Chapter Seven: Heroin is Just too Trendy

Disclaimer: Don't own GW, and the chapter title is from "Roses in the Hospital" by the Manic Street Preachers.

Notes: I probably should have mentioned this before, but I keep forgetting. In the summary, I'm sure a lot of you noticed, I added "future lemon". Well I just want to say that it is not at all what you're probably thinking and expecting. It's not squick or NCS, but still it is not in any way what most lemon scenes are like. Don't want to give anything away, but you shall see what I mean. Soon enough. ;P

IMPORTANT: Please see the second chapter's A/N, as I don't want to waste disk space by repeating it. ;

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Duo's eyes were glued to the clock throughout the entire meal as he counted each excruciating minute, watching the second hand tick slowly by. Seconds went by like lifetimes, each moment he spent at the table under the scrutiny of he two closest friends more agonizing than the next.

It had been three weeks now since the disastrous confrontation in the kitchen, when Duo had almost been caught, and since then, Heero and Quatre had been watching him like a hawk, each of them having their own suspicions and reasons for concern.

Quatre, now fully convinced that Duo's illness was not self-inflicted, nor was it any more than a simple cold or flu, began to worry less and less, his watchful eye at mealtimes and after now more out of habit than necessity.

Heero, however, was not as positive as his friend was that Duo's odd behavior was a result of a physical sickness. If it was the flu, wouldn't it have passed by now? If the weight loss was caused by a cold, wouldn't he have gained some back? It seemed to Heero that the American was only losing, his body shrinking as the weeks went by, much the same way as the man shrunk into himself. It could be his imagination, Heero rationalized to himself. After all, Quatre was sure now that Duo's emotional state was a healthy one, and Heero figured he would be able to tell more than anyone, what with his space heart and the impressive ability to read people, see behind even the thickest of masks. But still, there was a doubt. When he looked into Duo's eyes – the light that used to sparkle and dance in them growing dimmer by the day – he knew that there was something different. Heero could not tell what he difference was, all he knew was that it as there, and had been for months now.

A slight noise caught Heero's attention, and he was pulled out of his reverie by Duo, now sliding out of his chair slowly, wood grating against porcelain tiles, trying hard to hide his weakness and the fact that he felt like his legs would give out any minute now.

It had been going on like this for such a long time now, Duo was beginning to wonder if his "friends" were ever going to give up. A small part of him was happy and so fucking relieved that someone at last had noticed his pain, no matter how well concealed. But another, larger, part of him was growing angrier and angrier by the day, his emotional state diminishing as quickly as his physical.

A slight clearing of the throat, the sort that is meant to call a person to attention, reached Duo's ears, and he turned around to casually glance at Heero, who was beginning to clear the table.

"What is it, Heero?" Duo asked, exasperated. It was the same damn thing every day. Like some horribly written script, the pilots were acting out the macabre scenes, the same lines day after day, each man knowing and anticipating each word, gesture, emotion, and action from having rehearsed it so long.

"What are you going to do now?" Heero finally asked. It was an unspoken agreement that Duo was not allowed to enter a bathroom directly after eating a mean. Quatre afraid that the scenery in the bathroom would bring up unpleasant memories of being sick, and therefore triggering Duo, his mind tricked into becoming ill. Heero's thoughts on the situation were very similar, with only one major difference: The becoming sick was not his brain's unconscious response.

Rolling his eyes just slightly, Duo gave the same answer as always – the next line of the play. "I'm going to my room, Heero. Do you have a problem with that?" he asked, barely managing to conceal his anger and frustration.

And the song and dance began. Heero watching Duo exit the room, racing up to his bedroom to do God knows what, Quatre and the others exchanging looks of concern, each man debating whether or not they should go after their diminishing friend. Always the same. Word for word. And yet nobody had enough nerve to attempt a rewrite.

Meanwhile, Duo was holed up in his room, sitting in his cramped and dark closet. He felt at his most safe there, though it was small and uncomfortable, and it was the only place he ever let his mask fall completely. This afternoon, his stomach clung to the food in his stomach, eager to satisfy its ravenous hunger, to absorb the nutrients while it still had a chance. In turn, Duo curled up in a fetal position in the darkest part of the closet. He imagined that it must be like what a pregnant woman's contractions felt like – the throbbing and tightening of stomach muscles, so painful that it almost brought tears to his eyes.

When had this stopped being fun? When did starvation become something he feared and dreaded, as opposed to something he looked forward to eagerly, with as much excitement as a child running down the stairs on Christmas morning? At which point did the control slip from his grip, already precarious, going instead to his best friend and worst enemy? Ana.

When Duo looked into mirror, he imaged that he could see her inside himself. The hollow eyes was where the goddess/demon lurked, distorting and skewing Duo's perception of himself and of the world in general. He could imagine a blonde woman with beautiful, silky flowing hair whipping around a fragile face, mouth curving upwards in the friendliest of smiles. She continues to smile, reaching out a hand and saying, "It's ok. Come to me, and I can help you. I can give you what you've been missing your whole life – love, friendship, understanding. Stick with me, and you'll have whatever you please." And Duo imagined himself reaching for the outstretched hand, but as he did so, Ana would grab a hold of his arm, now no longer gentle and fragile, but a skeleton cloaked and hidden by a giant black hood, the face underneath a skull with hollow eyes. The same as Duo's own. He could almost hear her shouting out, "I've got your now!" and then laughing, an evil cackle. And he wished sometimes that he had never started in the first place. She was his goddess and his grim reaper. She was his best friend and his worst enemy. She was what kept him going, and what would eventually kill him. It was ironic, and Duo almost had to laugh at these thoughts.

There were, however, those moments that were still good. The elation he felt after lying himself out of eating a meal, and the ecstasy that overwhelmed him when he beat "the system" and found a way to throw up, unnoticed. It was these feelings that he lived for, and for this reason, Duo would not give up his ana. No matter how he felt, what he said, what his friends said, what he did, what his friends did. It would be worth it in the end. Pretty soon he would not need his friend anymore. As soon as he reached his goal weight – now lowered to 120[1] after a period of losing and surpassing his first goal – he would stop. As he thought this, he looked into the mirror, focusing on the dead-looking eyes with a sense of determination and defiance. He could stop if he wanted to. Of course he could, and he promised himself right then and there that the moment he reached 120 lbs., he would give up the ana for good.

---2 Weeks Later---

Heero smiled approvingly as he watched Duo climb into bed at the end of the day. He remembered a time not so long ago when he had seen Duo in his nightshirt, and had been horrified at his sickly looking appearance. But now, running his eyes down his friend's body carefully, he almost had to smile. He looked almost normal again, having gained back a few much needed pounds, his face no longer looking quite so gray.

But… There was still the fear lurking in the back of his mind. The stomach no longer curved inwards, the beginnings of a ledge beneath the ribcage, and the back no longer sported knobs poking out from the lack of muscle between flesh and spine. But Heero could not help but notice the dead look in Duo's eyes that seemingly increased over the course of the past two weeks. Could not overlook the fact that Duo only seemed to be growing more and more depressed and withdrawn as the days went slowly by.

From across the room, Duo could feel Heero's eyes on him, and he shrunk back reflexively, pulling the covers over his body self-consciously. They had all been staring lately. Every last one of his friends had just been staring at him ever since the forced eating had begun. Duo had never felt more insecure in his life, never felt fatter, uglier, fatter, like such a horrible fat failure. Duo absolutely hated his friends for this. He was no longer able to get out of eating, and lately Heero had been glued to his side after mealtimes, so he no chance to purge, or even exercise. He'd gained weight – of course he had. He felt so vulnerable now, so used, felt as though the other pilots had invaded and controlled every single aspect of his life. They had taken away his secret diet, his private mission, his wonderful ecstasy and weight loss. He had no secrets anymore.

Except for one.

In the past, Duo had rid himself of the bad feelings inside of himself through his diet and eating habits. Starving the depression away, throwing up the fear and the guilt and the pain, running from the anger and overall feeling of helplessness. Now that his secret weapon of dealing with the world had been taken away, he'd gone back to the method of coping he had used during the war days.

It had never been excessive. Never a craving, a want, a need, an obsession, an addiction. Up until recently, he'd only used it as a way to cope with the guilt, a way to right the wrongs he had committed during battles. He killed an innocent, he gave himself a small cut on the arm. He bombed a town, he earned two long slashes on the thigh. The day the last battle had been fought, he swore on everything that he believed in that he would put down the razor, never to pick it up again. At that point, he felt no more need to punish himself. The self-inflicted torture had stopped once the torture of Ozzies and innocents stopped.

But now, he felt that the punishment was needed once again. For becoming weak, for being a fat, lazy slob, for letting his friends push him around, for losing control of himself and his life so completely. With the old coping mechanism gone, he turned again to his razor – the only friend he had known during the war. Now, instead of starving and purging himself of the pain, he let it run free from his body through his blood, the steady flow of crimson the tears he could not shed, his scars the words he could not bring his mouth to say.

It was now, as he watched the smallest hint of a smile play across Heero's lips from across the room, that he again felt the incredible urge, the itching in his skin and the burning in his heart, the absolute need to do it right now.

Standing quickly, Duo flashed a wide grin at his friend and all but ran into the nearest bathroom, his entire body trembling from the incredible need.

Pull the razor out of the pocket, deep breath, not too hard, not too deep – he's in the other room, you can't stay in here too long. Drag it across mutilated flesh, adding yet another to the dozens of small white lines, small pink lines, small red lines, all forming one trail of misery down the arm. Shaky scarlet beads welling up, press a little deeper. Quickening now, a river instead of droplets. Drop the razor now, sigh of relief – the urge is gone. The need fulfilled. The junkie got his fix.

Breathing deeply and pressing a hand to his still racing heart, Duo finally opened his eyes to inspect the damage done. The blood was flowing quickly, but he knew from experience that the cuts were more wide than deep. No need for stitches, not this time. Eventually, Duo let the sense of peace and numbness sweep over his entire body and he once again closed his eyes, giving into the darkness that threatened to overtake him. The blood still seeping out of the wounds, staining the pristine white of his nightshirt, staining and tainting the purity of his soul.

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End notes: Amazingly.. I'm actually sort of happy with the way this chapter came out. The ending was a little hard, which is why the sentences are sort of… disconnected? disjointed? Something. Eh, I'll call it a style. ; Anyway, I'm happy with the beginning and middle, which is weird, since I usually despise everything I write. -shuts up and stares at the pig that has suddenly sprouted wings and taken flight-

[1] In this story, Duo's height is 5'8, and the normal weight range for males of that height is 139 - 169 lbs. So he's not exactly emaciated yet, just suspiciously skinny. Just underweight enough for people to take notice.