![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Hiro/Ando
Summary: Set during "Five Years Gone" after Peter rescues them from Matt. As Ando waits for Hiro to wake up, he ponders on what has made Hiro this way.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Ando´s hands knew the crisp feel of perfectly white computer paper stacked on the sloping tray of the printer, the raised edges of the computer keys, the heat seeping through the thick ceramic of his coffee mug. They know the smooth metal rails of the train, the stiffness of the lock of his apartment door, the cold, hard glass of a beer bottle after a hard day.
They’d never known the weight that a sword bears. Neither had Hiro‘s hands, still green and inexperienced as he held the newly stolen sword in front of him to protect Ando and himself back at Isaac’s loft. But this other Hiro, who appeared from the shadows like a ghost from Christmas future, forged himself along the edge of its blade. One glance at the predatory tension that permeated his body as he confronted Hiro made that clear. Nothing of the man Ando knew showed in this Hiro, all harsh lines and sharp movements and closed expressions. Hiro, his Hiro, had been afraid. Ando hadn’t, but a cold apprehension built in his stomach. Something had gone profoundly wrong for Hiro to have changed so radically, and he suspected that it was much more than just the bomb.
It was just one of the hundred things that had assaulted his mind in the last few hours, carving truths that he hadn’t seen before, but that he now realized had always been there. Now, in the shadowed silence of Peter Petrelli’s place, they came to the forefront. He held Kensei’s sword in his hands, the weapon that Hiro had been so certain would restore his powers that he broke into the private collection of one of the most powerful men in the country to get it. It belonged to Hiro now, to this Hiro, the one lying three feet away from him, still unconscious from the attack by Homeland Security. Ando lifted his eyes toward him. A dozen questions bubbled up in his mind, but he’s afraid to ask. Afraid of what might be said and of what might not be. He traced the godsend symbol on the hilt with his thumb, wishing he could squeeze the meaning of the last five years of Hiro’s life from that small piece of metal. He thought of his Hiro, taken by the same men that shot this Hiro full of electricity until he passed out. It terrified him to contemplate what he might be going through right now, at the mercy of a hostile government that not only persecuted people with his ability, but that also considered him a highly dangerous terrorist. Because they thought they had this one, the Hiro that survived after Ando was murdered by Sylar.
Everyone dies. It's inevitable; everybody knows that. But learning that the day is not in some distant year without a number, but in the same one you’re living right now, this very week, this very day, just wait a bit, you won't even notice that time’s gone by before it's already there. Only that in his case, it wasn't just waiting for him. It’d already happened. He’s dead, his body rotting somewhere in a hole in the ground, maybe with a headstone to mark his only presence left in this world. Or perhaps not. Maybe he was immolated in the explosion and that was the end of it. Not even his bones left in this world. It didn't feel real. How could it? How can one assimilate the end of one's existence? But even that, as he came to understand while he watched Hiro sleep, wasn’t the worst thing. And that frightened him more than anything else.
Hiro had always been, for as long as Ando had known him, a cheerful soul, never lasting long without a bright smile lighting up his face. Even when the heavy responsibility of his mission eclipsed his enthusiasm, his natural optimism won through in the end. All trace of that was now gone. When he evaded Ando's now obviously unanswerable question, his voice held barely a touch of the joyful humor Ando had grown to cherish. His smile was a faint shadow of its former self. It was as if so much time had gone by that his muscles no longer remembered how to make the gesture. Ando wasn't the only one who died the day the explosion. The Hiro who once stood for five hours outside a movie theater just to buy tickets for the new Star Wars movie, who had dragged him across an entire continent with his indomitable belief that he could save the world, that Hiro no longer existed. Because Ando wasn't there.
He stood up, putting the sword atop the chair, and approached Hiro. Even asleep, he looked lonely. Ando hesitated, but he willed himself forward and drew back the blanket that he‘d placed on him just enough to uncover his hands, which lay crossed over his chest. He reached for the right one, lightly pressing it with the tips of his fingers. Hiro didn't stir. Ando worried that the shot of electricity might have injured him, but Peter had insisted that he'd be fine, just needed a little rest. "He's taken plenty of rougher knocks than that," he'd said. Ando wondered about those rougher knocks, but he hardly wanted to imagine them. He lifted Hiro's hand, holding it in both of his. It was warm. That much was a comfort. On the underside, right at the base of his fingers, he felt the calluses that accompanied the long use of a sword. Close by, on the right side, he found a scar, no longer than the width of a fingernail, but it was one that Ando didn’t know. A long while ago, back in Japan when they were still just ordinary office workers, Hiro and he had shown each other their scars and exchanged the stories of their creation. They consisted of the usual accidents: scraping your knees as a child, being clumsy with kitchen knives, falling down stairs (that one had been him at his old school, incurring a long cut on his left elbow). The most common reasons in the world. Neither would have ever imagined that one day those anecdotes would feature life or death situations, gunfire, swordfights, and pain felt as vividly in the soul as in the body. They had no idea. None at all. Ando looked over Hiro’s fully clothed body, wondering how many new scars hid beneath those seemingly endless layers of black, deeper than the one he stroked with a restless finger.
Hiro's hand suddenly clutched his and yanked him forward as another hand tightened on his windpipe. He grabbed at the hand on neck, noticing that Hiro’s eyes were open, staring up at him with a look hard enough to cut diamonds. It frightened Ando to the marrow of his bones. That’s when it happened, a change so abrupt and disquieting that he would have lost his breath if Hiro weren't already crushing it out of him. Recognition swept over Hiro's face, and Ando finally saw what Hiro tried so hard to keep buried. It was grief flayed bare, burning with a passion capable of consuming a soul entire, not leaving even ashes in its wake. The word guilt was but an empty, insignificant sound next to the raw wound bleeding in Hiro’s eyes. It was everything Ando had never wanted to see in Hiro's face.
"Ando," Hiro whispered, his voice a drowned ghost.
He let go of Ando with a terrified quickness and backed away, apologizing over and over, the "I'm sorry"s tumbling out of his mouth like water bursting from a broken dam. Ando's throat ached, but he didn't touch it. Instead, he reached out to Hiro, trying to calm him down.
"It's okay,” he insisted. “I'm not hurt, Hiro."
Just that: Hiro. No "future" or “san” attached to it. When Hiro heard it he stopped moving and simply gazed at him. Some of the tension drained from his face and he smiled. Barely, but it was genuine.
"You haven't said my name like that the entire time you've been here," he said.
"I'm sorry," Ando said. "It's hard to think of you as the same Hiro I know.“
Hiro shook his head. "You shouldn't be apologizing. I attacked you. I reacted instinctively and I've hurt you."
He looked worriedly at Ando’s throat, which Ando had started to rub without thinking. There was such sadness in his voice that Ando didn‘t know how to respond.
"I'll be fine, really," he said. "I shouldn't have been standing over you like that. It's not your fault."
A shadow crossed Hiro’s face. He lowered his head and stared at his hands, which were folded over each other on his lap.
"It is," he said softly, and Ando knew that they weren't talking about his bruised throat anymore.
"There's something you need to know," Hiro began, but Ando didn’t let him continue.
"I already know," he said. "Peter told me that I died the day of the explosion."
Hiro looked up, confusion evident in his face.
"Peter? When--Oh, right, of course. He must have been surprised to see you.”
“He was. He asked if it was really me.”
Ando sat down next to Hiro, a little distance apart yet close enough to notice the tension gripping his shoulders.
“Was that what you were going to tell me before we were attacked?”
Hiro nodded. “I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s why I avoided it.”
“I understand. I wouldn’t have told myself either.”
Hiro regarded him with eyes still tender with hurt.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Ando forced a smile. "You keep saying that."
"I keep needing to."
"Sylar killed me, not you."
"He killed you because I couldn't stop him. Because I was weak."
"He had the cheerleader's power. There's nothing you could have done against that."
"I could have stopped time,” Hiro insisted, his voice growing agitated. “I could have teleported you away, done something, but my powers wouldn't work. I concentrated harder than I ever have in my entire life, but nothing happened. Nothing. I could only watch.”
His sorrow and anger soaked the small space between them. He squeezed his hands together so forcefully that the knuckles shone white. The veil that Hiro had pulled over the throbbing wound Ando saw earlier was splitting, torn threads dragging through the leaden air. Ando didn’t know what to say. There was nothing that he could say. Words had no meaning in circumstances such as these. He placed his hand on Hiro’s shoulder, feeling his breath still, and slowly reached all the way around his back. Hiro peered up at him, a frown knitting his eyebrows. Ando wasn’t sure what he saw in his eyes before he did what he did, if it was surprise or wonder or something else, but he’s done with dwelling on possibilities. He simply kissed Hiro full on the lips, knowing at that moment that he couldn’t possibly have done any different. It was gentle at first, just enough to test the waters, but the ripple soon became a flood as Hiro grabbed the back of his neck and kissed back with the intensity of a wildfire that had been restrained for five oxygen starved years and was only now bursting free. Ando gave himself into it completely, divesting himself of all the worries and pain of the last weeks. Emotions and thoughts stumbled over each other in his brain, but he ignored them all save for the happiness soaring in his heart, sudden and brimming and eternal for those few minutes that they were safe in each other. This was Hiro, his Hiro still, the man he’d fallen in love with, a truth that he hadn’t realized until now as he felt with every stroke of Hiro’s hands on his body that his friend loved him just as dearly. They held each as tightly as it’s possible to hold someone without breaking yourself open.
He didn’t want to let go, neither of them did, so they didn’t. Hiro rested his forehead against Ando’s, their rapid breaths mingling in the tiny gap between their mouths. Ando flickered his eyes open for a moment and noticed that Hiro’s were squeezed shut.
"I've had dreams like this," Hiro said in a whisper so slight that it seemed afraid of its own existence. "I’ve held you and I’ve kissed you and for just that little while, I‘ve been happy. But when I open my eyes, you‘re gone."
"If you open them now, I'll still be here."
"I know." Hiro's arms tightened on his back. "I know.”
He lifted his head just enough so that they could look each other in the eye. His smile shone so brightly that Ando saw the old Hiro peeking through.
“The world’s being generous to me today,” he said.
“It figured it owed you one,” Ando said, returning the smile.
He stroked the back of Hiro’s neck, weaving his fingers through the unfamiliar ponytail.
“I never thought I’d see you with long hair,” he said. “It looks good.”
“Thanks.” Hiro’s eyelids fluttered with pleasure as Ando continued massaging his nape. “That feels nice.”
Ando wondered how long it’d been since the last time Hiro had done this with anyone. Just because he still loved him didn’t mean that he hadn’t had other liaisons, but the fierce yearning in his face, combined with the grimness of his former expression made him suspect that such instances, if they happened, couldn’t have been very happy.
“Did you ever do this with me?” he asked.
“Once,” Hiro replied. “Just once. We didn’t have time after that.” He gazed at Ando wonderingly. “Have you?”
Ando shook his head. “I didn’t realize before how I felt. I think I knew, but so many things have been happening.”
“They’re probably different from the things that happened to us since I told Peter to get in contact with you. By the time that I got the sword, I already knew that I had to kill Sylar to save the world. What I didn’t know was that I needed to save you, too.”
A sick feeling gurgled in Ando’s stomach for a second, but he suppressed it, refusing to let it dominate him.
“You’ve changed so much,” he said, “because I died.”
Hiro nodded. “I couldn’t be me without you.”
“Then I won’t this time. I won’t die on you again.”
Ando kissed him, more slowly this time, but it was no less urgent.
“Maybe this time,” he murmured into his lips, “I’ll save you.”
Pairing: Hiro/Ando
Summary: Set during "Five Years Gone" after Peter rescues them from Matt. As Ando waits for Hiro to wake up, he ponders on what has made Hiro this way.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Ando´s hands knew the crisp feel of perfectly white computer paper stacked on the sloping tray of the printer, the raised edges of the computer keys, the heat seeping through the thick ceramic of his coffee mug. They know the smooth metal rails of the train, the stiffness of the lock of his apartment door, the cold, hard glass of a beer bottle after a hard day.
They’d never known the weight that a sword bears. Neither had Hiro‘s hands, still green and inexperienced as he held the newly stolen sword in front of him to protect Ando and himself back at Isaac’s loft. But this other Hiro, who appeared from the shadows like a ghost from Christmas future, forged himself along the edge of its blade. One glance at the predatory tension that permeated his body as he confronted Hiro made that clear. Nothing of the man Ando knew showed in this Hiro, all harsh lines and sharp movements and closed expressions. Hiro, his Hiro, had been afraid. Ando hadn’t, but a cold apprehension built in his stomach. Something had gone profoundly wrong for Hiro to have changed so radically, and he suspected that it was much more than just the bomb.
It was just one of the hundred things that had assaulted his mind in the last few hours, carving truths that he hadn’t seen before, but that he now realized had always been there. Now, in the shadowed silence of Peter Petrelli’s place, they came to the forefront. He held Kensei’s sword in his hands, the weapon that Hiro had been so certain would restore his powers that he broke into the private collection of one of the most powerful men in the country to get it. It belonged to Hiro now, to this Hiro, the one lying three feet away from him, still unconscious from the attack by Homeland Security. Ando lifted his eyes toward him. A dozen questions bubbled up in his mind, but he’s afraid to ask. Afraid of what might be said and of what might not be. He traced the godsend symbol on the hilt with his thumb, wishing he could squeeze the meaning of the last five years of Hiro’s life from that small piece of metal. He thought of his Hiro, taken by the same men that shot this Hiro full of electricity until he passed out. It terrified him to contemplate what he might be going through right now, at the mercy of a hostile government that not only persecuted people with his ability, but that also considered him a highly dangerous terrorist. Because they thought they had this one, the Hiro that survived after Ando was murdered by Sylar.
Everyone dies. It's inevitable; everybody knows that. But learning that the day is not in some distant year without a number, but in the same one you’re living right now, this very week, this very day, just wait a bit, you won't even notice that time’s gone by before it's already there. Only that in his case, it wasn't just waiting for him. It’d already happened. He’s dead, his body rotting somewhere in a hole in the ground, maybe with a headstone to mark his only presence left in this world. Or perhaps not. Maybe he was immolated in the explosion and that was the end of it. Not even his bones left in this world. It didn't feel real. How could it? How can one assimilate the end of one's existence? But even that, as he came to understand while he watched Hiro sleep, wasn’t the worst thing. And that frightened him more than anything else.
Hiro had always been, for as long as Ando had known him, a cheerful soul, never lasting long without a bright smile lighting up his face. Even when the heavy responsibility of his mission eclipsed his enthusiasm, his natural optimism won through in the end. All trace of that was now gone. When he evaded Ando's now obviously unanswerable question, his voice held barely a touch of the joyful humor Ando had grown to cherish. His smile was a faint shadow of its former self. It was as if so much time had gone by that his muscles no longer remembered how to make the gesture. Ando wasn't the only one who died the day the explosion. The Hiro who once stood for five hours outside a movie theater just to buy tickets for the new Star Wars movie, who had dragged him across an entire continent with his indomitable belief that he could save the world, that Hiro no longer existed. Because Ando wasn't there.
He stood up, putting the sword atop the chair, and approached Hiro. Even asleep, he looked lonely. Ando hesitated, but he willed himself forward and drew back the blanket that he‘d placed on him just enough to uncover his hands, which lay crossed over his chest. He reached for the right one, lightly pressing it with the tips of his fingers. Hiro didn't stir. Ando worried that the shot of electricity might have injured him, but Peter had insisted that he'd be fine, just needed a little rest. "He's taken plenty of rougher knocks than that," he'd said. Ando wondered about those rougher knocks, but he hardly wanted to imagine them. He lifted Hiro's hand, holding it in both of his. It was warm. That much was a comfort. On the underside, right at the base of his fingers, he felt the calluses that accompanied the long use of a sword. Close by, on the right side, he found a scar, no longer than the width of a fingernail, but it was one that Ando didn’t know. A long while ago, back in Japan when they were still just ordinary office workers, Hiro and he had shown each other their scars and exchanged the stories of their creation. They consisted of the usual accidents: scraping your knees as a child, being clumsy with kitchen knives, falling down stairs (that one had been him at his old school, incurring a long cut on his left elbow). The most common reasons in the world. Neither would have ever imagined that one day those anecdotes would feature life or death situations, gunfire, swordfights, and pain felt as vividly in the soul as in the body. They had no idea. None at all. Ando looked over Hiro’s fully clothed body, wondering how many new scars hid beneath those seemingly endless layers of black, deeper than the one he stroked with a restless finger.
Hiro's hand suddenly clutched his and yanked him forward as another hand tightened on his windpipe. He grabbed at the hand on neck, noticing that Hiro’s eyes were open, staring up at him with a look hard enough to cut diamonds. It frightened Ando to the marrow of his bones. That’s when it happened, a change so abrupt and disquieting that he would have lost his breath if Hiro weren't already crushing it out of him. Recognition swept over Hiro's face, and Ando finally saw what Hiro tried so hard to keep buried. It was grief flayed bare, burning with a passion capable of consuming a soul entire, not leaving even ashes in its wake. The word guilt was but an empty, insignificant sound next to the raw wound bleeding in Hiro’s eyes. It was everything Ando had never wanted to see in Hiro's face.
"Ando," Hiro whispered, his voice a drowned ghost.
He let go of Ando with a terrified quickness and backed away, apologizing over and over, the "I'm sorry"s tumbling out of his mouth like water bursting from a broken dam. Ando's throat ached, but he didn't touch it. Instead, he reached out to Hiro, trying to calm him down.
"It's okay,” he insisted. “I'm not hurt, Hiro."
Just that: Hiro. No "future" or “san” attached to it. When Hiro heard it he stopped moving and simply gazed at him. Some of the tension drained from his face and he smiled. Barely, but it was genuine.
"You haven't said my name like that the entire time you've been here," he said.
"I'm sorry," Ando said. "It's hard to think of you as the same Hiro I know.“
Hiro shook his head. "You shouldn't be apologizing. I attacked you. I reacted instinctively and I've hurt you."
He looked worriedly at Ando’s throat, which Ando had started to rub without thinking. There was such sadness in his voice that Ando didn‘t know how to respond.
"I'll be fine, really," he said. "I shouldn't have been standing over you like that. It's not your fault."
A shadow crossed Hiro’s face. He lowered his head and stared at his hands, which were folded over each other on his lap.
"It is," he said softly, and Ando knew that they weren't talking about his bruised throat anymore.
"There's something you need to know," Hiro began, but Ando didn’t let him continue.
"I already know," he said. "Peter told me that I died the day of the explosion."
Hiro looked up, confusion evident in his face.
"Peter? When--Oh, right, of course. He must have been surprised to see you.”
“He was. He asked if it was really me.”
Ando sat down next to Hiro, a little distance apart yet close enough to notice the tension gripping his shoulders.
“Was that what you were going to tell me before we were attacked?”
Hiro nodded. “I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s why I avoided it.”
“I understand. I wouldn’t have told myself either.”
Hiro regarded him with eyes still tender with hurt.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Ando forced a smile. "You keep saying that."
"I keep needing to."
"Sylar killed me, not you."
"He killed you because I couldn't stop him. Because I was weak."
"He had the cheerleader's power. There's nothing you could have done against that."
"I could have stopped time,” Hiro insisted, his voice growing agitated. “I could have teleported you away, done something, but my powers wouldn't work. I concentrated harder than I ever have in my entire life, but nothing happened. Nothing. I could only watch.”
His sorrow and anger soaked the small space between them. He squeezed his hands together so forcefully that the knuckles shone white. The veil that Hiro had pulled over the throbbing wound Ando saw earlier was splitting, torn threads dragging through the leaden air. Ando didn’t know what to say. There was nothing that he could say. Words had no meaning in circumstances such as these. He placed his hand on Hiro’s shoulder, feeling his breath still, and slowly reached all the way around his back. Hiro peered up at him, a frown knitting his eyebrows. Ando wasn’t sure what he saw in his eyes before he did what he did, if it was surprise or wonder or something else, but he’s done with dwelling on possibilities. He simply kissed Hiro full on the lips, knowing at that moment that he couldn’t possibly have done any different. It was gentle at first, just enough to test the waters, but the ripple soon became a flood as Hiro grabbed the back of his neck and kissed back with the intensity of a wildfire that had been restrained for five oxygen starved years and was only now bursting free. Ando gave himself into it completely, divesting himself of all the worries and pain of the last weeks. Emotions and thoughts stumbled over each other in his brain, but he ignored them all save for the happiness soaring in his heart, sudden and brimming and eternal for those few minutes that they were safe in each other. This was Hiro, his Hiro still, the man he’d fallen in love with, a truth that he hadn’t realized until now as he felt with every stroke of Hiro’s hands on his body that his friend loved him just as dearly. They held each as tightly as it’s possible to hold someone without breaking yourself open.
He didn’t want to let go, neither of them did, so they didn’t. Hiro rested his forehead against Ando’s, their rapid breaths mingling in the tiny gap between their mouths. Ando flickered his eyes open for a moment and noticed that Hiro’s were squeezed shut.
"I've had dreams like this," Hiro said in a whisper so slight that it seemed afraid of its own existence. "I’ve held you and I’ve kissed you and for just that little while, I‘ve been happy. But when I open my eyes, you‘re gone."
"If you open them now, I'll still be here."
"I know." Hiro's arms tightened on his back. "I know.”
He lifted his head just enough so that they could look each other in the eye. His smile shone so brightly that Ando saw the old Hiro peeking through.
“The world’s being generous to me today,” he said.
“It figured it owed you one,” Ando said, returning the smile.
He stroked the back of Hiro’s neck, weaving his fingers through the unfamiliar ponytail.
“I never thought I’d see you with long hair,” he said. “It looks good.”
“Thanks.” Hiro’s eyelids fluttered with pleasure as Ando continued massaging his nape. “That feels nice.”
Ando wondered how long it’d been since the last time Hiro had done this with anyone. Just because he still loved him didn’t mean that he hadn’t had other liaisons, but the fierce yearning in his face, combined with the grimness of his former expression made him suspect that such instances, if they happened, couldn’t have been very happy.
“Did you ever do this with me?” he asked.
“Once,” Hiro replied. “Just once. We didn’t have time after that.” He gazed at Ando wonderingly. “Have you?”
Ando shook his head. “I didn’t realize before how I felt. I think I knew, but so many things have been happening.”
“They’re probably different from the things that happened to us since I told Peter to get in contact with you. By the time that I got the sword, I already knew that I had to kill Sylar to save the world. What I didn’t know was that I needed to save you, too.”
A sick feeling gurgled in Ando’s stomach for a second, but he suppressed it, refusing to let it dominate him.
“You’ve changed so much,” he said, “because I died.”
Hiro nodded. “I couldn’t be me without you.”
“Then I won’t this time. I won’t die on you again.”
Ando kissed him, more slowly this time, but it was no less urgent.
“Maybe this time,” he murmured into his lips, “I’ll save you.”
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