Title: Hard Days
Author: Fluff
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Pairing: eventual 2 x 3
Warnings: Some vague spoilers
Summary: Duo decides he can no longer be left alone with his memories. He calls on an old acquaintance to relive a life he both misses and regrets.
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is copyrighted to its lawful owners.
Hard Days
Chapter 1
By Fluff
It was one of those days, those days where you can feel the cold in your lungs and wind sucks your breath out of you as soon as you step outside. The streets were dry, not a hint of snow, but that wind, that howling sting across your face as you tried to sink further into your scarf, it just kept blowing, reminding you that winter indeed was here, and it was here to stay for as long as it damn well pleased.
Summer was just a pleasant memory, a distant thing so far away you could barely taste the word on your lips as you prayed for sunshine, for warmth over ice and blue fingertips. Summer was gone, gone like the tides and the wars and the machines that once ruled the world. Gone, too, were the familiar faces, the awkward camaraderie formed tentatively between children - formed because they didn't know any better. Friends? Loved ones? No, never. They just knew classmates, killmates, buddies who would save your ass one minute, break your gut the next. They knew ghosts of the past, betrayers and lost guardians, traitors to the heart and soul.
And now they, too, went without heart and soul. The five soldiers who saved mankind, who killed and were killed, if only in spirit, turned into the stoic machines they once commanded. Eyes became dull, speech became automatic, motions became mechanical. Movement no longer mocked human motion - except in the cold, when that wind howled.
Duo curled his fingers up around the collar of his jacket, trying his best to keep the icy breeze from his neck. He reminisced blandly about the stagnant weather of the colonies, the manmade sunshine and processed temperatures. One wouldn't go so far as to say he missed the mediocrity of the colonies' weather, but he most certainly had a preference for staying warm.
Duo was a creature of comforts. He liked worn blankets and chipped mugs and fraying towels. He hated newness, the starkness of a crisp dish, the sparkle of polished silverware. Duo knew that new things were potentially dangerous, and therefore shied away from anything with the barest hint of fresh life.
Perhaps, then, that was what led him to an old village on the top of the earth, tucked away on an island in the ocean. He liked this town, paved with tan and gray cobblestones, those streets lined with little bakeries and trinket shops. In this town existed no conflict, save for a price haggled over at the general store once or twice a week. It was peaceful here, quiet, restful, nothing like Duo had ever known.
Not once in his new life in this place had he needed to dodge a bullet or fight for his existence. Never did he run into a face he was afraid to see, nor did he feel uneasy when he went to the local pub to nurse a pint quietly in the company of perfect strangers.
This was Duo's utopia. Yet, he knew something was missing. Nothing here was familiar, nothing smelled of nor felt like things he knew once upon a time. There were no old war buddies to exchange terrifying stories with, to say, "Hey, remember that time when I tried to shoot you? Yeah, those were the days..."
Duo didn't really talk much anymore. He didn't have anything to say, not to the peaceful people of this quaint little town, at any rate. So, even though he was in his own Eden, Duo was unhappy. He missed stuff, like his Gundam and Quatre and causing explosions. It was this sense of loss, then, that brought him one day to contact an old acquaintance, the only one who was not only fairly easy to track, but also available to shoot the shit because life sometimes didn't have anything better to offer.
Truthfully, Duo didn't know very much about Trowa Barton. Sure, he knew Trowa worked in the circus with knives and sharp teeth, and he also knew Trowa was somewhat friendly with Quatre and liked coffee. But what Duo could say he honestly knew about Trowa was that he was a soldier who went through two painful wars, who killed countless numbers of faceless warriors fighting for their own causes. Duo knew that Trowa was unhappy with his current life, because Trowa was always unhappy. Duo had never seen him smile or heard him laugh, and only a truly empty, miserable person could not smile or laugh.
So Duo had tracked him down, after being refused politely by the ever-busy Quatre, finding the circus through its ads. Trowa hadn't seemed surprised to hear from Duo, but then again, Trowa had never seemed surprised by anything. Perhaps that was why Duo had sought him out: Trowa was, if nothing else, perfectly predictable.
Duo continued walking down the cobblestone streets, breathing shallowly to keep the cold out. His fingers were raw and red from the wind, and they clutched desperately at his collar to keep it closed. Why he had offered to meet Trowa at the pub was beyond him - it would have made more sense to give his guest his address and have Trowa trudge through the cold instead. But Duo was protecting himself, perhaps on instinct, by not revealing his homestead immediately.
It was an effort to wrench open the pub's door against the gusty winds, and as soon as he fell over the jamb, Duo breathed deeply, warming his insides with the smell of hops and cigarettes.
The Lain Lamb was a quiet place, not a host to bar brawls or drunken foolishness. Duo assumed that the owner was devoutly Christian, naming his livelihood for some Saviour who still hadn't shown up, after all this time. It bothered Duo to a degree: What would Sister Helen say about a pub being named after her God?
Duo often thought of Sister Helen, now that he had time to think. Without constantly running and fighting, he could spend hours reminiscing about and regretting things he would never again experience.
Trowa was sitting at an old wooden table, his hands wrapped around a mug spilling over with steam. His eyes were narrowed as he bent his head over the mug, and his nostrils flared with every breath. Looking at him, no one would have known that Trowa was like he was: No one would see a former soldier with a bloody resume; instead, they would only see a man nursing a chill innocently over a hot mug of thick chocolate.
Duo approached Trowa calmly, easily sliding himself into the chair opposite.
"Long time no see," Duo said mildly. He had a friendly smile on his face and stuck his hand out. Once Trowa shook it, Duo shouted his order to the tapsmaster.
"You never struck me as a winter person," Trowa said. "I figured you would have settled in the south and parked yourself on a beach."
"You and me both," Duo replied with a laugh. "But I don't know, there's something nice about this place. It's quiet."
"Another anomaly."
"I like to keep people on their toes," Duo said with a wink as the tapsmaster set a pint of dark ale in front of him.
"Apparently so," Trowa replied, blowing gently into his mug. "That would be why you decided to contact me after three years?"
"I got bored," Duo said with a shrug. "You're a clown, right? I figured you could provide some measure of entertainment for children of all ages."
"I believe it's more the knives flying at my head that rivets said children." Duo was slightly taken aback by Trowa's attempt at wry humour, but appreciated it nonetheless.
"I have knives."
"But can you aim?" Trowa raised his eyebrows over his mug, again leaning toward a lightheartedness Duo had never associated with Pilot 03.
"No," Duo replied dourly. "You'd lose an eye, or an ear. Not to say that wouldn't be a little welcomed excitement, but it'd make one hell of a mess."
"Am I here to bleed, or did you invite me to catch a permanent cold for another reason?" Trowa set his mug on the table in a professional manner and was suddenly all business. It seemed, to Duo, that Trowa's quota of buddy-buddiness had been filled for the moment.
"I needed to talk," he said, immediately regretting his word choice as Trowa grimaced. "What I mean," Duo amended, "is that I want to talk to someone who knows what it's like to wake up and be confused because you're not sitting in a big piece of metal."
"And you invited me to travel this far north ... for that." Duo had rarely heard inflection in Trowa's voice previously, but he was fairly certain that the tone of voice 03 used was meant to convey 'unimpressed'. "That's what telecommunication is for, I believe."
"It's not as easy to tune someone out when you're face to face," Duo said bitterly, taking a large gulp of his beer. This was not going how he had planned it - not that he had expected Trowa to offer him a couch to lie on and pour out all of his emotions in a tearful confession. What Duo had expected, though, and what Trowa seemed to be running low on, was patience. Understanding. Quiet boredom.
He certainly did not expect attitude.
"Do you want me to apologize and send you on your way?" Duo asked. "Neither'll happen, but you're free to leave."
"Say what you need to say," Trowa replied blandly, again raising his mug, perhaps to cover his face.
"Forget it," Duo ground out. He stood and tossed a few coins on the table. "That'll cover both of us." He turned to leave.
"If you expect me to come running after you, to propose that I must absolutely hear what you have to say before I leave, you're kidding yourself," Trowa said from behind his mug. "Either talk here, or not at all. I don't play the pity-Duo game." Duo spun to see very angry green eyes and was pinned in place. Now Duo understood why people could be afraid of an unarmed Trowa.
"Like I want to talk here," Duo snapped, trying desperately to keep his uneasiness from Trowa's stare to enter his voice. "We can go back to my place."
"Very well," Trowa replied, the anger suddenly gone, the personality vanished from his body like evaporated water. Duo was unnerved. "But if you cry, I'm leaving."
Duo quickly rethought his previous impression of Trowa: This man was, in no way, predictable.
Duo didn't like apartments. He liked houses because they had stairs, and he often parked himself on the broad-loomed steps leading upstairs to catch up on his reading.
He had bought his little cottage after restlessly moving from colony to colony, trying to find his place in the universe. After not discovering any measure of comfort in space, he decided to give Earth a try. And it was on Earth that he found his little cottage, crammed full of frayed towels and chipped mugs.
Trowa looked awkward standing in the doorway to Duo's house. He appeared to not know where to step, considering the slew of trinkets scattered all over the floor. Duo, too late, realized he should have cleaned after inviting someone to come visit.
"It's me," Duo said sheepishly, shrugging at the mess on the floor with a shy smile.
"I'm going to die here," Trowa said lightly, leaping gracefully over a stack of old photography magazines. "I'm going to trip on a pile of old mats and die." Duo quickly shoved said mats out of Trowa's path.
"I find it hard to throw things away," Duo said with no small measure of embarrassment. "They all mean something, in the end. They're all a place in time and a little memory." Trowa narrowed his eyes at his companion, though none of the anger from before showed. Instead, Trowa looked more confused than anything else.
"I think you care about the little things too much, Duo." Duo flinched when Trowa used his name.
"It's the little things that bring the most pleasure in life, right?" Duo had a hint of whimsy in his voice. He stooped to pick up an empty spool of thread. "Like, this used to be blue thread. I used it to sew up a favourite shirt of mine. Well, I tried to sew. I figured it couldn't be too hard."
"You had to throw the shirt out, didn't you?" That lightheartedness was back in Trowa's voice.
"Well, I did... but I didn't." Duo splayed his arms out. "That shirt's in here somewhere."
"Of course it is. Perhaps we can unearth a place to sit?"
After battling a pile of clothes and old newspapers, the couch was at last revealed. Duo had brewed some bitter European tea for himself and Trowa, to chase away the last of the cold, and they now sat, cradling their cups, neither knowing what to say.
"This is a nice house," Trowa said into his tea, perhaps not knowing what else to say. Duo could only assume that Trowa didn't want to press the issue and open up the Pandora's Box that was Duo's head.
"It's old," was all Duo had to say in reply. He was feeling awkward, suddenly regretting desperately his idea to invite Trowa back to his house, his safe haven. Trowa was, after all, newly discovered to be unpredictable, and while Duo was not afraid of being attacked, he knew what damage Trowa could do with words.
"You miss the war," Trowa suddenly said, causing Duo to blanch. Who, in his right mind, would miss a war? "You miss fighting, I mean," Trowa ventured on, setting his teacup precariously on the cluttered table in front of him. "You miss having a purpose."
"I have a purpose," Duo muttered, trying to calm down from Trowa's first accusation. "It's not nearly on as grand a scale as it was before, but it's there."
"Collecting useless varia doesn't necessarily qualify as purpose," Trowa quipped, leaning back against the arm of the couch, facing Duo. "Drinking beer in a pub and mulling over the past isn't much of a purpose, either."
"And playing with lions is?" Duo snapped, getting angry. Who did Trowa think he was, anyhow, coming into Duo's home and telling him his life meant nothing?
"I never said I maintained a purpose after the wars," Trowa replied quietly, retrieving his tea from the table. A long silence passed between the two of them, Duo trying rapidly to figure out what, indeed, was wrong with Trowa and what head trauma as a child had made him so inept at pleasant and meaningful conversation.
"Catherine forced me to talk to a psychologist after Marimeia," Trowa continued, his voice very far away. "That psychologist referred me to a psychiatrist, and I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I'm on a cocktail of medications that make me more unstable and unhappier than I was when I was fighting." Duo noticed that Trowa seemed lost in his tea. Reading leaves, perhaps?
"Catherine made it routine for me to take those medications while we were together - she wanted to make sure I was taking them. She insisted, saying that my time in the wars had severely traumatized me, and that I needed some solace. That solace, she said, was in those little pills.
"I stopped taking them last night, before I got on my flight." Trowa hung his head, and waved one hand in the air, as if dismissing something. "That's my explanation, Duo, for being unreasonable. You can stop tensing like I'm going to go berserk on you, now, and say what you need to say." Trowa raised his head, then, and their eyes met. Duo felt an overwhelming sadness creep into his gut like the cold outside. Trowa, ever stoic and strong and emotionless, was admitting to being a diagnosed basketcase and dependent on prescription medication.
Duo's sadness soon turned to anger.
"Bipolar my ass," he hissed, narrowing his eyes at Trowa. "Why the hell did you listen to some quack who knows nothing of war? They don't know, Trowa, not like we do. There's nothing wrong with you." Duo stood sharply, making his way to the kitchen to dispose of his tea: With his stomach roiling, tea was an unsavoury idea. He stood over the sink, bracing himself against the counter with taut arms. It was wrong, saying soldiers were messed up. It was wrong, Duo realized, for anyone to think Trowa was messed up. Old Trowa had been predictable once, but he had been ruined by some pompous academic who figured little pills could make the memories stop.
Duo's muscles tensed further when he heard Trowa pad into the kitchen.
"I know there's nothing wrong with me," he said quietly. "That's why I tossed the meds." Duo felt Trowa approach him, felt his body heat just behind him as Trowa slid his empty teacup into the sink. "There's nothing wrong with me. And there's nothing wrong with you." Duo nearly jumped when two long-fingered hands rested on his shoulders and gently turned him around.
"You're all over the place, aren't you?" Duo said, a little breathlessly, suddenly facing Trowa. "Is that withdrawal?"
"Perhaps," Trowa said, dropping his hands from Duo's shoulders. "Or maybe it's you. You make me nervous. You want to relive a past I'd rather leave behind." Trowa shrugged slightly, and his posture suddenly sunk. "But I'm willing to hear what you have to say."
It was hell on earth trying to pull out the couch for Trowa. Even as a team, it took the pair two and half hours to clear enough room to get the bed out. Exhausted, Duo flopped on the pull-out after it had been successfully set up.
"The things I do for you," he huffed, one arm flung across his forehead.
"You're the one who invited me," Trowa replied, sinking onto the bed. "I'm your burden now. I think you're going to have to find a better way of dealing with it than complaining." Duo was getting tired of Trowa's little quips. Trowa trying to be cute - as cute as Trowa could be - was too strange for Duo to wrap his head around.
"I never knew you had such an attitude problem, Trowa. You should get that checked out," Duo chuckled, rolling onto his stomach to look at his companion.
"Tried. Failed. Deal." And he winked. Trowa Barton winked. Duo quickly checked the walls for blood, or anything else that would signal the Apocalypse, but with no omens of doom forthcoming, he merely stared at Trowa in an attempt to understand the man who would be spending the night in his house.
"I don't get you, Trowa," Duo mused. "I never did. But now it's even worse, 'cause you're showing more personality than a crumb of dried bread. You're messing with my head, man." And it was at that moment that the world should have ended, for Duo sputtered and nearly fell victim to cardiac arrest as Trowa, stoic, miserable Trowa Barton laughed.