AN: Hello! This is part one of two of a confusing get-together fic that I really, really hope hasn't been done before in this fandom. Warnings for language, innuendo, bare butts, AU, a lot of angsty self-doubt, and some narrative confusion due to the limited third-person perspective that I foolishly chose for this story. Make sure you know who's who by the viewpoints and gratuitous (but necessary?) epithets. Fic contains primary 1x2 and 3x4, and secondary 2x3 and 1x4. It almost makes sense, I swear.
Postscript
Part One of Two
by JellyBob
—but if I had to pick just one? Probably the power to say exactly what I mean, and beautifully. I want to move mountains, Duo. I want the ability to express myself in a way that can't be misinterpreted. Sometimes I feel like my whole life got lost in translation after they died, which is crippling—especially when I've got things to say that feel so desperately important to me that they'll crush me if I don't get them out right. You understand that, don't you? I know you do. I'm indebted to you for that. That's the beauty of you. The part of you that empathizes with me and my clumsy, uncommunicative heart.
Got the book of poetry you sent. It's beautiful. I could sit all day riverside reading Gerald Stern and trying not to weep at the dog ones. Here's one from my neck of the woods. It's not Ruth Lilly-winning, but it'll do:
Even if I now saw you
Only once,
I would long for you
Through worlds,
Worlds.
-Shikibu.
It'd been ten months since Duo Maxwell had begun, as his friend Quatre called it, a love affair with his mailbox.
Duo hadn't had any expectations when the two of them signed up for the pen pal program at their local library last August. It had seemed a reasonable enough thing to do at the time—buy a few stamps, post a few letters, shoot the shit with some equally bored person living somewhere across the country. He'd been starved for friendship back then. Most of his high school chums had just taken off for spectacular new lives at universities, leaving Duo to another sweaty, grease-splattered year of working in Howard's oven-like auto repair shop. After eight hours of working with engines, Duo was happy to sit down at his kitchen counter and do something as human as writing a letter. It was exactly the reason he'd opted out of e-mail correspondence. He wanted the soul of personalized stationary, his own sloppy penmanship and his favorite pen. Sentimental, sure—but whoever was on the other end of his salutations shared that same schmaltzy philosophy. That, he supposed, was as good a start as any.
Quatre's reply had arrived first. High point of Duo's life: watching his virginal childhood bestie pull out fourteen pages of graphic porn featuring himself, a hockey team, and the hood of a 1966 Jaguar E-Type. Quatre still got all red and breathless every time Duo said "rear suspension." Duo teased him mercilessly, quoted the smut often, and looked forward to receiving his own handwritten erotica.
He got something even better.
Heero Yuy was a nineteen-year-old film projectionist living in a small town in Missouri. He was halfway through earning his associate's degree in criminal justice, and he enjoyed running, Japanese food, poetry, animals, and movies with inventive stunt scenes. His replies were interesting and straightforward. He asked Duo a lot of questions about himself, which Duo found flattering, and responded to his admissions with earnest, unique insights. The guy was one of the most fascinating people Duo had ever met, and easily the most eloquent. You would be unpleasantly surprised if we met in person, Heero wrote back, after Duo had told him as much. I only learned to write out of necessity. I am not well-spoken.
Well, better close-lipped than prone to verbal diarrhea, with which Duo was chronically afflicted. The idea of Heero being quiet just made him respect him all the more.
He'd lost track of how many letters they'd exchanged, but their single sheet messages had turned into small novels by June. Duo had Heero's latest one propped under the reading lamp on his bedside table; a particularly rousing twenty-page packet that contained gems about Heero's school life, dental hygiene regimen, and new beagle puppies. Heero had even sent him a tiny square of denim that he'd dabbed with his aftershave, in response to Duo's inquiry about whether he thought men should wear cologne or not. Duo stretched out dreamily on his couch, the swatch draped over his nose. Such a cool, masculine blend of bergamot and lime. Duo could just imagine Heero patting the fragrance across his freshly shaved face—firm cheekbones beaded with water, full, velvety lips, a chiseled jawline with just enough dips and curves to drag your tongue slowly along the planes of—
"Duo, stop sniffing that. It's disturbing."
Duo jerked upright and snatched the fabric away from his face, flushing. Quatre had taken a seat on the opposite end of the couch and was eying him with a mixture of amusement and disgust.
"That could be some fifty-three-year-old felon's back pocket, for all you know," said Quatre.
"Well, it's not. It's Heero's."
It probably came out a little too defensive. Quatre sighed, tucking his legs under him and reaching for his half-finished crossword puzzle. "Doesn't make you any less creepy."
"I'm okay with creepy," said Duo. "I wear creepy like a fine pair of leather rodeo chaps."
"I agree with you, because chaps are disgusting."
"You're just jealous that they don't make any big enough to accommodate your ass size."
"My ass is no larger than average!"
"Ooh, I love this game! My turn: I'm six foot four and I don't have a regrettable tramp stamp."
"I'm getting you an iced tea now and you're going to drink it and shut up," Quatre decided, shoving Duo's feet off of the couch as he stood. Duo began to lift the denim square furtively back to his face. "And stop smelling that, Creepy," Quatre added, without looking back at him.
Duo rolled his eyes and let the patch drop onto his chest. He wasn't bothered that Quatre knew so much about him—after all, he'd pretty much taken up permanent residence in Quatre's personal business, so fair was fair—but every once in a while the guy would hit upon some quiet insecurity that Duo hadn't had a chance to build a barricade against. That always sucked, especially since Quatre had a history of giving out fairly sensible advice. No, Duo, don't pierce your own nipples. No, Duo, don't tattoo batwings on your butt cheeks. No, Duo, no man has the bone structure to make powder blue hair look sophisticated.
Now it was probably something along the lines of 'no, Duo, it's dangerous to fall in love with a stack of letters,' and although that hurt—really fucking hurt—Quatre was right to be wary. Heero Yuy could be anyone. He could be a human trafficker or a TV evangelist or even just some dude who got his jollies out of messing with other people's heads. And even if he was nineteen, and lived in Missouri, and was as intelligent and tender and introspective as his letters, it didn't mean the two of them were sexually compatible. Duo wasn't inordinately selective about appearances, but he wasn't easy, either. He preferred taller men with good hair. Mustaches were a turn-off. He docked points for pit stains and nasal laughter, gave bonuses for motorcycles, urinal etiquette, and the ability to look sexy in cowboy hats. Duo wasn't going to drop Heero like last week's meatloaf if he turned out to be a six-hundred pound mouth-breather with a dryer lint collection. But with no physical facts to go by, was there really much harm in envisioning an Apollo?
Duo didn't think so. Heero probably held out hope for the same potential attractiveness in him—they'd discussed their sexualities at length. Duo snorted at the thought. At least there was comfort in knowing, with his home-pierced nipple and dirty fingernails and bizarre sense of humor, that he would likely never get the chance to shatter Heero's imaginary epistolary enchanter. That would just be cruel. To anticipate someone beautiful and end up standing in front of…Duo Maxwell. Talk about a let-down.
"You're vibrating," Quatre said, peeking out from the kitchen doorway to toss Duo his cell phone. "Don't tell me Howard's already calling you in. Your vacation hasn't even officially started yet."
"I'll murder the centenarian if he asks." Duo caught his phone neatly and examined the number. "Huh. You know anyone with a 636 area code?"
"Wufei?"
"He's 626."
Quatre shrugged. "Then no. Don't answer it. It's probably a serial killer."
"I told you not to watch that fucking video tape." He flipped his phone open and tucked it against one shoulder, sitting up so he could stretch his arms. "Look, Sadako, I don't even own a television set!"
An awkward pause, then a deep, smooth, phone sex voice. "Is this—Duo Maxwell?"
"Hope so, otherwise I've been paying someone else's rent for the last year. Who's this?"
"Hello, Duo. This is—uh—this is Heero. Heero Yuy."
Duo paused in mid-stretch. Quatre, who was still leaning against the doorframe, was alarmed by his reaction. "Are you okay?" he whispered. "It isn't actually Sadako, is it?"
"I got your number from your boss at the auto shop," Heero continued haltingly. "That was—extremely intrusive of me. And presumptuous. I'm sorry. But, uh—see—my best friend and I are in Colorado right now. Road trip to Las Vegas, actually. We didn't plan it; it just sort of—we needed to get out of town, and Colorado's on the way, and—it made me think of you. Not in a weird way! Just, that you—you live in Colorado? And we're, like—in. It. Colorado, that is."
It was a good thing the guy was stuttering like a mofo; it gave Duo a little more time to process what was going on. He closed his hand over the mouthpiece and looked up at Quatre incredulously. It's Heero, he mouthed, his eyes wide.
"Your pen pal?" Quatre thundered, at full volume.
Duo shushed him frantically, but Heero had heard him. The poor man mumbled something nervous and incoherent. Duo's heart thudded in his chest as he brought the phone back to his ear, completely bewildered, trying to think of something dazzlingly clever to say to get his groove back. His mouth, of course, had different plans. "You're shitting me," he blurted out.
"No," said Heero with fierce solemnity. "I would never shit you."
"Um," said Duo. He raked a hand through his hair, throwing Quatre a desperate glance. Quatre, unfortunately, was even more useless than he was at the moment, sort of flapping his hands up and down and chortling and blushing. Duo squeezed his eyes shut and took a few deep breaths. Hold it together, Maxwell, he told himself. This was Heero Yuy, for God's sake—of that, Duo had no doubt; his voice, although shaky with tension, was just as earnest and gentle as his letters were. Duo prided himself on his good instincts about people, and knew immediately that this guy was no liar. Even if he didn't sound quite as attractive as Duo had expected.
He sounded, in fact—more attractive.
"Well, I'll be damned," said Duo at last, laughing. "Heero. Heero Yuy!"
"Duo Maxwell," Heero returned. His voice immediately took on an undercurrent of warmth, cheering Duo straight to the toes.
"I'm so sorry for not reacting right away! You surprised the hell out of me, is all. Never thought in a million years that—just, wow! I can't believe I'm really hearing from you! Where are you now? You say you're in state?"
"Yes. I'm calling from a payphone in Burlington, near the border."
"Ah, nice! I know where that is. We're about two and a half, three hours away from there if you take I-225 straight to Aurora. You might even beat rush hour traffic if you head out soon." Then Duo hesitated, realizing that he was being presumptuous. "Oh, wait. You were going to stop by and see me, right? Maybe? I understand if you want to just steam straight through; I know Vegas is way more interesting than anything I could—"
"No, no," Heero interrupted. Duo could practically hear his cheeks reddening. "I mean—I didn't want to impose, but I was hoping I could interest you in, um, dinner or something. Put a face to the name. Would that be—agreeable?"
Duo grinned into his hand and squirmed, feeling giddy, ridiculous. "Very."
"I'm glad, Duo. Where do you want to go?"
"I think I know just the place! One sec."
He went to the kitchen to check the business card he had pinned to his refrigerator with one of the smiley face magnets Hilde had made for him in ceramics class. Quatre shadowed him, lingering by the counter to finish pouring the iced tea. Duo gave Heero the address and made him read it back, just in case. Heero somehow made the numbers sound almost pornographic. Duo opened the freezer and stuck his head inside, wafting some of its icy vapors onto his warm face.
"So, six o' clock?" he asked, muffled by a bag of frozen peas.
"All right. May I bring my friend?"
"Of course. In fact, I insist we both bring friends, just in case one of us is secretly planning to gouge the other's eyes out with a letter opener and eat them or something."
"Thwarted again," said Heero.
Duo laughed. "I better let you go, Heero. I know how expensive those pay phones can be."
"Wait—Duo."
"Yep?"
"I—do you want me to bring a single red rose or something? I know that that's, uh—a little emasculating—but I'm not sure I could recognize you in a crowd. In fact, the only physical attributes I'm aware of are your having batwing tattoos and a penis, and I assume you were planning to wear pants. Maybe you could—give me the basics? Not about your penis! I mean, hair, height, build? Identifying marks not on the rear?"
Oh. Duo withdrew from the freezer and pressed the door shut, glancing down at himself with panic and distaste. How was he supposed to answer that? Ass-length braid, room to grow, scrawny as fuck? He'd been pretty average as a kid, but sometime around fourteen, he realized that he wasn't gaining much height or muscle mass. He worked out whenever he could, started shoveling down the red meats and calcium supplements like mad—but nothing had helped, and now, at eighteen, Duo was still short, slender, and not terribly secure with the way his face had turned out, either. Not much bone structure to speak of. Weird-colored eyes, long lashes, a showy, I'm-compensating-for-something smile. His thin arms were deceptively strong, but that wasn't going to help him much unless he greeted Heero by way of fistfight. Duo sank down to the tile and drew his knees to his chest, chewing on his lower lip.
"You first," he said.
"Okay," said Heero, slowly, but without apprehension. "I have brown hair. I'm about five foot eleven, give or take a few inches—athletic build; I think I told you that I run a lot. I don't smile often. I am—nondescript otherwise. I'll wear a blue jacket so you can recognize me."
"Ah," said Duo helplessly. Damn, he'd forgotten the guy was a long-distance runner. He had to be in great shape. And five foot eleven, what the fuck? Duo was barely five four and a half. He began banging his head softly against the cabinet door.
"And you?" prompted Heero.
Duo nibbled a cuticle and watched Quatre slice lemon wedges into their tea. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window. His hair shone white-gold in its glow, khakis pulled tight across his generous backside. It wasn't fair. Quatre had been the tiniest kid in their class all through elementary school and middle school, then one day high school rolled around, and bam! Quatre shot up, fleshed out. The braces came off and his coloring grew vivid, and all the excess weight he gained went straight to his ass, but only in the most flattering way possible. If he didn't also happen to be the kindest, most generous, down-to-earth person Duo knew, Duo would have been tempted to despise him. Sometimes still did, quietly, in some shameful, irrational way.
You would too if someone had once called you 'Quatre Winner's rectal polyp.'
"I'm five foot seven, blond," Duo said firmly. "Slim and blue-eyed with a disproportionally large, succulent ass."
"What?" said Heero.
"What?" Quatre yelped, swinging upright. He bumped the table with one of his child-birthing hips; the top two inches of their lemonade sloshed onto the floor. "Give me the phone, Duo!"
Duo stood up, ducking nimbly under Quatre's outstretched hand. "Something wrong, Heero?"
"N-no. Not at all," said Heero. He still sounded surprised. "I just—had a different mental image of you, I guess. Didn't imagine you were blond."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," said Duo.
"Anyway. Great. I will look for you. Six o' clock, right?"
"Six o' clock," he affirmed. Quatre leapt at him again. Duo sidestepped casually, and Quatre stumbled over the corner of their low coffee table, face-planting into the sofa. "I can't wait to talk to you in person, Heero. Thanks so much for thinking of me. Travel safe."
"Until tonight," said Heero, and hung up.
Duo snapped his cell phone shut and turned around sheepishly to face Quatre, who was still thrashing around in the throw pillows, trying to right himself. He finally emerged, red-faced and tousled. He did not look happy.
"Please, tell me you didn't just do what I think you did," he said. "Please, Duo. Please tell me."
"Look, it's only for one night," Duo began.
Quatre flung himself back into the couch, moaning. "Duo!"
"What's the big deal?" he demanded, spreading out his hands defensively. "It's not as if the guy has any idea what I look like, and you know everything about me! You can talk a little bit louder and swear more and play a good Duo Maxwell for a few hours, no harm done. I'll even be there to coach you and shit. Then Heero 'the Head Turner' Yuy can continue on to Vegas, send me a postcard or two, and have some good material to jack off to when he—"
"Duo!" Quatre wailed again. "I don't want your pen pal to think of me when he—when—aah! What exactly happened to you to make you so pathetically insecure?"
Duo frowned, letting out a dismissive snort. "I am not insecure."
"Yes! Yes you are! You look like that and somehow you still have to get yourself drunk before you'll even look in a mirror!"
"I look like what, exactly?" Duo demanded. "Your rectal polyp?"
Quatre whirled back around to stare at him. "Are you still freaking out about that? I told you, he only called you that because he had a crippling crush on you! Everyone in the whole damn school knew he was just trying to get your attention!"
"Well, he got it," Duo muttered. He stormed into the kitchen. Quatre scurried after him.
"Duo, I don't understand it," he said, softening a little. "Far from being even remotely unattractive, you're actually the most beautiful person I've ever seen, and I'm not just saying that because you're my best friend. My breath still catches sometimes when you walk into the room. And that's ignoring even the greatest parts of you, like your vitality, your wit, your resiliency—your lack of self-confidence is ridiculous, Duo, and completely unfounded. You have everything a person could ever want. I would do anything to be you."
Cornered at the sink, Duo had grudgingly turned around to face him. Now he let out a slow breath, crossed the room, and squeezed Quatre firmly around the waist. Quatre hugged him back. They stood like that for a long moment, not speaking.
"I have good news for you," said Duo finally.
"What's that?" said Quatre.
Duo grinned at him. "At six o' clock this very evening, you do get to be me!"
Quatre extricated their bodies and shoved him away so hard that he ricocheted off the counter. "You are impossible!" he shouted.
"Another one of my distinguishing attributes," Duo agreed, giving him a thumbs up. He locked defiant gazes with Quatre until he felt his smile begin to wilt, then he shrugged, leaning back against the edge of the sink with a sudden melancholy that he hadn't realized he'd possessed. "Quatre—I know I haven't met him in person, but Heero means a lot to me."
"Of course he does," Quatre began, but Duo held up a hand.
"No. Like, he means—so much to me. Because I don't know him. For once in my life, I got to choose what someone knew about me. I got to skip the part where I turned tricks at the Shell or popped X or lived with that guy who made me call him 'daddy.' I mean, I have flaws. He knows I have flaws; I've told him all about the stupid ass-tattoos and the car-surfing. You know, the type of shit that all humans do. But he doesn't know that I'm—defective. He can't judge me or pity me because I'm not the infamous Duo Maxwell to him, I'm just—the person I wish I could be, with all that bad shit just swept under the rug. I can't escape myself, Quat. Wouldn't even want to, 'cause even I've got some pride in my successes. I do. But—can't that stronger, smarter, more attractive Duo exist somewhere, even if it's just in some guy from Missouri? Especially since I'll never be that smarter, cleaner Duo? Please?"
The irritation had melted out of Quatre's posture. He stood very still, hands down at his sides, grief and worry and affection swimming in his eyes. "Duo," he said at last, sadly. "You already are that person to me. Please don't call yourself 'defective.'"
Duo laughed a little. "You're a sweetheart, Quatre, but you think too highly of me. Always have."
"Well, someone has to appreciate the good in you. Heaven knows you won't do it yourself." Quatre pulled out a chair and sat down in it, his expression strained, thoughtful. "If I pretended to be you for tonight," he said slowly, "Heero Yuy would be embracing a lie. And it would do nothing to resolve your own self-image problems."
"A mere face-lift of an actuality, that's all, and maybe," Duo relented. "But what if I promise to work on my issues if you'll do me this favor?"
Quatre eyed him suspiciously. "You'd let me hang some mirrors around this place?"
"Yeah. Sure."
"You'll stop introducing yourself as 'Poo-oh Lackswell.'"
"Uh—maybe. Yeah. I'll try."
"You'll quit telling people we've just met that you've named my ass cheeks individually?"
Duo hesitated. "What does that have to do with my self-esteem?"
"Nothing," Quatre confessed. "I just really, really hate it when you do that."
"I didn't realize," said Duo, honestly repentant. "Shit. I'm sorry, Quatre. I'm sorry, Quat-Prat. I'm sorry, Gluteus Majd al Din."
Quatre drew his lips into a small, thin line.
"No, really—I'm sorry." He sat down across from Quatre and scooped up one of his hands, giving it an imploring squeeze. "So, what do you say?" he prompted with a hopeful smile. "Be Duo Maxwell 7.0 for a night? Charm Heero Yuy, crack some dirty jokes, and send him off to Vegas with memories of a svelte blond beauty instead of a short, greasy mechanic with a massive inferiority complex."
"This is wrong," said Quatre, but he sighed. "I'll do it. You know I'd do anything for you."
"It's what I count on!" said Duo.
Quatre made a face as Duo leaned over and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. "Well. Okay. Let's get gussied up and figure out some sort of 'welcome to Colorado' gift to give them."
"We could place you on a large platter wearing nothing but a gift bow," suggested Duo.
He shut up at the glassful of iced tea that Quatre splashed in his face.
The restaurant downtown turned out to be a cozy, French-style bistro with a gorgeous veranda and plenty of warm lighting. Heero Yuy could see how it became popular among locals. It was a playful, tastefully conspicuous building, bordered by striped awnings and iron casements and the soft, nostalgic smell of baking bread. It seemed to rest in a place of comfortable neutrality in every possible aspect: quality food, but not too expensive. Intimate, but not high-pressure. Pleasant background music; jazzy, yet mercifully bereft of all that freeform garbage that Heero hated and Trowa delighted in. Yes—Duo Maxwell had picked a congenial, evenhanded, and attractive rendezvous point. And after ten months of learning about the gregarious eighteen-year-old car mechanic from Colorado, Heero was not at all surprised by his good taste.
Heero had written his initial letter the same way he approached all of the new relationships in his life: with facts, civility, and careful detachment. He'd only signed up to receive a pen pal on a whim, loitering around the community center after tango lessons while Relena finished showering. The note from Duo had been an evocative (if almost illegible) surprise:
Hey, pen pal –
I just got off shift at the garage. Can you smell the grease? I gotta scrub real hard whenever I want clean fingernails, but most of the time, there's no reason to bother. I live by myself in a small flat in Colorado. Maybe you're from Florida and can send me some sunshine when you get the chance? It's raining here today. When I look out my bedroom window on clear days, I can just make out the highway onramps. Always more going than coming, feels like, day after day after day. You gotta wonder sometimes: what is it that makes so many people eager to leave it all behind?
What would you stay for, pen friend?
Tag me back.
– Duo
Duo Maxwell was like that. He had easy ways of asking hard questions, was somehow cryptic and straightforward at the same time. He made Heero curious. Heero bombarded Duo with personal queries, and Duo responded to everything from his toothpaste of choice (anything non-minty) to his favorite film feline (Mr. Bigglesworth) to the opening lines of the first poem that came to mind ("Here they are. The soft eyes open"). His candidness made Heero want to be a different type of person. The type that didn't always take the onramp. The type that stayed.
Not that Heero was leading by example these days. The impromptu trip to Las Vegas was a pitiable retreat if there ever was one, but hell if he was going to stay another minute in the homophobic hellhole of his hometown. Some bastard had taken a baseball bat to his car windows while he was on shift at the Reel Deal. Heero had never even come out to his parents. The window smashing stunt had been a product of pure conjecture, which meant that actually admitting to being gay would probably result in his being murdered. Not emotionally murdered, or socially murdered. Literally murdered. Heero went home, crammed a backpack full of his clothes and Duo's letters, then sat in the bed of Trowa's truck until Trowa wandered outside and asked him what had happened.
We're going, Heero replied, and offered him no further explanation.
And no questions were asked. They left that evening.
Trowa Barton was the sole reason Heero had survived for the past eleven years. He'd lived in town for almost as long as Heero had, but neither boy was sociable, and it took them almost six years to develop the guarded acquaintanceship that served as the foundation for their next decade of quiet trust-building. Now, at nineteen and twenty, they were unfaltering friends. They shared the need for silence and subtlety, but Trowa was the warmth to Heero's remoteness, the placidity to his temper. Heero couldn't count the number of times Trowa had defused a dangerous confrontation on his behalf, or, when the conflict was unavoidable, fought by his side with a steadfast immediacy that required neither explanations nor thanks. Even when the intensifying rumors regarding Heero's sexuality swept Trowa down into disrepute with him, Trowa remained resolute in their friendship. Heero didn't know what the hell he had done in his life to deserve such an extraordinary ally, but he swore that he would make it up to him. Somehow. Someday.
Probably not this day, though, unless Trowa's idea of penitence was watching Heero alternately crouch on the sidewalk, smooth his hair, stroll determinedly to the restaurant entrance, then run back to cower behind the menu board again. The hostesses were starting to look at him as if he were insane, but Heero couldn't seem to get a grip. He didn't know what had made him believe calling Duo was a good idea. Residual adrenaline from the car incident? Trowa's incessant looping of "Unintended" on his Muse CD? He was still humiliated about their awkward phone conversation. Duo's agreeing to see him was a small consolation; he probably would've consented to tea with Hitler, if Hitler had stuttered that badly and asked meekly enough.
Leaning against the brick facing with his arms crossed patiently over his chest, Trowa detected his discomfiture. "I thought your self-consciousness was endearing," he remarked.
Heero paused to send him a despairing glance. "You are a veterinary technician. You have an unusual fondness for pathetic, injured creatures."
"And drama queens, apparently," said Trowa.
He winced. "Do you have to use the word 'queen?'"
"Drama maharajah," Trowa amended. He reached over to smooth down Heero's cowlick, paused when Heero jerked away instinctively. "Why are you so nervous? You said he sounded friendly."
"He was friendly, yes. And articulate, after the shock wore off."
"You find that intimidating?"
"Don't you?"
Trowa hmmed a little and shrugged one shoulder, his expression thoughtful. "Verbal communication comes easier to some people than it does to others. Waxing poetic isn't a fair estimation of one's character, good or bad. Besides, in the end, there's a reason both of you chose to write to each other—and, if he's as nice as you say he is, then he was never judging you in the first place."
Sometimes Heero hated it when Trowa talked to him at length because he always made so much damn sense. It was true: the Duo Maxwell that Heero had gotten to know was possibly the most nonjudgmental person in the world, as demonstrated by his response to Heero's tense confession of selective mutism as a child. Baby, someone should pin a medal on you, Duo had written back. I only escaped social anxiety by having no concept whatsoever of respectable deportment. I'm guessing whatever you did to overcome your obstacles was more decorous than telling your principal to fuck off when you were six.
"Perhaps we should go," suggested Trowa, gently stirring him from his deliberation. "It's six-fifteen. They've probably slipped past us by now."
Heero nodded and straightened his jacket. "All right," he said firmly. "Yes. Let's do this. How do I look?"
Trowa patted down his cowlick again. "Respectable."
"You're not shitting me."
"'I would never shit you,'" Trowa quoted solemnly.
Heero cringed. "I actually said that to him on the phone, didn't I?"
"Verbatim."
"Perfect," said Heero. He gave his pants one final, bracing tug, sucked in a deep breath, and strode purposefully past the hostesses into the restaurant's beautiful main dining area.
He made it exactly three steps forward before doing an abrupt about-face and bolting back the way he came.
Trowa stumbled over him in his surprise. "What?" he asked confusedly. He had to catch Heero's arm with both hands to keep him from darting down the sidewalk. "What's wrong?"
"I see them," Heero stage-whispered.
"I thought that was the objective," said Trowa, leaning around the corner. "Where are they? What's the big—oh. Oh, my."
"Yes," Heero hissed, and they ducked back under the awning together.
It was impossible not to see them. Even from their window table in a dimly-lit corner, they commanded the whole room's attention. He and Trowa must've just missed them. They were taking their seats on the same side of the table, arguing fiercely about something, but they both paused to smile at the young waitress fluttering nearby with two menus and an enormous blush. And no wonder.
The young man matching Duo Maxwell's description was magnificent. Somehow nothing at all like Heero had imagined, but magnificent all the same. He was sylphlike, radiantly blond, clad in ass-hugging white slacks and a blue linen shirt that made his blue eyes look glacial. The subtle inclination of his chin hinted toward an upper-class refinement—strange career choice, then, car mechanics?—and his posture was impeccable. Heero swallowed hard, feeling completely out of his element. He was a small town movie theatre employee whose wardrobe consisted almost entirely of torn Levi's and red chambray work shirts. He hadn't expected Duo to have so much—savoir-faire. Trowa still hadn't picked his jaw up off the floor, being taller and Herculean and therefore not automatically out of their league, but Heero was already gazing around for escape routes. There had to be a graceful way out of this nightmare.
Hell, even Duo himself wouldn't have been too traumatizing if he'd brought with him a more middling, Heero-level companion. Instead, he'd invited along a stunning, long-haired brunet with a laugh that carried clear across the noisy room, full and effervescent. He was a few inches shorter than his friend and no less attractive. Black plaid button-up, sleeves pinned to the elbows; red undershirt; tall, military-style boots and distressed jeans that showed off dusky slips of tanned skin at both knees. He beckoned the waitress closer, said something to her that made her drop her notepad. Pages scattered everywhere. He helped her scoop them up off the ground and handed them back to her with an apology and a grin.
His eyes—they were remarkable. Even from the door, Heero could see that.
Something painful lurched out of his stomach and lodged itself in his throat. He swung around to leave and bumped hard into Trowa's chest. Trowa didn't even blink.
"Let's go," said Heero.
Trowa frowned, shook his head a little to clear it. "Wh-what? But they're waiting for us."
"I don't care. Forget it. I don't want to do this anymore." Heero stepped onto the sidewalk and walked halfway into the parking lot before he realized Trowa wasn't following him. "Trowa, come on!"
"I—" Trowa hesitated, dampened his lips. Then his eyebrows knit with disappointment. "Heero. I would—like to meet him. Them. Meet them."
The blond, of course. One Duo Maxwell, the human being on the other end of Heero's letters. Why should you be interested in my friend? Heero wanted to snarl—but, of course, that was petty and territorial and obvious. Trowa's single girlfriend, Sylvia Noventa, had been similarly beautiful. Same natural grace and coloring, same alluring openness of posture. The four square miles of their hometown didn't allow for many romantic ventures, heterosexual or—otherwise—so Heero and Trowa had formed a two-man army of silence and support. Trowa had never insisted upon something against Heero's wishes before. It was a sign of longing.
And Heero had just spinelessly relinquished any claim he might've had on his pen pal of ten months.
Suddenly furious with himself, Heero stepped out of the street, shrugged off his blue jacket, and shoved it in Trowa's hands. Why deny Trowa this evening? At least one of them still had testicles. "Whatever, fine," he snapped. "He's all yours."
"What?" said Trowa, puzzled.
"Put it on. Go say hello to Duo Maxwell."
"I said I wanted to meet him," Trowa clarified, trying to hand the coat back. "I didn't say I wanted to go alone whilst impersonating you for some pointless, convoluted reason."
"You and I have the same basic hair color, and you could probably pass for five-eleven if you slouched. He's here to see Heero Yuy. If he thinks you're me, he'll pay more attention to you. What are you having trouble understanding here?"
"I think you've actually gone insane," said Trowa, with wonder. "I knew it was only a matter of time, but you've really snapped, Heero."
It would be angering if it weren't so damn sad. Heero grabbed Trowa's elbow, drawing him back around the corner and pointing at the table. "Look at him, Trowa. Both of us know you would get along with him better than I would. You're taller, kinder, more interesting, and more handsome. Hell, I wouldn't even be a blip on his or his friend's radar if we hadn't written a few damn letters back and forth."
Trowa cocked an eyebrow, confused. "But weren't the 'damn letters' the whole point of this meeting?"
Heero couldn't think of a dignified reply. "Not a blip," he said at last, with finality.
It sounded ridiculous, and Trowa's lips twitched in either amusement or annoyance, but he smoothed his expression back into neutrality and sighed. "Okay. Well. If you're not going, I'm not going, either."
"What?" Heero was exasperated. "Yes, you are!"
"Why? I may be less, er—less frigid than you, but no more sociable. Certainly no more courageous."
"Just go up and say 'hello.'"
"Oh, thank you," said Trowa sarcastically. "I'd forgotten how easy it was."
Dropping his head into his palms, Heero bit back the urge to punch something and tried to examine the situation logically. The facts: Trowa Barton was his best friend. Trowa had never asked Heero for anything, not once, despite having suffered shattered knuckles, black eyes, homophobic slurs, and crosses burnt into his lawn on his behalf. Trowa was the gentlest, bravest, most worthwhile person Heero had ever met, and likely would ever meet. And Trowa, like most worthwhile people in the world, had absolutely no concept of what a gift to humanity he really was.
Heero lowered his hands, resolved.
Trowa was going to meet Duo.
"That was cruel of me, to throw your anxiety in your face like that," Trowa admitted, when he'd glanced up. "I'm sorry. This is a tough situation. I just meant that I wouldn't expect either of us to be able to do this without backup."
"Then it's settled," said Heero calmly.
"What's settled?"
"I will be your backup," he said, and stalked off into the dining area before Trowa could reply.
He wove his way through the tables so Trowa would have trouble catching up to him, dodging a few waiters and drawing a few unused chairs into the path behind him for good measure. In his determination, he forgot to be nervous. He ambled along, ignoring Trowa calling his name with growing urgency. He was already stepping up to greet his pen pal and company by the time the holy-shit-what-am-I-even-doing factor settled in. Heero's tongue seemed to shrivel up in his mouth. The two young men glanced up at him, then at each other, then back up at him. From this distance, Heero was half-tempted to grab them by the shoulders and shake them just to make sure they were real people. If possible, they were even more attractive close up.
"Hey," said the brunet at last. Fuck, his eyes were violet. Violet. "Are you, uh—?"
"I'm Heero Yuy's friend," Heero managed. "I'm looking for Duo Maxwell?"
"Yeah, um, I'm his—friend," said violet-eyes, making a weird, meandering gesture toward the blond, who had frozen in place with his water glass at his lips.
The three of them stared at each other in awkward silence.
Luckily, Trowa had finally woven his way through Heero's obstacle course and was hastening to their table. "Hello," he said breathlessly, hailing the group with a small wave. Heero couldn't tell if he was mad or not—he'd only seen Trowa angry a handful of times in all their years of friendship—but he had put on Heero's blue jacket sometime between here and the door. The muscles in his shoulders flexed gorgeously as he extended a hand in greeting, the navy denim pulled taut across his broader frame. "I'm—Heero," he added.
The blond lowered his glass and gulped visibly. No sound came out of his mouth when he opened it.
"Say hello, Duo," said the brunet, giving his friend a hearty slap on the back that nearly knocked him out of his chair. When even that failed to produce a reaction, he took Trowa's proffered hand himself, then Heero's. His grip was firm and friendly and sent about a million shockwaves down Heero's spine. "Hi, guys, it's a pleasure to meet you both. I'm Duo's best friend—uh, Solo."
"Nice to meet you, Solo," said Trowa. He glanced briefly at Heero. "This is my roommate, Grosvenor-Ethelbert Takashita Mangina."
Okay, so he was mad.
Duo remained silent, perhaps in horror, but Solo's breath gave a hitch that he quickly turned into a small series of coughs. "Pleasure, Mr. Mangina," he said, with an admirably straight face.
"Call me Odin for short, please," said Heero.
Trowa glared daggers at him.
"Hi Heero, hi Odin," said Duo, speaking at last. "It's—so great to meet both of you." He had a gentle, music-like voice, and although he gave Heero a handshake and a luminous smile, he seemed quite taken with Trowa—logical, of course, given that he believed that Trowa had written all of the letters he'd received.
Heero felt a soft stab of jealousy as they talked and reminded himself that without Trowa, they'd probably already be back in the truck on their way to Vegas. Trowa took a seat across from the blond, leaving Heero and Solo face to face on the other half of the table. Heero tried to smile at him, nervous. Solo responded with a bright, mischievous grin and propped his chin in one hand to watch the pleasantries unfold timidly between Duo and Trowa.
"You are different than how I imagined you," Trowa was saying, which was technically true, since he'd probably never imagined Duo in the first place.
"Is that a good thing?" asked Duo shyly.
"Oh—yes. Extremely."
It carried an unexpected weight. Duo ducked behind his golden bangs, blushing, and Trowa, mesmerized, seemed unable to contribute anything else to the conversation. Heero barely repressed a sigh.
Silence dragged on for ten uncomfortable seconds. The waitress came by to take their drink orders. Waters all around. They sipped without speaking.
"Sooo," said Solo eventually, giving the table a little rap with his knuckles. He turned to Trowa. "How're you finding the altitude so far, Heero?"
"It's not bad, just different," said Trowa. "The air feels dry."
"Oh, yes. We Coloradans go through a ridiculous amount of lotion and tissues." The connotations struck him a moment later. His violet eyes went wide. "I mean—because of the climate, that is. You know! Dry skin and nosebleeds and stuff. Not that we, um—jerk it any more often than—yeah." He took a long gulp of water, his ears bright red. "So what's it like in Missouri?"
"Probably above average, given how little else there is to do around there," said Heero.
Trowa cleared his throat. "I think he meant the weather."
"I see." Slowly, Heero brought up one hand to shield his warm face. "Awesome."
To his relief, Duo and Solo laughed. It was a warm, catching sound, no discomfort in it at all, and when Heero had the strength to look up at them again, they were gazing back fondly. Wonder of wonders, it seemed to have broken the ice. Even Trowa was wearing a hint of a smirk.
"I know how weird this is for everyone," Duo confessed, his blue-green eyes glimmering with appreciation. "Thank you all so much for bearing with me."
"Not at all," said Trowa, smiling. "I'm just glad we're here."
"Me too," said Duo. He touched Trowa's fingertips briefly with his own, the motion filled with quiet longing. "Me too."
The evening went more smoothly after that. Solo, recovering swiftly from his initial misstep, turned out to be an avid and entertaining conversationalist, sweeping them fluidly from subject to subject with many stops in the anecdote-rich territory between them. Like Trowa and Heero, he explained, he and Duo had met when they were elementary school age, but their friendship had been immediate and uninterrupted. They'd grown up together. They'd learned to rollerblade hand-in-hand, started a rock band called Two by Fours, gotten their pictures in the local paper for accidentally backing a car through an active baseball game on their school's field. While they relayed these stories, they exchanged silent, gentle looks, steering the narratives smoothly around their hardships and past traumas. Heero could read their omissions in their body language—a sudden wistfulness in Duo's smiles, Solo's unconscious touching of the scars on his arms. They were favoring happy fronts, but they clearly shared some dark history, too. Heero appreciated that. Despite appearances, they were obviously much more than two pretty faces.
In keeping with the good nature of the night, Heero and Trowa took similar detours away from their upsetting upbringings. No mention of the damages to Heero's car or their hometown's violent homophobia. Nothing about their parents' untimely deaths, Trowa's night terrors, Heero's suicide attempts. They kept to the pleasant stories about their childhood, shared or otherwise, which meant that they exhausted the topic depressingly quickly—but their dining companions kept the ball rolling with grace and compassion.
How different it was here than in Missouri, Heero mused. Solo and Duo explained that they'd both been out in their community since their early teens, and though Duo admitted to his father's displeasure at his announcement, they said that the city accommodated a large enough LGBT population that sexuality was rarely an issue.
"What the hell do you ostracize each other about here, then?" Heero had asked.
"Affluence, religion, political affiliation, pancakes versus waffles, and whether or not you're a hipster," said Solo.
Laughter was abundant, and the food was excellent. They swapped bites of pasta and side dishes. Heero offered Duo some jasmine rice straight from his own fork, relishing Trowa's jealous look as his lips closed around the tines. Although Heero and Solo spoke often, sometimes directly to each other, the focus of the evening lay clearly on the purported pen pals. Heero took comfort in someone else's being there as a babysitter, but he couldn't help but wonder how the evening would've played out if he had introduced himself honestly. He had questions for Duo about certain things that they'd discussed. Things that Trowa, as passable a Heero Yuy as he made, could not have known to bring up.
They were just finishing dessert when Solo leaned over to whisper something in Duo's ear. The two of them conferred for a moment, then Duo said, "Oh!" and stooped down to retrieve a messenger bag from between their chairs. He hesitated, then drew a small plastic container out of an insulated lunch carrier and slid it across the table to Heero and Trowa. "Um—we made these for you two this afternoon. Sorry they're so ugly. We're out of practice and we kind of had to rush."
Trowa and Heero glanced at each other, then Trowa peeled the lid off the Tupperware.
Immediately, Heero laughed in delight. He couldn't help it. Inside were a few lopsided pieces of Western-style sushi, painstakingly handmade with avocado, cucumber, kani kama, rice, and nori. Wouldn't likely pass in an inspection conducted by Heero's late Japanese mother, but they'd clearly had their hearts in the preparation. And the idea of the two of them fussing over a sushi mat together was wildly endearing.
"You made these?" said Trowa. He sounded equally enchanted.
"Yes, that's why they're repulsive," said Duo, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "At least we know they won't kill you. We had to eat all of the duds. Do you like sushi, Odin?"
"Very much." Even Heero himself had never made sushi; the craft was too specialized. There were the tools, the ingredients, the practice time—it wasn't something you just whipped up, like toast or cereal or spaghetti. "How did you manage, on such short notice?"
"Oh, Quat and I—" Solo paused and gave a short, sheepish laugh, patted his friend's hand. "Duo and I, that is. Uh. See, sushi-rolling was one of our failed forays into the ill-advised world of do-it-yourself kits, along with pepper-growing, beer-brewing, and toothpaste-making. The sushi was the only thing that summer that didn't make us gut-rottingly sick, so every once in a while we break out the bamboo mats for old times' sake. It's just something we do now. Like avoiding mint toothpaste at all costs. So when we heard that you liked Japanese food, we gave it a go."
The gesture was perhaps the night's first direct acknowledgement of the letters—something specific to one of Heero's offhand comments about his comfort foods. He was flattered by Duo's attention to detail, but it made his face burn, even with Trowa serving as his mouthpiece. All of his earlier feelings of jealousy vanished and he was suddenly grateful not to be on the spot.
"Wow," said Trowa. He flashed Heero a quick smile, soft and significant. "That is incredibly thoughtful. Thank you."
"Feel no obligation to actually eat any," said Duo, waving his hands. "I know it hardly looks edible, and we just had dinner. I'd forgotten we'd brought that along."
Heero could tell that he wasn't just saying that to be polite. He was legitimately embarrassed by their efforts, although Heero couldn't imagine a more endearing token of goodwill. Nothing said 'nice to meet you' like a deformed California roll. The fact that they'd struggled with it just added to its charm. Solo was grinning at the leaking bits of rice and looked unabashed enough, but Duo looked honestly put out that they hadn't produced picture-perfect futomaki with homemade sakura denbu.
Again, Heero was struck by his sophistication. He hadn't anticipated a car mechanic with terrible handwriting and buoyant philosophies to amount to such a shy, fair-haired aristocrat in person. He inspired every protective big-brother impulse in Heero's body. In fact, it weren't for Trowa's severe seafood allergy, Heero would've happily volunteered them to consume a million pieces of the misshapen sushi just to reassure him.
Unfortunately, Trowa was thinking the same thing. Except without regards to the severe seafood allergy. He picked up one of the tiny pieces of sushi, gave it a determined look, and placed it in his mouth.
"Uhh," Heero managed, quietly, but Solo's voice overwhelmed his.
"Holy shit!" he crowed. "He actually tried one! Are you okay, man? Here, take my napkin—spit it out if you have to—"
But Trowa merely chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and smiled without a single ounce of strain or dishonesty. "No, it's wonderful," he said, beaming. "I knew it would be. Is there anything the two of you can't do? Hee—Odin, try some."
Apparently their culinary skills had the power to make people surmount their allergies—or at least ignore them bravely for the few moments before anaphylaxis set in. Tearing his gaze away from Trowa, Heero ate one of the pieces of sushi. Trowa was right: despite appearances, they were delicious, and the looks of appreciation on Duo and Solo's faces were just as gratifying. Solo tipped him a marvelous wink, slow and flirtatious. Duo's turquoise eyes lit up like light bulbs, and he clasped his hand affectionately on top of Trowa's. Heero could practically hear the chorus of angels start in Trowa's heart. He scooted his chair back a little louder than necessary, giving Trowa hard nudge on the shoulder.
"I just remembered. Didn't we need to, uh—?"
"Hmm?" said Trowa dreamily.
"We were supposed to, ah, call—Relena tonight? To wish her a happy birthday?"
"No. Her birthday is in March."
"Trowa," said Heero urgently, without thinking. He froze at the slip up, but it did the trick—Trowa glanced up at him, shook the cobwebs out of his love-hazed brain, and remembered that he had, in fact, just consumed something that had the potential to kill him.
"Oh, Trowa's birthday, you mean!" said Trowa. "I forgot! Yes—we should excuse ourselves for just a moment—"
"We'll be right back," Heero assured Duo and Solo, who nodded, albeit confusedly.
Heero unclipped Trowa's sunglasses from his shirt as he bustled his friend along, leaving the aviators on the table as a promise against dining and dashing. They probably thought he and Trowa were insane by now, but there was no reason for them to think they were assholes, too. He would work out a better explanation after he'd made sure Trowa wasn't going to keel over and die. The two of them stumbled toward the restrooms, caroming off of tables and waiters and countertops, then Trowa let out a sudden, airless wheeze and made a beeline for the exit instead.
"Epi," he gasped, fumbling for his car keys. "Truck—"
Without waiting for him to finish, Heero snatched the key ring out of his hands and bolted out of the restaurant. The parking lot was aglow from the streetlights and neon signs. The sky was just beginning to darken. Heero's feet pounded against the asphalt as he raced for the truck, vaulting over the bike rack and sliding across the hood of a car with his practiced stuntman flair. He fumbled open the passenger door of Trowa's pickup and yanked open the glove compartment. Sheet music and condoms flew everywhere. Heero finally found the EpiPen crammed beneath the car registration, tore off the cap, and raced back to the entrance with the needle raised.
Trowa had stumbled partway into the parking lot and was rasping for breath, fanning himself with one hand. When he saw Heero, he stretched out a shaking, sweaty palm to receive the injection.
"I'll do it," said Heero. "Drop your pants."
"I—I can—"
"Shut up and drop your pants!" Heero bellowed.
Too winded to argue anymore, Trowa lowered his jeans and boxers, squirmed halfway out of them, and presented his bare ass to Heero. Heero stabbed the autoinjector into his right cheek and held it in place, waiting for the epinephrine to drain. They had drawn a small crowd by now. Heero heroically tried not to take notice.
"Please tell me you somehow forgot you had allergies," he hissed to Trowa's backside. "Please tell me you weren't so dead set on pleasing Goldilocks that you decided to risk having a lethal reaction for him."
Trowa took a few moments to catch his breath. The worst of his symptoms seemed to be subsiding, and his respiration was returning to normal. "But he's just so amazing," he huffed, when he could finally speak again. "You saw how happy it made him. He even took my hand!"
Heero struck his friend's upturned rear with one fist. "No!"
"Did—did you just punch me in the ass?"
"Bad decision, Trowa!" Heero rebuked, walloping him again with every word. "Bad, stupid, selfish, embarrassing decision!"
"I couldn't help it!" Trowa protested.
Heero tugged out the depleted EpiPen with absolutely no gentility and tossed it on the ground. "You idiot! I even offered you an immediate escape, and you were like, 'Why no, sir, Relena's birthday is in March—'"
"Look, I just wasn't thinking! I'm sorry." He shoved Heero away from him and gingerly began pulling his pants back up, wincing. His posterior and his face were turning the exact same shade of red. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.
"I just don't understand," said Heero. "You barely know him. You haven't even read his letters like I have!"
"I know that," said Trowa. "But…" he hesitated, putting his hands on his hips and looking miserably down at his feet. "Something inside me just clicks when I look at him," he said at last. "He's so—so passionate. And beautiful. And resilient, and gentle, and empathetic, and intelligent—I feel as if I was meant to play you tonight, as if all of the stars aligned in this absurd, unnecessarily elaborate way just so we could sit across from each other for the first time and listen to each other's voices. My ass hurts like hell—thanks for that, Heero—but I would brave anaphylactic shock again for another chance to hold his hand. If he said he would be with me, I—I think I could even die for him."
Heero opened his mouth to scoff at the maudlin declaration, but something in Trowa's gaze stopped him. In the purple-blue light of the evening, his eyes were dark, flickering with a sadness and yearning that Heero had never seen in him before. It stunned him. "You care about him that much?" he asked. "One dinner, and you think you're soulmates?"
"I know we are," said Trowa fiercely. "Heero, I've never been so certain of anything in my whole life."
It stung deeply. Then why Duo Maxwell his pen pal first? Why hadn't the fates brought Duo and Trowa together directly? It wasn't that Heero doubted the instant connection between the two of them—he saw the way they acted around each other; their long, loaded looks, the shy desire that lit both of their faces like candle flames in a dark room. He'd never seen Trowa so comfortable and so ready to fight for something he wanted. But it also meant that Heero was the intermediary, not the end result. That, once again, he was only Heero Yuy, the nobody from Nowhere Town—and that everything beautiful he had ever felt while reading Duo's letters had been false.
He closed his eyes, trying to swallow past the pain rising in his throat. The hours he'd spent pouring his heart onto paper. The way his heart skipped when those thick envelopes appeared in his mailbox. How understood he felt when Duo put words to something he'd never been able to say, how renewed and un-alone.
He should've known it'd been for Trowa all along. Trowa, who deserved it.
"You're upset," said Trowa softly. "Of course you are. I have no right to Duo, and yet I've come between you two without even consulting you first—please forgive my presumption. I would never pursue a relationship with him at the cost of our friendship."
At that, Heero looked up at him. It took a lot of effort to meet his eyes, but Trowa made it somehow okay with his softness, his sincerity. "Trowa, I owe you a lot."
"You don't me a thing," Trowa insisted.
"I owe you a lot," Heero repeated, shaking his head, "and although you don't need my 'permission' to romance Duo, giving it to you wouldn't even scratch the surface of the debt I've accrued from being a jackass to you all these years."
Trowa was quiet for a long time. Then he chuckled. "You've never been a jackass. Masochistic, maybe, and a little too kind when you think no one's looking—but never a jackass."
Heero shuffled his feet around on the blacktop, not sure how to respond to that. Thankfully, Solo took that moment to stroll out of the restaurant, spot them in the parking lot, and grin. He'd taken off his button-up in the summer heat and slung it over one shoulder. His slender arms rippled with deceptive muscle as he approached. "Hey, you finish that birthday call to your friend yet?" he asked. "Guy must be a real stickler for punctuality, the way you two bolted. My friend Hilde's like that. She once hid a carton of eggs in my car for forgetting to wish her a merry Christmas."
"Gross," said Trowa. He glanced around Solo. "Where's Duo?"
"Taking care of the bill. I sort of ditched him. Apparently these two dudes were groping each other's naked asses out here? Did you see them?"
"Uh. No." Trowa frowned. "I wanted to pick up the check, though."
"Ah, no, allow us, please. Quat's got means."
"From working as a mechanic?" Heero asked skeptically, but Trowa was mowing over him, his eyes bright with bashful interest: "You've called him that a few times, 'Cat.' That's his nickname or something?"
Solo blinked, then smiled. "Right! Yeah. You gotta admit, he's pretty, uh—felonious."
"Oh, I commit felonies?" challenged 'Cat,' stepping up beside him. He'd propped Trowa's aviators on top his head, the gray-green glass gleaming in his pale hair, which smoldered under the streetlights.
"Cat burglaries!" said Solo smoothly.
The four of them laughed, then lapsed into an affable silence. Trowa and his flaxen date locked eyes and couldn't seem to tear themselves away. Heero watched them watch each other, trapped somewhere between appreciation and regret. They did make an awfully handsome couple. Tall, warm, attractive. Certainly not lacking for any palpable chemistry. Heero fought back a sigh and turned his head away to find Solo staring at them with the same wistful expression. It startled him. Those astonishing eyes of his were so complicated in that instant, so full of unexpected grief. Then Solo broke into a grin again, sneaked a peek at his watch, then casually drove Trowa and his friend hip to hip by swinging a companionable arm around each of their waists.
"Look," he said. "I know we only planned for dinner, but it's too damn early to call it quits, don't you think? There's this great eighteen-and-up club a couple of blocks away. We should drop in. I hear they make a mean Virgin Bellini."
"Yes!" said Trowa and Duo in perfect, overexcited unison, then glanced at each other and blushed. Gag.
"I'm game," said Heero. And he was. He'd get over the pain of a few heartfelt letters, but if he got between his best friend and the boy he now loved, he'd probably never forgive himself. He sneaked a hand onto Solo's slim waist. Third wheels, unite. "Let's hit the road."
End of part one
Thanks for reading! Next time: awkward karaoke, bar fights, miscommunications, confessions, and conclusions! Please drop me some feedback if you have time.