Never Enough

Notes: Duo is the main “he”. If you look, I started on the shonen-ai stuffs. If I actually manage to keep working on this songfic series, I'll get more going.

Another mission, more killing, more death… Over and over in an endless cycle. One time paired with pilot 03, another time 05… 04, 01… Didn't matter. Always switching, constantly on the move… always the same mission, same goal… Over and over. In the mecha, swinging a beam scythe and cutting through. All the screams and the pain and hurt and screams…

Little by little he was sure it chipped at them all, cut them apart with its constant repeat. Always affecting them, never leaving any of them alone.

But then again it wasn't just that. There were scars all along his body. But especially his shins and ankles. It was the best spot… and it stung there. Always stung, no matter how shallow you cut… It was a constant stinging, a pleasant sort of punishment that wouldn't fade for ages.

Tearing into a pillow, the bed, the sheets… so angry and hurting… But somehow it hardly penetrated farther than his skin… even though they were all emotions. It should have been felt in his heart… in his soul. But that was empty. That was hallow and gone… all senses were gone… Only a lingering misery remained, sometimes slashing him apart in full force and other times just hiding, waiting…

It was a total mistake, surely, but the art teacher had left it just lying there. No reason that he could think of… but it had been lying there. The razor, very clean and shiny, lay on the counter innocently [1]. So of course he picked it up… but his hands moved on their on. And he bled… it cut along his arms, deeper than usual, and took longer to heal. But the punishment was perfect, ideal, just as he'd wanted.

He screamed wordlessly as he attacked without much thought. Just another mission, planted the booms, blew the base, fight the mobile suits. Yes, routine enough, easy enough. Just more blood on his hands… that wasn't his own. It hardly mattered to him at all. He laughed to himself as he attacked. He deserved to be captured and tortured… surely… he was just too cruel.

Instead he was living. Living after friends had died… after an entire group had died… children, many children, and also the most important adults in his life… Why'd they die? Why did he live? Live just to kill… it was rather funny…

“Are you alright?” someone would ask and he'd grin it off, laughing quite convincingly. Why wouldn't he be all right? His life was okay. Nothing much to complain about. Besides the blood… the pain… But minor things, right? Nothing that he couldn't deal with.

He slapped at the button to open the cockpit and ran as fast as he could towards the settling debris where Wing had just destructed… where a body lay… And he was screaming to himself mentally and screaming aloud, too. Calling and crying with dry sobs and was so upset… Again, he'd done it. Had miscalculated and had forced the other to hit off the self-destruct. It was all a loop, traveling in a loop. Yes… he remembered kneeling beside dying bodies, holding them and begging them not to go… he remembered so clearly. It was just a circle, going around and around.

The blonde asked what was going on but he didn't respond, couldn't respond. His mask had fallen down, finally, and he looked openly bitter onto the war and onto life. He sneered quietly at the remarks of love and friendship that he heard. There just wasn't anything left of that. But surely it was not wrong to feel nothing, right?

He was pushed hard back onto his own bed as his roommate glared at him fiercely, demanding sternly “What the hell” was “going on?” He laughed easily, and then turned bitter, glaring up through messy bangs. Burning eyes of his own met the other's and he smirked at the rather stunned look that crossed the normally stoic pilot's face. Unfitting for his look, he giggled. Oh yes, everything pulling every which way…

The other was kneeling before him, looking at the two-day old cuts still healing along his palm. Then traveling down to remove boots and socks to see cuts criss-crossed up the ankles and shins - both, and on both sides. Thin welts, old and new… discoloration marking shallow scars… pale lines marking deeper ones.

And their eyes met… and for a moment his soul returned, his heart beat with a strange mixture of fear and hope…

Still, the next mission came and it was the repeat of every other one. More killing… blood, screaming, wicked laughing… He battled on, not caring to live or die. Having it not really matter. Only mattered if one of the others were there, if he needed to make sure they lived. It's all that mattered… if even that mattered…

[1] I would like to note here that in the glass-blowing room at school there was a very clean and shiny and gorgeous looking craft razor sitting on the counter. I kind of stared at it, blinking, and turned out of the room before anything happened.


	Lionna's Corner of Anime Fanfiction \| home GW FICs Never Enough ************** .00 NEVER ENOUGH By Shinigami Goddess (Lionna) Song: Never Enough by Papa Roach Warnings: mentions of self-mutilation, dark-ish Notes: Duo is the main “he”. If you look, I started on the shonen-ai stuffs. If I actually manage to keep working on this songfic series, I'll get more going. ************** Life's been sucked out of me And this routine's killing me Another mission, more killing, more death… Over and over in an endless cycle. One time paired with pilot 03, another time 05… 04, 01… Didn't matter. Always switching, constantly on the move… always the same mission, same goal… Over and over. In the mecha, swinging a beam scythe and cutting through. All the screams and the pain and hurt and screams… Little by little he was sure it chipped at them all, cut them apart with its constant repeat. Always affecting them, never leaving any of them alone. I did it to myself, I did it to myself, I said it would not be But then again it wasn't just that. There were scars all along his body. But especially his shins and ankles. It was the best spot… and it stung there. Always stung, no matter how shallow you cut… It was a constant stinging, a pleasant sort of punishment that wouldn't fade for ages. Somebody put me out of my misery Expression, stimulation hallow sense of myself Tearing into a pillow, the bed, the sheets… so angry and hurting… But somehow it hardly penetrated farther than his skin… even though they were all emotions. It should have been felt in his heart… in his soul. But that was empty. That was hallow and gone… all senses were gone… Only a lingering misery remained, sometimes slashing him apart in full force and other times just hiding, waiting… I did it to myself again It was a total mistake, surely, but the art teacher had left it just lying there. No reason that he could think of… but it had been lying there. The razor, very clean and shiny, lay on the counter innocently [1]. So of course he picked it up… but his hands moved on their on. And he bled… it cut along his arms, deeper than usual, and took longer to heal. But the punishment was perfect, ideal, just as he'd wanted. Somebody put me in my place Never enough He screamed wordlessly as he attacked without much thought. Just another mission, planted the booms, blew the base, fight the mobile suits. Yes, routine enough, easy enough. Just more blood on his hands… that wasn't his own. It hardly mattered to him at all. He laughed to himself as he attacked. He deserved to be captured and tortured… surely… he was just too cruel. Do I deserve what I got Instead he was living. Living after friends had died… after an entire group had died… children, many children, and also the most important adults in his life… Why'd they die? Why did he live? Live just to kill… it was rather funny… Now everything's OK, there's nothing wrong with me This seems unnatural to me I'd say in every way “Are you alright?” someone would ask and he'd grin it off, laughing quite convincingly. Why wouldn't he be all right? His life was okay. Nothing much to complain about. Besides the blood… the pain… But minor things, right? Nothing that he couldn't deal with. Somebody kick me in my place I feel as if I'm running back to where I started He slapped at the button to open the cockpit and ran as fast as he could towards the settling debris where Wing had just destructed… where a body lay… And he was screaming to himself mentally and screaming aloud, too. Calling and crying with dry sobs and was so upset… Again, he'd done it. Had miscalculated and had forced the other to hit off the self-destruct. It was all a loop, traveling in a loop. Yes… he remembered kneeling beside dying bodies, holding them and begging them not to go… he remembered so clearly. It was just a circle, going around and around. You ask what's wrong with me and I say nothing The blonde asked what was going on but he didn't respond, couldn't respond. His mask had fallen down, finally, and he looked openly bitter onto the war and onto life. He sneered quietly at the remarks of love and friendship that he heard. There just wasn't anything left of that. But surely it was not wrong to feel nothing, right? Is everything OK? Is something with me Pushing and pulling feelings eternal He was pushed hard back onto his own bed as his roommate glared at him fiercely, demanding sternly “What the hell” was “going on?” He laughed easily, and then turned bitter, glaring up through messy bangs. Burning eyes of his own met the other's and he smirked at the rather stunned look that crossed the normally stoic pilot's face. Unfitting for his look, he giggled. Oh yes, everything pulling every which way… The need to be happy, and free, and loving… but all the hate, and anger, and misery, and pain… My heart is yours I feel as if I'm running The other was kneeling before him, looking at the two-day old cuts still healing along his palm. Then traveling down to remove boots and socks to see cuts criss-crossed up the ankles and shins - both, and on both sides. Thin welts, old and new… discoloration marking shallow scars… pale lines marking deeper ones. And their eyes met… and for a moment his soul returned, his heart beat with a strange mixture of fear and hope… Life will knock me down Still, the next mission came and it was the repeat of every other one. More killing… blood, screaming, wicked laughing… He battled on, not caring to live or die. Having it not really matter. Only mattered if one of the others were there, if he needed to make sure they lived. It's all that mattered… if even that mattered… ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ OWARI ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ [1] I would like to note here that in the glass-blowing room at school there was a very clean and shiny and gorgeous looking craft razor sitting on the counter. I kind of stared at it, blinking, and turned out of the room before anything happened.