Mm… Angsty. Very angsty. Some swearing. Bastard Heero. Distressed Duo. Blood.
Disclaimer: I don't own it. I don't own anything. Don't own the bathroom cabinet, the gauze, the gundam, the.. Well, anything. Alright? Alright.
A quiet groan was emitted from the closed bathroom door, the air inside the bathroom still thick, and warm with the tiniest particles of water, moisture floating around like dust. The cool air that blew from the vent in the stucco ceiling hardly put a dent in the warm air from the shower that had been turned off a good fifteen minutes prior.
Duo Maxwell was perched on the soft terry cloth that covered the lid of the toilet, which was presently closed, finishing wrapping gauze around his middle. The mission he had just gotten back from was completed, though he had taken a good few hits from a few soldiers, as it was a grounds-infiltration. No gundams were necessary this time.
It had only taken three of them, himself, Quatre, and Wufei. Heero and Trowa had come back a few hours earlier from their own missions. He was the only one who didn't come back from a mission unscathed, he had to admit; it was some talent of his.
Clasping two silver clips onto the gauze, he stood up, and went to the sink, resting the heel of one of his hands on the porcelain basin. The cool surface felt good against his warm hands. Unhinging some excess gauze from his flannel plaid pajama pants, he rolled it up, using both hands, and opened the mirror cabinet, placing it inside on one of the metal shelves.
Sighing softly to himself, he stood up straight, and braided his hair quickly, tying off the end with a black elastic hair band. Letting go of the thick rope of wet hair, it fell heavily against his half-bare back, the gauze slowly absorbing the water that was resident in his hair. The tail end of his braid was dripping, shooting off little rivers of sweet smelling water down the small of his back, until being sucked in to the warm flannel material of his pants.
His eyes flickered up to the mirror, after closing the cabinet, and he stared at himself for a good few minutes. How could he look so innocent? How could he look so clean, when really, he felt so tainted from all of the blood he had shed. He had killed brothers, fathers, sons, husbands, uncles, aunts, daughters, grandparents, mothers, sisters, and wives… God, there were so many! And he was only sixteen. Did he really deserve this life? Was this really what God had planned for him? To be a mass murderer? To know that that he had hurt someone so horribly, emotionally, or physically, and yet still have to pretend like he was fine with it?
He could feel something rising up in him, something horrible. Violet orbs narrowed at his reflection, before letting out a loud, throat-burning yell, and slamming his fist into the mirror. Shards of tiny reflections jumped everywhere; materials from inside the cabinet scattering across the tiled floor, some landing softly, other's loud. Pieces of glass swirled around in the sink, before resting in the center, covering the metal of the drain. Little fragmented faces stared up at Duo, and he took a step back, resting his elbows on the edges of the cold basin, a few tiny shards digging into his skin a little, making his arms a little uncomfortable, but nothing he couldn't survive.
Slowly, without even really thinking much about it, one of his hands reached down and picked up one of the bigger pieces of mirror, one with a sharp, pointed edge. He pressed it against his other arm, the skin sinking in where he applied pressure. The reflection of his arm made it appear like there was simply a crease in his skin, rather than a shard of mirror against it. Gritting his teeth with anger, he pressed down the sharp end. It was close to his elbow, so when he rolled up his sleeves, it wouldn't show.
A little bead of red clung to the tip of the sharp object, he drug the end against the skin in a vertical line, a straight line of dark red, almost purple, followed the edge. He vaguely realized that his hand was bleeding from when he slammed it into the mirror, but he didn't feel the pain. He didn't feel his arm; he didn't feel anything. He lethargically dropped the mirror shard into the sink, it swirled around for a few seconds, before stopping, but he didn't hear it.
He stared through his bangs at the remains of the lowest shelf from the cabinet, while barely hearing the door to the bathroom ripped open. For reasons unbeknownst to him, the thought, …Didn't I lock that..? skimmed through his mind.
He didn't have to look up. He knew who it was.
The nasal voice confirmed whatever doubts he could have had. "Duo, what happened?"
The bastard sounded pissed off. Oh, sorry to have interrupted your typing. He gave a shrug with his bare shoulders.
He could practically feel the glare on his back.
"Mission accomplished?" Heero asked.
He couldn't form the words. The irony didn't escape him. He made a noise against the back of his throat, somewhere in the middle. He could feel it vibrating through his head, while nodding very loosely, before letting his head drop limply.
A grunt was his reply, and he knew he was alone now. Alone with his enemy. Alone with his God. Alone with his own self.
