Warnings: sexual encounter, non-consensual drug usage.
And an insanely long chapter because i couldn't figure out where to cut it.
So Duo runs. He does what he does best and flees from Quatre's overprotective watch, holing himself up in the slums of some worn-down city, far away from military bases and war hounds, lost in the swarms of humanity crowding the filthy streets. Rents a shitty apartment, a one room closet with barely enough room for a bed, a ship-sized kitchen, and a bathroom where you could piss and shower at the same time. Turns nocturnal, going out at night to drink himself into a stupor, stumbling home to crash into his flea-ridden mattress. Sleeps until the artificial colony lights fade and slinks out to another bar where the bartender knows his name.
His fake name at least. Max Zerwing, a guarantee that he'll respond by rote to at least the first half of his new moniker. He's tired of this shit. The running, the hiding. The pain in his chest like a childhood invisible friend. Childhood nightmare, more like, but a constant presence regardless. He's so goddamn tired, but all he can do is drink until the world goes fuzzy and numb, until the grief recedes like a vicious dog called back to its handler.
He's slumped over yet another bar tonight, the scratched and battered wood sticky with the residue of cheap beer and moonshine. His glass is cupped protectively in his hands, a tumbler of amber something spinning slowly between his palms. He lifts the cup to his lips, swallowing the liquor, and it burns down his throat in a bitter flow. He shudders at the harsh flavor, drags the back of his hand across his mouth. The edges of the room are fluffed out and drifting softly, a sure sign that the emptiness in his chest will soon be filled with apathy.
A vague mumbling catches his ears, paired with the slow tread of footsteps. He spins lazily on his barstool, throwing back the rest of his drink. He slides the glass across the bar to the man behind it and twitches bleary eyes to the group of drunks approaching him. They're not much to look at, clothing dirty and tattered, oil-stained denim and patched shirts. They're also laughing, beer gutted or heroin-thin, with the sneers on their faces that generally indicate trouble for a slender, braided boy like himself.
"Hey there, pretty boy," one drawls, nudging the man next to him.
They all chuckle as Duo narrows his eyes, the room sharpening in his focus as the kick of adrenaline forces sobriety into his veins. "I'm really not in the mood," he warns quietly.
Another wave of laughter, and a second man speaks. "I'm sure we could put you in the mood. Whadda ya say?"
"Fuck off," he snarls, a wave of nausea eclipsing the pleasant tide of drunkenness. He half-pivots back to the bar, not daring to fully turn his back on the group, and snatches up the new drink.
A hand lands on his shoulder and he jerks away from it, but the grip tightens down. He casually drains the glass, tipping his head until he can see the stringy-haired asshole who summoned up the balls to lay hands on him. "Get the fuck off me," he murmurs, too calmly.
The ice in his eyes, a glazed purple haze, almost makes the man step away. His friends slur some obscenity that gives him courage, and he tugs Duo's shoulder until they're face to face. Standing over Duo, he gives the long-haired boy a smug grin. And then Duo smiles back. It's a haunting, inhuman grin, lips stretched unnaturally wide, the rictus of death eclipsing his face. The man stumbles back, attempting a retreat as he realizes his grave calculation, but Duo's fingers are locked over his in a mocking caress.
"You're right," he croons, a sleepy arctic glaze hooding his eyes. "You did put me in the mood."
His arm swings around, blindingly fast, and shatters the tumbler against the side of the man's face. Glass spikes into the stranger's cheek, gouging the fragile skin, trails of blood beginning to stream down his jaw. Duo shakes the crystals of glass from his hand, casually reaching out with his other hand to snatch the shivering man by his throat. His fingers dig in, hooking behind the windpipe, and begin to burrow toward each other. His would-be attacker makes a gagging sound, scrabbling with battered fingers at his insanely strong grip. The remainder of the group gazes at him in horror as he begins to laugh, low and lethal, maniacal giggles echoing off of the rafters.
"Hi there, pretty boy," he purrs, and his nails dig in until blood leaks from a dozen puncture marks.
He tosses the man to the floor, where he slides into the corner with a sickening crunch. The man curls into a quivering heap, sobs racking his broken body, hands tucked over his head in a futile attempt at protecting himself. Duo rests his eyes on the cowering men in front of him, Shinigami shining out of his purple orbs. The men raise their hands in surrender, shaking like leaves in a high storm. The amusement drains out of his face, leaving it deadly and furious and so, so cold.
"The next time you pricks, try ta play with someone, remember this. I'm the God of Death, I will know, and I will fucking destroy you."
The misty place is blissful, a sweet fog of oblivion wrapping his inert form. Nothing stirs him, no one pesters him. No orders, no murder, no pain. He hears the people padding around the edges, a vaguely familiar male voice and an unfamiliar, grating female voice. When the female is around he sinks deeper, letting the cotton swath his ears until silence envelops him like a blanket. When the male is around, he drifts… closer to consciousness, basking in the warmth of a human presence. This companion is quiet and still, occasionally murmuring an update on the other pilots. One name is missing, the one reason he drifts so near to awareness, on the borderline of mindfulness and agony.
In a rare display of impatience, he catalogs his injuries, deems himself capable of survival, and forces himself to surface. His eyelids flicker, heavy as Gundanium plates. Blurry vision greets him, a fuzzy glimpse of a nondescript room. Some sort of… metal walls. Where is he? Why isn't he dead? A rustle of movement. His head twitches to follow it, straining coma-gunked eyes to capture the person's details.
"Oh! You're awake!" The female. He winces, lets his eyes slide closed for a moment. Darkness. So tempting. "Wait here, I'll go get Trowa!"
As if he has any choice but to wait. His body has informed him in no uncertain terms that movement is quite impossible at the moment. Malnutrition, a host of broken bones, muscle tears, and strained tendons. He'll recover, J made sure of that, but not immediately. Who is Trowa?
Footsteps in the hallway. He pries his eyes open, struggles to lift his head. It weighs far more than it used to… how long has he been out? The muscle deterioration is alarming. A boy steps into the room, hair sweeping over his face to cover one eye. Heero tenses, uncomfortable with the inability to meet both of this stranger's eyes. The other boy doesn't speak, merely props himself on the arm of a nearby chair and folds his arms.
"Where…" His voice comes out strained, raspy. He swallows, clears his throat in a gesture that he's always found abhorrent, and tries again. "Where am I?"
"With a travelling circus. I've been here for a while."
Heero's sight clears enough for his eyes to verify the stranger's story. It doesn't match up. The boy is dressed plainly enough, nothing like the fanciful costumes that he imagines circus performers must wear. Unless he isn't a performer… irrelevant. "Why did you save my life? I had to die there," Heero says quietly, forcing himself upright in the bed.
A mysterious quirk tilts Trowa's lips. "You died a long time ago, Heero."
Heero's eyes widen, then narrow in confusion. Is he dead? Is this some sort of afterlife hallucination? Or is he making some sort of reference to the politician whose name he stole? The hint of amusement fades from the boy's face.
"The forces retaliating against Oz have ignored our advice to seek peace. They are causing unnecessary carnage worldwide. And," A streak of bitterness laces his words, "despite their threats, Oz hasn't touched the colonies. They seem focused on overtaking the remainder of the earth nations. It's been a month."
He sucks in a breath, pressing a hand to his bandaged ribs as pain rockets through him. "I've been unconscious for a month?"
Trowa nods, a minute dip of his head. All of his gestures are quiet, understated. Subtle. He's the kind of man that Heero appreciates, one who doesn't engage in grand gestures or vapid pleas for attention. "In Oz's eyes, you're already dead. And you're no longer restrained to the colonies. No one is aware that you exist, outside of this circus. And even then, it's only Catherine, the ringmaster, and I." A shadow darkens his face. "I wish that were the case for me."
"Did they find you while searching for me?" Heero inquires softly, almost afraid of the answer.
"No. In fact, none of us have received orders since Oz threatened the colonies. I'm not sure what to do. What if Oz tries to use the colonies as a shield again?" He pauses, casts his visible eye over Heero's battered and bandaged body. "Should I be following your example?"
Heero nearly rolls his eyes. Pointless heroics. He'd have blown up the Gundam from the outside if he'd been aware that detonation was necessary. "Let me tell you one thing, if you're considering that," he comments drily. Trowa raises an eyebrow, and he continues. "It hurts like hell."
Trowa burst out laughing, happiness lightening his features, highlighting just how young he is. Just how young they all are. We're child soldiers. We may have been born to it but that doesn't make it any less sick that teenagers are fighting and dying for a cause that's uncertain. Heero chuckles carefully, his torso protesting the motion, the laughter too contagious to resist.
"May I ask a favor?" Heero inquires, when their smiles have faded from war-weary faces.
Trowa nods and Heero inhales cautiously, needing the steadiness of a deep breath. "What happened to the other pilots?"
"Quatre is with the Maguanac Corps. Troops loyal to him. Their base in the desert was discovered and bombed, but they were able to evacuate. The dragon pilot, from what I've dug up in hacked Oz reports, is involved with rebel troops. They can't find his Gundam."
Heero swallows, hard, noting the empty space in the sentence. He wraps a stranglehold around his voice to keep it steady. "What of the other? 02?"
Trowa levels a knowing glance at him, hearing the dissonant quiver in his words. His face is gentle as he responds. "Missing. He was with Quatre for a brief period of time, during which he was… not well. He vanished after the evacuation and we have lost all contact with him since."
"Unwell." Heero's lips are numb, the word flat and emotionless.
"I'm not sure you want to-" Trowa begins, compassion in the lines of his lean face.
"Tell me," Heero insists.
Trowa unfolds his lanky body from the chair, turns away from Heero's bed. His voice sounds like footsteps across glass. "Quatre reported the incident around three weeks ago. 02 would have ingested a lethal overdose of pills if he'd been able to open the bottle. He couldn't get a grip on the cap because he slit his wrists first."
Bile rises in Heero's throat, slippery and acidic. He scrabbles for the garbage can, leaning painfully over the bed to empty the meager contents of his stomach into the trash. Acid, mostly, and what might be broth. He retches again, his insides convulsing, but there's nothing left to come up. A glass of water appears next to him, cupped in Trowa's hand. Forcing himself upright, he wraps an arm around his protesting ribs and takes a sip of water. It scrapes down his abraded throat and he winces, placing the cup on a nearby table.
"I'm sorry," Trowa murmurs.
Heero meets his one visible eye, and the empathy written in the other boy's face nearly unhinges him. He shakes his head, abruptly halting the motion as his spine screams in protest. A grunt escapes his lips. Trowa's hand falls gently on his shoulder, slow pressure laying him back down on the mattress. He sinks into the surface with a soft sigh, and he has to admit… as much as his brain is urging him to move, to run, to feel the rumble of his Gundam beneath his skin… it is pretty damn nice to let himself drift back to sleep.
Duo scrapes the blood off his nose, leaving a brilliant crimson streak across his knuckles. He palms the brass plate protecting the back of his hand and shoves it into his pocket, resuming his unassuming stroll down the street. He has more than his fair share of unfortunate encounters, being that he's young and undersized. The yard-long tail of hair doesn't help his case much, either – seems to peg him as an easy target.
This assailant had been trolling for an easy lay, had mistaken him for one of the many prostitutes. The man didn't respect his polite and not-so-polite verbal refusals. It always went the same way. He would tell them he wasn't interested, he would tell them to fuck off, and then he would tell them with his fists. He has a nastily quick punch, a lethally powerful hook, and he has taken to carrying a pair of knuckle plates to back up the lean muscle on his body.
It isn't a good way to live – he'll give ya that one. He hardly sleeps anymore, collapsing onto a lumpy excuse for a bed and tossing and turning for hours, haunted by Prussian blue eyes, until he finally gives up and drags himself out of bed. The battered fridge in the apartment is empty except for a collection of abhorrently cheap liquor. The best cure for a hangover is to never stop drinking, or so he tells himself as he greets the evening with a shot of what is probably actually rubbing alcohol. Who knows what they actually make alcohol out of in the slums of this shitty, rundown city.
He tips the bottle in a sarcastic salute to himself and wraps his lips around the mouth of the bottle, sloshing a measure of the liquid down his throat. Thumping the bottle onto the counter, he shudders as the abrasive heat skids into his gut. It's about that time again. Every once in a while, the loneliness and the nightmares force him out of his self-imposed solitude, drive him into the arms of a stranger. He refuses to prostitute himself, preferring to live off of stolen Oz funds. It's bad enough that he'll go home with a man whose name he doesn't know, slinking back to his solemn apartment as dawn appears on the horizon.
He grazes a thumb over one of his ropy scars, the livid red line splitting his forearm in half. He hasn't dared take a knife to himself since that night, not trusting that he won't just obliterate the last shreds of his veins. He's chosen to live as a functioning alcoholic with an alarmingly high number of sexual partners rather than have to imagine Quatre's disappointed face in his last moments.
Maybe I can forget, for once.
Maybe he can forget that, with every brush of hands over his skin, there are no familiar calluses across pads of fingers and bridge of palms. Maybe he can forget that, as his fingers crawl across a beautifully muscled chest, there's no familiar webwork of scars to greet his caress. Maybe he can just forget, for one goddamn moment, that the man he loves is dead, and not once did he get to stare into those stunning blue eyes and gather up the balls to say the 'L' word.
He doesn't even make it into the bar before someone finds him. He's leaning against the rough brick façade of the building, one booted foot propped on the wall behind him, the sharp edges of the brick poking through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. A cigarette dangles from his lips, the heady rush of nicotine threading through his veins. He inhales, flicking the cig between slender fingers, reveling in the steady burn of smoke into his lungs. His braid trails over his shoulder, opposite the side of his smoking hand. It wouldn't do to have his prized possession go up in flames… especially not since it happens to be attached to his person.
He's stubbing the butt against the heel of his boot when the man approaches him. Duo slips a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, pushing the lighter aside to tap his nails against the chill metal of his knuckle plate. Just in case. The stranger steps just far enough into his space to indicate more-than-friendly interest, and Duo shifts mindsets from fighting to fucking.
A hand is extended. "Nick."
He slips his palm against the man's, testing the strength of his grip. Feels the scuff of calluses, not mobile suit but at least manual labor, against his palm. "Max."
"You lookin' for company?"
Duo flicks a gaze over him. Battered work boots, worn-out jeans, a plaid button-down with the top flipped open. Sleeves rolled up to display muscular forearms covered in tattoos. Broad shoulders, a hint of scruff across his jawline that Duo finds intensely attractive, brown eyes lit with interest. His heart hitches at the messy hair flopped over his forehead, but he clamps down on the hollowness in his chest and offers Nick a cheeky grin.
"Buy me some tequila, sugar, an' I'll see if we can work somethin' out."
Six shots later, the bar is pleasantly fuzzy and Nick looks just enough like Heero for Duo's libido to respond. The man leans in, the sharp scent of lime on his breath, but Duo places a finger over his lips and quirks a charming smile instead.
"Nuh uh, handsome. Kissing is for lovers an' we're just fucking… or we will be, soon."
"Let's go then," the other man growls against his ear, and he shivers as the words tickle the sensitive skin.
Heero glances up as footsteps approach his room, raising his eyebrows in greeting as Trowa enters. The other pilot folds himself gracefully onto the edge of the bed, sitting unobtrusively beside him. He taps a few commands into his laptop, rapidly flicking through screens and search menus. Nothing.
No sightings of Deathscythe, which isn't particularly surprising. With the hyperjammers installed in the reaper Gundam, it would be nearly impossible to find it if Duo didn't want it to be found. There's no sign of Duo, either. None of his aliases have popped up, none of the half-dozen accounts filled with stolen Oz funds have been touched. He's not in any of the safehouses, and Heero doesn't dare ask J if Duo's mentor has heard from him.
"No luck?" Trowa inquires.
Heero shakes his head in negation, a surge of fear clenching around his chest. What if he succeeded? What if he left Quatre right when he needed support? Heero knows the statistics. Someone who has tried to commit suicide and failed is at an extremely high risk for attempting a second time. His eyes catch on the darkness outside the window, at the faintly glimmering stars. A lion roars from the animal cages, answered by the impatient snarl of what sounds like a tiger. Where are you, Duo? I need to know that you're okay. Fuck. I hope you're okay.
Duo laces his fingers through the man's rough hair, fervently wishing that he could stop his brain from pointing out the difference in technique between this stranger and the lover whose memories still rock his world. It is pleasurable enough, he supposes, and fuck, he's certainly not complaining about a pair of skilled lips wrapped around his aching dick. Yet every once in a while, his mind pops up and mentions that it felt infinitely better when Heero did it.
Of fucking course it did. That guy was a goddamn superhero in bed. Fuck.
He can't decide whether it is shameful or awesome how he hardens further at the orgasm-summoning reminiscence of Heero's hands on his skin. This is how it always is. He picks a guy up looking for a little peace and quiet and ends up spending the whole time thinking about his dead lover. Sure, he always gets off… but it's like a threesome with a ghost. The encounters get more distasteful every time. He squirms a little bit as his toes begin to tingle, as the edges of his vision go white with static. Now is about the time where he'd be yanking Heero up by his hair, latching their lips together in a breathless haze. Now is about the time where he'd be begging with short little panting gasps, desperate for the blinding pleasure-pain of Heero pinning him to the bed and oh-so-slowing pushing into him.
This is just a one-night-stand, though, and he's not about to whip out the "I want to come with you fucking me" line. Instead, he tugs eagerly at the hair between his fingers, his back arching as his eyes clench shut. He attempts to mutter a warning before his world goes black, sparks exploding in his vision, knuckles white with his grip. A muffled grunt is the only noise that escapes him as he bites down on the knuckles of his other hand.
Nick sits up, a satisfied grin on his face, and he swipes a hand across the back of his lips. He shifts himself off the bed, ambling into another room. Duo lies limply on the bed, post-orgasmic haze temporarily flattening him. He can hear the other man rustling around, opening cabinets and fumbling with plastic. Duo lifts his head from the bed as Nick returns, a tube of lube and a foil packet clenched in his fist.
Duo finds a sick sort of amusement in the fact that he actually misses the sharp pain of Heero's lack of lubrication. Either through lack of education or impatience, Heero never much cared for prep work… and now that he's gone, Duo would do anything for the harsh tang of blood in the air, for the agonizing morning after. For the love notes written in flesh with teeth and nails. Heero would disappear for weeks, months, but at least for a little while Duo would have evidence that he'd been there.
So he writhes impatiently and a little uncomfortably under Nick's gentle ministrations, finally yanks himself upright to roll the condom over the other man's shaft. The man chuckles quietly, believing that his motions are a lack of control, a desperate need for him. Whatever, Duo thinks bitterly, let him think what he wants. Arrogant fuck. Another issue. Duo is all for one-night-stands, since he apparently can't manage to have a successful relationship without his lover committing suicide, but he has such absolute contempt for the men who take him to their beds. If the option wasn't get fucked until it hurts or kill himself, he wouldn't even be considering these idiots.
The man slides into him with a grotesque hiss of pleasure, breathing heavily into his ear. Duo abhors the intimacy of face-to-face encounters, but any position that leaves him vulnerable would be a distinctly negative experience for his partner. Considering that he keeps his knife within reach and everything. Nick wraps thick fingers around his wrists, pins them up against the headboard. Duo rolls his eyes, grateful that the other man's head is buried in his shoulder so that he can make whatever faces he damn well pleases. As if the stranger had a snowball's chance in hell of holding him down.
The slow burn from his body relaxes him, and he finds himself sinking into the mattress beneath the weight of the larger man. Nick's skin gleams with sweat, his muscles flexing as he leisurely thrusts into Duo. Despite his inner monologue of dislike, Duo runs an appreciative eye down the man's body. His heart might be torn up over a certain blue-eyed soldier, but his libido is plenty engaged with the athletic, alive male in bed with him. Combined with the sedative effect of the pain lancing through him, Duo is edging closer to the only bliss he has access to lately.
That's when a sharp prick arrows through the flesh of his inner elbow, and he rockets off of the bed. He tosses Nick away from him, as easily as flinging a child's toy, and glares at the syringe dangling from his skin. The man shies away as Duo turns on him, violet eyes dark with fury.
"What the fuck is that?" he snarls.
Nick holds up his hands, skittering away from Duo. For the first time, Duo notices the unhealthy sheen across the man's forehead, the twitch of his fingers. His pupils are blown open, a heady flush on his cheeks that didn't come from the sex. "It's just something to help you relax, have a little fun. Calm down!"
Duo snarls at him. Bares his teeth, civility stripped from his face, and snarls. The man leaps back again, until he is pressed against the wall. He cowers close to the floor, protecting his head with his quivering hands. "I. Don't. Calm down," Duo bites out.
He yanks on his pants, sweat breaking out on his pallid skin. His temperature is skyrocketing, body reacting to the substance at an alarming rate. The lights coming in from the street lamps already stab into his eyes like pinpricks, and he's certain that a mirror would reveal the same wide-spread pupils. He clenches his hands into fists to still their insistent shiver, tugging his shirt over his head. Shoving his feet into his boots, he snatches the syringe off of the floor, snaps the needle off with an impatient wrench of his hand, and pockets it. If he has a bad reaction to the drug, he'll need the traces remaining in the vial to identify it.
"You'd better fuckin' pray to whatever gods you believe in that nothin' happens to me. 'Cause if it does, you're fucking goin' with me."
Heero limps out of the room as explosions rock the trailer. A woman screams, high-pitched and terrified. His face is impassive, expressionless, as he gazes over the scene. Oz troops ring the circus and the camp area where the performers live, buzzing like a kicked hive of wasps. Leaning against the doorframe, he cradles his ribs carefully, supporting his injured arm against the metal.
A massive metal shape rises above the bright fabric of the circus tents, and Heero breathes an envious sigh. Trowa's flame-colored Gundam doesn't hold a candle to his own brilliant mecha, but he has to admit that it's a stunning machine. And Wing is dead now, nothing more than a husk of Gundanium parts abandoned in the desert.
A twinge of sadness flutters through him, soft as the graze of misty curtains. He misses Wing. Misses the thrill of adrenaline, the crushing pressure of G forces as the mobile suit spins agilely through the atmosphere. Trowa's Gundam lumbers forward, massive body turning double barrels on the emerging Oz tanks. Heero hears the whine of Aries engines in the distance, the steps shaking beneath his feet with the stomp of approaching Leos. Oz responds to quickly to Gundam sightings. They're desperate to get their war-mongering paws on one of the legendary machines, to tear it apart and analyze it, to mass-produce hundreds of the nearly indestructible weapons.
No one would be able to stand against Oz, if they had an army of Gundam suits. Not even the five Gundam pilots. Four, he supposes, since Wing is destroyed. He hasn't spoken to J since he has edged out of the coma. He isn't entirely certain that he even wants to re-enter the war. Of course he misses piloting. Misses it with a fierceness that seared his heart. But contacting J means surrendering what little control remained to him – Trowa was right, he is free. Until he lets someone know that he still lives, he is free.
And yet, maybe there were only three pilots. Duo continues to evade his careful searching, though he spends any spare moment combing through every ounce of public footage, every security camera, every internet connection. He knows Duo's signature, could recognize his programming in an instant. Duo isn't hacking military databases, isn't reprogramming Scythe's systems. He isn't even with the Sweepers, though Howard has served as his bomb-shelter in the past. If Duo is … if Duo is no longer piloting, Quatre, Trowa, and the other would need him. Five Gundams struggled with the mass of missions and Oz attacks. Three would be slaughtered. Especially with Oz getting progressively better organized. They seemed to be finding the Gundams faster, engaging them more effectively… they'd already forced his hand, caused the destruction of his Wing. It was only a matter of time before the worst happened.
Oz troops surround Trowa, leveling weapons at the Gundanium figure. The machine guns whir, clicking through their chambers. The massive chest opens, revealing another set of guns. Those barrels stir, spinning rapidly, failing to produce any further ammo. Heero frowns slightly. Heavyarms, Trowa's Gundam, has one significant flaw – its primary firepower comes from the guns mounted on its body. When his ammo is exhausted, he is helpless aside from the thermal blade tucked into the forearm of the mecha.
A familiar siren begins to sound, clarion howl ringing through the fairgrounds. Heavyarms begins to flash, lit from within like a terrifying lamp fixture. Heero's chest tightens. Is this what the other pilots felt, when they watched him press that button? Like they were being held captive at a public execution? His hand rises without his conscious permission to cover his mouth, shoulder protesting the motion. He hardly notices the twinge from his injuries as his muscles tense in anticipation of the explosion. He wonders absently if the other performers will be okay, if the animals trapped helplessly in their cages will survive.
A shriek of alarm rises above the clangor, though Heero can't hear the words. A female voice, raised in terror. Did the Oz troops capture one of the performers? Are they holding captives in the hope that Trowa will choose protecting the innocents against completing the mission? He leaps off the steps, body powering into a sprint. Muscles scream, stretching into the run, bones creaking alarmingly as his feet fly across the ground. He skids to a stop at the foot of the Gundam, puzzled by the unexpected scene. The red-haired woman is shouting at Trowa, hands planted on her hips. She spins to face him, tears streaming down her face, delicate features contorted in fury.
"You!" she cries, her voice hoarse with tears. "You're the one who brainwashed my Trowa with your strange ideas!"
Heero backs away, holding his hands up defensively. She's distracted as Trowa descends on a jumpline, his lean body coming gracefully into contact with the ground. She leaps into his arms, pressing herself against his muscular chest as her body shakes violently with sobs. Trowa meets his eyes over her profusion of crimson curls. Shame lingers in his hazel eyes.
"Her tears stopped me," Trowa muses quietly, almost to himself. "If it were you, you would still have chosen death. For that, I admire your strength."
Heero shakes his head. "No. There is nothing wrong with acting on your emotions. At least that's what I have learned."
A speculative gleam breaks through the guilt on Trowa's face. "And who taught you that?"
Heero's face shutters at the unwelcome reminder, his shoulders stiffening. The soldier drapes itself over him like a second skin, straightening his spine, tinting his eyes with an unwelcome glare. A vague hint of disappointment registers in Trowa's one visible eye as Heero turns on heel to stalk back to the trailer.
By the time Duo staggers into his apartment building, his vision is doubling and tripling in turns. He's amazed that the police didn't cite him for public drunkenness, and he's even more amazed that some asshole didn't try to take advantage of his clearly unstable state. He staggers against the wall, gazing up the flight of stairs, watching the walls ripple in his vision, the bannister squirm and twist like a captured snake.
Eyeing his feet, he picks one up and carefully places it on the first step. And he continues like that, step by wavering step, leaning heavily against the splintered support of the rail. His stomach roils, reminding him that a potentially toxic substance is leeching through his veins at an alarming rate. It seems like years before he slumps against the door to his tiny place, fumbling with the keys, forcing his eyes to focus long enough for him to stab at the keyhole. The door finally swings open, leaving him to list violently into the common area. He falls to his knees, shredding skin as he meets the carpet, unable to catch himself. He has the presence of mind to toe the door closed, the mental capacity to haul himself up by the doorknob to flick the locks into place.
Blackness claims him.
He wakes, unsure of the time, moonlight flooding the room. His body is drenched in sweat, hair clinging to his face in damp tendrils. His hands are shaking uncontrollably, concerning little tremors echoing throughout his entire body. Heero's name swims across his consciousness, followed by a fierce pang of desire. Heero would fix this, if he was here. Anger clouds the fog surrounding him. There wouldn't have been anything for Heero to fix, if he'd been here.
A faint light catches his eyes – his laptop, laid open on the crate that serves as a table. He crawls over to it, unable to batter his drugged muscles to a standing position. A blinking light greets him, the red blip perpetually flickering at the corner of his screen. His fingers reach out, trace the crimson glow lovingly. It's the connection with Heero's computer, hooked into his laptop and his Gundam. Duo hasn't managed to sever it, hasn't bothered to question why it is still intact.
His vision begins to fade, grey eclipsing the shine of the stars, a solemn darkness sweeping over that. Hands cling desperately to the edges of the laptop, delirium twisting over his awareness. As he loses his final grasp on sanity, the ruby blink bleeds through his eyelids, catching every rambling mumble of his lips.
Heero stomps into the trailer, barely restraining himself from shoving the door violently back into its frame. He fists his hands into his hair, yanking until the throbbing in his scalp overwhelms the irritation. Circling the miniscule room, counting his steps, he paces until the raging scream of Duo's name fades from his thoughts. He halts in front of his laptop as a shrill beep rips from the speakers, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. An existing connection surges to life and he sinks numbly to the chair. A fuzz of static drifts through the room and he leans closer, straining for any sort of response.
A rustling noise, as if the person on the other end is shifting, and an unintelligible mumble reward his efforts, and he holds his breath. Please. Finally, a softly indrawn breath. A babble of words, tangling together, becoming slowly more coherent. A familiar voice that makes his heart surge, even as the words drop the floor from beneath his feet.
"… 'Ro… 'm so fucking pissed at you ri' now. 's all yer fault. Some asshole… drugged me. All I wanted to do was forget about you. Just fucking… wanted some peace. An' then he fuckin' shot me up when he was riding me. Who the fuck does that, 'Ro? Jesus. Can't fuckin' believe… you left me. Damn you for leaving me like this… fuck."
The words trail off, curses slurring together, and then the slow skid of fabric across the microphone. Silence. The connection fades. Heero's skin is cold, so cold. A ball of ice forms in his gut, chilling him from the inside. From a distance, he vaguely registers pain, realizes that the words hurt him. Duo has moved on, already. Not only moved on, but found a lover who is apparently a drug addict. Was he so terrible that even a narcotic-addled bastard is a better partner than him? No wonder Duo has dropped off the grid… busy with someone new, and probably occupied by a new life of drugs and alcohol.
And he has the nerve to blame Heero for his bad decisions.
So that's how it's going to be, Duo? Fine. I don't have to think you're dead to forget you.
