"Untitled"
Story by A.E. Alexander
Gundam Wing and Co. © a lot of people who aren't me.
The first draft of this story was done up in 1999. Typed as found.
To be forewarned, if you are not keen on innuendo bisexual in nature, find another story.

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Trowa sat solemnly by himself at midday staring at his seeping red arms. Now days it was the only way he knew he was still alive. His slender fingers fumbled with the discolored razor blade trembling. His lungs felt as if they beared the sorely demands of the world. Squinting his eyes shut he tried to swallow the anguish in his soul. Didn't work. The hunter-green of his eyes were glossy and his long lashes wet and clustered when he looked up.

A blood curdling scream erupted from his throat as he tossed the blade into the becoming sea before him. He wiped his nose with his sleeve, leaving beaded rivers to dry on his cheeks. It felt good to cry. Thrusting himself up, he walked into the cold, turquoise waters and plunged his whole body under. Trowa rose, his eyes wide and lips twisting in a painful curl. He took a deep hissing breath as the salt burned his wounds.

He lowered his sight to his hands as he lifted them, pretending the living blood of the world was draining into the sea with the water. Slicking back his wet brown hair; with clenched fists he let another shriek rip through the air. He heard a few bystanders mummer about him and move on.

Fuck them, he thought. His gracefully slender face morphing into a scowl. They don't know who I am or what I did for them.

Trowa took his shirt and tore the material apart with a knife he had pulled from his pants pocket, relinquishing each strip into the water. He watched the shreds go out with the current wishing he could do the same. When his entire shirt lay in ruins about him, revealing a well toned body, he brought the knife to his windpipe. He was planning to slit his throat to the point of near decapitation. If that was possible, he wasn't sure.

"Don't try to stop me, Heero." Trowa said to the collected, marine-blue eyed boy on the beach. "I feel like I'm dying. This illness inside of me . . ." He choked back a sob, his tears dispersing in the restless onslaught of waves. "I feel sick within my heart. It eats me alive, tearing me apart. I don't believe in a cure and I don't want one."

"The illness is in your head." He lowered his eyes to clear, blue-black slits. "I'm going to stop you, Trowa." He advanced into the water.

"Stay where you are! Don't come near me!" Trowa swung the knife at him. Heero felt a quick sting.

That was too close, he thought, ignoring the cut in his arm. "Don't be stupid, you need help."

"This is going to help." His voice was high pitched and shaky, revealing an uneasy contrast to his usual quiet manner.

Heero felt the hair on his body stand on end. "Trowa . . ."

"Why don't you go home! Go home and fuck Duo, Relena, or whoever the hell you sleep with!"

"I'm not sleeping with anyone. You're the only one who has ever slept with me and that was because you didn't want to be alone."

Heero lunged for the hysterical sixteen year old. Trowa tripped him and heaved them both into the water. They fought for control of the blade by attempting to drown the other into unconsciousness.

Heero pulled the knife away as Trowa dove for him. "Oh God . . ." breathed Heero as the other boy gave a stifled gasp and staggered backwards. There was a gouge in the right side of Trowa's chest, blood was gushing out rapidly.

Trowa put his hand to the wound bewildered, as if he believed it all to be a dream. It was though he was still wide awake in bed, compressed to a sleeping Heero under the large quilt because he was afraid his heart would stop during the night; still fingering Heero's thick, near shoulder length hair for lack of anything better to do than actual affection, and embracing Heero's lips with his own in deep thanks. Heero would never tell Trowa he had been awake for his caress, or that on some kinky plane he wouldn't mind another touch of his lips and tasting a man's tongue for the first time. Trowa would be mortified at such a thought, just as Heero was now.

"Trowa . . . I . . ."

Trowa met Heero's wide eyed gaze with amazement. He saw several emotions flash through his colleagues eyes: shock, fear, regret, then sadness.

"I think it pierced my heart." He said with a light, insane chuckle, then collapsing beneath the waves. Heero dropped the bloodied knife and pulled Trowa's head out of the water. He held him in his arms, telling him to hold on, shouting for someone to call an ambulance. Trowa flashed a frail smile at him. Heero could see the life in his beautifully jaded eyes fading.

The injured boy enclosed his friend's hand within his own, slowly loosing the handhold. Trowa's smile darkened and his eyes closed. Hugging him close, Heero brushed his thin lips against his friend's forehead. His long, soaked brown bangs falling over his watery eyes. Silent tears coursed down his pale cheeks as more people began to take notice of the event.

His green tank top clung to his thin, but toned frame as he lifted Trowa's limp body to shore; doing his best not to look at the bruises, cuts, and blood on the body. Placing Trowa gently on the sand he stole a glance at the dream-like colors of the setting sun. Clothes completely drenched, showing off every muscle in his body as if he weren't wearing anything at all, he raised a fist over his head and collapsed to his knees in anguish.

He barely noticed the ambulance drive up, or that the sun had given birth to twilight. An invisible prayer formed on his lips. He prayed for peace, he prayed for Trowa Barton's life. Heero felt a pair of strong arms pick him up, take him by the waist, pulling him close. He let his tears stain duo's shirt, this time he didn't care who saw him cry. A pair of soft lips kissed a tear off his cheek and the sweet smell of Relena's perfume invaded his nostrils as she wrapped her arms around him lovingly, pressing herself to him, drinking his tears. He inhaled deeply.

I'll let them hold me, thought Heero. I need them to. I want them to. This time I won't push away . . .