Disclaimer: Ashen, despite her most fervent wishes, does not own and does not have any relation to Gundam Wing and its affliates. Ashen is not making any profit from writing this, nor does she have permission to.

Pairings: 1x2x1, probable mentions of 3x4

Summary: Duo's exhausted, overworking himself to the point of death- and he welcomes it all with open arms. But then he finds mysterious drawings appearing, showing him what he'd lost, and he begins to rethink his life...

A Thousand Words

Two

So wise so young, they say do never live long. – Shakespeare's King Richard III

He didn't frame the picture up. He didn't even put it somewhere prominent; rather he left it in its rolled-up state in his desk drawer in his office. It was too much of a reminder, a temptation to pick up the phone and dial one of the four numbers he'd never forgotten, four numbers that he'd never forget unless he made himself. He didn't think he had that kind of willpower. He knew that it was unlikely one of them had changed their numbers, so that if he ever contacted them again it would be easy for him to find them. Hope springs eternal, especially in Quatre's case, optimistic blond that he was. Even if they had moved, had gotten a new line, they would have left some way for him to find them.

He knew them too well, and didn't deserve them.

Nevertheless the picture – he should burn it, rip it up, throw it away, but no, he was too damned weak – remained in his desk, a black hole that persistently drew that little corner of his attention away from his papers and documents. Later, he promised himself. Later in the afternoon.

But the adrenaline that had run through him last night – which he was grateful for, since it had helped keep him awake – was but a faint memory now, and later in the afternoon turned to tomorrow. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow – a line from Macbeth, one of Shakespeare's works that Quatre had pushed onto him – and almost one week had gone by, and tomorrow would be Monday again, and the pull of the drawing had greatly lessened. He didn't feel that urge to seek out the artist anymore. With exhaustion came apathy, he knew. Adrenaline was fleeting.

He brought the picture home that night, and threw it onto the pile of junk papers in the corner of his room. Forgetting was the simplest thing to do. He made himself a sandwich – he hadn't had the time to go to the restaurant these past two days, there were a few big projects coming up – then went to work in the study to eat while he started on his papers.

He'd done the stuff that required more thought the few nights before and now he only had the calculations left, and the summaries, and the analysis. Mindless work, tedious work, tiring, boring. He found himself nodding off over his bedroom desk, something he'd not done for a while. He reached for the bottle of caffeine pills he kept within easy reach, then hesitated, wave after wave of weariness crashing over him. Surely ten minutes won't hurt, he reasoned, set the alarm clock on the desk, and pillowed his head on his forearms. Back in the old days his internal clock was more than enough; it was another sign of how much he'd lost, that he needed a clock…

What did we ever do to you?

Jagged edges, a serrated wound, black-tinged blood. Viscous, not liquid, not good.

Always us – never you.

Pressure on the skin, stop the blood flow, choking on the air – too stifling. He needed more air, more time, more equipment. Not enough, not enough at all.

You should be the one to die…

Breath growing shallow, heart slowing, blood flow sluggish. No.

Am I going to die?

He sat up with a strangled scream stuck in his throat, heart pounding, cold sweat beading on his skin. Not even five minutes yet; he flicked the 'off' switch for the alarm and struggled to his feet, his legs feeling shaky and his body feeling numb. He hadn't had a nightmare for a while, utter exhaustion keeping them at bay, except for a few flashes now and then like at the restaurant but those weren't counted because they didn't give him the reaction he was having now.

I need to tire myself out more, he realized grimly. I really am going to kill myself one day.

His apartment had a small balcony; he kept the door wide open and the windows pulled back to let the cold wind in because it kept him awake and he was too high up for anyone to be able to get in that way, or even look in. Now he stumbled out to lean against the rail, and closed his eyes and let the night air freeze the nightmare from his mind and the sweat from his skin. He took a deep breath, gasping at the iciness of it, and grimly took in another. I'm going to get a cold, he thought, and then had to smile at the absurdity of that thought. He didn't get colds. He didn't get sick. It seemed that he didn't get hurt, either, nowadays. He didn't die.

You should be the one to die…

A soft moan involuntarily passed his lips; his legs gave out on him and he found himself on the ground, on his knees, shaking. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the rail and willed himself to get a grip. Not now, not today. He hadn't done enough yet to let himself go.

Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself to his feet and turned to the bedroom. The blackness of the night outside was so much easier on his eyes than the yellow glow of his room, and for a second he entertained the thought of stepping back, not forward, and letting gravity do its work…

He found himself with his back to the railing, on the balls of his feet, leaning dangerously over. How…? He was suddenly appalled at himself, at his lack of control, and forced himself away from the rail. One step, two, in the right direction, and it was easier from there. He made it all the way back into the room, and had to laugh at the fact that it seemed like a huge accomplishment to walk less than ten steps.

Perhaps it was.

He didn't think about it, and sat down, picking up the brown bottle, gulping down a pill with the large bottle of water also always on his desk. He had work to do.

Whew. Close call, hmm?

Thank you to the wonderful, wonderful people who reviewed the previous chapter. Originally I didn't plan much on writing more of this, but seeing the response I decided to continue.

Hope you liked!

Ashen Skies
"He hadn't done enough yet to let himself go."