Distractions

Once upon a time, I complained at the over expanse of 3x4 fanfictions in the GW fandom world. Also at this time, I praised the existence of so many well-written 2x3 fanfictions in the GW fandom world. My loverly friend shoved a not-so-loverly sock in my mouth and told me to rebel against the 3x4 obsession by contributing to the number of 2x3 fics out there. My loverly friend was tired of me shooting of my mouth. So…ta da.

I do not own Gundam Wing. But I do have the right to stick out my tongue at the people who do.

I peek into Quatre's microwave, my cold fingers desiring to have the warm cup of hot chocolate in their grasp after our walk outside in blistery September weather. He doesn't keep much coffee in his expansive loft and I refuse to drink tea after a nasty run-in with something called chai. My knuckles and wrist are sore from the biting wind, a result of what Wufei calls soldier's arthritis. Not that he knows I have this affliction. My hands belong to myself.

The five of us are together again, the four of them sitting around the table while I stand next to the microwave, listening to the machine's hum over their conversation. About a month after the conflict with the Barton family, someone decided it would be a good idea for us to meet overnight at least once every month for 'bonding purposes'. So every four weeks, we rotate playing host on our separate corners of the earth and colonies.

Somewhere along the line, the idea started growing that we should stop playing site hopscotch and live together permanently. We're supposed to be looking at a house tomorrow that Wufei (of all pilots) picked out near the Sanq Kingdom, suspiciously close to Quatre's earthbound apartment and Preventer's Headquarters.

They all say they want to form a family with the only people who will understand. They all are weary of silence on the subject. Would I like to live in a settled house with my friends? Yes, absolutely. But there's a tiny hitch that is making me reluctant to move. His name is Duo Maxwell.

I'm in love with Duo Maxwell.

Shocking? It shocked me too.

But how could you not fall in love with him? As trite as it sounds, Duo is the most beautiful person I have met, inside and out. He's incredibly intelligent (which he is not given enough credit for), he's admirably honest, he's naturally funny, and he's charismatic. It's easy to say that he's amazing for continuing to smile through a war, but it was the war that made him who he is now. Like a jagged shell beaten by the ocean enough to become smooth. And he is very smooth. His skin, I mean. He smells like cinnamon and I wish my drink would smell like him even as I inhale the delicious, chocolate-rich tendrils of mist rising from the mug.

Duo has a way of getting under your skin until you're running your own hands across your body, begging that the expanses of flesh beneath your fingertips would for once be his instead of your own. I want to make him tremble like I do in the middle of the night when I'm laying awake dreaming about him. I want to make him moan as I engulf him, worship him with my mouth until he peaks, pouring himself into my—

"Tro?"

"Shit!" The cup slips from my hands, shattering on the floor in a cacophony of porcelain, liquid, and tile.

Duo jumps away from me, the cuffs of pants splattered with my ruined drink. "Jeez, man, did I scare you?"

"I'm…I'm sorry. I was somewhere else."

He steps over the mess, putting his own cup in the microwave behind me. "No joke." The fabric of his shirt brushes against my equally clothed arm, but that's all it takes to send my thoughts plummeting down into the gutter again. Which was obviously where they were when the man of my most intimate fantasies decided to materialize in front of my face.

Quatre is suddenly at my feet, picking up the pieces. I grab a towel to mop up the spreading brown mass on his floor. "Sorry."

"It's fine, Trowa." His eyes flicker to mine, concerned as they too often are. "Are you okay? Where were you?"

Suddenly, the only noise in the kitchen is the beeping of the microwave as the four of them wait for my answer. Unlike Duo, I have no problems with lies or half-truths. "Just thinking."

Quatre's mouth forms a thin line, probably sick of this excuse. This is the third time I've lost track of the present thinking about Duo today. The first time, I fell on my ass watching his flex in a tight pair of jeans when he reached for his luggage at the airport. The second time, during the walk, I walked into oncoming traffic while imagining his reaction to finding out I prefer to bottom in bed. Now, I've broken a piece of dishware probably more expensive than my entire wardrobe. Speaking of, I need a more flattering wardrobe. Duo commented earlier that my pants are nearly threadbare.

"You've been just thinking a lot today."

"I'm entitled." Duo snickers at my sarcasm and I do a little mental dance. That's ultimate proof to how far gone I am. The Silencer is mentally dancing.

"Are you having second thoughts?" Quatre's voice is soft and low, afraid. I can't stand to hurt him. It's like kicking a puppy.

"No. But I think I'll head to bed to cure my headache." Which I don't have. Unless you'd consider love a headache.

Quatre relaxes considerably and smiles, hugging me briefly before wishing me goodnight. Not able to look anyone else in the face (I said I didn't mind lying, but I never said I was good at it), I leave the kitchen with still-cold fingers to crash on the left side of Quatre's bed. My hands immediately cramp, a reflex developed after years of sleeping while holding a rifle. Laying on my stomach, I reach one hand under the pillow to grasp at the edge of the mattress under the headboard, letting the other hand flatten under the weight of my chest.

Forcing my eyes shut, I try to keep my thoughts away from Duo, but to no avail. He haunts me even on the high wires, so it makes logical sense that he would hound me in bed. Somehow, I think that if I were to tell him, to relieve this secret, I'd be able to move on. But there are three rather large reasons why I cannot confess my love to Duo Maxwell.

Number One: He hates me.

Number Two: He and Heero, who is extremely capable of beating my ass, have had a successful romantic relationship now spanning seven months of existence.

Number Three: Quatre proposed to me in August and I said yes yesterday.

Such is my civilian life. Part of me is starting to miss the war.

To be continued. Possibly.

Depends on if I can get the sock taste off of my tongue any time soon.