Blessed Don Juan
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By Lady Lye
© 2002
Disclaimer: I own none of the elements of Gundam Wing, however, the ideas of what may have happened after the war belong to me. The song is “Like the Rose”, by B*Witched. The fic in its entirety is my own compilation, and not to be ripped off in any way. Many thanks to Amazon for providing the inspiration for a Dorothy-perspective outlet, and to Mouse, GWP and my mother for beta-ing. My sort-of apologies for all the commas- I’m rather comma-happy, and I wrote the way I feel Dorothy would speak for this piece. Thus, the commas. It’s kinda poetic that way- just be sure to pause and such for them, and you’ll get the right tone.
--,-‘--@--,-‘--@--,-‘--@--,-‘--@--,-‘--@--,-‘--@I can still see him, exactly as he was the last time I saw him; A perfect reproduction, down to the last, minute detail, as complex as the memory of a rose, a Don Juan. They bloom here, beneath my window, and above it, too, as they climb the face of the building. Plush, fat, round, and velvet, red as blood and made of a hundred petals, each exquisite. Within, small golden pods lie, beckoning to insects to come spread them around. Greenery forms a fantastic collar at the flower’s base, spinning outward in a fan of soft spikes. Their stems and branches grow thick as cables, accentuated by brown thorns that pierce your skin without hesitation, sliding easily into flesh. The leaves begin almost as red as the blossoms, and age to a perfect emerald. Every time I come home and see this wall ensnared by its floral lover’s embrace, I cannot help but be awed and delighted.
So it is when I see him. For a long time, I could do so only in my mind. I knew his name before I knew his face. I imagined him somewhat fashioned after Mr. Yuy, who yet seems the epitome of these young soldiers’ battle. Hard, and cold and capable, but steadily burning some fuel that keeps him going. Heero is like a machine that way; he is callous and unapproachable, and for that many people despise him, or write him off. I pity him. He intrigued me from the start, for I had never seen anyone with that intensity. At last I realized that wasn’t true; I had seen intensity like his too many times. It was in my father’s eyes when he left to fight and die. It was in Miss Relena’s when she swore never to yield to Oz’s demands for violence. It was in Milliardo’s when he took on leadership of White Fang. This inner fire burns and consumes. It is the drive to change things, to make a difference, to leave some mark on the roads of history. Change is slow, though, and fuel runs low. At last, it perishes, its last embers spent. Yet Heero’s fire has never burnt out.
I had the pleasure of observing Milliardo aboard Libra, but I could never see into his head. I learnt of his true motives from his actions, rather than his words. I do not know what he said to Heero Yuy in their last battle, but I believe Zechs did not believe he would survive it. I believe he intended to give Heero the fight he needed to give the stoic, driven, young soldier closure for this chapter in our lives.
The war is over, and Heero’s vendetta with his personal enemy is done. With this new era, Heero can become a new person to the soldier that he was. Milliardo recognized the fire in him. I believe that in his heart, he named Heero his heir to the world, the one that must be lead into peace. Milliardo knew himself to have too many faults. He never believed himself strong enough, but, and here I agree with him, Heero has the strength and the will to bring about a new age of peace.
It encouraged me when, four years ago, Heero emerged from obscurity to claim his inheritance. He stands at Miss Relena’s side as a symbol, and together they are changing the world. She is the Queen, the Dove, the promise of tranquility and beauty. He is the force that will bring about her reality, and the people love them for it.
Are they lovers? No, and neither wishes to be. Miss Relena has admitted to me an affection for him that began as a crush and has become respect, but she will always admit his faults. She is terribly maternal, Miss Relena, and in many ways she coos over Heero like a mother hen- and in the next breath berates him for his stupidity, and shoves him out of the nest to learn to fly on his own. At first it confused and irritated him, but Heero is learning to respect her as well. Theirs is a mutual partnership, but it is not love. It is the cruel fate of legends such as themselves to never find love as lies in storybooks.
…When was it last that I saw him? Perhaps… Yes, I believe it was at Relena’s Christmas party last year. She has invited me annually, and I have always accepted and attended, out of loyalty to her. I felt uncomfortable the first year, as did many others, but slowly we have all gotten used to one another. I am usually a wall-skirter at these events, the lone baroness who roams the room amongst people she does not speak to with her champagne glass. I’ll admit, I have the tendency to approach people when they are least ready for my commentary, but they have often thanked me for it later. The young man Miss Relena is being wooed by would never have had the courage to follow her onto the terrace if I had not intervened. I believe the next Christmas will see them engaged.
But ever I digress. I feel the need to explain myself here, so you must forgive me my tedium.
The evening began as always, with myself arriving early at Miss Relena’s home. She and I live so far apart these days that I must fly in, always at the most inconvenient hours. As my cousins had requested my presence earlier in the week, I had changed my usual routine from arriving a week before the party and staying for a few days after it, to arriving on the day of the party and remaining through New Year’s. Relena was happy to see me, as she always is. She bade me to my room to unpack and refresh myself, promising that we would catch up on the last year at a later time. Travel is indeed wearying, and I accepted her offer, and, I confess, fell asleep in my bath. I awoke just in time to dress for the party and arrived at a fashionable time.
My hostess was nowhere in sight, and I asked after her. A woman informed me that she had gone to her office to retrieve something, and would likely return shortly. I could wait if I liked. My cursory assessment of the room, however, told me that there was no one I wished to pass the time with yet in attendance, and so I excused myself to seek out my old schoolmate. Her office door was ajar, and I knocked before pushing it open a little more.
It is one of my great accomplishments to have perfected a social mask. It has saved me endless anguish. For instance, if he had seen my reaction clearly on my face, events would perhaps not have turned out as they did.
It was not the first time I had seen Duo Maxwell recently. The entire world sees him on television nearly weekly, or however often the news and entertainment hounds wish to focus on him. He has become even more of a celebrity than Miss Relena, and it’s no small wonder.
I, like many others, learned of his past piecemeal, from magazine articles and sporadic interview clips. His earliest memories find him living on the streets of L2, an urchin as lawless and desperate as any other. To that effect, he is presumed an orphan, and without family. There are, of course, intervals during which various con artists buy their fifteen minutes of fame by claiming to be his relations. DNA testing has always proved them wrong. When he was still a child, he was taken in by the Maxwell Church, and remained there until the horrific massacre that killed everyone in it, except, it seems, him. Rumors have it that he was not in the church at the time, although the reasons for this are sketchy and consist mainly of hushed whisperings. From these two events, he has derived the name we know him by: Duo Maxwell.
From that horrible end, he returned to the streets, until he was taken in by the mysterious people behind Operation Meteor, and trained as a Gundam Pilot. He speaks sparingly of these times, but is always adamant that when he learned of Operation Meteor’s intent he reneged, as did the other pilots, and they became the fighting force we know them as today.
It’s really little wonder that when the war ended, he turned to helping those like himself. Hands of Maxwell is a program dedicated to building housing and schools for street children, and is formed entirely of volunteers. Urban legend runs that when he and others destroyed their gundams, Duo swore that if he was ever going to do anything again, it would be “with his own two hands”. He spent the first three years following the war doing literally that: building homes block by block with his bare hands and the help of volunteers, whose numbers became so great that they attracted the attention of local news programs, and finally the entire Colonial Associated Press. Funds and volunteers poured in, clamoring to help, and he established similar programs on all the colonies. It is the largest non-profit charity in the ESUN. But for Duo, it wasn’t enough. He could take homeless children off the streets, but there were still kids being sent there everyday.
In recent years, he has become an activist in politics and social circumstances, advocating better laws, and better practices for people to live by. Since his efforts began four years ago, rates of family violence, divorce, and children suffering from other abuses have dropped by nearly a third. His messages are in many cases common sense, but they speak to people, and they listen to him.
He, too, has the fire of change.
At first the media wanted to know who it was that had brought about these revolutionary changes. They hailed him as a modern saint. But it quickly became apparent that Duo has more than just good leadership skills and dedication.
He’s gorgeous. The boy I knew at fifteen has grown into a man that makes women, and men, sweat. At first glance, it is his sheer height that is most striking. He easily clears 6’5”, and has the broad shoulders and trim muscles to go with it. He has never done more than trim his signature braid, and it still falls to his- forgive the term- “ass”. But it is his eyes and his smile that are most disarming, and coupled with his dedication to such a good cause- no one could resist him.
No one.
Not even me.
As my gaze fell upon him in Relena’s office, I felt the sudden flush of realizing one is in the presence of an untouchable god-on-earth. Shock and confusion made my mind reel as it tried to reconcile Duo, the celebrity, with Duo, Relena’s friend. For I wasn’t being met with the straight-backed, proud, flame-in-the-wind that was the driving force in colonial progression.
He was leaning on her desk, long legs sticking out boyishly despite his fancy dress, which was probably being ruined by the abuse. His arms were crossed over his chest, itself clad in a white shirt of a similar cut to a priest’s, if the wrong color, and a black vest embroidered in gold thread and a pattern of red holly berries. He was smiling and laughing, relaxed and jaunty, a gold stud in one ear giving him a rakish look. I had never had the pleasure of seeing that light in his eyes before. He was truly happy in this one moment, taking pleasure in the simple joys of talking with a friend too-long unseen.
Miss Relena was half-bent over the desk, firing the witty commentary that had him so in stitches. She had left her golden hair falling down her back, unadorned by anything, and I strongly suspected she had been too distracted to do anything with it. She wore a simple red blouse and long black skirt, delicate silver and garnet dangling from her ears and throat. A bracelet lay on the desk half under a pile of papers, waiting to be put on, and was covered in the next moment as she continued moving them. Red has always been one of her better colors, and she never wears enough of it. Peace queens do not wear red. (And in my humble opinion, neither do they wear
“-big galoot. You never RSVP, you just show up- I haven’t had time to put my things together, my office is a mess- and the cook will never be able to make enough food on such short notice!” She was teasing, of course, and straightened as she found a file and flipped through it. She fixed Duo with a penetrating look. “You’re a horrible person, Duo Maxwell. I don’t know why I bother inviting you.”
Duo chuckled and took the file from her. “Well, now it’s cuz you’re stuck with me,” he winked and turned his attention to the papers.
Relena mock-sputtered at the affront to her political savvy, that it might be dependent on her good relations with him, and looked around for something to fire back with. Instead she found me, and broke into a genuine smile. “Dorothy! Come in, come in- Duo, stop being a hick and stand in the presence of a lady.”
My nerves jangled as I walked in- would he really do so? And if he did, would he remember me? Or would it just be being polite because he had been ordered to be? He had a thousand faces and names to remember on a daily basis, surely mine wasn’t consequential enough to span the years. Worst of all, did he still hate me, even after all these years? But I was getting upset over nothing.
He never looked up, just raised a hand in deference, still staring intently at the contents of the file. A cursory grunt and the hand was lowered. With a tremendous whap, Relena got his attention back and he yelped. “What was that for?!”
“Did you even hear a word I said? Say hello,” Relena has certainly gained confidence and a healthy spirit since the war. She’s like a different person, and all her friends are happy for her, including me. Poor Heero is the one who bears the brunt of it, after all. She picked up her bracelet and went to a bathroom leading off the office, and I could see a make-up bag and hairbrush waiting beneath the mirror.
Duo blinked dumbly after her as the door closed, and we were alone. I could see the thoughts clearly on his face as he schooled his features and turned to me. One of ‘Lena’s socialite ‘friends’; essentially brainless but almost sweet and entirely harmless. He no doubt had seen enough of the well-meaning sort in his line of work. A generic greeting died on his lips as he recognized me. His posture straightened and he gave as good a bow as can be done from the edge of a desk. “Miss Catalonia. Long time no see.”
I bobbed my head in acknowledgement, and demurred, “Mr. Maxwell. You’re looking well.” More than well. In his prime was more like it. I cannot guess what it was he saw, but I can tell you how I saw myself that night.
Relena is one of the few women I know able to keep her hair halfway down her back and not look foolish, but I had to cut mine several months back. It now comes just below my shoulders, and I’m not entirely unhappy with it. For the occasion, I had swept it back and up, blue velvet holding it secure while the rest spilled freely in the smooth curtain it naturally makes, cause for not little vanity on my part. My shirt was of the same blue velvet, deeper than my eyes, and fell off my shoulders, scooping just below my breastbone in front. The long sleeves belled slightly, and it fell tunic-like past my waist. It is one of my favorite shirts. Because I still felt weary after travel, I had chosen a pair of black slacks and simple but elegant black sandals, knowing Relena’s home was warm enough for them, and not having to worry about braving the elements on the trek home. At my ears shone carefully crafted silver snowflakes that twisted and caught the light, a gift from Quatre Winner for my twentieth birthday. His note had agreed that over time, enmity fades, and respect for a foe well met remains. We still keep in touch. The earrings found a match for their sparkle in a simple tennis bracelet of finest diamonique.
Having had no one to approve the ensemble beforehand, I realized with trepidation that this was its maiden voyage. Damn Relena! This was precisely why I had come to see her in the first place!
He nodded absently, eyes looking me over as surely as I was comparing him to the last time I had seen him. I couldn’t say what his reaction was; those indigo eyes were too well guarded. But he held the folder almost closed in his lap, his thumb maintaining his place, and gave me his full attention. I had the distinct impression of being on display for perusal, like an- an I don’t know what. It was rather uncomfortable. “Likewise,” he said, but I couldn’t find any hidden inflections.
To my great credit, I did not blush. “I wasn’t aware you were joining us this year.”
“I wasn’t. But Relena’s invitation…” he gave a low whistle. “That woman can pull vicious guilt trips. She sent me this long, sappy letter about how I never visit her anymore and I never even write. So,” he ducked his head a bit sheepishly, his eyes dancing with mischief and good nature. “I felt guilty, and I came. And for payback I didn’t tell her I was coming,” he winked.
I smiled. This is an exhibition of the tremendous charm that seals the deal on girls’ and boys’ souls to the devil, in hopes of just a few more minutes of speaking with him. It makes my stomach do flip-flops, too, but that’s not why I… whatever. “She’s right, you are a horrible person.”
“ME?” he batted those big blues at me, innocently. “Moi? MOI? Duo Maxwell? Me, horrible? Noooo, neeeever…” That crooked grin was typical of him. I rolled my eyes, still smiling. Inwardly, I was flattered that he felt comfortable enough to joke with me like this.
Relena swept out of the bathroom, half her hair pulled back and fastened by an ornate but elegant red and gold-wire clip. She looked beautiful now that she was ‘finished’. She looked up and smiled, “There, now was that so hard? Duo, stand up straight- those clothes aren’t made for you to lie around in them.”
Duo smirked and stood. “Yes, mother. As you say, mother. Right away, mother.”
“You-“ she lightly thwapped at his arm, eliciting a chuckle. She rolled her eyes and smiled at me. “Sorry to leave you with the buffoon, Dor,” she took my arm and steered me out, back to the party. “He’s incorrigible sometimes-“
“Only sometimes?” he called behind us. His voice echoed amongst the cavernous, high ceilings and marble floors, until at last it faded away.
It was the last I saw of him that night, or for the rest of my visit. Popular men like Duo Maxwell are pulled in a thousand directions. They rarely have time to chat with ancient acquaintances that they once may have regarded as enemies. He was lost to me in the throngs of people who clamored for his attention, and when I worked up the courage to ask Relena a few days later, she told me he had had to leave that same night.
I try not to dwell on it. I never liked girls who wasted their time mooning over men who didn’t even know they existed. But I find myself once more a hypocrite. While I don’t stalk him, I can’t let go. Some have criticized Miss Relena during the war for constantly tailing Heero, but she, an amateur, was never as skilled as I. She didn’t have the knowledge or the resources. I, with all my hideous connections, was much more talented at getting reconnaissance photos and knowing just when to spy. I was curious of Heero because Miss Relena was. In time, I came to realize his significance, but at first I played the games of an obsessed teenager, mostly to amuse myself.
I cannot ‘stalk’ Duo. I do not wish to. It wouldn’t be- right. I suppose my feelings for him must run deeper than that. I respect his privacy. Or perhaps I’m just more mature, and value things like that more myself, and the courtesy now extends to other people. I wouldn’t live in a small brownstone in this huge city if I didn’t.
These have been trying times for me. The trouble began during the Mariemaia Incident, when I aided a bunch of yokels in showing their support for the gundams. I had already been living apart from most of high society, distancing myself from old friends and enemies. With this public show of support, I was labeled a sympathizer within the Romafeller Foundation. And there was nothing I could do to deny it. They had long suspected and been wary of me, ever since I had been so keen to remain with Miss Relena in Sank, and they leapt at the excuse to attack me. That my ostracization came later, rather than sooner, I owe to the fathers of my peers, some of whom fought for me tooth and nail. I could say nothing in my own defense, because it was true, I did sympathize with the gundams and what they symbolized. I was allowed to stay on, on a sort of probation.
My nineteenth birthday present to myself was to quit the Foundation, and move as far away as possible. They shunned me, scorned me, slandered me. I didn’t care. I was disinherited, I didn’t care. My personal investments, wisely made long before the trouble could become a danger, suffered somewhat, but I knew they would recover. That year, I was utterly alone. No one wrote. No one called. No more invitations came. I felt like a hermit, or a recluse, but I had taken this apartment in the midst of a bustling city. It was very surreal, and the days began to blend together. I suppose this is what mediocrity feels like. People I had known became just people on TV. Two-dimensional; a little less real. My old life began to feel like an elaborate dream I’d had a long time ago. Season melted into season, and before I knew it, it was winter.
That was when the first invitation, and truly the first piece of personal mail, arrived. It took me so by surprise that at first I was sure it must have been addressed incorrectly. It was late November at the time, and so the doves and angels embossed on the front of the carefully calligraphied card meant little to me. I nearly dropped it when the familiar signature greeted me. Relena. It was an invitation to her Christmas party, right on schedule. I couldn’t understand how she’d managed to find me, or why. I wondered if it was a cruel joke, but there was a small note penned on the back.
PS- Dorothy, we are looking forward to seeing you again. Come, as always, as a friend.
And then I knew that it was real, because Relena was the only person ever to call me friend to my face. I went to the party that year, AC199, and it was an entirely new circumstance. I was greeted with warm smiles by people when they glanced my way. They went out of their way to show me that I was welcome to be a part of their cause. Looking back, I know that it was a political move for many who were there, but there are others… others whom I know took me into their hearts that day. They are the ones I approach at rare moments when I return to Relena’s. I’m just another guest these days, another ally. I mostly belong, and if I wanted to, I could really become part of them, but I don’t. I never want to be ‘part of’ a group like that again. After that party, Quatre sent me the earrings, along with a simple, but profound letter. I won’t quote it, because it was private, but his words and the gesture touched me deeply. I have never failed to return for Relena’s parties since.
I have lived in the same brownstone for four years, and still my life seems mundane. I don’t have to work, but I volunteer at the local chapter of Hands of Maxwell, working with the kids. I know a secret part of me is hoping that one day he’ll walk through those doors and smile at me, as he did at Relena’s last Christmas, but I know it’s not going to happen. It sounds like a silly, pointless crush, I know. A grown woman who’s seen the ins and outs of life the way I have ought to know better. But I can’t let it go. I look around my home, and it’s beautiful, but it’s empty. I look at my job, and it’s unfulfilling. I look in my mirror, and I see an incomplete person who is existing, and not really living.
Some days it really depresses me, and the people I work with and the kids I teach notice. They sort of smile and tell me to cheer up. They’ve given up trying to get me to talk about myself. I’m just this reclusive, rich, unhappy young woman who donates her time to them, asking that in return, they not ask for more.
On those days, everything is gray. Sometimes the sky obliges and gives me an overcast sky to match my overcast mood. I pray for days like those, because I don’t have to see the colonies, shining like stars above my head. The stars are a constant reminder, but even they can be blocked out by thick gray clouds of depression.
But then… I walk up to my little stoop leading into my little brownstone, and it’s not all gray. Nor is it brown. The brick façade is ever littered with green stalks, threading their way up and back down, interlacing amongst themselves so thickly in place that they appear to be stronger than the wall they cling to.
And the greenery is peppered with roses. Fat, round, velvet, blood-red roses. Don Juans. Bright spots of color bursting free of the monotonous earth tones, which are themselves rare enough in this city of cement and iron. Seeing them, so vibrant and full of life, is what gives me the courage to carry on. The passage of time is marked in blossoms, and stem growth. I spend my weekends pruning and caring for them, nurturing nature’s loveliest gift to me.
Duo is like that, like these roses. He is so unlike anyone else I have ever known. Selfless, independent, dedicated to something he truly believes in. Kind, generous, aware. Intelligent, witty, and able to admit to and laugh at his own mistakes. Charming and handsome and wholly unaware of it. He is the bright spot of color in the sea of mundanity. Even Miss Relena and Heero Yuy cannot compare with him. They and the other gundam pilots are flowers, too. The carnations, posies, and snapdragons of the lower flowerbed; beautiful in their own way, but not as hardy or as exquisite. They cannot hold a candle to the rose. I would give a lot to have a rose in my garden. A true Don Juan. The one who stole my heart without even realizing it.
If he knew… I wonder what he would say, or what he would do. Part of me longs that he would come riding up to my front door like a knight in shining- well, lets be modern- gundanium, and carry me off into the sunset. The rest of me quakes in fear of his ever finding out, despite its obscurity, and the stupidity, as the only way I will ever get what I want is to tell him. But it’s safer not telling… It’s sort of my little secret, something I can treasure on cold nights. I don’t think my heart will ever be my own again. Twenty-two, and I am already bound.
It’s going to be a long existence.
But at least I have my roses, shielding my little home. I have my principles, and my freedom. I have good friends in the form of Miss Relena, and Quatre Winner. The only thing I really lack, is a constant bright spot of color. Even roses die back, but not my Don Juan.
My Don Juan… My Duo Juan… My Duo Maxwell… Without him, life is drab…
Duo, though you will never know, ai shiteru.
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“You can complain because roses have thorns, or you can rejoice because thorns have roses.” -Ziggy
~Fin~
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