Author's Note: Hey, look, it's still going. The temptation to call it a wrap halfway through this chapter and run from the difficult emotional stuff was strong. But I am sticking to the outline! (Sort of.)
Warnings: Suicidal thoughts and references. Language. Difficult emotional truths.
Trust Duo, to shatter everything, just with his presence. To bring truth to a place where lies have served so well. To bring resurrection without absolution.
Sleep, work, train. And if I can't fall into that rhythm, if I'm forced to be awake, to be more than the shadow I've allowed myself to become, then who can I be?
Not the scholar or the soldier. Honor, justice? Those ideals, dangerous enough in the hands of a child, have only become more deadly with time. What monster would I be, if I sought justice in this peace?
No. Better to turn the knives inward and in so doing, limit the fallout. Just, even, to do so. Honorable. Dangerous thoughts. I'm too awake now.
I was better off as a ghost.
And there's a metaphor that cuts too close to the truth of the matter. The crux of things, unearthed by Duo's furious, unfettered honesty.
Or, to use his words, a good fuck.
Fuck.
I try to meditate. To read. To do anything but face the silence of my room and the churning maelstrom of my thoughts.
It's past eight, when someone knocks.
I'm on my feet before I can even think, not even reaching for my gun, because I'm sure, helplessly, foolishly sure, it must be Duo.
And what does it say of me, that I'm in such a rush to let him in?
Once could be a mistake. Twice, a fool's optimism. But three times? Eventually, I'll have to admit that I'm trying to hurt him.
And still, I open the door.
It's Trowa, standing on the other side, and before I can decide whether to be relieved or disappointed, I see who's leaning against him. Duo, with a split lip and a black eye, challenge in every line of him.
"You owe me a place to crash," he says. Not flirting now, the words almost cold.
"Get inside." I jerk my head toward the bed, equally detached. "Don't bleed on anything."
Duo shrugs, pushes past me, and I hear him hit the mattress hard.
Trowa's watching us both, but I don't really give a damn what he thinks is going on. It can't possibly be worse than the truth.
"He'll be ok?" he asks. Hilarious question.
"Sure," I say, finally looking at him, noticing that, if not as rough as Duo, he's clearly been in a fight. It's not hard to jump to the right conclusion. No street tough's going to land a blow on either of them.
"What the hell did you do to him?" I ask, the words coming sharp and bright, laced with a temper I thought long since extinguished.
"Just roughed him up a bit," says Duo from behind me. "Don't worry. He'll live."
Trowa keeps his attention locked on me, where it should be. He's a hard man to hit, but I know I could manage. And I find I like the idea of hurting him.
"I thought it might help," Trowa says, tone neither defensive nor placating, just a quiet recitation of fact.
"You don't want me bitten, maybe don't send your dogs after me," Duo adds, sounding more than a little angry himself.
I turn toward him, puzzled. He's shaking out his hands, stretching. Testing for damage.
"What are you talking about?"
Duo looks from me to Trowa and back again, then lets his breath in a laugh. "Sorry. My mistake. Heero then?"
Trowa nods in acknowledgment, as I piece things together. So, Heero had Trowa tailing Duo? That explained why I'd caught Heero staring at me more than once while I was working.
"Bastard," Duo says, without venom, and I don't know which of us he means. I'm not sure he knows. There's a hollowness to his voice, the truth bleeding through the façade. And I still don't know what he's doing here. Or why I let him in. Or why Trowa is still standing in my doorway, watching me.
"Tell Heero I've got it from here," I say, still angry and not trying to hide it.
"You're sure?"
"What will you do if I'm not? Hit him again?"
Duo manages a half-convincing laugh. "Ease up, man. You rather he try your methods?"
It's not the leering insinuation that makes me flinch. What do I care, who Duo fucks? It's the idea that I was trying to help him. Because maybe I was. Or at least, maybe I was pretending to.
And look what a job I did of it.
Trowa still hesitates. He's never been easy to read, but he's always been excellent at reading others. I don't want to know what he sees.
"I've got this," I say, trading anger for something resembling my usual detachment. "Go home."
Again, that look, but he shrugs and turns away.
"Don't worry," Duo calls, before I can close the door. "I won't tell Heero how I beat your ass."
And then it's only the two of us. And silence.
And I don't want to look at him, see him brittle and furious, lying in my bed. Don't want to want him.
I already want him.
"Asshole," say Duo. "Hits like a fucking truck. Got some pills?"
I have what's close to a fully stocked pharmacy. The things we did, they leave more than scars.
"Concussion?" I ask, turning from the door.
"Nah. He's not that good."
I walk past him, to the bathroom. Our eyes don't meet.
And I don't say, what are you doing here. I don't ask him what he wants from me. I just grab a bottle of prescription painkillers and toss them in his direction.
He swallows a few dry and tosses the rest back to me. I turn the bottle over in my hand, attention caught by the warnings on the back. Use as directed. Don't take with alcohol. Don't pilot Gundams after taking. If you, or your houseguest, down the whole bottle, call emergency services. Something like that.
I put them back on the shelf. Pills are so unreliable, and we've all failed at self-destruction. Next time I try, it'll be a sure thing.
I can hear Duo shifting in the other room. I can't hide in the bathroom all night.
"Hey Wufei?" he calls. And there's that hollowness again, except now it sounds more like desperation.
He's resting with his back against the wall, stripped down to his boxers, skin bruised by my teeth and Trowa's fists.
Fuck.
"Yeah?"
"What you said earlier. You weren't wrong. About me, anyway." Duo's voice is flat, but that's a sort of tell, all its own.
I said a lot earlier, but it's easy enough to guess what he means. We all want to die, Duo.
"I wasn't wrong about any of us." And nevermind, that the others haven't confided in me, that I don't have Quatre's empathy. I know what I see. Know what I am.
"So, why stick around?"
If I'd known Duo was going to drop seduction and just straight out try and talk me into suicide, I might not have sent Trowa away quite so confidently.
But the way Duo's looking at me, the exhausted, hopeless desperation, well, he's not trying to talk a gun into my hand. He's trying to get me to talk one out of his.
And I don't have an answer for him.
"I think we all have to find our own reasons," I say, playing for time.
His gaze sweeps my stark, unadorned apartment. He tries on a smile, discards it, and gives me that same wanting look.
"Yeah?" he asks, and the cadence is as playful as the words aren't. "I don't see yours."
Of course not. How could he? He tore out the numb, safe center of my world, just by coming too close. And now there's nothing left but him, burning in the dark.
No reason but him.
The thought comes unbidden, refuses to be dismissed. There was a time when I prided myself on my control.
I'd tell him, if I thought it would help. If I knew what it meant.
Instead, I shrug. "I'm maybe not the best role model. Heero does ok."
"Not sure he's gonna share Relena," Duo says. Something in his expression has shifted, but I can't read the change.
"You could always ask," I say, just to see him smile.
He does, lips pulling back in wry amusement. The mask settles back in place, and we're on something like safe ground. The pretense of stability, if not the fact of it.
"Come to bed," he says.
I lick my lips, looking at him. Trying to find anything to say but yes. We can't keep doing this. All I want is to keep doing this. For as long as either of us lasts.
"To sleep," he says. "I'm fuckin' tired, Wufei. I want to sleep."
I'd usually be up for hours, yet. And I'm not accustomed to sharing my bed. But I don't say any of that. Just strip down, too aware of Duo's eyes on me, and hit the lights.
He hugs the outside edge, so I get in behind him, not sure which way to face. There's not enough room for either of us to lay on our backs. I start to turn to the wall, away from him, but Duo grabs my hand, pulls me against him, his back to my chest, my face in his hair.
He's tripwire tense, breathing shallow, gripping my hand like I'm the ledge he's hanging from. He doesn't say anything.
I don't know how to do this. But I hold him anyway.
I wake at my usual time, before dawn. And maybe I should be disoriented, but I long ago learned to accept waking up in strange new environments. I know immediately where I am, and who's lying next to me.
We must have shifted in the night, because Duo's got me sandwiched between him and the wall, his arm locked around my chest, one of his legs slung over mine, holding me in every way he can.
His breath, warm against my neck, is even for once, a sleeper's steady rhythms. I shift, and he murmurs something in his sleep, nuzzles my shoulder and tightens his grip.
Should I be embarrassed? Appalled? This isn't how we do things. This isn't who we are. (I don't deserve this.)
But I don't move. I stay with him, selfishly content, as the room slowly brightens. Stay until he tenses, then forcibly relaxes. With both of us awake, there's no room left to pretend.
He lets me go, and I stretch, circulation returning to blood starved limbs.
Before I can think of anything to say, his fingers are tracing down my side, over my chest, pushing me back, and I'm staring up at him, sleep-tousled, bruised, and grinning.
"Now this," he says, propped up on one arm, his hand still heavy on my chest, "I could get used to."
I don't need you. Don't get attached. His words. And then he crawls into my bed, clings to me like a life raft. Duo's disorienting at the best of times. But now?
His thumb traces over my collarbone, and the way he sighs, breathless, wanting, burns through me.
What am I supposed to think?
He kisses me, rough, despite the mess Trowa made of him. And I'm not thinking anymore, when he moves to straddle me. I'm just trying to pull him closer. His fingers are tangled in my hair, and I raise my chin, arch my back, and there's that sigh again.
He pulls back.
I open my eyes to find him staring at his hand, as if he doesn't recognize it.
"God," he whispers, on a ragged exhale. He's still breathing.
"Is this your usual prayer routine?" I reply, to break the moment. Things were just getting interesting.
"Sure," he says, more distracted than amused. Did he even hear me?
He leans in again, and when his lips find mine, the kiss is tentative, searching. His fingers card through my hair, thin strands catching on rough callouses, while his other hand lifts from my chest, ghosts over my throat and traces my jawline, a whisper of a caress.
No one's ever touched me like this before. It's dizzying.
I reach for his hips, planning to accelerate things, to turn this into something I can understand. And then I stop, just resting my hands there. I let him kiss me, long and slow, let his fingers dance over my skin. I tell myself he must need this. (I tell myself, I don't need this.)
The distant growl of an engine overhead. A military jet, by the sound of it, probably escorting some diplomat to a meeting with Relena. We both freeze, listening. Judging direction and distance, running through escape plans.
Duo pulls back, yearning toward the sound. At 15, they gave us Gundams and humanity to save or damn. I told myself I stood for justice. And Duo? He told himself he was a god. And then they didn't need us anymore, and we both lost what we thought we stood for.
I don't blame him for his hunger. But I don' know what he expects of me. I'm no Gundam, no war. I can't deify him.
His hand, still in my hair, tightens, relaxes, falls still.
"Fuck." Then he's on his feet, crossing to the other side of the room. There's not far to run, in this place. And nowhere to hide.
What is there to say? I thought I knew what he wanted, until last night. Until this morning.
Pretending to ignore him, I grab my phone, and text Heero that I'll be late. No need to repeat that particular humiliation.
'Don't come in,' he replies.
It's not an offer he has the authority to make, not that it matters. I glance at Duo, who's picking at the dry stick that was once the plant he sent me.
'Maybe.' I text back.
I'm not sure I can imagine something worse for us, than spending the entire day together. Except, maybe, spending it alone.
"You gonna try to put me on a shuttle again?" Duo asks. The words are casual. I watch his back, all knotted tension, and ignore the lightness of his voice.
"No." Because at this point, I don't think it would help.
"You know, the guy at the shop said these things were impossible to kill." He's stripping the stem of the plant, pulling apart the fibers and dropping them in the dirt. "Good thing I didn't send you a kitten."
Instead, he sent me him.
"I'm better with books."
"Oh?" He finally turns, if only to glance over his shoulder toward my desk. "You scribbled all over it."
As easy as it would be to fall into an argument about the difference between scribbling and annotating, I suspect that's exactly what he's trying for. Then again, if I don't rise to the bait, what does it leave us to talk about?
"Why'd you send it?" I ask. Which is easier than 'why are you here' or 'what do you want from me?'
He shrugs, turning back to the plant. "Wasn't sure you wanted me around. Figured, if I found the box in the trash, I'd have my answer."
"I didn't get the impression you wanted to come back here," I say. "You don't like Earth."
He shoots me a darting glance, then stares back out the window. "This fucking planet."
"Why not stay in space?"
I watch the muscles in his back, watch him steel himself. He turns from the window and looks at me like I'm-
I don't even know anymore. He looks at me, and it burns.
"You're not in space."
Don't get attached.
Yesterday, he raged at the slightest hint of concern. Last night, I slept with my arms around him. And this morning-
I still don't understand this morning.
He looks away again. I probably should have said something.
I push myself to my feet, and cross to his side, while he keeps his gaze locked on the sunrise. I thought we were simple. That I was the blade he'd chosen to fall on. Not a comfortable role, but a familiar one.
Now?
He presses closer to the window, and I rest my hands against the wall on either side of him.
"Do you wish I hadn't come?" he asks.
"Yes."
I can feel him laugh, or something like laugh, even though we're not touching. "I figured."
I lean forward, and he is flush against me. I'm no longer sure if either of us is breathing.
"But you saved me a trip." As soon as I say it, I know it's true. If he hadn't come to me, I'd have had to go to him, eventually.
He rests his forehead against the glass. "This is fucked up, Chang."
Us? This conversation? The sunrise? I don't ask. We stand there, not talking, as the world grows bright.
Eventually, Duo shakes his head, and I step away.
"I need to get out of here," he says.
Do I flinch? Is that what he sees, what makes him smile? Because I should be relieved, to hear him say it. Should I be relieved? I don't know where we stand. Don't know what he needs.
As to what I need, it's best not to think about it.
"Whatever you want," I say. "Need a ride somewhere?"
Not pushing this time. I've learned what comes of that. Still, he hears what I don't say.
"I mean, like a walk," he says, grabbing his shirt from the floor. "Not a shuttle flight. I'll be back. Later. Tonight. I don't know."
While he gets dressed, I grab the spare key from my desk and write down the code for the alarm.
"I might be at work, when you get back." I toss him the key and hold out the alarm code.
He shoves the key in his pocket. "You trust me not to rob you blind?"
"I'll take the book with me. You can have the plant."
He shoots a glance at the desiccated stem in the window and grins.
"Hey Wufei?" he says, standing with his hand on the doorknob. I can't help but wonder whether I'll see him again.
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
And then the door closes behind him, and I stand a minute, staring at where he isn't. Listening for, and not hearing, his uneven breathing.
I used to like the quiet.