A/N: For Crafty Companion, who requested a few text posts using 3x2. I decided to combine all of them into one fic, which you maybe intended anyway? ( (text): .a bottle of vodka. My place. now,(text) pants optional,(text) wanna be my plus one for my ex's wedding? And pretend to be in love with me?).

A/N 2: Thank you, as always, to Ro.

A/N 3: I know a few people have been looking forward to more of this, and I really appreciate the encouragement. I also just want to say, reviews mean the world. I cannot emphasize enough how much it literally makes my day to see that someone has reviewed my work. I love writing these two uncommunicative assholes, but hearing YOUR love for them is what motivates me to keep exploring new ways to write them. So, please, if you enjoyed, leave a review. Even just a "thanks" means the world to me.

A/N 4: This will probably surprise absolutely no one, but I don't have much knowledge of the ins and outs of a strip club. I worked for Chippendales in Las Vegas for a while doing wardrobe, but Chippendales is very different than an actual strip club so my experiences don't translate all that well. I'm making a lot of this up and trying to be respectful and vague, but I apologize if anyone takes any offense.

Warnings: angst, language, sexy times, mention of drug use (something I SHOULD have included before?)

Pairings: 3x2/2x3, 1x5, past 2x5

The First Five Times

Chapter Eight

I had already cleaned my apartment on Saturday so thoroughly that I found the shirt Trant had loaned me three years ago in the back of my closet and never returned. The tile in the kitchen and bathroom had never actually sparkled before. It had helped, all of the furious scrubbing, sweeping and vacuuming. I had been able to put most thoughts about Duo out of my head and focus instead on the mechanical actions of the physical labor.

By Sunday afternoon, however, I was once again a mess of nerves.

I had had a client that morning, a guy who commuted to Seattle for work most weeks and liked to see me on Sunday mornings before he flew out, and afterwards I came home and showered. I scrubbed my skin thoroughly, distracted and anxious, and I was a pink, tender mess when I finally stepped out of the shower.

A shower that I refused to let myself scrub down again.

Instead, I dressed in jeans and a faded Star Wars: Return of the Jedi shirt that I had found at a Goodwill when I was fifteen and had prized ever since. Duo had jokingly tried to steal it once, and while I didn't mind seeing it on him when he was completely naked otherwise and in my bed, there was no way anyone was going to take it from me.

I made myself eat lunch, leftover pizza from Saturday night that I didn't bother to heat up, and then sat on the couch and tried to read.

I had taken a literature class that semester, Twentieth Century American Literature, and it had been the first time I was able to actually enjoy reading. The professor had chosen challenging, engaging books, and when Duo had seen me reading Catch-22 for the class he had asked if I had ever read Vonnegut. I had never heard of Vonnegut, and the look on my face must have said as much. The next time Duo came over, he gave me a copy of Cat's Cradle.

That had been months ago, and I was currently working my way through Slaughterhouse Five.

Or trying to.

I wasn't having a lot of luck focusing.

On Friday night, after getting Duo's text asking to talk, I had hesitated, had put off answering him until after I finished my second set, until after I had given two private dances and had another Sidecar.

When?

I was terrified he was still out there, in the club. But I had forced myself to stay focused during my second set, had stayed far away from the seating by the stage and gone straight for the regulars who I knew would pay for a dance so I didn't have to troll the crowd.

I was desperate for him to say now.

He didn't.

Tomorrow?

Duo usually worked Saturday nights, taking a shift that most nurses tried to avoid because it was busy, and because they wanted to spend time with their own families.

Feeling petty, my response had been terse.

I have a gig in the afternoon. Tomorrow night?

His response had taken nearly an hour.

Hilde can't switch shifts with me. What about Sunday?

Knowing that he had tried to switch shifts, tried to work around me, made me feel like a bit of an asshole, but it also gave me a small flare of hope.

Sunday afternoon?

Three?

My place.

As much as I liked spending time at his apartment, I wanted the comfort of my own for this… talk we were about to have. I didn't want to have to drive across town depressed or enraged afterwards.

I was starting to think it might have been a better idea to have said his place - at least I would have had the drive over to occupy myself.

Instead, I found myself abandoning Vonnegut to check my phone every few minutes.

2:45

2:52

2:57

2:58

3:01

3:05

Duo was never late.

I checked our text history, but he had definitely said three. And today was definitely Sunday. And this was… my apartment.

It was almost three fifteen when I heard a hesitant knock on my door.

I looked through the peephole and there was Duo, clearly anxious, running a hand through his hair and trying to straighten his clothes.

"Trowa?"

He sounded just as nervous as I felt.

I opened the door, and he gave me an apologetic, lopsided grin.

"I'm so sorry. There was this fucking monster traffic jam, and every time I was stopped long enough to text you, I swear to fuck traffic moved again. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

He was sincere, and he looked genuinely worried that I would close the door in his face.

"You took the 101 again, didn't you?"

Duo lifted his shoulders.

"I wasn't thinking - I forgot you showed me that other way and…" He trailed off, and I realized that, aside from both of us looking like dogs ready to be kicked and neither of us making a move to get undressed, this was exactly the kind of conversation we could have had any day a month ago.

I sighed and stepped to one side so that Duo could come in, and then closed the door behind him.

He toed off his shoes and looked around the apartment.

I wasn't messy, normally, but this level of cleanliness was something Duo hadn't seen before.

He slanted a look over at me but wisely didn't comment.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

Duo bit the corner of his lower lip.

"Sure, uh, whatever you're having."

I rolled my eyes at that, but walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was water, orange juice, milk, a few bottles of some shitty organic beer Cathy had foisted off on me, and a bottle of vodka.

I thought back to the night that had started this descent into fuckery - the text from Duo asking me to bring over a bottle of vodka, the text asking me to pretend to be his boyfriend.

I grabbed the bottle and two shot glasses.

It was only three in the afternoon, but I didn't have anywhere to be until tomorrow night, and Duo usually had Monday mornings off as well.

He arched an eyebrow when he saw my choice, but followed me over to the couch and gingerly sat down on the opposite end from me.

I poured both of us a shot and immediately downed mine.

Amazing what the burn in my throat did to steady my nerves.

"You wanted to talk," I reminded him.

"Yeah. I…" He picked up his shot glass, but instead of downing it, turned it around in his fingers as though desperate for a distraction. "I should have called, or texted, or something."

He should have.

"I told you not to," I reminded the both of us.

Duo nodded, but he offered me one of his crooked little grins.

"Sure, but I've never been good at listening to what people tell me to do or not do."

He finally drank his shot, and then slid the glass across the coffee table to me.

I refilled both and held his out.

He took it, carefully avoiding my fingers.

"I… fuck, Trowa. I don't even know where to start."

That was fair, considering that I didn't know either.

There was a lot to say, and a hell of a lot we should have said sooner.

"I'm sorry about the wedding," I said.

I had felt awful for that, a little nugget of guilt wrapped up in everything else. Duo had so desperately wanted to show Heero and Wufei that he was fine, that he had his shit together and he was happy. And I had ruined all of that.

Duo stared at me.

"You- Trowa, there's nothing for you to be sorry about. It was a stupid fucking idea in the first place. You know Mei - Meilan?"

I nodded. I didn't think I would be forgetting her anytime soon.

"She told me that she was the one who sent the invitation. I was such a fucking idiot, I thought maybe Heero or Wufei… But no. She… she didn't think I'd want to miss the most important day in their lives."

Duo laughed bitterly, and tossed back the shot and slid the glass towards me again.

I drank my own, the burn no less for being the second time around.

"I should have known they didn't give a flying fuck, and I should have known… it was never going to work, Tro. I'm- I'll always be the fuckup. I never should have asked you to pretend to be my boyfriend. Hell, I never should have waited so long to tell you I'm a fucking addict."

I hesitated in the middle of pouring another shot and gave him a look.

He flushed.

"I'm still sober. I mean, no drugs," he amended, after nodding towards the bottle. "Not much of that, either. Not after the first night, anyway. Only so many vodka hangovers I can handle. Especially when you aren't there to make me an omelet."

The casual reference had me wondering if I would end up doing the same thing today. Tonight. Tomorrow morning.

I drank my shot, but left his where it was.

He looked from it to me, but didn't make any move to reach for it.

"It's not like that for me, Tro," he sighed, and leaned back against the couch, tucking one foot under his ass and pulling his other leg up to hold his knee against his chest. "I mean, hell, it used to be like that. Bad shit would happen, and I'd get high because if I didn't feel nothing, I felt everything, and I couldn't… I have bad days now, and I have good days. I have days where everything is going so fucking fine - where I've saved some kid's life or been able to release a kid from the cancer ward because she's gone into remission, and- and days when everything is fucking fine and I'll just… I'll walk through the six steps it'll take me to grab fentanyl or hydrocodone, and I just… It doesn't have to be a bad day for me to want to get high, Tro. Bad shit doesn't have to happen."

"But when bad shit does happen?" I asked, remembering the nights he would beg me to make him forget.

He swallowed hard and looked away from me and nodded.

"Yeah. I want to get high when bad shit happens, too," he admitted in a rough whisper. He gave me a crooked grin. "And two days after the wedding, I went to a meeting for the first time in like… six months. So it was… it was rough."

I felt a pang of misery. My fault. For lying to him. For the wedding. For-

"No," he said, surging across the couch to grab my hand, prying the shot glass out of it before I hurt myself. "Tro, that was on me. That was my struggle, my fight. That wasn't- That sure as hell wasn't your fault, Trowa. Tro, look at me."

I did, and I could see the pain and the sincerity on his face.

"That was on me," he repeated, and he waited for me to nod in agreement before releasing a breath.

He slowly eased away, dropping my hand and picking up his shot glass.

After downing it, he set it back on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch, no longer at the opposite end, but now just half a cushion away.

"I should have told you," I breathed.

"Well, yeah," he agreed, and I glared at him.

"Pots and kettles, I know," he held up his hands. "I mean, sort of. I- I should have told you because I trust you and I care about you, and you matter to me. Which is kind of the reason I didn't tell you."

I nodded.

"It's why I didn't tell you either."

His lips pressed together in a tight, grim line, and I knew he was carefully considering what to say.

"You know, I went to Exiles once before," he finally said.

I arched an eyebrow.

"You weren't there - obviously. I thought I'd surprise you at work. I, uh, I'd never been to a strip club before - I mean, not a gay strip club. I got dragged out to some fucking gentleman's club or whatever when I was in college but… Anyway, I walked up to the bar and you weren't there. Which was weird, because you told me you were working that night. Asked the bartender, and he said you weren't there that night. I figured you had a date or something and didn't want to tell me." Duo shrugged.

"I didn't," I assured him. I hadn't dated anyone since meeting him, not even in the months before we started fucking.

He lifted an eyebrow.

"Were you…?"

"I don't know what night this was. I was probably stripping for some private party, or I was with a client."

Duo nodded, and he seemed at a loss for what to say next.

I poured both of us another shot, and then another.

"I tried to picture it - you stripping or… or with a client. I mean, you're like… You're a fucking walking wet dream, so that part I get, and you're pretty limber, and you're sure as hell enthusiastic about sex but…"

He trailed off, frowning, and I wondered how horribly awkward this conversation was about to get.

"But?"

"Remember your public speaking class? You hated it - said getting up in front of other people made you nauseous."

I nodded.

"It did. It does."

"So you feel nauseous every time you do that?"

"No. It's different."

It was clear he didn't understand the distinction, and I sighed.

"It's just an act, on that stage. It's not- I'm not me. Faking it is easy when it doesn't matter."

He frowned at that.

"And with clients? Do you… fake it then too?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes it's a little hard to fake."

Duo nodded, considering those words.

"With me?"

He looked and sounded terrified of my potential answer, and I stared at him.

"I know I'm not- But if you- If it wasn't good, you'd say something or- I want it to be good, Tro. I don't want you to-"

"I never faked it with you," I assured him.

He still looked uneasy.

"What if- if you weren't in the mood and I pressured you into-"

"If I wasn't in the mood, I said something, and you've never pressured me into anything I didn't want to do. Except trying goat cheese."

He scowled, but didn't allow me to derail the conversation.

"I don't want to- I don't want to be like them," he finally managed to say.

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

I had never had this conversation before - the two guys who had dumped me after finding out what I did had gone the 'you're a disgusting piece of trash' route and walked out after threatening to sue me if they developed an STD. The few guys who hadn't run the other way immediately had been of the 'less said the better' variety.

"I don't want to force you to- I don't…" He was struggling to figure out what to say again. "I don't want to treat you like a whore."

There was something about the way he said it, something about his earnestness, that irked me.

"And how are whores treated?"

He knew that tone, and he knew he had fucked up.

"You think my clients force me to have sex with them?"

He looked miserable, sinking back into the cushions and his cheeks turning pink.

"No, I… I don't know what- Tro, I just-"

"My clients pay for sex, because I'm good at sex and because they want good sex. Not because they want to force me to do something. They aren't raping me, Duo. Well, there's the guy who likes to act out his rape fantasies, but considering the cuffs he puts me in are velcro and he begs me to tell him it feels okay, it's not anything like forcing me to do something."

Duo had gone from flushed to looking a little green.

"My clients pay for sex, and yeah, it's about their pleasure more than mine, but I'm not some Victorian street urchin selling myself to keep from starving."

Duo had been the one to make me watch Les Miserables, the Liam Neeson version that didn't have horrible singing in it.

He winced and sucked in a breath.

"I- I'm sorry. I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about, Trowa. I don't know what the fuck to think or feel and I- I'm sorry. I'm fucking relieved no one is forcing you to do things or rape you or- I'm sorry." He scrubbed at his face. "There was a kid, two years ago. She was twelve and-"

I knew where he was going.

"It's not always like that," I told him, all of my irritation leaking away. "It can be, and it's… 'Awful' isn't a good enough word for it."

Duo shook his head in agreement.

"There's sex work, and there's sex trafficking, Duo."

I watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed a few times before clearing his throat.

He reached for the bottle of vodka but didn't bother with the shot glass, instead sipping from it before holding it out to me.

"It's still dangerous," he pointed out when I took the bottle and put it to my lips. "Still illegal. And if you're not safe-"

I drank a little more than I should have, but I managed to avoid coughing or choking.

"I'm always safe," I interrupted him, holding his gaze until he nodded. "And yeah, it's illegal."

He stared at me blankly.

"Then why-?"

"Because the money is good, and I'm good at it."

"But you-"

I set the bottle down on the coffee table. It was alarmingly close to being empty.

"It doesn't even matter, does it?" I cut in.

"What? Of course it matters. This is your life and-"

"I don't want to be your friend, Duo." I blurted it out, the words that had been lodged into my throat for months finally escaping.

Duo stared at me with wide eyes.

He blinked slowly, blinked again, and smoothed his hands over his thighs.

"Okay. I, uh… sure. That's fair. After all the- Yeah. Yeah." He slowly stood up, eyes dropping to the floor and his shoulders hunching.

It was not the reaction I had been anticipating, and sure as hell not the one I wanted.

"I'm sorry," he said again, giving me another of those sad, crooked grins.

"You're sorry?"

"Yeah. I- I thought this whole thing- You agreeing to talk to me and- I thought we were going to work things out and go back to the way it used to be, only, without the lying to each other thing and-"

"I don't want to go back to that."

"Yeah, I get it. I heard you. I just- Closure, right? You wanted closure, so you agreed to talk and-"

I realized that Duo thought I was trying to end things.

"Duo, how many friends do you have?"

The non-sequitur caught him off-guard.

"Not many. Even fewer now," he muttered.

I decided to ignore the last part.

"How many of your friends do you fuck on a regular basis?"

He flushed and scratched at the back of his neck.

"Ah… that would be none. Well, there was you. But now… none."

"I don't want to be your friend, Duo. I want to date you."

He stared at me, mouth agape, for long enough for me to wonder if I had really said what I thought I had just said.

"Duo?"

He shook himself.

"No, sorry. I just- What- Did you just say you wanted to date me?"

I glared at him.

"I just- After all this?" he gestured between the two of us, presumably alluding to his drug addiction and my job.

"Yes, after all this."

"I- Why?"

"Because I'm tired of being the friend you call when you want to fuck, and I'm tired of hoping you don't find someone to date, and I-"

"I don't call you when I want to fuck, Trowa. I- I call you when I haven't been able to stop thinking about you for days and I figure it's been long enough since the last time we hung out that I won't come off as pathetic or needy. Do you- do you have any idea how fucked up I got the night I went to the club and thought you were ditching me for a date with someone else? Tro, I- I didn't think… I'm a fucking mess, Trowa. You know that. You knew that before, and you- I mean there's even more of a mess now. You can't want to-"

"I do," I assured him.

"You're sure?" he asked, but there was a warmth in his eyes, a curve to his lips, that made my heart skip a beat.

"I'm sure."

-o-

Endnote: I could have dragged this out for easily another 10-20 chapters, and, obviously, there is a lot more to this relationship, to this story, than I wrap up in this final chapter. Still a lot of issues to work through, a lot of things to communicate, and, well, a lot of living to do.

But I like ending it here because we know they are both in this, that there IS a future they want to work towards, and because I like that for them everything isn't neatly wrapped up.

Hopefully you like that too, or at least don't hate it.

I also want to thank everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment.

The Gundam Wing fandom is small, and I know this is a problem across fandoms, but fanfiction is not actually easy to write. And it's extremely difficult sometimes, between real life and fandom things, to find the motivation.

There are so many people who take the time to say lovely things about my work, and also to be supportive to me, and I deeply appreciate each and every review or comment or email or note.

As a plea for myself, and for all fanfiction writers: please, please leave comments. If it's just "thanks" it means a lot. If it's an overflowing emotional gushing that you fear makes you seem crazy - let me assure you. You are not crazy. And I - nor any writer - thinks you are. Having someone gush about a story that we took hours, days, weeks, or YEARS to write is the best possible response we could ever hope for. Please gush, please don't be afraid.