Chapter 3: Tomorrow's Daylight

Author: Gilly Wrist

As always, reviews are most welcome, noted, digested etc.


In my memory, Zechs bandaging my side held the sanctity of some ancient dawn ritual. I hardly dared to breathe as his fingers brushed along my stomach and under my back, working the gauze around and around. His palm snaked under my lower back, effortlessly lifting me a couple inches so the other hand could move the roll of gauze behind me and around. His hand felt so warm and large against my kidneys.

I knew as it happened, I'd remember it always.

The around and around of the gauze, the quiet in the dawn, the blonde bangs in his face, his warm nimble fingers. A touch that was polite and dignified and quick.

I could not think of the implications of all of this.

I was too tired to be as terrified as I should have been.


The boy did not see the Merquise for days after that dawn encounter. The doctor arrived at noon and attended to his bandages. The fresh blood of last night was the work of his writhing nightmares. He was healing. His body was beginning to recuperate.

Healing of the body is an alchemical process. It is regeneration. It is the discarding of the unnecessary and the rebirth into the new. His form had been in calcination since his capture.

His ego destroyed; his thoughts finally in a place of surrender.

He was in trial, he was under fire. And his infected body mimicked this heating up process.

Calcination is the Great Flood and in that flood, he had found a relief in the abandoning of expectation. He would surely not survive this. He waited as his energy slipped down the drain. He was burning up and burning away. Fire and Water- a steam and a sweat that could evaporate him into thin air.

And from this surrender, this surely-I-will-disappear, he had found, as the last of the water boiled away, that something remained behind.

In the separation he felt distilled. What had been burned off was useless now.

What remained he could not yet name.

Something new was birthing in his thoughts. Something new was stirring and congealing. It was fragile, unnamed, ineffable, but inexorable whatever It was.

Whatever It was, was an it with a capital I.

And It was growing.

Over the next couple days it chewed his stomach into knots.

The visit from the Merquise had felt like a dream. He wondered if the man would pretend it had been, if the man would go back to calling him 02 with the cold boredom of a phone number.

The doctor, once he arrived, was courteous and formal with his touches. His fingers were cold and skilled as he wiped down Duo's side with iodine. When the boy gasped, the doctor said nothing but his touch would lighten or quicken in speed. There was empathy here, despite the clinical disposition.

When the doctor asked, "Are you in pain?" He knew Duo was in pain. It was "Do you want something for the pain." And Duo appreciated the choice. He had feared the doctor had orders to keep him drugged and docile. He had feared he wouldn't have much choice in his own care.

So when the doctor asked "Are you in pain?" Duo almost smiled.

We are all in pain. And pain is a part of the life process.

And so Duo said no thank you.

A tight professional smile ghosted the man's clean-shaven mouth. He looked around mid-forties. His eyes were grey. "You look better than earlier. Your color has improved. Your fever dropped."

"Thank you," Duo said again, "For earlier." He twisted a casted wrist to point to what he was referring to.

"My job" the doctor answered, dismissing the thanks.

"Do you know who I am?" Duo asked.

"A patient," the doctor answered. "I prefer not to know any more."

"Fair enough," Duo said.

"Wise," the doctor counseled.

Duo nodded, suddenly aware of his overwhelming exhaustion. The doctor saw it in his face.

"I'll see you again in one week, unless I am called upon before then."

The doctor excused himself.

The boy fell asleep.

When he woke it was still daylight. He believed it to be of the same day but he could not be sure. Still daylight or tomorrow's daylight made little difference to him now. He knew it. It still bothered him. He pushed it aside.

He desperately needed to relieve himself. The bathroom was across the room. He glanced at the wheelchair and wrinkled his nose. He was not old or cripple.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he tentatively placed them on the ground, testing some weight on them. He felt old and crippled hunched over like this, the smallest task asking hugest effort of him. He shook his head, glad to know he would be dead long before eighty.

He shifted his weight back and forth. It was awkward, the stiff encasing around his ankles. They twinged. It was bearable. He stood up, hands splayed for balance, prepared to fall back on the bed if he needed to. The pain was dull and slow, and as he swayed a bit, they occasionally sparked in a sharper pain. It was still bearable.

The brunette glanced over at the bathroom door and took a deep breath as he gingerly stepped forward. He was thankful he could not witness himself in third person. He could only imagine how pathetically comical he looked, stooped over from his stitched side, balancing on two casted ankles, two casted wrists outstretched to help maintain him.

It was too much.

He closed his eyes for a moment and centered himself. He focused on the bathroom door, chewing on his lip as he made each step, slowly transferring his weight from one leg to another. It reminded him of Wufei's Tai chi chuan walk.

If the room did not feel so official he'd find a bottle to pee in. That thought brought a smile to his face. He could not possibly pee in a bottle in a room as dignified and decorated as this. That last thought got him to the door and he turned the knob, grateful finally to have a chance to sit down and relieve himself. There was no use being in pain while using the toilet and it did not embarrass him to sit down like a girl.

Once finished he made a grave mistake. He had moved over to the sink to wash his hands and without thinking he looked up. If he had thought about it, prepared himself, he would have probably been fine. But he had not thought about it, he had not prepared himself, he had almost forgotten these things existed. Had it been weeks since he had seen this? His reflection in the mirror?

He was looking at himself with his own eyes. It had truly been awhile. And he looked unrecognizable.

His hair was chunky and tangled with sweat. He avoided looking into his eyes. His cheeks were red from the exertion of moving. His mouth was chapped. His neck was bruised. His chest was crisscrossed with bandages and gauze. His arms were so scrawny. The casts on his wrists looked like gauntlets. His fingers were dirty and bruised. His belly button just poked out under the final loop of gauze. A dusting of dark hair and then the hem of over-sized pajama paints clinging below his hipbones. He frowned as he glanced at his hipbones, noticing a handprint. He twisted to get a better glimpse and choked as his side exploded in protest.

"FUCK!" he spat out, doubling over and resting his elbows on the sink counter in pain. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He mouth opened in a soft panting exhales. "Fuck."

You would think he would remember something like a shrapnel-ed side. You would think he could not possibly forget his side was torn up and it was inadvisable to twist his abdomen. This was making him nauseous. Everything was making him nauseous.

He glanced up at the mirror now inches away from his face. He stopped breathing as he met his own eyes. He was utterly lost. His eyes were wet with pain. His black pupils searched themselves. He was lost. He couldn't stare at his pupils any longer and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't like the darkness in pain like this either. It was like his pupils swallowed him. Forcing his eyes open he focused on the delicate lines in his irises. The patterns of indigo and amethyst. His lashes were wet with tears. He forced breath into his body again, and his exhales made condensation on the glass.

He pushed himself up off his elbows, slowly and with care. He was mindful of his side, and he would not forget anytime soon.

He didn't want to do this anymore, this awake thing. Reality was bearing down on him too heavily. He did not like to be alone.

Duo hobbled back to bed. It was easiest to turn around, sit down on it, and slowly swing his legs up. He didn't have the energy to pull the covers over himself. He wished for something he was not sure of. Company, but he was not sure what kind. Safe company. Not Heero, not Zechs. Not pained company. Not Quatre or Trowa or Wufei. Someone without a history. Someone without pain. Maybe animal company, dog company. Yes, he finally decided as his eyes started to droop. He'd feel just fine if he had a dog.