A/N: I hope everyone is doing okay out there? In my own case, my entire city (well, state really) is practically on lockdown; all nonessential businesses are closed and we've been instructed to continue with social distancing and stay the fuck home. I'm fortunate to be with family at this time, and maintain communication with my friends, but I understand it's still rough out there.

I hope this fic at least provides as much of a distraction for you all as it did for me writing it, but please stay safe all the same.

Warning Tags (chapter-specific) : attempted suicide, constantly changing viewpoint because Duo's mind likes to mess with everyone, strong Catholic imagery

Chapter 13

Baptism

The air was choked by the smoke of smoldering debris, the color washed out of an unfamiliar scene; it was surreal to hear the crunch of rocks and concrete fragments under his feet and yet not smell anything. It was the disconnect between the memory being re-lived by the host and the outsider trespassing into forbidden territory.

Wufei kept his eyes ahead of him, careful to step around the large black splatters of indeterminate origin. The place he'd landed after being separated from Heero was only recognizable as a colony structure – the outline was there in the curvature of the distant stretch of a colorless cityscape, large windows that substituted as a colony's sky peering out into the darkness of space. There were no stars though, no glimpse of either moon or planet; instead, large clouds of dust drifted past, and Wufei had to wrack his mind to recognize it: L2 had popularized a funeral rite that reduced their dead to dust particles, released into the vacuum of space.

This did not explain the rubble Wufei found himself stepping through, but this was another memory of Duo's – Wufei suspected the entire colonyscape was. Everyone organizes their mind in different ways, and it seemed like Duo's had echoed the layout of his home colony, storing his memories in the familiar structures Duo had grown in.

The black splotches were unnatural, Wufei could sense that every time he passed them; even the worst of memories weren't so shapeless. It was almost a poison seeping up from the ground, taking over and replacing the memories that had been, draining the good and leaving only the impression of the bad.

This idea was looking to be more credible as he finally found what, or more precisely who, he was looking for.

"Duo," Wufei called out evenly.

With a blown-out chunk of whitestone brick wall between them – likely one of the support pillars for the wreckage around him – Wufei could make out the small figure standing amongst the ruins. He was dressed in church clothes that hung slightly looser on the slight frame, chestnut braid hanging down a slumped back. He was turned away from Wufei's direction, attention focused on the broken, smoldering remains of a cross being swallowed by the inky tar staining just about everything around them.

The boy was Duo, but a Duo of a much younger age. Wufei knew enough about the histories of the other colonies and his own friends to gauge exactly what memory he had been sent to: the Maxwell Church Massacre. The Duo standing before him could be no older than eight years of age.

The child turned to face him. Wufei stilled, the only sign he had been surprised to see what looked back at him: Duo's young face but draining from every orifice were thin rivers of black. Out of both corners of his eyes, from his nose, from the edge of his unsmiling lips; though Duo turned at the sound of his voice, it didn't feel like he really recognized Wufei.

Wufei's fists clenched at his sides. How deep had the dark magic delved into Duo? How much had it infected him, poisoned his mind?

"The Sister is dead. Father, too."

Black dribbled out of Duo's mouth as he spoke the words. How he managed it without choking was a mystery, but Wufei suspected the physics of Duo's mindscape didn't necessarily match reality.

"I killed them," Duo continued. His voice was without inflection, a cold, unfeeling statement of the fact.

Wufei frowned. "You didn't," he countered calmly. "The Alliance killed them."

"Because of me," Duo insisted tonelessly. "Now they're dead, just like the others. Just like the old man. Just like Solo."

Wufei recognized the reference to Duo's mentor, Professor G, but didn't know the second name; however, that wasn't as important as correcting the corrosivity of the statements Duo was spouting. It was not lost on him that this was the effect of the Dark magic saturating his friend's mind, forcing him down the dark rabbit hole of his own thoughts.

Wufei thought of Meilan, blood dripping onto the flower field he so adored; he thought of the fragments of Treize's mobile exploded suit, nothing left of the man that had symbolized war; he thought of the last piece of Libra shattering into flaming remnants, the last sacrifice made so they could make something new from the ashes.

Wufei thought of coming home from a week-long Preventers mission to find Trowa sitting on his couch, head in his hands, unable to make eye contact as he tries to explain the toll of his and Heero's last mission.

"Heero's going to die, isn't he?" Duo murmured. "Just like the others."

Wufei thought of how cold the tea had become as Trowa placed a single bullet on the table between them and how very close it had come to being shot into Heero's temple.

"You tried to kill yourself, Heero."

There's a white windowbox planter strapped to the exterior of their apartment's living room window.

It came with the apartment; likely a gift from the management, who thought gardening would be a helpful form of therapy to the ex-soldiers known to rent out their condos. The windowbox is simple in design, 24 inches in length and 12 inches in width, deep enough for a modest growth. The box is white in design and bland in form – Duo leaves it alone for all of 3 weeks before he's started adding to it, the same way he did with their walls.

It's painted blue, just like their apartment – but then painted over again, even messier, in green; then again in red, and purple, orange and yellow and pink; by the end, it's a mish-mash of every color Duo had gotten his hands on, as ugly as it is whimsical.

Duo puts it back on the windowsill, empty of contents. They leave it like that for a long time, because if there's one thing they don't know how to do, it's how to cultivate life. Their upbringing and training had done little teaching in growing plants on the windowsill of a 2-bedroom apartment after the war.

Heero wakes at 5 am sharp in the morning, as his usual; Duo's away on a Preventers mission, so Heero sits at the table with a plate of toast with a light smear of peach marmalade – Quatre's recommendation, once he'd learned they had been eating toast dry – and stares at the windowsill planter for the better part of an hour.

He's planted daisies in it by the time Duo returns the next day. His braided lover had been surprised by it, but the bright grin on his face made Heero think it was a step in the right direction.

To Heero's organized mind, flowers are easy to care for. They needed the correct amount of sunlight and watering, and not much else. It was a low-maintenance hobby with a modest enough reward in brightening their living space.

The daisies bloom two weeks later, as Heero sits at the breakfast table eating dry toast. He can't taste the burnt edges of the bread as he stares into the face of the fully-bloomed blossoms; their stark yellow centers surrounded by a halo of white petals arresting his attention as Duo keeps himself locked in the bathroom after a mission gone wrong.

Heero cuts the daisies a few days later. He puts them in a tall glass cup, one that shatters the next night after Heero burns their lasagna dinner and flings the pan of failed food across the kitchen. The glass shards catch the light of the kitchen lamps and reflect multicolored ribbons across the linoleum tile, petals steeped in a shallow puddle of water. Duo is the one that picks up the pieces, glass cutting into a fingertip as he salvages the daisies from the floor.

The flowers are moved into a taller vase made of acid green plastic. The stalk has begun weakening and the petals begin to shrivel; Heero wakes at 5 am sharp, body tense and ready to lunge at some imagined danger. He remains still for some time, terrified that his body will move against his conscious thoughts and strangle the boy beside him purely on reflex.

The yellow faces of the daisies are mottled brown, the white wings of their petals withered and turned in on themselves, the stalks weakened to such an extent that they droop along the sides of acid green. Heero moves to throw them out but stops at the look on Duo's face as the boy regards the dead flora.

"It's 'cause I touched 'em," Duo had said dully. "They were fine, but then I touched 'em and now they're…"

"Things die all the time, Duo," Heero had said, voice clinical. "They won't last forever."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Heero's never learned to apologize. If he had made a mistake in the mission, it wasn't an apology they were looking for afterwards; if he could not correct it, then he either needed to be retrained or became obsolete. So Heero never walked back his words, even if he did understand the effect they had on Duo – whose relationship with death was so confusing that he'd worn it as a moniker.

The mission in Central Europe is not that push off the edge; it's the last straw on the camel's back from a hundred, a thousand little things that built up over time. It's only successful under the most objective of lenses: the small-time arms smuggling cartel are apprehended and their network of buyers revealed, which Preventers will be able to round up easily with the mountain of evidence Trowa had gathered while undercover.

Heero is thinking about the return home; about what food to pick up so that he and Duo don't have to spend his first night back after two weeks cooking, about how short and concise he can make the mission report without having Une going on another rant about their abysmal report writing, about making another stop by the garden store and buying something that lasted longer than potted daisies.

His thoughts make it as far as deciding on Chinese takeout when one of the few remaining smugglers makes it far enough to detonate the base's last bit of high-grade explosives, taking out two of Heero's subordinate team members and a few nearby residences as a result.

Heero's numb to the casualty numbers. It sits tentatively between the high 10s and low 20s; most are from the smugglers, a couple of Preventers (Agent Brick, who was recently married; Agent River, who had just moved into a new apartment that allowed pets), and a handful of unfortunate civilians caught up in the radius of the blast.

Une visits Agent Brick's widower herself to break the news. Heero and Trowa visit Agent River's place to collect her things, as she had no loved ones to mourn her. What she did have was a golden retriever puppy waiting for her back home, and it greets them enthusiastically, not realizing its new owner is never to return.

Heero flees the apartment the moment Trowa finally gets a handle on the friendly dog. He ignores Trowa's calls and messages – "I'll take care of it, take the day to rest." – and sits in his gray apartment alone long after the sun had set. Duo's gone, this time on a favor to Hilde Schbeiker for a quick salvage trip, so the only company Heero has is a windowbox of daisy seeds, and a handgun he was authorized to carry.

The kitchen light is off – there's no point in turning it on, because Heero can't cook. The windowbox planter is on the coffee table, emptied of its contents – there's no point in keeping it, because Heero can't grow life. Heero's phone is turned off – there's no point in responding to the messages, because Heero can't say or do the right thing for the people he cared about most.

There's no feeling of clarity, there's no overwhelming force at work; Heero doesn't feel much of anything as he papers the last of their plastic wrap on to the bathroom floor. He doesn't write a note, because his penmanship has all the individuality of a printer. He doesn't even think about changing out of his Preventers uniform.

Trowa finds him with the .38 handgun pressed to his head.

There's something to be said for shared history, because this is not the first time Trowa is made to bear witness to someone holding a gun to Heero's head with the intent to kill him. The first time with Sylvia Noventa had not done much more than warrant a minute shifting of the brows, and this time is no different, even with Heero himself being the one with a finger on the trigger.

Trowa doesn't move suddenly, but he moves all the same – his hands are strong and sure as they land on the gun and forcibly lower it, eventually prying it from Heero's fingers and setting it aside after switching on the safety. The stoic face Trowa is known for keeping is long gone however, a subdued sort of fury simmering across his features as he leads Heero out of the bathroom.

"You can't tell Duo," falls from Heero's lips first as soon as he's set on the couch. A bubble of panic is rising from the indifference clogging his veins. "He can't know—That I—"

"Heero," Trowa bites out.

"He can't know," Heero repeats. That's the mission now: Duo must never know how close he came to pulling the trigger and leaving him behind. "Trowa, he can't—"

"You need help, Heero," Trowa says. "Duo will understand—"

"He won't, Trowa, you know he won't," Heero insists. Because in that moment in the bathroom, Heero had nearly chosen Death over Duo, and Duo would never forgive him for that.

Trowa's hands are shaking. They've curled into fists at his sides, and he looks so much younger than Heero is used to seeing him. Maybe that's the moment Heero gets it, looking into Trowa's too-young face and realizing they are the same age.

People their age shouldn't think about blowing their brains out on the bathroom floor.

"Preventers has psychiatric help," Heero says.

Trowa sits down next to him heavily. "Yeah," he says.

"I'll go," Heero promises. "But Trowa – Duo can't know."

Trowa scrubs his palms into tired eyes. "Yeah," he says again.

Heero knows the problem does not start from that moment in the bathroom – it starts from that moment in the living room, where Heero had chosen secrets over the truth.

The daisies are done blooming and the flower box on the windowsill looks dead in its aftermath. Heero buys Duo a bouquet of red roses after he returns, which wilt slower than the daisies but die all the same, and even Heero grows irritated at the fragility of their life. He empties the acid green cup of its water and dead flowers, then puts it away.

He has an appointment once a week with the Preventers psychiatrist. Trowa covers for him most of the time, but as time wears on, he begins to beg Heero to tell Duo. The psychiatrist also thinks telling his "life partner" would be best, and Heero knows Duo suspects something from the way his gaze lingers when Heero returns late.

Heero can't tell Duo. He knows that the others don't understand his refusal, but that's because they don't understand the impact it would have on Duo. Duo's lived his whole life burying those he loved; if he learned Heero had intended to leave him behind as well, then there was no going back. Heero took their future away the moment he put his finger on the trigger.

So Heero plants the daisy seeds, waters them every other day with an acid green cup, goes to work and to his appointments, and lies to Duo.

Duo doesn't make noise in his sleep. It's difficult to tell if this is a leftover from his training or his life on the streets, where even the slightest noise meant death. Heero can only tell when Duo is caught in a nightmare by the way his body stills in his sleep, taut with tension, breath short and shallow. Duo wakes fast – they all do – and Heero is there beside him, waiting for those violet eyes to recognize him in the present moment.

"Heero." Duo always says his name like some kind of prayer in these moments. He doesn't move, doesn't reach out, scared to break what may be an illusion – so Heero always reaches out first.

"I'm here," Heero says. "I'm not leaving."

So the daisies bloom, he's put back on active duty, learns from Trowa that another Preventer adopted Agent River's puppy, and lies to Duo.

Duo once said he can taste the lies in someone's mouth if they dare speak them. He'd joked that since he never tells a lie, he can always tell when someone else is lying; Heero had thought it another result of training, as they'd all picked up the tells of a liar enough to be able to be good at it themselves.

Heero remembers this clearly when he comes home and a manila folder bearing his name sits on the coffee table as if waiting for him. He recognizes the documents inside as copies of his psychological profile that sits in the Preventers psychiatrist's office, stares at the first page of the report where his attempted suicide is printed in damning ink.

"You were never going to tell me, were you?" Duo asks, framed in the doorway of their bedroom. Heero thinks the walls look gray in contrast to the stormy violet in Duo's eyes, the oxygen leaving the room as he descends in freefall.

Heero has lost his precious things since even before the war began, and he continues to lose them even after it ends. His family and his mentor; his humanity and his kindness; his chance at a normal life and the one person he'd wanted to share a future.

"Duo," Heero says.

Duo's words are cold, but his eyes burn and Heero knows that it is fear that spurns the words, not hate. "I'm leaving," Duo says, shouldering his go-bag.

"Duo, I'm sorry," Heero says, the words heavy and unfamiliar on his tongue.

Duo's breath hitches. "You've lied to me before, you'll lie to me again," he returns. You'll leave me, just like everyone else, he doesn't say, but Heero hears it anyway.

Heero's lost his precious things, but he gains them back in increments. His parents and his mentor are gone, but there's a weekly dinner with the pilots and frequent calls with Relena; the little girl and her dog are still dead, but Heero's hand hesitates on the trigger and his heart breaks every time he's made powerless to help; his childhood and youth were lost to war, but he's still alive and so is Duo.

"I'll be here when you need me," Heero says. "I'm not leaving you."

Duo's hand tightens until the knuckles turn white on the strap of his go-bag. He leaves the apartment as quietly as Heero had arrived, and Heero doesn't stop him. Heero knows he can't, because the pain is too fresh and though Duo is not a coward, his instinct is to flee before it hurts more than it already does. Heero knows that fear well, knows that Duo's love for him is what pushes Duo to move now, in the same way he knows that chasing after him would only make it worse.

"You tried to kill yourself, Heero."

Duo's weight laid heavily against his back. The black pooled under the door grew larger and larger, thick as syrup and spreading across the floor. It crawled under Heero, unheeding of his form as it stained everything in its path. Still no smell, still no sound, still no color – nothing but the black and gray and Duo.

"I tried, but I couldn't," Heero replied.

"Because Trowa stopped you."

"Yes," Heero agreed. "And no."

It wasn't the past that kept Heero from pulling the trigger that night; it was the future – a future that pushed a former mercenary to value life and take the gun from his hands, a future with a lover who feared being left behind more than being hurt, a future where even walking away held the possibility of a return.

"Then why don't you do it now?" Duo asked. "Trowa's not here to stop you anymore."

Something wet was soaking into the back of Heero's shirt, and though he could not smell anything, he imagined it shared the same color and consistency of all of Duo's dead strewn about the warehouse. Just like the rest, Heero could leave Duo behind and walk into the open arms of Death.

Heero thinks of the little girl and her dog; he thinks of Libra's remnants shattering into streaking fires; he thinks of Trowa choking on the unpleasant taste of Wufei's herbal tea; he thinks of Agent River's excitement at getting a bonus and having enough money for a security deposit.

"I'm here," Heero said. "I'm not leaving."

"Liar," Duo whispered.

Heero thinks of Relena inviting him to dance once more in the absence of battle; he thinks of Agent Brick shyly showing off her wedding ring; he thinks of Quatre giving him an incoherent call at three in the morning, asking for forgiveness.

"I'll be here when you need me," Heero said.

"Liar!" Duo cried.

Heero thinks about the taste of peach marmalade on toast; he thinks of their bathroom papered in plastic wrap and the weight of the gun in his hand; he thinks about waking up to Duo's sleeping face in the morning.

He thinks of the multicolored windowbox planter strapped to the exterior of their apartment's living room window, full to the brim with daisies.

"I'm not leaving you," Heero said. He didn't turn but he reached back with his hand, as he'd done before, as he'd do again – reaching for Duo first, a reflection of when Duo reached out for him from the very beginning, when Heero had been too well-trained to take his hand.

Their fingers interlace –

Heero had wanted to die – Heero had wanted to live –

"I'm sorry," Heero said, as he should have said before, as he'll need to say again because mistakes were inevitable, because they were young and foolish and human.

Duo's breath hitched –

The black surged up, a sarcophagus weaved out of the fabric of the stars. Heero didn't let go of Duo's hand and kept his eyes open, felt the weight of Duo on his back and relished it because it meant Duo was here with him, and even as Duo shuddered against his skin, it was with the breath of life heaving lungs into desperate motion.

"Don't leave me," Heero whispered.

Hands – dozens of them, as small as a child's or as large as a grown man's – grabbed Heero along his shoulders and arms, solid and painful and burning into his skin through the fabric of his clothes. It hurt in a way that throbbed through him, over him, inside of him – and he still didn't let go of Duo's hand.

The warehouse was gone from sight, overflown with the dead and the dark, but the doorway where Death heaved from the shadows still remained. Heero doesn't look away from it, doesn't hear anything but the distant screams of the dead and the dying that echoed both in Duo's nightmares and his own.

Heero remembered starvation so bone-deep that he couldn't move, and still didn't let go of Duo's hand.

Heero remembered the taste of food so rotten he couldn't swallow, and still didn't let go of Duo's hand.

Heero remembered the feel of the bile and blood that dripped through his scraped fingertips, and still didn't let go of Duo's hand.

Heero remembered how cold the body was as he clung to it and begged a deity that wouldn't listen, and still didn't let go of Duo's hand.

The door creaked open unto more darkness.

Heero remembered the chill of the warehouse that night, how cold it was on the colony because those in charge thought it'd make them die quicker. The more they huddled together for warmth, the quicker the sickness spread, and the sooner they were turned to ash clouds, the better everyone else would be for it.

Someone stood in the doorway, body encased in smoldering tar.

Heero remembered the sting of the cuts, the soreness of his limbs, the throbbing pain of the bruises; the beating had been merciless, but the payoff had been worth it in the end. The vaccine was better than food or money, just enough vials of it left for what remained of their gang.

Heero remembered looking at the one syringe he'd been able to swipe, saw the look in the nurse's eyes that warned of using it for more than one person, but knowing he could not avoid it. He willed it clean, before and after every kid he stuck it in, the healthy first and the sickest last.

The figure in the door took one unsteady step forward, then another.

- refused to be the first. His body, trembling and frail, would not have been able to stop Heero – but the look in those golden-brown eyes stayed his hand, so the youngest were first. He stuck needlepoints into thin arms, just as he'd seen the doctors do, whispered something too incoherent to be a prayer each time blood dripped from the puncture.

"You too," - had said. "Yer young'r'n me."

"I already gots it," Heero had lied.

Narrowed golden brown eyes gazed back at him, lips crusted with mucus and bile turned down in a scowl. No one was beautiful in death - Heero had learned that early. "Don't lie," - said.

There had only been one vial left; it was either him or -. "I'm not lying," Heero insisted. "I already gots mine!"

"Liar," - said.

Even in the darkness, the figure seemed to ooze shadows. With each step, fragments of black slipped from the form, shed like wet, dead skin. It was smaller than Heero and only continued to shrink as pieces of it were pulled off by the black pooled around them.

"Why'd you get t' live?" - demanded.

Heero's hands shook, his grip on the syringe tenuous. "I don't know," he whispered.

"Y' a liar and a murderer," - said. "Y' killed me, didn'tcha? Y' took it fer yerself 'cause you didn't want t' die, and y' killed me– "

A small hand grabbed the front of his shirt, and the darkness before Heero's eyes swam as he stared into honeyed brown. Flecks of warm, freckled skin shone underneath the layer of tar that dripped off in rivulets, revealing a thin form that Heero had once thought of as larger and stronger when it had been alive, that used to hum strange songs in a memory from so long ago.

"Y' killed me," Solo said.

Heero remembered how the final vial drained, remembered how the skin pinched underneath the needle. He hadn't wanted to die, even if he was hungry, even if he was cold, even if he was in pain. So he'd –

He'd –

He'd….?

"What y' listenin' t' that bastard fer?" Solo asked.

He'd stuck the last syringe in Solo, pushed the vaccine into his thin, dying body and prayed for a miracle. He hadn't wanted to die, even if he was hungry, even if he was cold, even if he was in pain – but he hadn't wanted to Solo to die either.

"I died anyway," Solo said.

"I'm glad it wasn't you."

"Y' let me die," Solo said?

"Y' lived fer me."

"Y' should have died," not-Solo said.

"It's not yer time yet, Kid."

He'd never been loved until Solo. Solo had loved him, so Solo had died.

"That ain't true," Solo said.

Father Maxwell and Sister Helen had loved him, so they'd died too.

"Yer bein' stupid," Solo said.

Heero had loved him, so he'd died as well.

Heero had –

Heero –

Heero –?

"Told y' yer bein' stupid," Solo said. "Heero's been here the whole time, y' know? And he don't look dead t' me."

Duo's fingers were encased in a warm, strong grip. His back felt hot with the heat of Heero's body resting against his own, and it trembled with the breath of life.

"Heero?" Duo choked out.

"Time t' stop hidin', Kid."

Duo's feet were heavy underneath him, but he still found the strength to move them. His limbs ached under the hands gripping him, but he twisted in their grasp. Solo's death rattle rung in his ears, but he felt his first love's eyes on him and knew it willed him forward.

Duo turned.

Heero's hand – warm with life – stroked down the side of his face, holding Duo like something precious.

"Don't leave me," Heero whispered.

Duo's words were swallowed by the light.

The child Duo had been stared up at him. The black pool beneath his feet swallowed the broken cross and drifted over the rubble of whitestone bricks and human lives left in its wake. Everything it touched drained of color, leeched from the childhood home Duo had held so dear.

"Your fear is ruling you," Wufei said. "You're scared of losing what you have gained. You're terrified of it."

Wufei understood that fear very well, because he had thought he had lost everything.

Wufei had lost his entire home to war. His clan sacrificed everything to ensure they could not be used against him; his wife had died defending everything that was eventually lost. Treize Khushrenada had died as neither an enemy nor an ally, in a war that had been years in the making, for a cause that neither side truly understood.

Wufei had floated aimlessly after the war had concluded. He hadn't known what the others had done in that interim period, too consumed by an aftermath of such limitless possibility. There was no place to return to and no people to await him; the people that knew and loved him were dead, the places he'd studied and lived at were gone, the field of flowers he'd sought sanctuary in reduced to nothing more than a memory.

Habits learned as a soldier were hard to leave him and Wufei couldn't find refuge in a bottle because the idea of being left so vulnerable went against every bit of training he'd undertaken. He'd wandered a bit, here and there, with no set destination and no focus. He spent long periods of time alone, surrounded only by the beauty of nature, scenes left untouched by the war that had ripped everything from him.

Then one day he'd run into the traveling circus on their circuit through the Balkans, and ended up once more sitting campfire-side with Trowa.

The tall youth had made him soup – borscht, Wufei learned after his first taste – which had then made Wufei consider beets one of his least favorite foods. He'd swallowed it down anyway, to Catherine Bloom's unmitigated horror, and the look on Trowa's face afterwards was something so new, so different from the aloof pilot Wufei had known during the war that it tugged at something that had lain long dormant since the destruction of his colony.

The circus had moved on eventually though, and Wufei did the same. He'd ended up in Florence weeks later, at the same time as a fatigued Quatre whose men had spotted Wufei as he crashed a charity event the Winner heir was attending. Wufei had agreed to dinner at Quatre's estate, and though the meal had been satisfying, the look on Quatre's face mirrored Wufei's own: starved for something more.

So Wufei offered to make them tea, Quatre admitted his preference for coffee left the estate barren of it, and they compromised by attempting to make fresh juice. There were memories attached to the way Quatre inspected the fruit, to the way Wufei carefully scalped and crushed them underhand, to the way they both silently filled their glasses and drank it lukewarm; they didn't share those memories aloud, but the comfort of the blonde's presence at his side tugged at that something from before, filled a void Wufei had only started to realize was hungry.

Another time, another place: Wufei sought his companion out this time, found Heero in a Brussels apartment colored the same as the sky. At first glance, Heero's look wasn't as starved as Quatre's had been, wasn't as lost as Trowa's had been – his wanderlust had been satiated before Wufei emerged once more back in his life, and their braided friend had kept the feelings of loneliness at bay. But Duo had been on a salvage trip for over two weeks at that point, and Heero's routines had grown more mechanized, his diet more bland, his expression more cold.

So Wufei offered to teach him to cook a meal that would please Duo upon his return. Heero had been agitated by the lack of exact measurements and annoyed when Wufei threw ingredients together and tried to explain the quantities as a "feeling." Wufei pretended he wasn't entertained by this. The end result of Heero's attempt was barely edible, but they ate it anyway and tried again the next day, and then again the day after that. The food didn't get better but the expression on Heero's face did, so Wufei's satisfied once more.

Wufei returned to Brussel weeks later, only instead of Heero, Duo was the one ushering him inside the sky blue apartment. There's barely time to get the shoes off his feet as Duo dragged him into the kitchen, complaining about recipe blogs and picky eaters as he stirred something he tried to convince Wufei was dinner. Duo chattered on and on, voice light, and Wufei could see right through him – to the lost child they all were, to the hungry men they'd become, to the worn soldiers trying to find their feet that they are now.

Wufei gets his first taste of spacer's chili, throws it up an hour later, and gets black coffee shoved under his nose by a grinning Duo whose smile finally reaches his eyes. The coffee was shit as well, but Wufei swallowed bitter gulp after bitter gulp without complaint as Duo plastered himself to his side on the couch, B-rated horror flick playing on the TV, and they both pretended they didn't need this.

Wufei's colony was gone, his home reduced to ghosts and memories and debris floating in a vacuum. But he finds home again, slowly and bit by bit: it's there in Trowa's tentative attempts to learn from a family he'd found in war; in Quatre's quiet content in simple, shared gestures; in Heero's experimentation with food, finding his humanity in making mistakes that didn't cost lives; in Duo's sharing of traditions he'd found all on his own, with the people he was terrified of losing.

Wufei was no stranger to survivor's guilt.

"You've survived those you loved," Wufei acknowledged. "The loss hurts. You know very well that the loss will always hurt. But we go on, Duo – we go on for the ones who no longer can, and for the ones we still have now."

The Maxwell Church was long gone. The children Duo had led on the streets are either part of the clouds that drift in the spaces between L2's colonies, or so far removed from Duo's sphere of life that it didn't matter. Duo's mentor was killed sacrificing himself to stop Libra's plummet.

But Duo was not dead, and that's what Wufei cared about now.

"Come back, Duo. Come back to us."

The young boy Duo had been looked uncertain, somehow registering the words despite the tar-like substance moving freely across his skin. Wufei stepped closer, wrapped himself in the memory of Duo's weight pressed against his side, the warmth of another being who understood him, who valued his life, who also bore the scars of a war that had taken and taken and taken.

"Us?" Duo whispered.

Wufei took a step forward, unhurried and unafraid. "You promised to make Quatre try spacer's chili," he reminded his friend, his brother in arms, the kindred soul who knew loss as intimately as he did. "You don't break your promises."

"I'm a liar," Duo denied him.

Wufei shook his head, took another step forward. "You wanted to learn to play the piano," he continued. "Trowa said he'd teach you. You laughed so hard when he told you that, and we wondered if he'd learned every musical instrument out there."

"He lied to me, because he knew I was too weak to hear the truth," Duo denied him.

Again, Wufei shook his head and took another step. "Schbeiker has been insisting you choose a birthday. Howard's started to agree with her, it's been giving Une a headache – I think they're planning to throw you a birthday party. Po thinks they just want to see what we're all like drunk."

"They'll leave me too," Duo denied him.

He's within arm's reach now. Duo's eyes are stark flints of amethyst, too old for such a young face. "Heero misses you," Wufei said softly. "We all miss you, but Heero – he misses you most of all."

Duo was silent, staring up at him. His mouth opened as if he wanted to speak but the words never leave his throat, lips opening and closing like he's gasping for air. Wufei trailed fingers down Duo's small face, wiped the black tar away and left a smear of it against one freckled cheek that was soon to fade away into nothing.

"I know it hurts, my friend," Wufei soothed the child Duo kept locked so deep inside. "I know how scary it is to face alone. So don't face it alone, Duo."

It – peace, life, the world in general – could be overwhelming; sometimes it was too much all at once, and sometimes it wasn't enough. There were days that felt so much grayer, where death still trailed their steps, when it seemed so much easier to end it now before the end came for something else more precious.

"We're here. It may not be for forever, but for the time being, we are here together – look to the ones who love you," Wufei said. "Even when we are gone, we'll never truly leave you."

Amethyst turned to warm violet; an iris that bloomed in the field of flowers Wufei had once sought peace in. The black spots faded from freckled skin, warm under his fingertips. Tears washed away the last traces of tar from Duo's young face, so he closed his mouth and his eyes, and then turned into softly drifting starlight.

"Wufei."

Wufei turned, catching an armful of Duo Maxwell – as old as he should be, devoid of the splotchy black that was stained onto the remnants of the Church that had raised him. Over Duo's shoulders stood Heero, eyes moving over them and then past them.

"Thank you," Duo whispered in his ear, letting him go so they could both follow Heero's gaze.

Deathscythe laid behind them, sprawled over the remains of the Church. It was more put-together than it had been when Wufei and Heero had first seen it floating amidst the endless stars, but it was still heavily damaged and stained with black tar. It was propped into a facsimile of a sitting position, the cockpit gaping open to reveal the small figure dwelling inside.

Duo Maxwell laid within, locked in place by dripping chains of pure black. Resting against his chest, under a priest collar stained blood red, laid a heavy locket with a serpentine 'S' in emerald green, inky black oozing freely from where it opened.

"That's the source of this," Heero identified, coming up to stand beside them.

Duo nodded, expression grim. "I can feel it," he said, hand gripping the front of his shirt where the locket laid on his other self.

"Duo, this is your mind," Wufei began evenly. "Everything here, the good and the bad – this is all within you. You know it best."

Duo understood what Wufei was trying to say. When it came down to the bottom line, this was all happening inside of Duo – and Duo knew himself best. This source of corruption had perverted even the most precious and potent of his memories, but even those still belonged to him.

Duo was the only one who could make them right.

"We're here," Heero said.

Duo flashed him Shinigami's grin, "Ninmu ryoukai."

He disappeared.

A tall figure dressed in priest's garb is crouched beside Deathscythe's open cockpit. Gray hair is smoothed back from a wrinkled forehead, gentle eyes set in a face lined with the age of well-worn faith. His stole – the white linen garment draped over his broad shoulders, its angular ends adorned with the golden threads encompassing the Catholic cross - skimmed Duo's chains, unmarred by the tar that stained everything else.

"Do you repent your sins?" Father Maxwell's voice thundered across the ruins.

Deathscythe's cockpit is filled with water, so clean and clear that it reflected the light of a sun that was not there. Duo's eyes were slowly opening, black tar flowing in a mockery of tears he'd never shed, but they dissolve into the water that laps at the edges of his skin.

"Do you believe that Jesus is the son of God?" Father Maxwell continued. The words echoed in their ears, but they were soothing, soaked in a memory so warm that the fear was choked by the weight of it.

Duo began to thrash in his restraints, mouth opened in a soundless, animalistic scream. Father Maxwell stepped into the cockpit that should not have been able to fit him, leaned down and took Duo into his arms, black chains dissolving into baptismal water.

"Repeat after me, Duo," Father Maxwell bid softly. "I believe that Jesus is the Christ…"

Solo skitters up Deathscythe's leg, laughter loud and bright as he watches Duo scramble after him, a wide grin stretching across his face. "C'mon Kid, y' got t' be smart!"

"The son of the living God…"

Sister Helen is standing within Deathscythe's palm, right behind Duo who's pouting in thought as she pulls long chestnut tresses into a familiar braid. "Isn't that better?" she asks, fondness heavy in her tone.

"And I accept him as my Lord and Savior."

Father Maxwell is gentle – so gentle. He holds the child he'd tried to raise in his arms, and slowly, the fight leaves the body of the soldier he cradles.

"May almighty God, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit bless you."

Duo's weight is carried by a dozen unseen hands as he sinks into the baptismal water. The faces of his dead ripple under an unseen current, but there is no hatred, only the faint throb of a long-worn grief and an endless, giving spring of love.

The ruins rippled and changed shape. The rubble reconstructs itself into whitestone brick after whitestone brick, stacked one atop the other until walls enclosed Deathscythe on all sides. Solo's laughter echoed from inside; Sister Helen's admonishments warmed the air; Father Maxwell held his child in order to give him life anew.

The leeching tar was gone, locked away within the walls and floorboards of the Maxwell Church that now stood before them. The walls are fortified with the love of the people Duo had lost, and Father Maxwell is stood just within the threshold of its heavy doors. Duo, brash and unmarred, is beside him, the priest's hand smoothing down flyaway hairs from the crown of his young head.

They shut the doors, and it locks from within behind them.

Heero lets out a trembling breath. "Duo?"

"I love you guys," Duo's voice whispers in their ears, gentle and certain and blessedly unafraid. "But get out of my head."

Heero caught the fleeting sight of daisies flowering at the steps of the Church before he and Wufei are forced unceremoniously out.

A blink later, Heero is on his feet when vertigo crashes down on him full-force and he falls back into Trowa's lean form. Training forces him to re-balance quickly, although Trowa's steadying hands helped calm the pounding of his heart. Heero's eyes skittered over the entirety of the hospital room: Wufei was sitting up, slowly pulling his hand away from Duo's face, a fine tremor working its way through his body, shoulder held by a pale Quatre.

Heero looked down. Duo's eyes are closed, chest rising and falling in an even momentum –

– and then his breath hitches.

Fingers twitch at his sides, grasping for something and twisting into the thin white sheets of his cot. His breaths come in stuttering, slowly regulating back to normal as his body registers consciousness and no immediate threats. Heero nearly reaches out, a subconscious motion as if to prove to himself this was real.

Violet eyes slid open tentatively and took in the harsh glare of the hospital lights, then immediately winced shut.

"Turn off the goddamn sun."

A/N: Sleeping Beauty has awakened!

This was like the chapter with no HP characters, which felt a bit odd to me honestly – but the boys needed to air out some shit so here we are.

- Duo & Religion: This is pretty much a headcanon (because the canon series doesn't really go into Duo's Catholic upbringing aside from a few mentions and the Aesthetic), but Duo here isn't really religious per se; he just associates certain religious sacraments (like the rite of baptism) with the security he felt while under the guardianship of Father Maxwell and Sister Helen. I don't really see Duo actually believing in a higher power (aside from whatever his relationship with Death is supposed to be), but the culture of L2 has heavy Catholic influence and Duo reflects this.

And again, please drop a review. Thanks! 💗