My first attempt at a Gundam Wing fic. Hopefully, it's ok.

Also inspired by the Childish Gambino song Heartbeat.

I've seen your new boy. He was dressed all sharp and shit, like I never did. Is that why you like him? If I got a suit and tie, would you like me again? I dress functionally. Do you think his manner of dress prepares him for 63 different situations? But I guess that was always a point of contention with us. I was too controlled, too uptight. J practically brainwashed me that way; can you blame me? Apparently you can.

He seems the overly emotional type, the type to do things "romantic", like make you morning breakfast while you lounge around naked. Or to buy you flowers and chocolate on Valentine's Day. The type of things I can't see as anything but pointless. We always made breakfast together, split the duty. And I still don't understand the point of giving someone a dying plant. Is that supposed to be a nice gesture? Relena gave me flowers once. I threw them away. They were going to die anyways and so I didn't see the point in wasting my energy watering them.

Thinking about you makes me miss you. I think about texting you. I know you'll respond. You always do.

"Hello? Heero? What…why are you calling?"

"I miss you."

"I can't talk right now…I'm…uh…busy." Fuck. You're with someone.

"Don't tell me you picked up while you were fucking someone!"

"No, no. Well, not exactly anyways. I just…I was worried." Shit. There you are, fucking someone else and you say you're worried about me.

"I'm sorry to interrupt" and I hang up before you can protest. I really am sorry to interrupt. I wish I would've called before there was anything to interrupt. Or not called at all.

I'm hanging at your favorite bar. I'm not exactly sure why, though. Maybe I just want to see you, want to see your reaction to me. I know you won't expect me. I don't expect to see you drunk already. I guess we were both in for a surprise tonight. I don't know where your boy is, but he's definitely not here. I would never have left you so vulnerable. Even now, I feel responsible. I walk you home and the 10 minute walk seems agonizingly slow, as I'm hyper-aware of the way you're clinging to me. When we get to your door, you fumble to find your key, which I snatch from you and start to unlock the door. I've just gotten the key in the lock when I feel your breath on my neck and your hand on my pants. I jerk out of your hold. I refuse to take advantage of you when you're drunk like this. "No," I say. "You left me, remember?" This is one of those times when my resolve is strong – strong enough to return to my apartment. Alone. And sleep. Alone.

I'm woken in the morning by a phone call. From you. You seem hesitant, unsure. That's rare for you. "I just…" you start and stop. "If I remember correctly, I owe you a thank you." "You're welcome. Is that all?" My tone is harsh, unforgiving. I'm eager to hang up, because now is not one of those rare times when my resolve is strong. "No, I wanted to ask you…can we talk?" I feel like I know where this is going, but I ask anyways, "Why? We have nothing to discuss." There is silence on the phone for a couple seconds, before you respond. "We never needed something to discuss." "Things have changed, obviously. Which was what you wanted." I can hear you sigh from the phone. "Just…come over, ok?" I do. And it's true what they say, old habits die hard. I end up fucking him and there's a feeling of intense desperation, of desire that I'm familiar with. But apparently I don't even know who you are anymore. And for the first time since the first time we fucked, I'm self-conscious about how I was. If you hid your thoughts so well before, what are you hiding now? And just like that, any remaining high I had breaks and I realize how pathetic this is as I practically run for the door. You call out to me before I get there. "Heero?" "What?" I refuse to turn around. "Is it ok if I call to talk, once in a while?" I'm pretty sure I know what you mean. I wish I could say no. But that's not what comes out of my mouth.

It's not until the next time I'm over there that I think to ask about the two toothbrushes you have in your bathroom. You look at me and in that moment, I know. It belongs to whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is. I want to ask where he is now, but I don't have the heart. I just say, "Never mind," but I know you can practically read the thoughts straight out of my head. You choose not to acknowledge them.

The next Friday night, I find myself flirting with a girl after I got your text. I don't even like girls. But I feel so angry and somewhere along the line, I may have gotten the idea that it was like saying, "Fuck you" to your memory. But the moment she leans in close enough for me to smell her perfume and feel the weight of her breasts on my arm, I can't go forward. I brush her off and text back, "Still need to talk?" even though it's been over an hour since I received it.

We talk. And by talk, I mean fuck. And it occurs to me that we were supposed to stop when we broke up. Or rather, when you broke up with me. I wonder if I had a personality like his, would you still want to be my boyfriend? If you still want the sex, I must have had a terrible personality for you to break up with me. But I know that's not exactly it. I'm not terrible; I'm just good at all the wrong things. Without consciously planning to, I find myself asking you why. You leave the room without answering.

I leave and I suddenly miss the way you used to kiss me after we finished. The only time we kiss now is the moment of passion, during the act. And that's all it is really – an act. I act like I don't know you're with someone and you act like we've every right to fuck each other. I used to laugh at how you kissed me afterwards, but I kind of wish you still did. Because maybe then, I might be able to think you still felt something for me and I could think I had a chance.

I'm so frustrated that I end up making a pass at your best friend. Trowa isn't the type to take my shit, though and he practically scolds me. "I'm not the one you want. Stop fucking around." I snap back, "Well, I thought it was obvious that the one I want doesn't want me." He looks at me with the expression closest to disgust I've ever seen on his face. "Be honest with yourself. You two are about as done as Wufei and Sally." I gape at him for a moment – I've never gaped at anyone in my life. "Those two are fucking married and in case you hadn't noticed, Duo's got a new boyfriend, so excuse me if you and I aren't seeing eye to eye." "Yeah, I noticed that. I've also noticed that you two are still sleeping together; you're so obvious. The only ones you're fooling are yourselves."

Trowa's words ring in my mind for several days. You certainly didn't wait long before dating again, though. And then turning it into a relationship. And then I'm wondering what you see in him. Ok, actually I'm wondering, "Does he fuck you like I do?" I find myself asking without having planned to. We're still in bed, naked and sweaty from a recent tussle. "Fuck you, that's none of your goddamned business." You always curse when you're pissed. And it hits me that I know you. I know you in ways he could never, because he didn't know you during the war. When I tell you this, it only makes you more angry. "Fuck you. You presumptuous fucking prick." Your attitude makes me angry too. "Fuck you. Fuck this. What the fuck are we even doing, huh? This is all you, all your idea. Are we dating? No. Are we fucking? Yes. Are we even friends? I don't even fucking know. So fuck you, but you know what? I wish I'd never fucked you." You're silent, got nothing to say, probably for the first time in your life.

I don't hear from you for a couple weeks and it's not getting any easier without you. Then out of the blue, a text, "Did you mean what you said?" I didn't, but I choose not to respond. I get a couple repeats of the question over the next couple of days, but I ignore those as well.

It's been a whole three weeks that I haven't talked to you. I've heard that you broke up with your boyfriend, whatever that means. It seems like it's becoming a hobby with you nowadays, breaking up with boyfriends, I mean.

I haven't hung around my friends much lately, since my friends are your friends. I can't chance running into you. I get a text from Quatre, asking me to hang out. He always was good at this emotional and general being there for friends stuff. I still don't want to run into you, so I invite him to come over. He's there within 20 minutes and he gives me a hug and apologizes. I'm not sure why and when I ask, he doesn't answer. And then you walk in and there's no further explanation necessary. Quatre gives me a sympathetic look and exits down my hallway. I try to retreat into my room, but Quatre's locked himself in there, the sneaky bastard. "Go. Talk," he yells from inside my room.

I could lock myself in the bathroom, but that's too cowardly, never mind the fact that I actually considered it. I go out into the living room to face you.

I kind of left it open-ended on purpose. You can read into it what you want. Let me know what you think, of the ending or lack there-of, of the fic itself or anything, really. I'm always open to feedback. Thanks for reading.