbing his chest gently to ease away the remaining echoes as he rolled back onto his back. His chest pain attacks were common after nightmares, perhaps due to the strong lingering fear the frightening visions left behind, but this dream… It hadn't really been frightening, more like horrifyingly vivid.
The blond shook himself slightly to rid his mind of the image of blood-soaked dead men and women lining ruined city streets, their eyes wide open in the terror of having watched their enemies viciously hacking them to pieces. He remembered having had many nightmares as a child of fighting brutal battles, but having grown up surrounded by constant warfare, it wasn't anything unusual. Carding fingers through blond locks, he stared up at the ceiling, lost in thought. The dream had been so very vivid, almost like a fragment of a memory…
The fourth of July was a sombre day, particularly in France, and was usually observed like a religious holiday. People fasted and went to church. Those who could visited St. Kiske's memorial in a garden near the Arc de Triomphein Paris with flowers and white candles. The day's highlight was the midday march by members of the Holy Order, when they would march from their Headquarters to their former leader's memorial, and then on to a different church in Paris every year. This year they went to St. Sulpice.
Personally, Ky Belucci thought it was just a bit much, since his namesake had yet to actually save the world before dying, and he doubted the Commander before him, Sir Kliff Undersn, had garnered such worship. However, since Commander Undersn had been buried in America, or what was left of it, he really had no way of knowing for sure. His mother had taken him to his namesake's memorial once when he was very young. The area around it had been strewn with bouquets of white lilies and roses, as well as many white candles. He absently wondered if the people would do the same for Commander Sol Badguy if and when he passed away, and somehow doubted the likelihood of that possibility.
It was half past eleven at night as he approached the garden where Ky Kiske's memorial had been erected, the place quiet and peaceful now that the last of the pilgrims had paid their respects. Ever since the Holy War had begun, people rarely stayed out past eleven at night anyway, and the practice had stuck even after the war had ended. He was only coming this late to avoid the crowd anyway, and since tomorrow was his birthday, he figured he'd have a midnight birthday picnic at his namesake's memorial. Hence the cheesecake and tea he had brought along with the casablancas and candles.
The night air was crisp and cool, almost roughly chafing his fair skin as he walked, absently tracing the large golden crucifix against the soft wool of his beige pullover with his fingers. Dark blue boots made no sound as he stepped over flowers and wax from molten candles towards the memorial proper, bruising the occasional stray white petal. No one ever put candles or flowers on the memorial itself for fear of tarnishing its pristine stone; all offerings were left on the large expanse of grassland around it.
He paused in his step when he caught sight of the figure sitting on the stone dais of the memorial, leaning against its stone cross, absently smoking a cigarette in what appeared to be contemplative silence with his gaze on the clear night sky. He wondered if it would be appropriate to intrude upon the other man's seeming privacy, but in retrospect, he really didn't have a reason not to at least leave the flowers and candles.
"Bonsoir… Monsieur Badguy…" he greeted as he approached, not knowing how best to address the Commander, but figuring that he should probably be appropriately polite.
"You," was the only reply he received, and even that was an almost inaudible murmur around the stick of tobacco hanging limply from his lips.
It mystified Ky how it was possible for anyone to look so dishevelled without actually being unclean, even as he knelt to set his bouquet of casablancas down beside innumerable others on the grass near the memorial. The night breeze carried long brown strands in its gentle path. Tendrils of tobacco smoke rose in the same direction. He was dressed in the same outfit he remembered from that day about a week ago when they had first met, and the serenely wistful look on the other's face seemed somehow out of place. As he watched, the brunet reached for the previously unnoticed porcelain teacup next to him, absently cradling the small piece of china in his hand and running his thumb over the painted floral design.
"He liked teacups?" the blond asked quietly.
"Don't tell me you do," came the gruff response. Sol decided he really didn't need a bona fide Ky the Second around.
The younger man paused. "Quite, though I like tea sets, not specifically cups," he said at length.
The American couldn't decide if that was any better at all. "He collected them," he answered the other's initial question at last, and as he said the words, vindictively extinguished his cigarette on the inside edge of the delicate cup and dropped the butt in, leaving a trail of black ash to stain the shiny white porcelain. Hopefully, he was annoying the uptight brat even in death. Served him right for making the last eighteen years more of a living hell than it already was.
The action irked Ky somehow, but he maintained his silence. There was something familiar about the whole scenario, although he couldn't quite place it. He simply continued to gaze at the taller man as the other unscrewed the cap of a half-empty bottle of whisky and took a long swig of it before recapping the bottle and fishing the red and white pack of cigarettes out of his pocket to shake out another cancer stick.
"You know…" he began hesitantly. "I don't think he would have approved of you drinking, smoking and using teacups as ashtrays."
At that, the other's lips curled into an arrogant smirk. "I hope the boy's twisting down there." The brunet inclined his head to the stone slab he was sitting on as he lit his cigarette with his fire magic this time, muttering something Ky failed to catch.
"Pardon? Oh, and could you light these for me? I appear to have forgotten to bring something to light them with." He showed the American the three candles he had brought.
"I said... I hate the brat for stupidly dying and leaving me to take care of his lousy order," the other repeated. Ordinarily, Sol wouldn't have bothered repeating anything, but saying that again was just immensely satisfying. Maybe the kid would hear it from wherever he was, and hopefully get terribly irritated. His smirk widened at the thought of the late Commander getting all riled up in his typically uptight holier-than-thou manner somewhere out there. He glanced at the candles and contemplated refusing, but that would have been rather immature. So, he obliged with a flick of his wrist in their general direction. "Three's a lot for one person," he remarked casually, taking a long drag of his cigarette and exhaling a small cloud of smoke.
The blond laughed slightly at that, light-hearted and innocent, the laugh of one who had never seen the horrors that life mercifully hid from many, yet had cruelly revealed to some in their entirety. He remembered that laugh from a long time ago, but the one in his memories had an emptier ring to it, as if joy had been painted over a delicate frame concealing a deep-seated hollowness. He resented the way that boy had been able to laugh like that despite his bleak circumstances, even if he had been slowly breaking down inside underneath it all. He had seen the look in the kid's eyes after every battle, clear blue orbs clouded and glazed over with such sorrow, helplessness and desperation, blaming himself for not having done enough to prevent every single death. The boy was such an idealistic child; war was war; people died.
But humans needed hope, and that was what the kid had given them, maintaining the façade of strength and optimism over the pain and self-blame. He was precisely the sort of leader they needed, and the world had worshipped him as a saviour then pretty much the way they did today, but he wondered how many knew Ky Kiske as anything more than the heroic Commander of the Holy Order who fell in the Battle of Rome in the year 2173. Even his highest subordinates probably didn't know that he liked collecting teacups, let alone that he cried himself to sleep after high-casualty battles, a fact that Sol had chanced upon while walking past the boy's tent after one a particularly bloody land battle only to hear the young knight's choked sobs from within.
The other's reply brought him out of his reverie, although he didn't hear any of it. "Hm?" he asked vaguely.
"I said… They're not all for me. One's for my mother, and the last…" Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the blond pause thoughtfully as if he couldn't quite seem to recall whom the third candle was for. "The last… is for you…" he finished eventually.
Sol quirked an eyebrow and repressed a shudder at that. He most certainly didn't want or need any of the boy's blessings. He could hardly imagine the kinds of horrors St. Kiske would put him through. Anal-retentive "holiness", idealistic justice, mental linearity, and incessant nagging about the ills of smoking, drinking and blasphemy were a few that immediately came to mind. No, he'd definitely rather pass. He fairly regretted lighting the candles for the blond now. Not that he believed in any of that nonsense, but it was best not to give anything that horrific any reason to happen.
For Ky's part, he really didn't know why he had thought to bring a third candle for the boorish American, but for some mysterious reason, when he had grabbed that last one, it had been the unsociable Commander that had come to mind. He would perhaps have said it was for his father, had the man not been long dead and probably more blessed where he was than he could ever be here. But even if that had been a possibility, it would have been a lie to say so. He hadn't quite noticed before, but when he had tried to remember the person he had thought of as he took the third candle out of the box, the only face that had come to mind was that of the man sitting not too far away from him.
"Not that I don't think you have his blessings all the time anyway," he continued, glancing at the three candles he had placed over the molten remains of many others a little way away. "May I join you?" he asked, sitting down beside the older man without waiting for an answer. The Commander's infamous lack of sociability came to mind, and he wouldn't put it past Sol Badguy to actually say 'no.' Reaching into the plain brown paper carrier he had brought along, he fished out the paper box with the cheesecake slices, and was pleased to find that the man at the shop had thoughtfully included the necessary plastic forks when he opened it. "Happy birthday to me," he muttered under his breath. Turning to his companion, he held out a fork and the box. "Cheesecake?" he offered, not knowing why he had thought to buy two slices instead of one, seeing as he hadn't expected company, but feeling rather glad now for that moment of self-indulgence.
The American looked like he was about to refuse, but soon thought better of it. They ate in silence for a few moments before Ky suddenly said, "You don't hate him."
The only reaction he received was a puzzled look that seemed rather out of place on the arrogant visage. There was a presence about the man, he noted, watching the smooth ripple of wiry muscle under tanned skin as the other took another mouthful of cheesecake, a presence that felt like both a raging inferno and a gently burning flame at once and one that seemed somehow hauntingly familiar. It suddenly occurred to him that despite all appearances and having only been briefly acquainted, he knew that the Commander was someone he could trust. He might not make the most pleasant of company, but he wasn't a bad person, and his gruff grudging demeanour was one that Ky found exasperatingly likeable.
He leaned back against the stone cross, bending his knees a little more for comfort, to look up at the night sky. It was clear; no clouds obscured the almost perfectly round glowing white disc in the heavens or its many twinkling friends. "You don't hate him," he repeated, trying to make out the constellation he was seeing, but unsurprisingly found it a futile effort. It was impossible to tell from the few stars he could see. "If you did, you wouldn't even be here."
It was a rather long time before he received an answer. "I do. If he hadn't fucking insisted that I take over his stupid Order, the last eighteen years might have been infinitely more pleasant."
"You didn't have to agree," he pointed out calmly, putting the now empty cake box back into the bag with the forks and taking out the thermos flask of tea he had brought along.
"It was his bloody dying wish. What would you have done?" the older man retorted, voice gruff with irritation.
"That's hardly relevant to what you would have done. I doubt you're the kind that does things simply because they're expected of you." He inhaled the delicate scent of chamomile flowers from the open thermos, allowing himself a quiet sigh of contentment before sipping the steaming tea.
Sol scoffed derisively at that, but said nothing in response, and curtly tuned out the level of his brain that coolly informed him that had he believed in that sort of rubbish, the very idea that a certain anal retentive blond teacup collector might return to haunt him had he not complied was reason enough to put any thoughts of disobedience out of his mind.
Ky hid a slight smile, righteously silencing that little voice in his head that whispered to him how deliciously satisfying it was to be winning an argument against the brunet for a change. "Why are you here?" he pressed, taking another sip of tea.
The other contemplated not answering, but that would probably just give his annoyingly self-righteous companion the satisfaction and delight of thinking that he was right. Now where had he dealt with this particular attitude before? Oh, right. He remembered. "To annoy him to his face," he replied irritably, and just to elucidate his point, dropped the butt of the cigarette he had been smoking into the teacup as he took another long quaff of alcohol, before reaching for the slightly squashed pack in his pocket. Before he could shake yet another stick out, however, he found his hands suddenly grasping air.
"Stop that. It's bad for you," holding the pack of cancer sticks he had snatched away well out of the American's reach.
"Gimme that," the taller of the two grunted, reaching over to snatch his tobacco supply back.
Even the great Commander Kiske hadn't had the gall to physically stop him from smoking. Of course, that was probably because he had known full well that he wasn't going to succeed, since they had never met unarmed and doing so would have simply resulted in yet another victorious sword duel for the prototype Gear anyway. Dealing with a bloody civilian changed the dynamics of the situation quite a bit, seeing as murdering someone over a pack of cigarettes was just plain ridiculous, Sol had lived for over a century without resorting to such stupidity, and was therefore not about to start.
Ky quickly leaned away to hold the offending package even further out of reach. "No way. You really should quit," he insisted stubbornly.
The other merely leaned over to reach for his prized cigarettes, an action that, coupled with the blond's attempts to foil him, very soon resulted in his being sprawled over the other's more slender form, still trying to snatch his property back.
"Oof. Get off me," the younger man commanded with a laugh, still holding it out of reach.
Sol ignored that, instead clambering nearer to grab at the red and white package in the shorter man's outstretched hand. In response, Ky swiftly flung it as far away from him as possible, and it landed with a soft rustle somewhere among the numerous bouquets of flowers littering the grassy vicinity of the memorial. Seeing his chance, he quickly seized it, jumping up in the general direction of the throw.
"Oh, no, you don't," the blond muttered, and quickly leapt to stop the well-built brunet the only way that came to mind, using his full weight to pin the other to the ground in a well-aimed tackle that sent them both rolling over flowers, hardened candle-wax and grass. He grinned victoriously at the distinctly pissed off look on the grumpy American's face, brown hair a mess of white petals, green blades of grass and wax particles. He had the distinct feeling his hair was probably in the same condition, but he wasn't in any mood to care. It was high time they evened the scales, even if he didn't remember when any scales had materialized to be evened.
"Damn you."
The look of resigned annoyance looked so strange on the other's face; he couldn't repress a chuckle. "I think He'd do that to you first," he riposted evenly, shifting into a kneeling position on the grass beside the brunet.
"He already has."
"No, He hasn't. You just need to repent, and ask to be forgiven."
Sol mentally groaned. Not another one of those. Just when he thought he'd never have to hear this bullshit again. "He forsook me long ago, boy, and you wouldn't understand."
"The Heavenly Father won't forsake anyone who repents their sins and asks to be saved. And don't call me that." The word 'boy' irked Ky; it was as if the other saw him as nothing more than a child, oft to be humoured, never to be taken seriously, someone distinctly insignificant.
"Gah. I want nothing to do with that—" A hand clamped over his mouth rudely interrupted him.
"Don't blaspheme," the blond ordered gravely. The other's lips were surprisingly soft beneath his fingers and the tanned chin rough with stubble. He suddenly wanted to trace the firmly set jaw line with his fingertips, and quickly pushed the insane notion far from his mind.
Stronger fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled his right hand away. "Ch'," the other scoffed. "If his God were real, the boy would still be here." He could hear the trace of bitterness in the older man's deep, somewhat raspy voice, and he gazed silently at that impassive face.
It was then that he noticed that the other man's eyes were mismatched, one red and the other an almost golden shade. It was strange, but he didn't ask. Somehow he thought asking was a bad idea. Not only was Sol unlikely to tell, but he was also reluctant to ask for information he doubted he truly wanted to hear. He also couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen them somewhere before. Now that long brown bangs were no longer covering it, he could clearly see the words 'Rock You' carved into the bulky red metallic headgear the other always wore. The lyrics of the old Queen song, We Will Rock You, immediately came to mind, and he just knew for some reason that that was indeed where the phrase had come from. He couldn't explain it, this feeling of knowing the man lying on the grass beside him and wanting to know him better at the same time. Azure eyes caught the mildly wistful look in their mismatched counterparts as Ky waited expectantly for some continuation to their owner's previous statement.
When no further words were forthcoming, he finally said, "That's flawed logic. People die in war. That's why it's called war. It has no bearing whatsoever on the existence of God or the lack thereof."
"Hn. Now that's one thing the boy never got through his thick skull," the other muttered, eyes obviously on the memorial's stone cross.
Ky paused thoughtfully. "Actually, I think he did… It's just that… I suppose in his position as a leader and all, you can't help feeling responsible for the decisions you make. It always feels like you could have changed something to create a better outcome. Especially when it concerns the lives of people, very real people whom you fight alongside with everyday, people with families and friends who will mourn their passing, you just can't help going through the long list of 'if I had only known's every time you see the results of your choices. You'll always wish you could have done something differently, so that maybe, just maybe, they would still be alive." Somehow, the thought filled him with a deep sorrow, as if having opened a vacuum in his heart that had never been there before. "Don't you ever feel that way? Like… start thinking about how things would be different if you had done some things another way or not done them at all? Or maybe how some people would still be alive if you had only reached the—"
"Shut up," came the carefully blank interjection. He had no idea how close he was to the truth, and Sol didn't want to think about that.
The younger man blinked. It looked like he had hit a sore nerve there. "Ah… I'm sorry," he apologised quietly. "I didn't mea— Aaarhh!" His sharp, piercing cry of pain resounded through the silent garden as it cut off whatever he had been saying. He fisted his left hand in his beige pullover over the right side of his chest even as the other flatly asked if he needed a hospital, muttering something about the impossibility of a heart attack in someone his age. He shook his head, biting his bottom lip as another burst of white hot pain seared through his chest. Feeling the strength leave his body, he collapsed, weakly resting his head on the other's chest. He tilted his head up slightly to offer the American a faint smile. "It's alright… just an old problem… It'll pass…" he whispered reassuringly. "Just need… a little rest…"
Ky's face flushed as it occurred to him what they looked like just lying here in this position, but he didn't have the energy to move anymore. The pain made even breathing laborious, what more movement. And all of a sudden, he realized that he didn't want to move. It seemed somehow right to just lie here, listening to the steady sound of the other's heartbeat, breathing in that unique and familiar scent. It filled his body with a fiery warmth, and out of the blue, he found himself wanting it to last forever. His face heated up further at the direction he recognized his thoughts going in. The fact that the brunet couldn't see his face in this position only mollified him slightly. It was wrong to think such things. Yet he couldn't help but think he wanted to stay. As he slowly closed his eyes to the mutual silence, he suddenly noticed that the American had never released his right hand from when he had wrenched it from his lips. The thought brought a smile to his face.
So, make me happy and review? I'm really nervous about this fic… Lolz… New fandom jitters and all, you know? Please tell me what you thought, and just what I can do to make this fic better. Click that review button or e-mail me at shinigami . yumi gmail . com (minus the spaces). And FF . net always screws my formatting over irreparably. I hope it didn't turn out too bad.
Much thanks to:
Ishiwatari Daisuke (for a nice game with nice slashable characters)
Meinarch (my lovely beta-er and muse)
All the readers (and if you review, you get extra love and possible faster updates)