Author's Note: Welcome to Salt, the sequel to Like Oxygen. This takes place about two to three months later. (Three months after the final chapter, more like two since the actual events resolved.) Also, it has an outline. And a goal. So, hey, maybe it'll go somewhere.

Like Oxygen Summary for New Readers: Duo, who's avoiding memories of the war, is recruited by Wufei for a mission. The mission goes fine. But being around an old war comrade is a lot like being in the war, and even as the two are drawn to each other, Duo's self-destructive tendencies threaten to overwhelm him. (Also, Wufei isn't doing so hot, either.) After sleeping together, the two go their separate ways, with Wufei resolving to stay away from Duo.

Pairings: 2x5, 1xR

Warnings: Post-war trauma. Suicidal ideations. Deeply broken people making deeply bad decisions. Depression. So, yeah. It's a lithle fic.


I believed in something once. In justice, if not in peace. In strength, as the antidote to weakness, as if the one could cure the other. Me, the scholar, and still such a fool. Make something strong, unbending, and you're inviting it to snap. All it takes is the right impact, at the right spot.

Strength is an illusion. And justice is just a pretty word for revenge.

It's unwise, to build yourself on simple ideals. On youthful rage and hopelessness. Eventually, there's nothing left to feed that fire. The veil drops. And you're left with, what?

The Preventers, I suppose.

It's something to do, at least. It's reading the lyrics of a song you once loved, or the abridgement of a classic. The shape of the thing, without the truth of it. Enough to keep limping forward, because what else is there to do?

I was alive once. An idiot, yes. But alive.

And then, so briefly it feels like a sick hallucination, alive again. Alive with Duo's mouth bruising mine. Alive, as he shattered a little more with every breath, the war always there in his eyes.

One mission, and it almost killed the both of us, for all the actual threat was so easily dealt with. It turns out, a bullet can kill a memory, or the theft of a memory. An imposter, with a too familiar face. Simple.

There are other ways to deal with memories, more personal, that also involve bullets. I think of that more, these days.

Two months. Two months since I returned Duo to Howard and his merry band of scavengers. I assume that he's still there. That he's remembering to breathe. I would have heard, wouldn't I, otherwise?

And would word get back to him, if I stopped? Best if it doesn't. I've unsettled him enough. Wanting to see him is like wanting to pull a trigger, and I don't even know which of us the metaphorical gun is pointing toward.

Work. Train. Sleep. Work. Train. Sleep. Mission. Sleep. Work. Train. Sleep.

It should be enough. It is, of course, enough. What else could there be?

Work. Train.

A package, on my doorstep. Brown paper, about a quarter meter on each side. No postage. There's protocol for such things. A bomb disposal squad to call.

'NOT A BOMB' is written, in a heavy, permanent marker scrawl, on each face of the box. How reassuring. I take the box inside with me. I know Duo's handwriting. And if I'm not the explosives expert he is, I can certainly handle myself.

The package sits, unopened, as I eat, study, meditate, prepare for sleep. Sleep. Work. Train.

"Chang?" Heero and I often spar, but the question comes as he finishes murdering a punching bag. They'll need to order a new one. Again.

I finish my current set before giving the training dummy a rest. "Mm?"

Of all of us, I had thought it was Heero who'd be ruined by the peace. Weapon that he is. Was. But he's given himself to a new mission, pursing it with the same single-minded ferocity as he does everything. Two missions, maybe. Peace. Relena. Or maybe they're the same thing, in his mind.

"You usually leave before now," he says.

"Am I disturbing you?"

He seems to consider it. "No."

He doesn't say anything further, so I ignore him, continuing with my own routine. Or not. My routine would have me halfway home. My training, then.

I can feel him watching me as I stretch in the same way I feel any weapon aimed my way. During the war, it would have infuriated me to be so openly observed. Now, it's more of an irritating itch. I reach for it, testing to see if it will kindle. The hint of heat turns to ash under the weight of my awareness.

"Yuy?" I say, getting to my feet. "Is there something you want?"

"You seem uninjured," he replies.

"Thank you for noticing," I reply, dryly. "Anything else?"

He shakes his head but keeps watching me. I watch back, reading the barest hint of confusion in his expression. Generally, that has one source.

"What did Relena say this time?" I ask.

He doesn't deflect. "That she was concerned. That you were quiet lately."

"We can't all be-" the usual comparison dies on my lips. Profane, to use his name like that. "Nice."

"I think she's used to that," Heero says, as amused as he gets outside of a Gundam. Almost smiling.

"Good," I say. I turn my attention back to the training room, considering the punching bag he mutilated. But, no. The sun's set. There's a pattern to keep. Break that, and what's left?

I don't think about the box. I've spent the entire day, not thinking about the box, in much the way one avoids thinking about pink elephants.

"I'm going to head out," I say. More than I'd usually bother with, but he's still watching.

"You're ok?" he asks. And it's so very forced, so very much her words in his voice, that I find myself smirking. That woman, it's not just the world she's bending to her will. Maybe Duo's right. Maybe she gets him to cuddle.

Heero fucks like an angry instruction manual. Another of Duo's little observations. Not, by my memory, incorrect. But we were all so damn young then. What did any of us know about it?

And what does it say about us, that at 20, the war feels like a childhood, and so very far away?

"Operating within acceptable parameters," I reply, because one of us might as well sound like Heero.

That seems to satisfy him. He doesn't even bother to nod, just turns back to the equipment.


The box is still there when I return to the apartment, sitting just inside the door. I can't imagine what it means.

It's not like we write. Or otherwise communicate, for that matter. No one talks to Duo. He made it clear, long before I hunted him down for the mission, that he wanted things that way.

Duo, who never stopped talking, walked away from the Preventers and all but disappeared. And now he's sending presents. Or explosives.

NOT A BOMB proclaims Duo's blocky handwriting. And I believe it. Because it's Duo. Duo who doesn't lie. A stupid rule to live by. Honesty will get you killed, with or without help.

I sit down crosslegged, and take out my knife, slicing first the superfluous twine, then the tape beneath. Nothing explodes. Or oozes. There is a smell, but more like rain than gunpowder.

The box is flimsy cardboard. Not something that could have survived a space shipment. That doesn't have to mean anything. He could have ordered the shipment from an earth-based company without ever setting foot on the ground.

And his handwriting? There are explanations. I can think of a dozen that don't require him to leave space. The simplest explanation seems somehow the least possible. Duo did not drop a package off on my doorstep and wander away.

Blue-violet eyes staring out at the earth with loathing admiration. His breath catching, then stopping. I reach for a safer memory. My name snarled like a curse. His teeth on my-

Dammit.

Of all the ghosts to suddenly acquire. The war ended like an exorcism. Old ghosts and new, laid to rest. And maybe that would have been a relief, if I hadn't come to define myself by my hauntings.

And who will I be, defined by this one?

Inside the box, I find a wilted houseplant and a book.

Duo standing in the doorway, taking in the empty apartment with a single, too knowing glance. The way he looked at me then, like he was seeing me for the first time. Duo stretched out on the floor, feline grace creating the illusion of relaxation. "Buy a plant or something."

I should throw the thing out. It's already half dead, and it's not like I'm going to be around to take care of it. As I lift it from the box, it sheds most its leaves. I put it in the window, all the same. Pour a cup of water into its pot. It looks no better for the attention.

The book is the Xunzi, a familiar text from my scholar days. I flip through it briefly, seeking, and failing to find, the sort of clarity that once came so easily from such texts. "If you do not know a man, look to his friends."

And, lacking those, do you look to his ghosts?

I check, twice, but there's nothing else in the box. No note of explanation. Just a dead plant and an old book, dog-eared and marked up by previous readers. The living are better at hauntings than the dead. For one, the dead so rarely send gifts.

I water the plant again. How often is one even supposed to do that? The plant, in response, drops one of its few remaining leaves.

Eventually, the sun rises.