{Author Notes}
Before I let you loose to run loose in this decadent candy shop
of a story, I've got to address a few things. At first, each
chapter was well over 10,000 pages. You have to understand that I
started this story nearly two years ago [man, I'm behind, no?]
and back then... I was insane! With my debut into the... well,
let's call it interesting, at least, world of high school, I've
got a lot less time to spend on my baby fanfiction here. The
chapters won't stop, they'll just be about 4 or 5 thousand words
which I'll try not to make suck with the frequent gaps of
inspiration that I have. Which is no fault of my wonderful
readers, I promise! Each chapter should premiere around the
fifteen of each month or so.
At the moment, I'm also working on another, fairly large Heero x
Duo project for the 2004 One True Pairing [OTP] challenge that
absorbs a lot of my writing time and inspirations. Once I finish
it, I'll be able to post it in its entirety. I can't tell you
much about it since it may qualify as posting it previous to the
contest and disqualify me, but I will tell you that it's
currently titled The One-Eared Neko and is set primarily in a
delivery truck and on American roads. So any scene suggestions
are welcome and I'll consider them if I can fit it into my very
twisted and often flawed plot lines. Thanks, and enjoy, debasers
of the world!
-- Kaitsurinu
Disclaimer: ** baa baa! **
Pairings: 2+1, Rx1, 3x4, Sx5, CB+2, H+2, 9x13, 1x2x1
Potential Warnings for All Chapters: Relena, stupid humor, angst,
minor violence, het, shounen-ai, yaoi, romance, language,
suggestive dialogue, drugs, limey, NCS, suicide issues.
Chapter 6
"Most Things Happen For a Reason"
Precious Sith had been the only one Duo had ever looked at in
that desiring, sleazy streetlight kind of way and not seen the
face of his Japanese best friend glaring back coldly in denial
instead. The first man he'd admitted to having an attraction to,
a certain twist in his stomach and buttery leap in his throat.
And besides that, he was only one who ever made him forget how
much he missed Heero and all those regrets of never saying
anything to him. Even if it was only for a night. The only one
that could mask that puncture wound in his heart well enough to
let him ignore some of the pain. Not only because of his stunning
looks and smile like a fresh champagne bottle, but the inviting,
gregarious, and absolutely oddball personality that was an echo
of his own. There simply had been no time to brood over his old
friend at first when he had stumbled down onto the model's humble
doorstep on a hot Californian afternoon starving and thirsty
enough to kill for a chance just to lick the water off a sidewalk.
The yellow-eyed man had leaned out the door and asked him if he
needed a bottle of water with a friendly voice that was butter to
the ears.
Once you were in the room with the eccentric Canadian man, he
would lavish you with his absolute attention and do anything to
cause you to smile, male and female alike. And that was what Duo
needed. A beautiful distraction.
And Precious was more than happy to oblige in a rebound-relationship
as well.
If only for one night, there was a gap in Duo's life that was
inexplicably filled once he was with the infamous model who was
currently fleeing the media. Though his eyes were the polar
opposite of the deep blue of Heero's eyes, his hair was pale
instead of dark, and his personality bubbly and playful and on
the bimbo-ish side of the fence, there was still something
roughly magnetic about him in his complete contrast to Heero.
Almost as if he was rebelling against the deep infatuation he
held for the other man simply by staring into his face. And the
thought of saying 'screw you' to the remembrance of Heero's
distant face had been so delicious back then.
Delicious enough to let himself in to Precious's bed, at least.
But beyond that, he had planned nothing but to leave in the early
morning with a raided refrigerator as a souvenir of his half-hearted
one nightstand. There was no room in Duo Maxwell's life for a
loved one or lovers whom he would only end up injuring or hurting
in some way when his luck finally ran out and he was exposed as
Shinigami again. Or so he thought. But something had drawn him
back again only matter of minutes later, turning him around as
soon as he had reached the streetlight on the corner. Perhaps it
was just another show of weakness, or some strange deity's will,
but he stalked back through the darkened kitchen and up the
stairs to where he was sleeping. Duo used his efficiency in
stealth to slip back into the covers like he'd never woken up but
it was to no avail. Since the Canadian man had apparently been
aware of his every movement and the fact he had planned to leave
him and embraced him like a delighted child when he didn't. And
that had made him smile.
Duo had never known a man who had needed him like that. And he
needed to feel needed for something besides a backup gun, a
reconnaissance man, or a hacker's access into an enemy computer
system.
So, they became fast friends. They were both equally easygoing
and infatuated with having fun and cracking jokes. Without
bullets exchanged, without vice-foreign-ministers-to-be on their
heels, without a shadow of doubt between them that they were
instantaneous best friends. It was pure freedom and honesty
between them. He could leave without warning, he could drop by
without warning. The model loved to cook him meals whenever he
found himself without a regular job or pay and Duo would in
return make an ass of himself just to make Precious laugh
whenever he needed it. After a month or so, both confessed they
were still in love with the people they had let slip away from
them. And it didn't bother them. They still could have fun with
each other.
For Duo, he still couldn't force the cold, aloof soldier from his
constant, everyday thoughts. And for Precious, he'd left a girl
back in Texas, a tall blonde model named Veronika who was so
deeply in debt from lending money to her struggling
Czechoslovakian family she was close to being deported. He had
loved her, and loved her still, but his best friend and former
boyfriend Cody had pressured him into leaving her behind. A
similar sad story to Duo's own, but it'd been that distant look
that challenged humanity with its reservation that had pulled
Heero away from him. And Relena as well, apparently.
But he never expected to for the wild, rave-loving man to ever
settle down so quickly, so readily...
But then again, if he had the chance, he would have married Heero
if he were barely out of grade school.
He just didn't have that chance.
[ --- ]
As much as he dreaded facing that concerned look in those
unnaturally blue eyes of his, there was a definite disappointment
when he found himself unescorted back into the fitting room. The
American glanced over his shoulder back at the doorway and sifted
his eyes through the loops and arches of tinsel and traditional
Christmas decoration, anticipating a very upset Heero Yuy
following him inside. Surely, he was either going to firmly walk
up and interrogate him over the bruise, or give him frowning
glances from across the room and generally just brood in his own
stoic way, both of which required his presence in the room to do
so. It was a little strange. In place of the pilot, Rosy came
clicking back into the room a few seconds later, clipboard
pressed faithfully against her breast. She looked at Duo in the
center of the room, unescorted and dressed only in boxers and a
dress shirt, and smiled.
"Well, you've got one down, hon. Now, finish getting dressed,
I wanna see how it fits overall." The blonde woman trotted
over on her heels and retrieved the pile of clothing she'd
abandoned at the beck and call of the unattended telephone. Rosy
smiled up at the American's face, but he didn't have one in
return.
"Oi, where'd Heero go?"
Rosy paused and quirked her face into curiosity for a moment.
"Oh, he said he was going out to buy some lunch for you."
The professional, warm, buttery smile reminiscent of Precious
returned as she held up a dark grey waistcoat to him as
innocently as could be. The white of her teeth made something
hurt in the bottom of Duo's stomach. "He's really very sweet
like that, you know."
"Yeah," Duo said with a half-nervous laugh. "I
know."
When the American bachelor finally accepted the waistcoat and
slipped it on over his shoulder, Rosy was free to put the rest of
the immaculate pile on a little velvet footstool that she pulled
from underneath the chair with her foot. After that, her
manicured fingernails descended upon the row of black buttons
stemming up from the hem. She deftly buttoned them all and spoke
at the same time, allowing Duo to stand and relax.
"He also said that we might as well get you started on the
rest of your wardrobe while he's out," Rosy said cheerily.
"Hmm? What do you mean?"
She tilted her head and leaned down to snatch up another garment
gracefully, still maintaining eye contact. "You know, for
the rest of the trip! I caught him in the hall just before he
left and he mentioned to me that you brought very little luggage
with you. It's nothing too extravagant, mind you, just some
decent clothes and coats and swimsuits and such."
Red color lingered across his face and it glowed above his
sheepish grin. "Oh no, it's fine. That's very generous of
you both, but I don't want to be a burden. You know, price-wise."
"Come on! Heero wouldn't care how much you spent, don't you
think?" The blonde woman giggled and offered him his black
slacks in a neat square of fabric, simultaneously slapping
playfully him on the chest.
"It's not him," he protested. "It's me! I would
feel horrible, feeding off him like some aimless parasite! I
lived like that my entire childhood, and I caused too much
trouble ever to take back."
"Calm down. You don't be have to be so dramatic! He's your
best friend, Duo! There are things friends do for each other
without having to ask or be asked. It just works that way."
"I guess," Duo half-huffed in defeat.
"You guess? Be a little more confident in him, why don't you?"
She jabbed at him to accentuate the point. "You need to
realize that you and the other pilots are his sole family. He
loves all of you so dearly, I can tell. It's what he wants to
give you!
The light in his violet eyes was dim and thoughtful, looking back
into her round, chipper face. "Yeah, I know."
Rosy scoffed, letting the slacks be lifted from her grip, and
chastised him with an amber-brown stare, her hands promptly
placed on her hips. "Oh, don't beat yourself up."
The expression in her incessant smile was a little warming, at
least, and Duo soon felt his guilt relent a little in its strong
presence. It was a lot like his own, from his war days he spent
at the side of a very unwilling Heero, cracking jokes and jabbing
at him with harmless dosages of sarcasm and optimism. Always on,
always persistent and gleaming. He had to admit that it was very
hard to resist a smile of his own when she was being so upbeat
and optimistic and infectious.
"Heero's getting married to the Vice Foreign Minister,
remember? He's rich!" The blonde woman giggled and leaned
down for more clothing, unaware of the destructive power of her
words.
That's what's so depressing, Duo thought bitterly, furrowing an
eyebrow slightly upward. Why did he need to be reminded so often,
huh? Shinigami must have some sort of personal vendetta with him.
But, like the patient soldier he'd grown to act during the
immense pressures and responsibilities of war, he knew it was
best to stay quiet sometimes, about certain things. He slipped on
his clothing without much more comment, brushing the bangs out of
his eyes dully. It matched the lifeless spark of his eyes as he
thought of the wedding he'd be attending in this tuxedo, the last
hope he'd be selling out in this black suit.
[---]
"Are you going to tell him?"
"Sam, don't be immature." The delicate-looking blush-rose
pink liquid swashed around the thin glass bottle as she sprayed
her neck.
The blonde woman's voice matched the perfect description of well-breed
polish and friendly discreetness, brilliance and manners with a
cold edging. It was almost too flawless; while it sounded fine in
an auditorium over a high-tech digital broadcasting system, it
was distant and insincere in the confines of a simple room. The
dim lighting added to that removed sensation, blocked by the
heavy curtains that hung in the background. She finished with her
perfume as professionally as one could be at an early morning
like this one and placed it in a pocket in her purse. After that,
a layer of reapplied lipstick was next, marked by the habitual
female lean toward the hazy mirror.
For anyone entering the room, they could have instantly tasted
the heavy tensions that lay in the air. It wasn't a dramatic
presence, but a very important one nonetheless. One of life-changing
repercussions.
Relena turned while she smoothed out her dark blue business skirt
and took the effort to smooth out her hair. She glanced up, her
eyes adjusting easily to the dim lightning more quickly as she
found herself in this position more and more frequently. Across
the room, she held the attention of the tall, Italian-French
publicist who was constantly at her side while she traveled the
world, promoting the continuance of peaceful days.
"Will you be fine by yourself?" she asked, slinging her
purse under her arm.
"Don't worry," Sam said reassuringly, lounging back,
neck against the headboard. "Though it won't be easy without
you here, it'll all be fine. The press is notoriously easy to
coddle. I can manage."
"I know you can," she said, smiling encouraging. It had
that same distant, lovely appeal of a teacher falsely smiling.
"Your ability is superb. As always."
"I know," he said, his angular, masculine features
lightening a bit. He rubbed at his sleep-worn face briefly and
waved it off like a true easy-going man. "What are you
waiting on? Go, it'll be fine."
"Thank you, Sam." Her deep, cornflower blue eyes
grinned in return over the traces of a reserved smile. She curled
a piece of her hair behind her ear in habit and rested her weight
temporarily against the dresser behind her. The shadows played
across her face darkly, glowing blue as she stretched her mouth
faintly.
"I appreciate it more than you can understand."
"And I've always said that you're more than welcome, Relena."
She smiled again, as a way of answering wordlessly. A way of
never losing her professional, lady-like reserve and clean-cut
edge. A nod was exchanged between them and their silent goodbye
biddings were completed. Simple, and clean.
Long fingers rummaged across the top of the oak wood dresser and,
standing femininely, she turned to glance at him again with a
pair of discreet black sunglasses in her hands. The hints of
light that did remain in the room reflected off them. They found
a resting spot on her face as she glided out the room silently,
her arm trailing behind her as it shut the door. The brass knob
twisted with the squeals of years of wear as it was released and
the delicate, precise sound of footsteps led down the hallway and
disappeared, destined for the dark, glossy and anonymous escort
car that would take her to the bustling Pakistani airport.
Leaving no untied ends. Simple and clean.
[---]
A sea of feathery snowflakes descended from the clouds, sifting
through the air slowly and coating the gentle ground with downy
white. White and innocent, like the silk of a baby girl's dress.
The snow fell from the sky just as sparks would fly in the pitch-darkness
of night when the guns and deadly weapons of mobile suits would
clash so loudly. But there was no need to think of the things of
the past like that. It was Christmas time, and Quatre was happy
and healthy. Nothing was better than this, and he didn't need to
linger on the bygone violence of his life.
While the snowflakes silently swathed the world in white, in the
hallway a blonde young man was pulling the closet door open,
rummaging through piles of slush-covered winter boots. Numskull
sniffed curiously behind him, poking his head between the Arabian's
leg and the door. He pulled on a pair of thick, bulky brown boots,
sitting on a mahogany and happily pulled the leathery laces tight
while the dog sniffed at his shoes. A maroon-colored winter cap
pulled over his bright blonde hair and dressed in a heavily
insulated grey coat and knitted black mittens, Quatre was ready
to roll around in the snow until his face froze clear off. He
grinned happily, looking out the frosted window at an expanse of
white cut only by the dark green spruces and distant, jagged grey
lines of civilization.
Numskull yipped excitedly at his heels and he looked down and
promptly patted his head, ruffling his scraggly fur.
"Yeah, you want to play outside too?"
Again, the puppy yipped, his pink tongue lolling out the side of
his mouth. Quatre kneeled down on one leg and playfully roughed
up his face. The little dog fought back against the onslaught of
mittens, growling ecstatically. A blur of scrappy brown, Numskull
wrestled with his hand, clamping his tiny legs on his wrist and
thrashing his head from side to side and nipping playfully. It
was one of his favorite games, but even so, he had to be careful
not to knock over the young puppy.
"Huh? You wanna?" Quatre asked, smiling brightly.
"Okay, come on!" He stood up, and as he reached for the
brass doorknob with his knitted black mittens, the innocent quiet
was interrupted quite suddenly by the sound of someone clearing
their throat behind him. Quatre's head whipped around, the cap
that he wore causing his ears to pop out rather cutely, and he
was confronted with his fiancée standing in the wood-paneled
hallway behind him. Looking rather impatient, as well.
The lean angle of his legs in blue jeans was like that a
suspicious parent, waiting at all hours of the night for their
child to walk through the door. All it lacked was an expectant
tapping of the foot. His arms were tucked tightly together in a
loose, sleeveless paint-stained white shirt he had no doubt
usurped from Heero's dresser.
"Hi, honey," Quatre said innocently, although he had a
knot tying itself quickly in his stomach. Trying to keep the
innocuous tone was very difficult in the face of the danger of
being caught. "What's up?"
Beneath his cinnamon-colored bangs, there was a very distinct,
level look in those green eyes.
"Quatre..."
Instantly, the grown blonde man, head of a major corporation at
the scant age of sixteen and a seasoned soldier at the even
scantier age of fifteen, suddenly stomped his foot like a three-year-old
would have if he had been denied ice cream.
And he meant it.
"Trowa! Please, just come on!" he pleaded. Or just
whined, however you want to word it. "It's Christmas, and it's
snowing outside! I just want to have some fun!"
"Aren't I any fun?" Trowa asked, putting a flat,
humorous hint of disappointment in his voice.
Quatre's big green-blue eyes begged along with him, underneath
his hat-matted bangs. Beside his puffy dark coat, his fists were
clenched threateningly. In mittens. "Of course you are, but
you're being ridiculous about this!"
"I don't want you going outside, that's all," Trowa
said. He walked noiselessly up to his blonde fiancée in a pair
of ratty socks and put his hands on his shoulders. "I'm
worried about you."
Both pilots looked into each other's eyes, but each seemed
completely beyond the range of their normal ways of behaving as
they stared across the two-inch difference in heights. The
characteristically warm and compassionate tint of Quatre's eyes
was brooding and slightly resentful toward the markedly openly
emotional expression of his taller fiancé. His very handsome
fiancé, he had to admit. His dark, cinnamon-colored hair had
grown longer than it had been during the war and concealed more
of his green eyes, but it was radically more kept and attractive.
And his cold-hearted, empty stare that had once struck fear now
just overflowed you with guilt with their over-protectiveness. He
pouted his lips sullenly up at him. "You're psychotic,"
Quatre stated finally.
"Why don't you stay inside with me? I'll watch City of
Angels with you again if you want," the Heavyarms pilot
offered to convince him, gently putting both arms around his
waist and pulling him faithfully closer. Drawing his adorable
fiancé near. "Even though I've seen it too many times to
count and still retain my mental health."
It was a sweet gesture, but...
"Nope!" Quatre squeaked in refusal.
The blonde, much in the excessive mind set of a three-year-old,
thrashed out of his grip by squatting down and dropping out of
the circle of his arms. With a laugh, he scrambled back to his
feet in an attempt to race out the door before his half-bewildered
boyfriend had the chance to realize what he'd done. Trowa lunged
after him, a sly smile stretched on his face, and managed to wrap
his long lanky arms around the familiarity of the Arabian's waist
while the blonde struggled against him, both snickering to
themselves. Quatre's hands wrapped tightly around the brass
doorknob, a vice of death. Had it been alive, it probably would
have choked to death instantly. Meanwhile, Numskull yapped wildly
between them and darted back and forth.
Trowa grunted after he tugged at his fiancé's midsection and
found he wasn't appearing to be letting go. He gritted his teeth,
trying to keep those ever-so-precious pleasantries in his tone.
"Quatre, let go," he asked.
"No!"
"You're being unreasonable, so let's talk, please," the
brunet bargained in response. But the blonde's stubborn streak
was scrubbing out to the outside, and it refused to be defied.
His grip tightened.
"You're the ridiculous one here!" Quatre shot back with
just as much conviction to his words. "I couldn't reason
with you now, you're too paranoid!"
Trowa tugged a little harder, just enough to jar his suddenly
snobby blonde amore, just enough to let the jagged tone of a
growl slip into his voice. It was only for persuasive measures,
honestly.
"Quatre Raberba Winner, you let go of that doorknob right
now. I don't need to go through this just to talk to you!"
"When you're crazy you do!" he retorted, straining his
fingers tighter around the smooth brass doorknob and his boots
against the floor. His green-blue eyes furrowed, turning
unnaturally dark and resistant. "I tried, but you've gone
past sanity, Trowa, I'm afraid. It's this house, and I'm gonna go
outside before the demon claims me too!"
"What? Quatre-!"
"No, I'm not gonna stay in here!"
"Quat-!"
A flurry of soft gray coat and knitted black mittens was all the
Heavyarms pilot managed to catch glimpse of his unusually
stubborn blonde fiancé as he shook him off. Like a sack of
bricks, Trowa was dropped to the floor and landed painfully on
his ass, barely escaping a head collision with the large,
mahogany wood shoebox on the side of the hallway. Emitting a
little, 'Oof,' of surprise, he leaned heavily against the wall in
a half-daze in order to regain his balance and looked up to the
door. It flew open on its hinges and Quatre dashed outside in a
grey, black, and blonde blur with the scrawny little Border
terrier hot on his heels. In his haste, he let it swing open and
an icy blanket of air crept slowly inside. It nipped at Trowa's
feet as he irritably mumbled to himself while standing back up
and slamming the door.
He stared out the dim, frosted window in the center of the door
like the half-jilted thing he was, only distinguishing the dim
outline of the other blonde pilot growing smaller toward the
drifts of snow. At first he just ran, but soon found immense
happiness in flinging snowballs up in the air, probably in full
knowledge that his fiancé would be watching him half-sullenly.
His expression narrowed slightly. "Duo's been corrupting you
somehow. You're acting just like him," Trowa commented
flatly, with strings of unhappiness detectable in the sardonic
humor.
But this wasn't finished for them.
The Heavyarms pilot ran back upstairs in search of warmer clothes.
If Quatre wanted to act like a child, then the only reasonable
thing was to act like one, too. He snatched up a hat and gave a
curt little sigh to himself, pulling it churlishly over his ears.
[---]
It'd been a cheery, colorful rollercoaster of clothing at the
honor of the blonde Sith sister, and her subject and more than
adequately handsome model was dressed and undressed again and
again. Like a bright-faced Barbie doll, he went welcome into each
venture she found hanging patiently for him on a wooden hanger in
the closet. Clothes were of no expense here. Not necessarily to
buy, but to slip on; this was recreation time for both of them.
Sunny-faced and bushy-tailed, Rosy darted to and fro between the
lush closet to the half-naked man she held in her custody if only
for the afternoon. Silks and cottons and colors and apparel
billowed out from her arm and landed in Duo's sometimes-overwhelmed
arms. In front of the spotless, gleaming mirror, he dressed in
dapper brown slacks and cherry red sweaters, slim, swank and Gap-labeled
tanks and shorts, beautiful dress clothes, spin-offs of Duo's
affection for priest colors, and the unanimous favorite, the
brazen punk and roll t-shirts with obnoxious, but keen, slogans
in boxy letters and baggy dark denims that hung on his hips
temptingly. Like a dream. He could barely remember being so swept
up in extravagance and finery like this.
But as he stared into his reflection, looking blankly into his
own violet eyes and hands lying limp at his sides, his mind
couldn't stop wandering from the petty clothes.
A gunshot, the memory of the scent cold midnight sea spray
hovering in the air, and the sight of a familiar dark-haired boy
of only fifteen thrown to the ground by his bullet. And more
recently, the image of a blond-haired man smiling warmly down at
him from his vista on the doorstep, hand extending to the opened
doorway in the thick, buzzing humidity. And his grinning amber
eyes.
{Good morning, stranger. You wanna come inside...?}
