"It was war," they told him, as if those three simple words could erase the nightmares, could stop the dead faces of those fallen in battle from haunting his every step.
"It was war," was the ready excuse to explain his feelings of guilt, fear, and loathing. When he hated himself so much that neither the pills nor the alcohol were enough. His brief but intense affair with Quatre, his indulgence with Heero, and one night he can never take back with Wufei, those were all explained away with, "It was war."
But 'War' didn't explain before AC 186, when he was willing to take lives for the simple promise of money. It didn't explain how he, a mere mechanic for the Gundam, suddenly took his place as the pilot. It didn't explain after the war, when a cheerfully smiling brunet pushed him down on the bed and took what he wanted. How he never stopped it, nor wanted it to stop, even as he was put into a position he had never been before.
How (somehow) after a while the brunet never left, his meager possessions migrating to the small flat Trowa owned in the heart of Nowhere, South America. How instead of leaving in the dead of night, or even the morning, he was still there, wrapped around him loosely and sleeping deeply even as the clock showed the morning had passed them by.
How, for some reason, he ended up living with Duo Maxwell.
But that didn't mean it was all sunshine and roses. Every other day they were arguing about something, whether it be that Duo didn't clean his hair from the drain (again), or that Trowa stole all the knives from the cutlery drawer (again). Sometimes the fights were more serious, Duo pushing against Trowa's need for solitude and space, and Trowa forcing Duo to stay and confront the problem instead of running and hiding from it.
A couple of times they ended up treating wounds they inflicted on each other, as a gesture of apology and acceptance. They were only kids, after all. Not old enough to be legal, but close enough. Though neither knew their real age, they assumed they were close enough to Quatre and Wufei to claim sixteen, possibly seventeen (as Quatre had recently celebrated a birthday), but the New World Order had granted them emancipation, gave them a way out of being forced to live with strangers until they came of age. Papers were drawn up, using their own names and dates that they picked out together to fill in the ones they didn't have.
He knew these leniencies, these exceptions, were not granted to others their age. But again, it boiled down to, "It was war."
It was war, and he was just one of the casualties of it.
Duo shifted next to him, the blankets pulling taut as he leaned up and over him, uniquely blue eyes with that purple sheen framed by messy brown hair that was starting to escape his braid. A hand traced the outline of his shoulder, fingers brushing down cool skin and resting in the crook of his elbow.
"Hey, you feelin' okay?" he asked, his voice soft and still tinged with sleep. He leaned his head to the side to see Duo better, reaching up his own hand to gently brush some hair away from his lover's face.
"Mm, just thinking," he answered, and Duo wrinkled his nose a little.
"Looks exhausting. Do you want to think aloud?" he asked, and Trowa shrugged.
"It's not interesting."
"You say that each time," Duo teased, lowering himself down so that his chin was resting on Trowa's shoulder, the length of his body draped over part of Trowa's chest and arm. He buried his nose against Trowa's collarbone, his arm moving to drape over his waist, fingers curled against his other side.
It was warm, comfortable, and soothing.
"It was war," he murmured, his head resting against Duo's. "But now it's an excuse."
"Maybe for everyone else," Duo replied, his words muffled by Trowa's flesh. "But not for us. Not for you. Sometimes I wake up and wonder if it ever ended."
The slight confession from Duo had a tension in his chest loosening, his hand reaching up to tangle in the remains of Duo's braid.
"Me too."
"It wasn't war, it was suicide. It was our life, what we were trained for. It was all we knew, and all we still know. Peace is harder to learn than warfare."
Trowa shifted, rolling on top of Duo and burying his face against his shoulder, a tremor wracking his body as the words sunk deep. Duo smoothed a hand down his back, fingers dancing along the bare flesh.
"You fuckin' shit," Duo yelled, his fist pulling back again for another swing. Wufei was reaching across, doing his best to grab Duo as Heero pulled Trowa back and out of the line of fire. There were people watching, some in disgust and some in concern, but none of them moved to intervene, to break up the fight.
Which was good for them. Less civilian casualties.
"Calm yourself, Maxwell! You're making a scene."
"Are you okay?" Heero asked quietly, moving to stand between him and Duo. Blood was trickling down Trowa's face; he could feel it steadily dripping from his nose, could taste it on his tongue, but he didn't answer.
It was his fault, he knew better than to push today, yet he'd still done so.
It had been one of those days, a day that has happened often since Peace began, where there was so much tension that a little spark would start a forest fire, could take down an entire base or a fleet of Taurus. But Trowa hadn't cared, had been feeling too raw, too exposed, and he'd wanted to feel the burn of the flames, feel the lick of fire against his senses.
And so he'd pushed.
Wufei hadn't been able to stop the first three hits, Heero hadn't been able to get between him and Trowa before the blood sprayed and the flesh tore. Trowa just kept his eyes on Duo's furious ones, volatile anger still burning within them.
He couldn't help but smile, a smile broken with blood smeared across his teeth.
He couldn't help it.
Duo smiled back.
"You really are a hellion for punishment, ain'tcha?" Duo said later that evening, a wet towel in one hand and a gauze pad in the other. His nose had been set back into place earlier, but his torn skin still needed to be patched back together. Duo cleaned it with a steady hand, his touch and care tender and knowing.
It wasn't the first time punches had been thrown between them, wasn't the first time that the first aid kit rested between their knees. He could feel the needle sliding under his skin, feel it pulling the two ends together into a small, neat stitch, only two needed for the deepest part. The tape and bandages covered the rest, and within a few days he imagined that the stitches would be gone, only a plaster showing where they had been.
"Reckless fool," Duo muttered again, snipping the end of the surgical string and setting the needle down in the bowl of water. Trowa leaned forward, catching Duo's lips with his own.
"It's not healthy, Trowa, or safe," Quatre insisted over lunch one afternoon. It was comical, as the multibillionaire was still in a full suit, having come straight from a meeting, and was very much out of place in the burger joint. But Quatre knew Trowa couldn't stand anywhere nicer, didn't want anything fancy or stylish, and so he was willing to come get greasy fast food in a three-piece suit. Trowa himself was wearing one of Duo's more colourful shirts, a faded black tee with a band logo almost too obscured by wear and tear, and a pair of his own blue jeans, as Duo's waist and legs were too small for Trowa to take any of his. As it was, the shirt rode a little high, a small line of his stomach visible to any who dared to look. Quatre was frowning at him though. Well, he was frowning more at the gash still visible along his cheek and nose.
"It's not a problem," Trowa said to him, taking a bite of one of the fries. The food wasn't that good, but it didn't matter. It was food, a necessary part of life, and even if it tasted like shit it would get him through to his next meal.
Duo had been the only one who understood his reasoning when he explained it once.
"It's abuse," Quatre continued determinedly.
"It's all we know," Trowa said, and the conversation changed to better things, to more pleasant things. And while he knew Quatre didn't understand, didn't agree with his reasons, Trowa also knew he wouldn't interfere.
Because it was war, and even souls like Quatre couldn't escape the aftermath.
He whined, his back arching as nails raked down his sides and teeth latched onto his neck. His hand fisted in Duo's hair, pressing him closer, his other hand clenching the sheets below him.
"Close," he panted, pushing his hips up as Duo thrust down, feeling the hard length of his cock graze his prostate. He cried out, one of Duo's hands sneaking in between them to grasp Trowa's dick. It wasn't long after that - a few rough strokes and another jolt of pleasure deep inside of him - he was spilling over Duo's hand, covering their chests and clenching down tightly. Duo's seed filled him right after, hot and pulsing. Duo collapsed on his chest, his breaths laboured, and Trowa turned his head to press a kiss to the side of his cheek. His lips were caught in a slow, languid kiss, sated and content.
"Mmm, love you," Duo murmured, pulling out and moving to rest along Trowa's side, one arm draping across his chest and one leg twining around his.
"Love you," he replied quietly, because it might be true. He didn't know, and he might never know. But that was okay, it didn't have to make sense.
It was war, after all. A war to live during Peace.
A/N: This is for Miss Murdered and Amberly, because they've been feeding the muse. Thanks to Ro for editing again!