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A DARKER SHADE THAN BLACK
PART FOUR : SHINIGAMI'S RIGHT
by Meiran Chang
/.../ denotes thoughts
[1] A traditional penitential prayer uttered during Confession.
[2] "... my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault. I confess to almighty God..."
[3] "D'oh!"
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Trowa walked with his usual lazy grace down the busy school corridor, the jibber-jabber of his fellow students ringing unpleasantly in his ears and only adding to his barely-disguised nervousness. His dark green eyes glanced around the locker-lined hall as he struggled to locate his own particular beast. A pure golden head of hair was what finally allowed him to zero in, and he thanked whatever deities existed that Quatre's locker rested right beside his own. That was where they had first met, actually, and where they had stolen a moment to confess a feeling of connection.
And now here he was, six months later to the day. He wondered briefly if Quatre even remembered, then with some shame at the thought answered himself, of course. Quatre's memory was frighteningly capable, and surely Quatre would never forget something as important as their six-month anniversary. Still, there was that annoying little voice inside him that nagged, "You're making *way* too big a deal out of this." Trowa tried to ignore it, but maybe the little voice was speaking the truth.
After all, their upcoming anniversary had been all Trowa was able to think about for the past few days. The thoughts would fade briefly, but they always came back - along with the cruel little voice that asked Trowa if Quatre even thought their relationship that important. For Trowa, their relationship was just about everything - he rarely went a day without looking at some beautiful little thing and wishing he had enough to purchase it, to give it to Quatre and see his face light up with sweet surprise. But Quatre was the Winner heir... surely he had more important things to attend to than his boyfriend, a boy once known only as Nanashi.
But a curt shake of his head whipped back the memories which approached whenever he thought along those lines, and receiving a curious glance from a fellow sophomore, he nodded once in greeting, then politely excused himself and shoved a few people out of the way. His school was teeming with students, being one of the few independent magnet schools remaining, and it was a job trying to force his way through the stream. Sometimes one had to take desperate measures. He rammed a startled freshman in the abdomen out of necessity to avoid being trampled and pushed a way through.
He yawned as he went, his sleep having been sacrificed in order to get a little something for Quatre. He had set his body's internal alarm roughly an hour earlier than usual, dressed himself quickly, the 'sky' outside still gray, and then ransacked his room for the five-dollar bill he *knew* he had stashed somewhere. He apprehended the weary bill in the pocket of some old jeans and jammed it haphazardly into his pocket, then left the apartment, careful to leave a short note for Catherine.
They both knew a great deal of the store owners in the ghetto where they lived. Trowa had been particularly friendly towards old Mr. Higgins, a decent (if simple) owner of a small candy shop. Mr. Higgins' combination of gullibility and good-naturedness actually made him a rather agreeable fellow to be around, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut, something Trowa appreciated to no end. When Trowa had mentioned off-handedly that he might need to get a gift for a certain someone one of these days, Mr. Higgins had earnestly grasped his hand and promised to be at the store an hour early the whole week. Apparently Mr. Higgins had understood just who a 'certain someone' might be, and the old man was a sucker for romance.
And Mr. Higgins had kept his word, Trowa noted with some surprise. The old man beamed at Trowa and gestured for him to make his selection. Thanking him in few but heartfelt words, Trowa had critically surveyed the collection of candy, having settled his heart on some chocolate. It had to be beneath five dollars, and it had to be good. (The thought of presenting Quatre with some stale and nasty-tasting crap made Trowa shudder - what a gift to give.) Finally he had settled on a small metal heart-shaped container, in which were nestled twelve of the famous Gladbury chocolates. Though it was $6.50, Trowa paid the man five bucks and promised to make up the missing dollar and a half within the week. (He knew it was overpaying, but then again, this *was* L2 and $6.50 was probably the cheapest he'd have to pay for Gladbury chocolate.) Mr. Higgins, though not extraordinarily pleased about this, accepted it on the grounds of Trowa's trustworthiness.
Returning home with his prize with a half-hour to get to school, Trowa gulped down a quick breakfast. Though Catherine was more than a little irate ("Why didn't you *tell* me before and I would have gone with you, it's very dangerous out there!" "Catherine, it's always dangerous out there."), Trowa managed to shake her off and then had high-tailed it for school. He had made it, of course - there was an advantage to having such long limbs after all.
Having aggressively forced his way through the mass and spotting Quatre nearby, Trowa called out softly, "Morning, Quatre."
Trowa could see Quatre start in surprise and whip around arubtly, glancing around for who had called his name. There were shadows beneath his eyes and misery within them, sparking worry and a sympathetic echo of sadness in Trowa's heart. Then Quatre saw him, and the tension vanished from his gentle face, changing into an expression of mixed relief and happiness. "Trowa! Good morning," he greeted with a warm smile.
Trowa smiled back in acknowledgement before kneeling down and commencing his daily wrestling act with his mutinous locker.
"Um... our first class is English," Quatre reminded him as Trowa drew out his math textbook. Slightly perturbed by his nervous slip, Trowa shrugged and put the math text into his bookbag anyway – he did have math that day. He hoped. "We're about to finish up on our poetry unit, and then we're starting Frankenstein, so you probably want those books..."
Trowa nodded and slipped the aforementioned texts into his bookbag. The poetry unit had been a sweet sort of hell - they had been doing a terrible lot of romance poems, and Quatre often ended up trying to suppress a laughing fit in class when they were attempting to dissect particularly cheesy lines. (*Plenty* of opportunity for, ah, "significant glances" between the two.) Not to mention that the teacher seemed quite fond of calling on their classmate Heero Yuy - Trowa knew him vaguely - and Heero was often bitingly sarcastic or simply silent, in either case usually sending the entire class into snorts of laughter.
But corny old romantic poetry was the last thing on Trowa's mind. He was filled with nerves, hearing Quatre's sweet soft voice but having trouble listening. Was it possible that Quatre had actually forgotten about their anniversary...? A forlorn feeling touched the core of his being, and slowly began to unfurl.
"... and by the way, Trowa, happy anniversary," Quatre finished, just the slightest hint of a tease in his voice to reveal that he had guessed at Trowa's thoughts. He smiled fondly and touched Trowa's shoulder before letting his hand drop. "Did you actually think I could forget something so important?"
Scanning his painstakingly neat locker once more to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, Trowa straightened up, rudely jostled by a passing jock but not thinking much of it. "No," Trowa defended automatically, but surrendered when he saw Quatre's knowing smile.
He should never have doubted for a moment. He regarded Quatre with warmth and love evident in his every line. Of course Quatre hadn't forgotten. Quatre was selfless to a fault. He rarely gave a thought to himself. "I got you something," Trowa admitted, the shyness in his voice faint but detectable.
Quatre's eyes brightened with surprise and delight. Whatever misery Trowa had noticed earlier had apparently been overwhelmed. "Did you really?"
The look on Quatre's face was worth overpaying for the chocolate. "Yeah, just a moment, let me see if there's time enough to give it to you now..." Trowa rummaged through his messenger bag for a moment before feeling the cool heart-shaped container brush his fingers.
Then the warning bell rang, sending convulsive hysterics through the students as they scurried madly to reach their classes or face the wrath of their instructors.
Trowa sighed unbelievingly. "Damn," he muttered, "and after I finally found it, too."
The massive flood of students in the hallway had abruptly died down to a wanton trickle of latecomers. "We'll be late for class if I give it to you now," Trowa conceded reluctantly, letting the container drop from his hand and slip with a soft thump to the bottom of his bag. He reached out and gently brushed the backs of two slim fingers over Quatre's smooth cheek. "I'll give you it during our B period free, hmm?"
Before Trowa could react, Quatre had pulled him into an unexpectedly fierce hug, burying his face in Trowa's chest. A bit startled but pleasantly surprised, Trowa obliged, wrapping his arms around Quatre.
He could vaguely hear Quatre's muffled voice as the boy tried to catch his breath. "Thank you, Trowa, even though you didn't have to. I love you so, so much." Quatre pressed closer, and Trowa hugged him back and gently stroked the smaller boy's soft hair, hoping to provide the comfort it seemed he wanted. Trowa didn't exactly know what special thing he had done to bring this on, but it was certainly enjoyable. "So much, Trowa. You're always there for me and you always know what to do and say to make things bearable. You always know how to save me." Quatre pulled back a modicum and tilted his face up to see Trowa better, clear blue eyes impressing Trowa with the strength and depth of his boyfriend's feelings. "I love you. I really do."
Not knowing what to say to such a fervent and unexpected declaration, Trowa opted instead to remain silent. He kept Quatre in the embrace for one more moment, loathe to leave Quatre wanting comfort, but reluctantly dropped his arms.
"Trowa, something horrible happened at home last night that I really want to talk to you about..."
Trowa glanced uneasily at the innocent-seeming bell. "I think we'll have to wait till B period, Quatre, we're --"
BRING!! BRING BRING BRING!! BRING BRING!!
"Late," he finished ruefully, as the late bell sounded its last warning shrieks. (BRING!!!! BRING!! BRING! Bring! Bring. Bring...)
Quatre managed somehow to waveringly smile, eyes shining with tears of joy or grief, Trowa couldn't tell. Then Quatre chuckled and sniffled, wiping at his eyes.
Shrugging a bit at Quatre's amusement, Trowa tugged pointedly at Quatre's hand -- and the two walked down the now empty corridor to class.
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Quatre's mind was buzzing with joy, and he felt enveloped in the warm protective comfort that Trowa always gave him. Though not even Trowa could take the bitter edge off of the last night's events, Trowa certainly helped, and Quatre was already wishing B period would hurry its little rear up.
He knew that his response to Trowa's confession of a gift waiting for him was a little strong, but somehow just knowing that Trowa cared enough to search out something for him – the feeling of being loved not out of a sense of duty or because he was the Winner heir, but because he was Quatre – had overwhelmed him in grand rush of gratitude. He scratched the back of his neck, a small and slightly embarrassed smile touching his lips. Oh well. He was sure Trowa hadn't minded.
He just hadn't been able to help it. Last night had been pure misery, insomnia and guilt. His father had been in one of his worst moods for no reason Quatre could discern, ranting and raving at his son for *hours*.
Quatre had made the mistake of trying to discuss again with his father the possibility of hiring mercenaries, if only as a defense unit against OZ or Federation assassins. He even offered the Maguanacs' help - he knew the Maguanacs would be perfectly pleased to help the Winners any way they could.
His father had adamantly refused, and Quatre had seen his hopes disappear before his eyes as he listened to his father give a veritable sermon on how "We Are Pacifists." Quatre had heard it all a thousand times before, but of course that didn't deter his father at all. When Quatre stated, trying to remain calm, that defensive units didn't fight unless attacked, it only sparked another uncharacteristic verbal assault. Even more than it annoyed Quatre, it worried him.
For a few uncomfortable minutes the conversation had even turned to Trowa, the elder Winner irately wanting to know if Quatre's period of sexual experimentation had passed. Quatre had told him that they were both virgins and planning to stay that way, but his explanations were in vain, and in the end he had deliberately riled his father up to seek a change in topic.
Remembering the useless frustration of that night, coupled with the unnatural feeling that his father would never normally act this way, brought back to Quatre's eyes the darkness Trowa had noted earlier. His father had a death wish. The only action Mr. Winner was taking to 'protect' himself was to gather supplies in case of blockade. It made sense if one didn't think about it, but then one realized that it was a preventive measure against the least likely thing to occur. It was much more likely that either OZ, whatever it was, or the Federation would somehow either force Mr. Winner over to their side, or just get rid of him the easy way. Quatre ducked his head a bit and blinked to clear his eyes of that sudden sting.
Assassination - such a dirty word, such a foul concept. He couldn't envision the type of person who would choose such a path to follow and didn't even want to think about *why* an assassin would choose that 'career' in the first place.
Assassination - like had happened to Mr. Dorlian. Quatre had not been fooled in the slightest by all of the newscasters. There was no possible way that White Fang could have been behind Mr. Dorlian's death - Milliardo Peacecraft had openly and eloquently supported Mr. Dorlian, and the Vice- Minister had vouched for White Fang more than once. OZ and the Federation, on the other hand, had kept strangely quiet, inviting Mr. Dorlian to 'peace talks' as a common courtesy rather than actually wanting him there.
Assassination - the back door to a new era.…
Secretly, Quatre *wanted* a war to break out already, a war between OZ and the Federation or between White Fang and the Federation. Whichever faction wanted to battle could, as long as they released the Federation's chokehold and brought peace. That was all the tired civilians wanted. Quatre would have been right out there fighting with White Fang if only he could, but his father had taken care never to expose him to implements of war, and Rashid outright refused to teach him anything ("For your own good, Quatre- sama." "*droop* Rashi~d...").
It was terrifying to continue living under an illusionary peace while you could see all around you the warning signs of danger and bloodshed. *Something* was going to give, sooner or later, and people were going to die. That was what his father didn't understand. Pacifism did not have a place right now. People who preached it now were suicidal. There would be time enough for pacifism after the main threats were eradicated. Not before. Perhaps it was a ruthless way of looking at the situation, but it was the only sensible viewpoint Quatre could come up with.
And how many times had Quatre tried to tell that to Mr. Winner, each time failing pathetically to accomplish a single thing?
Somewhere around three or four o' clock in the morning, Iria had stepped in to intervene and rescue Quatre from Mr. Winner's blustering haze. At that point Quatre almost wanted to heave his own beloved pacifism out the window as a crack theory, wondering bitterly if shock would bring his father back to his senses. Iria had gently but firmly steered Quatre out of the room. Quatre had been sullen, upset, and angry, all of those emotions he had not shown since he met the Maguanacs. But Iria soon took care of that, by solemnly telling Quatre what was wrong with their father.
Mr. Winner had cancer. His cancer was at an advanced stage, discovered late, and out of control. His body was crumbling by the minute. Mr. Winner would die within the month and save OZ and the Federation the trouble: *that* was why he was gathering all of the Winner's holdings together on L2. Not to save himself, not for a blockade, but to give his only son a start.
Right then, when Iria had finished her explanation and was looking worriedly at Quatre to see how he had taken the news, a surge of longing had lunged through Quatre. At the moment of crisis, Quatre's being had cried for Trowa's comforting embraces and feather-light touches, for his realistic viewpoint and eternal stability.…
All Quatre had done at that point, however, was nod in understanding and eclipse his feelings with a mask of resigned and calm acceptance. Iria had enveloped him in a quick hug and told him that he was being very brave. And after that he had fled to his room and tried to stifle his dry sobs to the best of his ability, the entire night lost to the paralyzing terror of what- may-come.
/Father, I don't deserve to be your son.../
Quatre felt a cool hand slip unobtrusively into his own, jerking him back to the present, and offered Trowa a grateful smile even as he noticed they had arrived at their destination. Trowa always knew when Quatre was feeling badly. Always. And just as often, a word, a touch, a kiss, would leave Quatre capable of outer calm once more.
"Let's go inside," Trowa said quietly, disengaging his hand from Quatre's with silent firmness and opening the door.
Then they walked into the classroom together, much to the amusement of the class, and much to the perturbation of Instructor H. Quatre hurriedly concocted a viable alibi and proceeded to explain their tardiness in the sweetest, most innocent tones possible.
Needless to say, their lateness was excused.
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1.1.1.1
The water was so *cold*, yet somehow, he couldn't make himself step out. Every time he told himself, 'Okay, Duo, this is enough, get out already,' he only ended up making the water a little bit colder. Duo knew damn well that staying in the shower beneath water this cold was incredibly stupid and unnecessarily melodramatic, but he couldn't help it. Doing this - punishing himself like this - it wasn't a plea for attention! It was a cry to the deaf God whose existence he had denied - a cry for help and absolution. His silent Confiteor. [1]
He had done badly, he *knew*. The knowledge sat inside him and twisted like a sadist's corkscrew blade, tearing him up from inside out. He had sinned, done wrong where a right was called for, and because of that, a man better than him was dead.
Dead. He was jaded, or so he'd thought. He was wrong, obviously, if Dorlian's death made him tremble more than this damn shower. He exhaled slowly; nice way to find he was mistaken.
It came down to audacity in the end, really. The real truth of what Duo'd dared to do, seeping in; a delayed reaction, sure, but there it was. His sheer nerve in taking away the reaper's task, in striking down a life devoted to the greater good, made him flinch. Since when had life or death been his to choose between? That was Shinigami's right. He was not worthy.
And then the added torture of knowing for certain that the only hope for a peaceful L2 had lain, golden, quiescent, gentle... quiet in Dorlian's palms. And Dorlian was six feet under, pushing up daisies; Dorlian, the great man who could have followed in Heero Yuy's pioneering steps.
Dorlian, with a young daughter and a loving wife - a weeping widow. Dorlian, who had forgiven him before Duo realized the enormity of what he'd done. Oh, Duo would never have shown that mercy. He would have spent his dying breaths cursing his killer and his killer's childen's children to Hell for all of their damned eternity.
But the day hadn't played out like that. It hadn't been him twitching on the street, hadn't been his blood glistening on pavement. No – instead he was the shadow assassin, there boom and gone again, mission accomplished and could he have his money please? Leaving a martyr in his wake and a trail of shattered dreams.
Ironically enough, this was the job that had let him hit it over the top. He had the money to try for a scholarship now, money he had earned himself through various unorthodox methods. The six grand Dorlian's death had landed him was all he'd needed.
He'd spent half his life dying for this chance. Doing what he had to, screwing, sucking, humiliating himself, swallowing his pride, on his knees, all of it on his knees! And now the chance was right in front of him. He could almost reach out and touch it.
Except when he tried, laying a hand on the crisp Federation dollars, blood splattered from his fingers to spiderweb through the rubberbanded bills. He had drawn back his hand with a stricken gasp the first time, staring at his hand as though it were possessed by Satan. Then in a frenzy he had slammed the briefcase shut, shoved it under the bed and fled early for work.
He had seen it happen, that was the disturbing part, he had seen the blood on his hands. It was jack-shit crazy, Duo knew that perfectly well, but that was what he'd seen, and damnit, that made it real.
He set his jaw and stabbed the bar of soap into the wall, over and over, barely restraining himself from banging his stupid head into it. His entire dilemma was just that - stupid! Feeling sorry after the fact did nothing for anyone involved. He *knew* that.
He had to accept this, somehow: Dorlian was dead, and he, Duo Maxwell, was not.
He had to take his chance, damnit, reach out and dig his nails into it. He had not groveled and made excuses and pushed himself till he nearly snapped for eight fucking, lousy years to wig out now. He would stumble on, would push himself up out of the abyss.
So he'd still Dorlian's ghost, the one whose blood dripped from his fingers. He'd offer the damn sacrifice. He'd suffer through the punishment like the stupid animal he was. Cutting himself was out: messy, sloppy, not compatible with his work and so easily seen as faked. Suicide was definitely out: too easy, and besides, he couldn't leave poor Hilde behind.
But Duo hated the cold with a passion, so washing away sin beneath a freezing deluge would be the most fitting penance, the most appropriate eulogy he could offer.
/Wash/
/Be clean/
/Be clean/
/Scrub the dirt away/
/Scrub the filth away/
/Wash away your sin/
/If you can/
He was going insane, no question. Scratch that - he *was* insane, had been for a while now. It was just a subtle kind of insanity, the kind that made people smile a little, like he was some kind of rowdy kid. But soon, oh so soon, he would become a stark staring madman, and there was nothing funny about that. He could not live like this. Not anymore. Not after Dorlian.
Sixteen years old with "sex" all over his job description. What had ever happened to flipping beef patties at the local fast food place? He wanted to flip patties. He wanted to be Fry Cook Maxwell...
Even his thoughts leapt wildly, no logic between this one and the next. He was hurtling down into insanity's chasm and from the looks of it, his brains were gonna be splattered all over chasm floor real, real soon.
Where had he gone wrong? Had it been at age eight, when Raze propositioned him? Or before that? Perhaps it had been that mobile suit he stole. He *knew* he shouldn't have done that one; Solo would have said so too, in his lazy colony-boy drawl. Maybe that was when it had begun, when he first met Solo. But back then he was innocent of his curse. He didn't know that he'd end up killing Solo. Maybe it all started when he arrived, a quick-fingered little heap of long-haired humanity, on this poorest of colonies.
Hell. He knew when it began -- on the day of his misbegotten birth when he came shrieking into the world.
His teeth clattered and he shuddered violently, but he wasn't done thinking. He wouldn't leave this shower to dry off, warm up and sit down until he had finished raking nails over his soul. Looking back at his life, it was so easy to see how its disasters had their root in him. He'd acknowledged a godless life for a long time now, so with no deity to color where the blame should fall, he knew where fault lay.
In himself. In the choices he had made. He didn't have to be here right now, but somewhere along the line, somewhere along the string of mistakes that composed his excuse of a past, he'd done something that led him to right now, sixteen or seventeen years old and shaking like dust in the wind.
Where should his anger turn?
Towards himself, like a starving shark trying to eat its own tail.
Duo wanted - he needed - redemption. Someone to redeem him. Not God - He didn't exist, or if He did, He fucking well didn't deserve to. His main problem, Duo thought, almost dispassionate now, was his lack of trust: he trusted no one in the world enough to accept an absolution from their lips. No one would understand the despair with which he sought forgiveness, anyway. He knew Hilde would try if he asked her to, because she was sweet and liked him, but she had lived all her life a sheltered rich girl and could never comprehend the thin line he walked between insanity and brilliance, between rising and falling. She could never understand the reason for this ice-cold water.
If he only repented, Sis and the Father had said, he would be saved. Here he was, repenting, and he sure as hell wasn't feeling chipper about anything. He had spent all his life repenting, on his knees for eight long years, and all it had got him was this teetery feeling like leaning over a rail. Fear of falling.
"Duo, are you planning to hog the shower all morning?!"
It was Hilde, yelling over the shower's noise. Duo could barely hear her. "I have to get to work!" she screeched. "Hurry *up*!"
"I'm coming right out." Duo forced his tone to be upbeat; Hilde had the weirdest belief in his infallibility. He turned off the water and sagged against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. He wanted to cry.
Making himself cheerful when he was like this made him feel sick, but for appearance's sake he added, "Why the rush, Hilde? I knew ya stank, but I didn't realize it had reached that point yet..."
"Duo, you jerk!" The sound of indignant giggling. "I've gotta be at work by ten, so don't try to distract me!"
Duo slid the shower door open, grabbed his towel, and wrapped it around himself. "If you don't want to be distracted, I'd recommend lookin' away when I saunter past, huh? Help me preserve my boyish modesty and all that?"
"What boyish modesty? Duo, your career is destroying *other* people's modesty!"
"Yeah, yeah," he drawled. "Somebody's gotta do it. Now step away from the door, please, lest you be blinded by my godlike physique."
"Fine, will you GET OUT?"
"Don't kill me!" He took the last moment before kicking the door open to put a teasing smile on his face, though the smile was wasted, as Hilde was prudently covering her eyes. His hair dripping all over the floor and still shivering, he made his careful way to his room.
He heard the shower hiss up again and Hilde yelped, her curses carrying through the walls. "Fuck! This water's COLD!"
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1.1.1.2
"And there'll be a quiz next Tuesday on sections 6-7 and 6-8 in the textbook," droned old Mrs. Yiritza. "For your homework, study and do the chapter review on page 217."
Quatre sighed in relief as his Trigonometry class was cut short by the clanging bell that marked the end of every period and stuffed his binder and folder haphazardly into his bag, a few crumpled papers leaking out of the edges. Finally, it was B period! Seventy-five minute Trig classes should be outlawed.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and set out of the classroom along with the rest of his chatting classmates, gaze darting back and forth between the river of students in the hallways. Trowa should be coming out of French class right now, and his French classroom was on the same floor as Quatre's Trig class. In fact – there he was. Quatre's heart lifted as he identified his tall boyfriend's head above the crowd, and he indelicately forced his way through.
"Trowa," he said when he arrived at Trowa's side, and smiled. "It's such a relief to see you after Trig. That period was hell."
Trowa nodded. "Tell me about it. My teacher doesn't even speak French."
Quatre made a face. Trowa hooked his arm through Quatre's and they made their way downstairs, to the cafeteria.
The entire school seemed to have its lunch break at midday, and the hallway leading to the lunchroom was crowded with prattling students. Quatre and Trowa talked lightly of nothing in particular as they got their lunch—pizza—and found themselves a seat at a round table in the corner.
"D'ya think it'll be edible today?" Quatre asked Trowa, half in jest and half seriously, as he picked up his slice of pizza. Grease slid off it most unattractively and dampened his paper plate.
"If not, I bought you a gift that should make up for it," Trowa replied, looking warily at his own slice.
"Yeah?" Quatre raised his eyebrows. "I'm excited. What is it?"
"Finish your pizza." Trowa gave him one of his half-smiles, green eyes softening just that much, before following his own advice and digging in cautiously.
They ate mostly in quiet. Trowa wasn't given to talking while eating, for which Quatre was grateful; the lunch required truly creative handling. Quatre occupied himself wondering what gift Trowa had bought him, and hoping it wasn't too expensive—he was aware of his boyfriend's economic status and didn't want Trowa to have to go without food or something for his sake. Trowa was already too thin.
Having gotten only one slice rather than Quatre's impulsive two, Trowa finished first and Quatre tore through his second slice as quickly as he could. By this time, the cafeteria crowd had dissipated, since the midday lunch break was only forty minutes long. Quatre and Trowa had the entire period free, however—one of the few free periods they shared.
"Done?" Trowa asked, one hand at the ready in his messenger bag, as Quatre washed his pizza down with a hearty swig of soda. Quatre nodded.
"All right." Trowa devoted his entire attention to the bag and began searching through it. As he searched, head down, he added, "It's not much, but I think you'll like it."
"I like anything you give me," Quatre told him sincerely. "You don't have to knock yourself out, Trowa."
Trowa shrugged. "I don't, usually. You're an exception—a-ha! Found it." Triumphantly Trowa swept something up from the bag and presented it to Quatre.
It was a small, heart-shaped metal container with the word Gladbury written in a golden script on the top. Quatre's eyes widened and he only barely stopped himself from bouncing in his seat as he took the container. It was Gladbury chocolate, and he *loved* Gladbury chocolate.
"Thank you, Trowa," he breathed happily, opening it to take a peek. Within nestled twelve chocolates, each in their individual paper crib. He took one and nibbled it—it was coconut, his favorite flavor. He finished the chocolate under Trowa's amused eye and offered Trowa one, but Trowa shook his head.
"I have to maintain my slim, girlish figure," Trowa deadpanned, rising. Quatre got up as well, and they began walking out of the lunch room. "I'm on the gymnastics team, remember?"
"How could I forget? When I saw you at your first meet I thought you were going to dislocate your spine." Quatre placed the chocolate in his bookbag to the tune of Trowa's quiet laughter.
"I've always been flexible. It doesn't hurt. There's never a need to worry."
"Doesn't mean I can't, though."
"Suit yourself, I won't stop you. Anyway, Quatre, weren't you going to tell me something?"
"Oh yeah…" At once the events of the previous night rushed back to Quatre, and he sobered, feeling vaguely guilty for putting them outside of his mind. "Let's go outside and sit someplace nice, huh?"
"Grab your coat, the weather systems are being weird again," Trowa said as they passed by the first floor atrium. Quatre snatched his jacket from where he'd tossed it at the beginning of the lunch period and shrugged it on obediently.
The Vera Langel Institute, being a very high-brow educational institutional, had itself a little garden surrounding its six-story building. There were park benches and an actual tree there, a weeping willow imported directly from Earth. The area beneath the tree was free, so the two students made their way over and relaxed against its base. Quatre rested comfortably against Trowa's shoulder within the crook of his arm and played with his fingers, hanging more or less in front of Quatre's face. Trowa chuckled but tolerated this.
"Are you going to tell me, Quatre?" he queried after a short while. Quatre sighed.
"It's about my father." Quatre snuggled in against Trowa's side for the warmth and safety he offered. Trowa's fingers brushed his face gently. "You've heard this before, but he was yelling at me again."
"About what?" Trowa asked.
"Just everything… me, you, pacifism, the usual… I was trying to get him to accept the Maguanacs as bodyguards because I was scared for his life, what with the unrest in the Federation." Quatre let out a long breath. "He refused because he said it wouldn't be right, wouldn't be the pacifist thing to do, and after a while Iria came in to rescue me, and she told me that… that…"
He closed his eyes and turned his face into Trowa's shoulder. He could feel Trowa's arm tighten around him, and his fingers stroked Quatre's hair soothingly, though he said nothing.
"Trowa, my father's going to die." Through sheer willpower he forced back the tears this confrontation with reality brought. "It's cancer, late- stage, out of control. Iria says there's nothing we can do, and now I understand why he was doing all that stuff with having supplies brought here. When he dies, I'm the next in line for the company. I don't know how I'm going to handle it, and I'm so ashamed, for acting like such a selfish brat before him, going on and on about what I thought instead of just listening to him and—"
"You didn't act like that at all," Trowa said softly. "From what I understand you were only trying to have him accept bodyguards, that's all. Don't take blame that isn't rightly yours."
"I don't know what to do," Quatre sighed. "I don't know what I should do."
Trowa said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He stroked Quatre's hair with slow, lulling motions until Quatre nearly fell asleep, though the thoughts looming in his mind were dark and ominous. There wasn't much Trowa could do, but having him as a shelter made Quatre feel a bit better.
After too short a time, activity began around them, with the few students outside in the cold weather retreating back indoors for the start of the next period. Trowa, clearly not wanting to get up, mentioned, "Class begins in five minutes."
"I wish I could just cut and stay here the entire day with you," Quatre muttered, opening his eyes. "How important, really, is feudal Europe?"
"I would cut class just for you," Trowa said honestly. "But I'm on scholarship and I can't afford to lose it. Catherine would beat me with her rolling pin.."
"I know. I'm just being an idiot," Quatre said, resigned, and reluctantly rose.
"You're too intelligent to be an idiot." Trowa got up and stretched.
Quatre shrugged. "Do you have a free now?"
"No, I have Algebra II."
"Can I get a kiss before class?" Quatre asked hopefully.
Trowa smiled. "If it'll make you feel better," he said, and took Quatre in his arms, and kissed him.
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/... mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti vobis fratres [2]... oh. Oh, *damn*!/
Duo bolted straight up in bed, then groaned and smacked his forehead in dismay [3]. What *time* was it? He was supposed to meet his librarian, Mrs. Jackowski, at three o'clock. She'd rake him over barbed wire if he was late - with infinite sweetness and a chocolate waiting for him after the ordeal.
The green digits, when he discovered them glowing on the nightstand beside him, read 1:01. Duo chewed thoughtfully at his lip. He'd slept for a little while, but he'd woken up at least two hours ago, so he must have spent his time praying, of all possible useless things. He supposed it was a knee- jerk reaction. He honestly hadn't known it till his appointment jabbed into his mind, snapping him out of his hazy, semi-comatose state.
But it was over. Right? It was over. He'd killed already, he'd mourned, he'd repented and sacrificed and he wasn't into masochism. So he didn't need to torment himself further. So, he wouldn't. Duo sighed, tired despite his two hour semi-nap.
Enough of this. He was sixteen. He had a life to live. And he would live it, too, wring all the hope and happiness out of it that he could. Otherwise Dorlian's death would have been for nothing. And that he wouldn't stand for.
Well - he glanced at the clock again (1:02) - he had two hours before Mrs. Jackowski would be expecting him. Maybe a jolt of caffeine would get him going. He swung his legs out of bed and yawned, letting them dangle, before hopping up to go get dressed, determined to brood no longer over what he had done.
Duo was a quick dresser by necessity. He threw on an oversized black T- shirt and a pair of black leggings, then looked around for his shoes, feeling definite de'ja'vu. He found no footwear, so he kneeled down and started rummaging beneath his cot, hurling crap out from underneath it willy-nilly. He extricated his favorite and sixth-favorite mangas, five dollars, three nickels, broken headphones, a keychain, a few thin wires, a pack of gum, two empty wallets, a dagger, and a cardboard tiara emblazoned with the nearest fast food restaurant's logo before finally drawing out a scuffed white pair of cheap tennis sneakers. Triumphantly he wriggled his feet into them and yanked the laces tight. Then he tossed on the first jacket he found, one folded neatly on his chair. It proved to be blatantly raincoatish, all glossy waterproof material, but he didn't really give a flying camel either way.
Hilde would be back home from work around nine o'clock tonight. Plenty of time to distance himself from encroaching madness and review from algebra to geometry while he was at it.
He left.
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1.1.1.3
Ladyjane's Café, his personal favorite, was a nice, drowsy little place just off the corner of Sixth and Freedom Boulevard. The ivy crawling up its stone walls gave it a particularly picturesque appearance. There were quaint iron-wrought black tables set up outdoors with classy little umbrellas to protect from the insanely bright artificial sun - L2's weather control administrators should be taken out and shot - and one of the walls was actually a glass window like the one in his room, so one could peep inside at the cozy, armchair-splattered interior.
It was mostly empty today, most people either at work or queuing up outside the Unemployment Agency. Duo nodded at the manager, Ladyjane herself, who was scrawling fiercely on a piece of paper on a table strewed with similar documents. He'd worked here during the mornings for a while before he met Hilde. Ladyjane looked up from beneath bushy black eyebrows and nodded tersely before returning to her work. Duo repressed a wince for Ladyjane's sake; the poor woman knew she was hideous and needed no confirmation of the fact.
Up at the counter, he noted that Basio, the usual cashier around this time of day, was absent; in his place was a new guy. Anything was better than bumbling, nervous Basio, but this new cashier looked particularly promising.
For a start, his looks were a great improvement over Basio's thin, substanceless features. Duo consciously refrained from licking his chops, for the new cashier was quite handsome, with large brown eyes in a heart- shaped face. Long dark red hair fell into the expressive eyes until, fed up, the cashier tied it back with a scarlet hairtie and a soft curse. Caught, Duo couldn't help but watch the cashier's movements, the poise and grace wasted in such a menial position.
Somehow he tore his gaze away long enough to look down at his watch. It was 1:30 – shift change time at Ladyjane's. Damn. That meant the new guy would be on his way out. Ladyjane lifted her head briefly to bark out a clean-up order, to which the cashier made an ironic little bow before acquiescing.
Too bad that sexy cashier was gonna have to work some overtime, because no way was Duo letting this chance escape him. A mark like that was just what he needed. Duo came up to the counter and the cashier called over his shoulder, "Sorry, gotta clean up... be right with ya..." A few moments passed before the cashier put away the towel he was "swabbing" with and turned around.
Duo smiled at him, a little goofily – egads, the Demon losing his famed composure? He hastily wiped the goofy look off his face and replaced it with a more acceptable smile.
The cashier grinned cheerfully at him and leaned against the counter. "Hi, I'm Heart," he said. "D'ya want something? Sorry about making you wait... Ladyjane woulda killed me or something if I didn't clean up..."
"Not really. Just wanted to chat. And hey, no fear." Duo quirked an eyebrow. "I know her too." He gave a mock-woeful look. "She's a nice woman and everything" -- he cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure Ladyjane wasn't paying attention (she wasn't) -- "but if you don't do what she says, you're 'ejected,' no trial!"
The cashier nodded and chuckled. "I have no idea why she doesn't just say you're fired. No, it *has* to be 'ejected.' Here's to hoping she did not just hear me say that."
Duo pretended to lift a wine glass -- Heart caught on and did the same. They clinked the nonexistent glasses in midair. "Cheers," they said simultaneously.
Ladyjane looked up from her paperwork and barked, "Are you quite done, Kinning!"
"Yes ma'am," Heart replied promptly.
"Then disappear," the woman ordered. "It's Skulley's shift now. Come back at six."
"Yes'm." Heart looked hopefully at Duo. "Hey, wanna walk home with me?"
Duo grinned. "Oh, I'm yours."
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"So where's your place?" Duo asked Heart as they navigated the crowded L2 streets. Heart was quite adept at it, slipping in between people or pushing some aside in order to clear a way.
"I live with my family. 412 Pride Drive. Ever been there?"
"Passed it by." Actually, a lot of Duo's customers were from around there. "That's a pretty rich section of town. You loaded or something?"
Heart snorted. "I wish! If I was loaded, I wouldn't be workin' under Ladyjane. It's my old lady that's rich. My dad was a Fed, he fell in love with my mom, married her, and along came my humble self." A sly smile. "Daddy-o died of poisoning later on, though... they convicted and hanged one of the servants."
Duo raised his eyebrows. "That's interesting..."
"The courts thought so too," Heart said cheerfully. "But anyone can be bought, ne?" Duo flinched, but Heart didn't seem to notice. "Anyway, stranger, I never caught your name. I can't just keep callin' ya 'handsome.'"
"Thanks, flirt." Duo grinned a bit. "I run, I hide, but I don't lie, I'm Duo Maxwell." At Heart's laugh, he added defensively, "Hey, I picked it myself. What's your excuse?"
Heart had the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't have laughed, especially not when I'm saddled with a name like -" he made exaggerated quotation gestures with his fingers - "'Heart.'" He sighed. "You wouldn't believe how many schoolyard fights I got into over that name."
"Sure I can," Duo replied easily. Heart's inquisitive look invited elaboration which Duo did *not* give -- his childhood memories weren't happy ones. "So what's the story behind the name?"
"Curious?" Heart laughed. "Yeah, I could see that. Okay, here goes: my mom is a little, well, not normal." He rolled his eyes. "Actually, to be blunt, she's a freaking lunatic. She named her kids all weird. I got a sister named Felicity Joy Cheer -- she's a freshman in high school -- and two little brothers named Justice and Right. Right's been insufferable ever since Mom named him 'right' and he's only five. Juju's at least still a baby and can't talk yet!"
"Heh! Did your mom remarry or what?"
"Nope. She has no idea who the kids' fathers are. But I'm old enough to act like a guardian for them. Or a role model. Or something."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two. I'm graduating from the university this year."
"Wow." That was a surprise. Heart looked Duo's age. "I thought you were younger."
"Lots of people do." Heart shrugged. "I have to go through a lot whenever I want a damn drink." He flipped his voice to an obnoxious whine. "'This ID doesn't look valid, sir... I think I need your driver's license, sir... Go home and get your birth certificate, sir...'" He shook his head in disgust and gave a rueful sigh. "I haven't heard that one yet, but I carry a little copy of the certificate in my wallet just in case. I don't feel like bribing some snotnosed bastard twice as much money as his lousy beer is worth."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. The only reason I can get a drink without any trouble is because I know a hell of a lot of people, so no one ever bothers me about my age."
"Yeah? How old are *you*?"
Duo thought. "Sixteen, seventeen, around there. Forgot when my birthday is, I just count another year every Christmas."
"Oh." Heart looked saddened. "War orphan?"
"Right on the mark."
There was a short awkward silence before Heart asked, "So, why don't the bartenders bother you? They sure harass everyone else."
A grin from Duo. "It's a professional secret, my friend."
As the conversation went on, Duo relaxed. Heart was a lively conversationalist who was willing to glance over all sorts of topics. He never stayed very long on any of them and Duo got the impression of a rather flighty person, but he was pleasant company. Heart also made it clear, over the course of their talking, that he was interested in Duo -- for more than just this one-time walk home. The flattering epithets he sprinkled his comments with -- gorgeous, sexy, hot stuff -- conveyed the other guy's interest very well. Duo was very glad not to have to come right out and ask which way he swung. Some people found that offensive for some reason.
"We're almost there," Heart said, glancing up at the name of the intersection they were currently passing. "We're on Peace Road, just a bit more till Pride. Anyway, I was wondering, do you have a job?"
Duo coughed. "Well, yeah..."
"What is it?" he asked curiously.
The braided teenager made a face. "I can tell you what it's not. You guess what it is."
"Twenty Questions? Sounds fun to me." Heart grinned. "Okay, are you a student?"
"Kinda," Duo said, thinking of Mrs. Jackowski's tutoring sessions, "but I wouldn't describe it as my job."
"Okay... are you a teacher?"
"Depends. Whoever's new is usually shuffled over to me because I've got the most experience."
"Hmm. This is tough. Hey," Heart looked suddenly stricken, "you're not a soldier, are you?"
"No way. Under the Feds? I'd rather blow my brains out."
Heart smiled, evidently relieved. "I was scared that in that case, I wouldn't ever see you again!"
"Flatterer," Duo accused playfully. "I'm just one guy. There are other fish in the sea. Granted, most of the cute ones are either taken or het..."
"You'd be wasted in the military," Heart declared fervently. "Unless you were a special operative or something, you'd be so wasted."
"Yeah? How'd you figure that one?"
"Well," Heart said, as if it were obvious, "you're smart." Duo was ready to protest that, but then his companion stopped, so Duo did as well. "Sorry, we're here."
Duo's gaze traveled up neat white steps, a brown oak double door carved with animals and flowers, and two pristine marble stories of proof of wealth.
"You're loaded," said Duo with conviction, staring at the stained glass windows on the second story.
Heart shrugged. "Think what you like." Then, for the first time in the conversation, Heart hesitated. "Hey, Duo..."
"Yeah?"
"Well, I really liked talking to you." The young man paused again. "I was wondering if maybe we could meet somewhere again."
Duo smirked. "You want to date me? Are you really sure about that?"
"I want to know you better," Heart said earnestly, cheeks faintly pink.
Duo nodded, smiling that annoying goofy smile again, but he couldn't help it – he couldn't remember the last time he'd been on a date and not been paid for it. It was so cute. Heart's blush was just too much. "All right then. Let's see – how about tonight, 48th and Independence Road?"
"You sure? I can pick you up at your house and we can cruise around for a bit," Heart offered.
"You drive?" That was a surprise, though now that Duo thought about it, he could remember Heart's reference to his driver's license.
"I'm a senior in college." Heart grinned. "Of course I drive. I'd be laughed out of the university if I didn't. So what time is good for you?"
"Whatever time is good for you," Duo said playfully, tossing the decision back at him.
Heart looked sardonic, in his ever-cheerful way. "I'm not gonna wiggle out of setting the time, am I? Do you know how bad I am at making decisions? It took me four tearing hours of indecision before I could finally pick a color to paint my room."
"So what color did you pick?"
"Heh heh heh. I didn't. Couldn't decide. That's how awful I am at making decisions."
"Then I shall be noble and make your decision for you," Duo pronounced loftily before dropping back down to the colony again. "I work at a club. Work at the Club, actually. The one where the Demon works."
That he just had to add in.
Heart's eyes widened. "Damn. Ever met her?"
"Him," Duo corrected, frowning slightly. There was more than one downfall to sporting a braid. "The Demon is definitely a him. Well, anyway, I work there, and I need to be there by, hmm, eleven. So pick me up at Independence Road and Freedom Boulevard at 10:30, that oughta give us enough time. We can party at the Club. I live in #27 with my roommate Hilde."
"Okay. You sure the bouncer will let us in?"
A feral grin twisted on Duo's face for a moment. "She'd rather die than not let me in. So, see you at 10:30?"
"Of course." Heart smiled happily. "Thanks, Duo. See ya."
He lifted his hand in a farewell gesture. "Later."
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Duo was singing, and it was annoying. He had been singing since half past nine. Oh, sure, he'd kept it down to humming for the first half hour that Hilde had gotten home from work, but finally he just burst into full, glorious song.
Well, it had been full and glorious when he started. Duo had a beautiful voice that he played like a master, like it was an instrument. He could do amazing things when he sang, whipping out his voice until it trembled but only because he allowed it to tremble, letting it soar with the passion of the music until it shook. Usually Hilde loved to hear him sing. But God, he was in a weird mood tonight. He either belted out obscene bar-songs with a vibrato the envy of any opera singer, or mauled Hilde's favorite tunes, or treated Hilde's least favorite songs with reverence and – she grudgingly had to admit – made them sound, if still not good, passable.
It was now ten fifteen, according to her watch, and he still hadn't run out of songs. She had a sneaking suspicion that once he ran out of English songs, he'd simply move on to stuff in Dutch or Japanese or Spanish or something, likely with the most atrocious accent he could mutate his voice into. At least he was still in his room changing, so it was yet possible to get away from him.
Desperate, she grabbed a drink, a blanket, and her headphones and took over the couch in the living room, incidentally at the opposite end of the apartment, blasted her own music up to full volume and started singing defiantly herself. The sound of Duo's singing coming through the walls had stopped for a moment, and when he started up again, this time a notch louder, she heard the grin in his voice.
He would not be defeated. He had to have ordered those lungs direct from God. Briefly she wished him asthma or bronchitis or something before she had to get up and strangle him, then was ashamed and took the wish back, falling silent, though he certainly didn't. She didn't really want to ruin his voice. Then she remembered that he'd weathered the L2 plague and felt even guiltier.
Hilde didn't wish any real harm on him. She liked him a lot… it was possible she loved him. She worried for him and wanted to care for him and enjoyed his life and light and spirit. That sounded kinda like love. Then again, she wouldn't recognize love if it came up and smacked her ass with a wet towel; her emotional IQ was about negative five.
Lust she could recognize, came the thought unbidden into the virgin-pure fields of her mind. She colored at the thought, then choked as a very uncalled-for mind-picture bubbled into her brain, of Duo in one of those risque outfits that had practically caused her death from blood loss.
Well, frick. His quirky mood had to be getting to her, too. If only he would just Shut. Up! Before he drove her stark raving mad, like or love or not!
Suddenly, Duo fell silent. Immediately her music was way too loud and she turned it off, then listened suspiciously. Was he creeping up behind her, ready to pull one of his notorious little pranks…?
"Whaddya think?" Duo called out as he bounded into the living room, dressed for work.
Work which, incidentally, allowed, hell practically required, a very creative interpretation of what being "dressed for work" meant. Hilde swallowed as Duo rotated, arms flung out, to give Hilde a view from all sides. "Like my outfit?" he asked brightly.
Like? Mere like was too weak a word.
He had on fingerless black gloves and wore an unbuttoned, high-collared black jacket of some unidentified glossy material that looked, surprise, stunning on him. Beneath the jacket was a white, glittering mesh shirt that hung loose, revealing tantalizing glimpses of a fine physique. Black pants that looked like leather were artfully torn and patched up by safety pins with the occasional rag fluttering here and there. He wore plain, dirty white tennis sneakers, but they didn't detract from the overall image of glittering punk angel he presented.
Duo flipped his hair over his shoulder, watching her cheerfully. He had braided it messily tonight, allowing strands of rich chestnut to escape here and there, alluringly. He'd dusted silver glitter all over himself. The only makeup he had applied this time was in the form of something that made his face shine softly, and some eyeliner, just a little, really, since his eyes were already big and lovely without it. He looked so happy he nearly glowed, a definite improvement over the painful false happiness of the past couple of days. "Well?" he prompted expectantly.
Hilde shook her head as her heart twisted. Whatever way you put it, Duo Maxwell was a creature of beauty. "Duo, you're gorgeous. Why is it," she said, half jokingly, half plaintively, "that no matter how hard I try, I just cannot look as good as you do?"
Duo snorted. "Hah! Don't go looking for pity here, Hilde. If you'd give me free rein when you're going to, say, a party or something, I could guarantee you'd be the belle of the ball, knock 'em all into orbit, but nooooo, you have to get all suspicious of me…"
"Yeah, yeah. So, hey," she commented, "you seem pretty happy. Is anything special going on?"
Duo grinned maniacally and twirled, braid thumping aggressively off whatever hard surfaces it encountered. "Leetle Duo has got…" He stopped twirling and paused dramatically. "A date."
Hilde's face crumpled for a moment before she quickly transformed it to innocent surprise. Duo didn't seem to notice. "O-oh… so, um, who's the lucky girl…?"
If Duo noted her trailing voice and the throbbing disappointment Hilde wasn't quite able to cover up, he didn't comment. "Lucky guy, actually," he corrected fondly, glancing at his watch. "He should be here soon."
Her heart sank even further. "You're not –"
"—Gay?" he finished for her. He gave her an odd look. "Jesus friggin' Christ, Hilde, duh. You hadn't noticed? Come on, would a straight guy cart around a braid like this?" He waggled the mass of hair in her direction teasingly, but Hilde's attempt at a smile abruptly fizzled out, and he finally seemed to realize that she was absolutely crestfallen. "Oh, hey, Hilde…" He sighed. "You don't… I mean, like me… do you?" It was clear from his suddenly uncomfortable expression that he dearly wanted the answer to be "no."
To her shame, her lip started quivering, and her vision blurred with tears.
"Oh, shit." Duo sighed again and went over to her, got down on his knees on the couch, since she was still snuggled firmly there. "C'mere. I'm sorry. I didn't know." He held out his arms to her and she turned her face into his shoulder. He smelled like vanilla and strawberry – had to be his shampoo. He was so inordinately vain about his hair, insisted on the best for it, always. "I didn't know," he whispered, breath warm against her ear, and his arms tightened around her, but it was the warm, dry embrace of a friend, not a lover. There was not even a bit of seduction about him now, just pure… pure… friendship. Concern and tenderness… for a friend.
He had never wanted her the way she had wanted him. There'd never been a hope for her.
She realized that she was sobbing and ground her sobs to a halt before she messed up Duo's clubbing gear. He looked freaking gorgeous and he was happy again and now she hated herself for poisoning his joy. He hadn't had anyone since the day she met him. She should have at least pretended, for decency's sake, to be happy for him. No, instead she had to bawl like some kind of little girl who'd been denied the toy she wanted.
Feeling her sobs stop, Duo pulled away anxiously and sat back on his heels. He looked entirely remorseful. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said worriedly. "I swear by everything I hold sacred, I really didn't know." He checked his watch, then straightened up and looked down at her, an awful sadness in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Hilde. I really am."
She managed a wan smile and stood as well. "It's okay. Really. That was just a shock. I'll be fine. Go."
His hands were holding each other tightly. "Yeah?" he said doubtfully.
She nodded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin tonight for you. I'm… I'm happy for you. It's what you want, so I'm happy for you. Go, before you're late and your boss kills me."
He moved hesitantly, casting frequent glances over his shoulder, and he paused at the door. "If you want, I can leave. If I bother you. I'll come back long enough to take my stuff and live somewhere else."
"Don't be an idiot," she snapped, a little more harshly than she'd intended. "Of course I want you back here. You need someone to take care of you."
He gave a rueful laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Look, we'll talk when I get home this morning." Then he slipped through the doorway and was gone.
A DARKER SHADE THAN BLACK
PART FOUR : SHINIGAMI'S RIGHT
by Meiran Chang
/.../ denotes thoughts
[1] A traditional penitential prayer uttered during Confession.
[2] "... my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault. I confess to almighty God..."
[3] "D'oh!"
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Trowa walked with his usual lazy grace down the busy school corridor, the jibber-jabber of his fellow students ringing unpleasantly in his ears and only adding to his barely-disguised nervousness. His dark green eyes glanced around the locker-lined hall as he struggled to locate his own particular beast. A pure golden head of hair was what finally allowed him to zero in, and he thanked whatever deities existed that Quatre's locker rested right beside his own. That was where they had first met, actually, and where they had stolen a moment to confess a feeling of connection.
And now here he was, six months later to the day. He wondered briefly if Quatre even remembered, then with some shame at the thought answered himself, of course. Quatre's memory was frighteningly capable, and surely Quatre would never forget something as important as their six-month anniversary. Still, there was that annoying little voice inside him that nagged, "You're making *way* too big a deal out of this." Trowa tried to ignore it, but maybe the little voice was speaking the truth.
After all, their upcoming anniversary had been all Trowa was able to think about for the past few days. The thoughts would fade briefly, but they always came back - along with the cruel little voice that asked Trowa if Quatre even thought their relationship that important. For Trowa, their relationship was just about everything - he rarely went a day without looking at some beautiful little thing and wishing he had enough to purchase it, to give it to Quatre and see his face light up with sweet surprise. But Quatre was the Winner heir... surely he had more important things to attend to than his boyfriend, a boy once known only as Nanashi.
But a curt shake of his head whipped back the memories which approached whenever he thought along those lines, and receiving a curious glance from a fellow sophomore, he nodded once in greeting, then politely excused himself and shoved a few people out of the way. His school was teeming with students, being one of the few independent magnet schools remaining, and it was a job trying to force his way through the stream. Sometimes one had to take desperate measures. He rammed a startled freshman in the abdomen out of necessity to avoid being trampled and pushed a way through.
He yawned as he went, his sleep having been sacrificed in order to get a little something for Quatre. He had set his body's internal alarm roughly an hour earlier than usual, dressed himself quickly, the 'sky' outside still gray, and then ransacked his room for the five-dollar bill he *knew* he had stashed somewhere. He apprehended the weary bill in the pocket of some old jeans and jammed it haphazardly into his pocket, then left the apartment, careful to leave a short note for Catherine.
They both knew a great deal of the store owners in the ghetto where they lived. Trowa had been particularly friendly towards old Mr. Higgins, a decent (if simple) owner of a small candy shop. Mr. Higgins' combination of gullibility and good-naturedness actually made him a rather agreeable fellow to be around, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut, something Trowa appreciated to no end. When Trowa had mentioned off-handedly that he might need to get a gift for a certain someone one of these days, Mr. Higgins had earnestly grasped his hand and promised to be at the store an hour early the whole week. Apparently Mr. Higgins had understood just who a 'certain someone' might be, and the old man was a sucker for romance.
And Mr. Higgins had kept his word, Trowa noted with some surprise. The old man beamed at Trowa and gestured for him to make his selection. Thanking him in few but heartfelt words, Trowa had critically surveyed the collection of candy, having settled his heart on some chocolate. It had to be beneath five dollars, and it had to be good. (The thought of presenting Quatre with some stale and nasty-tasting crap made Trowa shudder - what a gift to give.) Finally he had settled on a small metal heart-shaped container, in which were nestled twelve of the famous Gladbury chocolates. Though it was $6.50, Trowa paid the man five bucks and promised to make up the missing dollar and a half within the week. (He knew it was overpaying, but then again, this *was* L2 and $6.50 was probably the cheapest he'd have to pay for Gladbury chocolate.) Mr. Higgins, though not extraordinarily pleased about this, accepted it on the grounds of Trowa's trustworthiness.
Returning home with his prize with a half-hour to get to school, Trowa gulped down a quick breakfast. Though Catherine was more than a little irate ("Why didn't you *tell* me before and I would have gone with you, it's very dangerous out there!" "Catherine, it's always dangerous out there."), Trowa managed to shake her off and then had high-tailed it for school. He had made it, of course - there was an advantage to having such long limbs after all.
Having aggressively forced his way through the mass and spotting Quatre nearby, Trowa called out softly, "Morning, Quatre."
Trowa could see Quatre start in surprise and whip around arubtly, glancing around for who had called his name. There were shadows beneath his eyes and misery within them, sparking worry and a sympathetic echo of sadness in Trowa's heart. Then Quatre saw him, and the tension vanished from his gentle face, changing into an expression of mixed relief and happiness. "Trowa! Good morning," he greeted with a warm smile.
Trowa smiled back in acknowledgement before kneeling down and commencing his daily wrestling act with his mutinous locker.
"Um... our first class is English," Quatre reminded him as Trowa drew out his math textbook. Slightly perturbed by his nervous slip, Trowa shrugged and put the math text into his bookbag anyway – he did have math that day. He hoped. "We're about to finish up on our poetry unit, and then we're starting Frankenstein, so you probably want those books..."
Trowa nodded and slipped the aforementioned texts into his bookbag. The poetry unit had been a sweet sort of hell - they had been doing a terrible lot of romance poems, and Quatre often ended up trying to suppress a laughing fit in class when they were attempting to dissect particularly cheesy lines. (*Plenty* of opportunity for, ah, "significant glances" between the two.) Not to mention that the teacher seemed quite fond of calling on their classmate Heero Yuy - Trowa knew him vaguely - and Heero was often bitingly sarcastic or simply silent, in either case usually sending the entire class into snorts of laughter.
But corny old romantic poetry was the last thing on Trowa's mind. He was filled with nerves, hearing Quatre's sweet soft voice but having trouble listening. Was it possible that Quatre had actually forgotten about their anniversary...? A forlorn feeling touched the core of his being, and slowly began to unfurl.
"... and by the way, Trowa, happy anniversary," Quatre finished, just the slightest hint of a tease in his voice to reveal that he had guessed at Trowa's thoughts. He smiled fondly and touched Trowa's shoulder before letting his hand drop. "Did you actually think I could forget something so important?"
Scanning his painstakingly neat locker once more to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, Trowa straightened up, rudely jostled by a passing jock but not thinking much of it. "No," Trowa defended automatically, but surrendered when he saw Quatre's knowing smile.
He should never have doubted for a moment. He regarded Quatre with warmth and love evident in his every line. Of course Quatre hadn't forgotten. Quatre was selfless to a fault. He rarely gave a thought to himself. "I got you something," Trowa admitted, the shyness in his voice faint but detectable.
Quatre's eyes brightened with surprise and delight. Whatever misery Trowa had noticed earlier had apparently been overwhelmed. "Did you really?"
The look on Quatre's face was worth overpaying for the chocolate. "Yeah, just a moment, let me see if there's time enough to give it to you now..." Trowa rummaged through his messenger bag for a moment before feeling the cool heart-shaped container brush his fingers.
Then the warning bell rang, sending convulsive hysterics through the students as they scurried madly to reach their classes or face the wrath of their instructors.
Trowa sighed unbelievingly. "Damn," he muttered, "and after I finally found it, too."
The massive flood of students in the hallway had abruptly died down to a wanton trickle of latecomers. "We'll be late for class if I give it to you now," Trowa conceded reluctantly, letting the container drop from his hand and slip with a soft thump to the bottom of his bag. He reached out and gently brushed the backs of two slim fingers over Quatre's smooth cheek. "I'll give you it during our B period free, hmm?"
Before Trowa could react, Quatre had pulled him into an unexpectedly fierce hug, burying his face in Trowa's chest. A bit startled but pleasantly surprised, Trowa obliged, wrapping his arms around Quatre.
He could vaguely hear Quatre's muffled voice as the boy tried to catch his breath. "Thank you, Trowa, even though you didn't have to. I love you so, so much." Quatre pressed closer, and Trowa hugged him back and gently stroked the smaller boy's soft hair, hoping to provide the comfort it seemed he wanted. Trowa didn't exactly know what special thing he had done to bring this on, but it was certainly enjoyable. "So much, Trowa. You're always there for me and you always know what to do and say to make things bearable. You always know how to save me." Quatre pulled back a modicum and tilted his face up to see Trowa better, clear blue eyes impressing Trowa with the strength and depth of his boyfriend's feelings. "I love you. I really do."
Not knowing what to say to such a fervent and unexpected declaration, Trowa opted instead to remain silent. He kept Quatre in the embrace for one more moment, loathe to leave Quatre wanting comfort, but reluctantly dropped his arms.
"Trowa, something horrible happened at home last night that I really want to talk to you about..."
Trowa glanced uneasily at the innocent-seeming bell. "I think we'll have to wait till B period, Quatre, we're --"
BRING!! BRING BRING BRING!! BRING BRING!!
"Late," he finished ruefully, as the late bell sounded its last warning shrieks. (BRING!!!! BRING!! BRING! Bring! Bring. Bring...)
Quatre managed somehow to waveringly smile, eyes shining with tears of joy or grief, Trowa couldn't tell. Then Quatre chuckled and sniffled, wiping at his eyes.
Shrugging a bit at Quatre's amusement, Trowa tugged pointedly at Quatre's hand -- and the two walked down the now empty corridor to class.
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Quatre's mind was buzzing with joy, and he felt enveloped in the warm protective comfort that Trowa always gave him. Though not even Trowa could take the bitter edge off of the last night's events, Trowa certainly helped, and Quatre was already wishing B period would hurry its little rear up.
He knew that his response to Trowa's confession of a gift waiting for him was a little strong, but somehow just knowing that Trowa cared enough to search out something for him – the feeling of being loved not out of a sense of duty or because he was the Winner heir, but because he was Quatre – had overwhelmed him in grand rush of gratitude. He scratched the back of his neck, a small and slightly embarrassed smile touching his lips. Oh well. He was sure Trowa hadn't minded.
He just hadn't been able to help it. Last night had been pure misery, insomnia and guilt. His father had been in one of his worst moods for no reason Quatre could discern, ranting and raving at his son for *hours*.
Quatre had made the mistake of trying to discuss again with his father the possibility of hiring mercenaries, if only as a defense unit against OZ or Federation assassins. He even offered the Maguanacs' help - he knew the Maguanacs would be perfectly pleased to help the Winners any way they could.
His father had adamantly refused, and Quatre had seen his hopes disappear before his eyes as he listened to his father give a veritable sermon on how "We Are Pacifists." Quatre had heard it all a thousand times before, but of course that didn't deter his father at all. When Quatre stated, trying to remain calm, that defensive units didn't fight unless attacked, it only sparked another uncharacteristic verbal assault. Even more than it annoyed Quatre, it worried him.
For a few uncomfortable minutes the conversation had even turned to Trowa, the elder Winner irately wanting to know if Quatre's period of sexual experimentation had passed. Quatre had told him that they were both virgins and planning to stay that way, but his explanations were in vain, and in the end he had deliberately riled his father up to seek a change in topic.
Remembering the useless frustration of that night, coupled with the unnatural feeling that his father would never normally act this way, brought back to Quatre's eyes the darkness Trowa had noted earlier. His father had a death wish. The only action Mr. Winner was taking to 'protect' himself was to gather supplies in case of blockade. It made sense if one didn't think about it, but then one realized that it was a preventive measure against the least likely thing to occur. It was much more likely that either OZ, whatever it was, or the Federation would somehow either force Mr. Winner over to their side, or just get rid of him the easy way. Quatre ducked his head a bit and blinked to clear his eyes of that sudden sting.
Assassination - such a dirty word, such a foul concept. He couldn't envision the type of person who would choose such a path to follow and didn't even want to think about *why* an assassin would choose that 'career' in the first place.
Assassination - like had happened to Mr. Dorlian. Quatre had not been fooled in the slightest by all of the newscasters. There was no possible way that White Fang could have been behind Mr. Dorlian's death - Milliardo Peacecraft had openly and eloquently supported Mr. Dorlian, and the Vice- Minister had vouched for White Fang more than once. OZ and the Federation, on the other hand, had kept strangely quiet, inviting Mr. Dorlian to 'peace talks' as a common courtesy rather than actually wanting him there.
Assassination - the back door to a new era.…
Secretly, Quatre *wanted* a war to break out already, a war between OZ and the Federation or between White Fang and the Federation. Whichever faction wanted to battle could, as long as they released the Federation's chokehold and brought peace. That was all the tired civilians wanted. Quatre would have been right out there fighting with White Fang if only he could, but his father had taken care never to expose him to implements of war, and Rashid outright refused to teach him anything ("For your own good, Quatre- sama." "*droop* Rashi~d...").
It was terrifying to continue living under an illusionary peace while you could see all around you the warning signs of danger and bloodshed. *Something* was going to give, sooner or later, and people were going to die. That was what his father didn't understand. Pacifism did not have a place right now. People who preached it now were suicidal. There would be time enough for pacifism after the main threats were eradicated. Not before. Perhaps it was a ruthless way of looking at the situation, but it was the only sensible viewpoint Quatre could come up with.
And how many times had Quatre tried to tell that to Mr. Winner, each time failing pathetically to accomplish a single thing?
Somewhere around three or four o' clock in the morning, Iria had stepped in to intervene and rescue Quatre from Mr. Winner's blustering haze. At that point Quatre almost wanted to heave his own beloved pacifism out the window as a crack theory, wondering bitterly if shock would bring his father back to his senses. Iria had gently but firmly steered Quatre out of the room. Quatre had been sullen, upset, and angry, all of those emotions he had not shown since he met the Maguanacs. But Iria soon took care of that, by solemnly telling Quatre what was wrong with their father.
Mr. Winner had cancer. His cancer was at an advanced stage, discovered late, and out of control. His body was crumbling by the minute. Mr. Winner would die within the month and save OZ and the Federation the trouble: *that* was why he was gathering all of the Winner's holdings together on L2. Not to save himself, not for a blockade, but to give his only son a start.
Right then, when Iria had finished her explanation and was looking worriedly at Quatre to see how he had taken the news, a surge of longing had lunged through Quatre. At the moment of crisis, Quatre's being had cried for Trowa's comforting embraces and feather-light touches, for his realistic viewpoint and eternal stability.…
All Quatre had done at that point, however, was nod in understanding and eclipse his feelings with a mask of resigned and calm acceptance. Iria had enveloped him in a quick hug and told him that he was being very brave. And after that he had fled to his room and tried to stifle his dry sobs to the best of his ability, the entire night lost to the paralyzing terror of what- may-come.
/Father, I don't deserve to be your son.../
Quatre felt a cool hand slip unobtrusively into his own, jerking him back to the present, and offered Trowa a grateful smile even as he noticed they had arrived at their destination. Trowa always knew when Quatre was feeling badly. Always. And just as often, a word, a touch, a kiss, would leave Quatre capable of outer calm once more.
"Let's go inside," Trowa said quietly, disengaging his hand from Quatre's with silent firmness and opening the door.
Then they walked into the classroom together, much to the amusement of the class, and much to the perturbation of Instructor H. Quatre hurriedly concocted a viable alibi and proceeded to explain their tardiness in the sweetest, most innocent tones possible.
Needless to say, their lateness was excused.
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1.1.1.1
The water was so *cold*, yet somehow, he couldn't make himself step out. Every time he told himself, 'Okay, Duo, this is enough, get out already,' he only ended up making the water a little bit colder. Duo knew damn well that staying in the shower beneath water this cold was incredibly stupid and unnecessarily melodramatic, but he couldn't help it. Doing this - punishing himself like this - it wasn't a plea for attention! It was a cry to the deaf God whose existence he had denied - a cry for help and absolution. His silent Confiteor. [1]
He had done badly, he *knew*. The knowledge sat inside him and twisted like a sadist's corkscrew blade, tearing him up from inside out. He had sinned, done wrong where a right was called for, and because of that, a man better than him was dead.
Dead. He was jaded, or so he'd thought. He was wrong, obviously, if Dorlian's death made him tremble more than this damn shower. He exhaled slowly; nice way to find he was mistaken.
It came down to audacity in the end, really. The real truth of what Duo'd dared to do, seeping in; a delayed reaction, sure, but there it was. His sheer nerve in taking away the reaper's task, in striking down a life devoted to the greater good, made him flinch. Since when had life or death been his to choose between? That was Shinigami's right. He was not worthy.
And then the added torture of knowing for certain that the only hope for a peaceful L2 had lain, golden, quiescent, gentle... quiet in Dorlian's palms. And Dorlian was six feet under, pushing up daisies; Dorlian, the great man who could have followed in Heero Yuy's pioneering steps.
Dorlian, with a young daughter and a loving wife - a weeping widow. Dorlian, who had forgiven him before Duo realized the enormity of what he'd done. Oh, Duo would never have shown that mercy. He would have spent his dying breaths cursing his killer and his killer's childen's children to Hell for all of their damned eternity.
But the day hadn't played out like that. It hadn't been him twitching on the street, hadn't been his blood glistening on pavement. No – instead he was the shadow assassin, there boom and gone again, mission accomplished and could he have his money please? Leaving a martyr in his wake and a trail of shattered dreams.
Ironically enough, this was the job that had let him hit it over the top. He had the money to try for a scholarship now, money he had earned himself through various unorthodox methods. The six grand Dorlian's death had landed him was all he'd needed.
He'd spent half his life dying for this chance. Doing what he had to, screwing, sucking, humiliating himself, swallowing his pride, on his knees, all of it on his knees! And now the chance was right in front of him. He could almost reach out and touch it.
Except when he tried, laying a hand on the crisp Federation dollars, blood splattered from his fingers to spiderweb through the rubberbanded bills. He had drawn back his hand with a stricken gasp the first time, staring at his hand as though it were possessed by Satan. Then in a frenzy he had slammed the briefcase shut, shoved it under the bed and fled early for work.
He had seen it happen, that was the disturbing part, he had seen the blood on his hands. It was jack-shit crazy, Duo knew that perfectly well, but that was what he'd seen, and damnit, that made it real.
He set his jaw and stabbed the bar of soap into the wall, over and over, barely restraining himself from banging his stupid head into it. His entire dilemma was just that - stupid! Feeling sorry after the fact did nothing for anyone involved. He *knew* that.
He had to accept this, somehow: Dorlian was dead, and he, Duo Maxwell, was not.
He had to take his chance, damnit, reach out and dig his nails into it. He had not groveled and made excuses and pushed himself till he nearly snapped for eight fucking, lousy years to wig out now. He would stumble on, would push himself up out of the abyss.
So he'd still Dorlian's ghost, the one whose blood dripped from his fingers. He'd offer the damn sacrifice. He'd suffer through the punishment like the stupid animal he was. Cutting himself was out: messy, sloppy, not compatible with his work and so easily seen as faked. Suicide was definitely out: too easy, and besides, he couldn't leave poor Hilde behind.
But Duo hated the cold with a passion, so washing away sin beneath a freezing deluge would be the most fitting penance, the most appropriate eulogy he could offer.
/Wash/
/Be clean/
/Be clean/
/Scrub the dirt away/
/Scrub the filth away/
/Wash away your sin/
/If you can/
He was going insane, no question. Scratch that - he *was* insane, had been for a while now. It was just a subtle kind of insanity, the kind that made people smile a little, like he was some kind of rowdy kid. But soon, oh so soon, he would become a stark staring madman, and there was nothing funny about that. He could not live like this. Not anymore. Not after Dorlian.
Sixteen years old with "sex" all over his job description. What had ever happened to flipping beef patties at the local fast food place? He wanted to flip patties. He wanted to be Fry Cook Maxwell...
Even his thoughts leapt wildly, no logic between this one and the next. He was hurtling down into insanity's chasm and from the looks of it, his brains were gonna be splattered all over chasm floor real, real soon.
Where had he gone wrong? Had it been at age eight, when Raze propositioned him? Or before that? Perhaps it had been that mobile suit he stole. He *knew* he shouldn't have done that one; Solo would have said so too, in his lazy colony-boy drawl. Maybe that was when it had begun, when he first met Solo. But back then he was innocent of his curse. He didn't know that he'd end up killing Solo. Maybe it all started when he arrived, a quick-fingered little heap of long-haired humanity, on this poorest of colonies.
Hell. He knew when it began -- on the day of his misbegotten birth when he came shrieking into the world.
His teeth clattered and he shuddered violently, but he wasn't done thinking. He wouldn't leave this shower to dry off, warm up and sit down until he had finished raking nails over his soul. Looking back at his life, it was so easy to see how its disasters had their root in him. He'd acknowledged a godless life for a long time now, so with no deity to color where the blame should fall, he knew where fault lay.
In himself. In the choices he had made. He didn't have to be here right now, but somewhere along the line, somewhere along the string of mistakes that composed his excuse of a past, he'd done something that led him to right now, sixteen or seventeen years old and shaking like dust in the wind.
Where should his anger turn?
Towards himself, like a starving shark trying to eat its own tail.
Duo wanted - he needed - redemption. Someone to redeem him. Not God - He didn't exist, or if He did, He fucking well didn't deserve to. His main problem, Duo thought, almost dispassionate now, was his lack of trust: he trusted no one in the world enough to accept an absolution from their lips. No one would understand the despair with which he sought forgiveness, anyway. He knew Hilde would try if he asked her to, because she was sweet and liked him, but she had lived all her life a sheltered rich girl and could never comprehend the thin line he walked between insanity and brilliance, between rising and falling. She could never understand the reason for this ice-cold water.
If he only repented, Sis and the Father had said, he would be saved. Here he was, repenting, and he sure as hell wasn't feeling chipper about anything. He had spent all his life repenting, on his knees for eight long years, and all it had got him was this teetery feeling like leaning over a rail. Fear of falling.
"Duo, are you planning to hog the shower all morning?!"
It was Hilde, yelling over the shower's noise. Duo could barely hear her. "I have to get to work!" she screeched. "Hurry *up*!"
"I'm coming right out." Duo forced his tone to be upbeat; Hilde had the weirdest belief in his infallibility. He turned off the water and sagged against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. He wanted to cry.
Making himself cheerful when he was like this made him feel sick, but for appearance's sake he added, "Why the rush, Hilde? I knew ya stank, but I didn't realize it had reached that point yet..."
"Duo, you jerk!" The sound of indignant giggling. "I've gotta be at work by ten, so don't try to distract me!"
Duo slid the shower door open, grabbed his towel, and wrapped it around himself. "If you don't want to be distracted, I'd recommend lookin' away when I saunter past, huh? Help me preserve my boyish modesty and all that?"
"What boyish modesty? Duo, your career is destroying *other* people's modesty!"
"Yeah, yeah," he drawled. "Somebody's gotta do it. Now step away from the door, please, lest you be blinded by my godlike physique."
"Fine, will you GET OUT?"
"Don't kill me!" He took the last moment before kicking the door open to put a teasing smile on his face, though the smile was wasted, as Hilde was prudently covering her eyes. His hair dripping all over the floor and still shivering, he made his careful way to his room.
He heard the shower hiss up again and Hilde yelped, her curses carrying through the walls. "Fuck! This water's COLD!"
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1.1.1.2
"And there'll be a quiz next Tuesday on sections 6-7 and 6-8 in the textbook," droned old Mrs. Yiritza. "For your homework, study and do the chapter review on page 217."
Quatre sighed in relief as his Trigonometry class was cut short by the clanging bell that marked the end of every period and stuffed his binder and folder haphazardly into his bag, a few crumpled papers leaking out of the edges. Finally, it was B period! Seventy-five minute Trig classes should be outlawed.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and set out of the classroom along with the rest of his chatting classmates, gaze darting back and forth between the river of students in the hallways. Trowa should be coming out of French class right now, and his French classroom was on the same floor as Quatre's Trig class. In fact – there he was. Quatre's heart lifted as he identified his tall boyfriend's head above the crowd, and he indelicately forced his way through.
"Trowa," he said when he arrived at Trowa's side, and smiled. "It's such a relief to see you after Trig. That period was hell."
Trowa nodded. "Tell me about it. My teacher doesn't even speak French."
Quatre made a face. Trowa hooked his arm through Quatre's and they made their way downstairs, to the cafeteria.
The entire school seemed to have its lunch break at midday, and the hallway leading to the lunchroom was crowded with prattling students. Quatre and Trowa talked lightly of nothing in particular as they got their lunch—pizza—and found themselves a seat at a round table in the corner.
"D'ya think it'll be edible today?" Quatre asked Trowa, half in jest and half seriously, as he picked up his slice of pizza. Grease slid off it most unattractively and dampened his paper plate.
"If not, I bought you a gift that should make up for it," Trowa replied, looking warily at his own slice.
"Yeah?" Quatre raised his eyebrows. "I'm excited. What is it?"
"Finish your pizza." Trowa gave him one of his half-smiles, green eyes softening just that much, before following his own advice and digging in cautiously.
They ate mostly in quiet. Trowa wasn't given to talking while eating, for which Quatre was grateful; the lunch required truly creative handling. Quatre occupied himself wondering what gift Trowa had bought him, and hoping it wasn't too expensive—he was aware of his boyfriend's economic status and didn't want Trowa to have to go without food or something for his sake. Trowa was already too thin.
Having gotten only one slice rather than Quatre's impulsive two, Trowa finished first and Quatre tore through his second slice as quickly as he could. By this time, the cafeteria crowd had dissipated, since the midday lunch break was only forty minutes long. Quatre and Trowa had the entire period free, however—one of the few free periods they shared.
"Done?" Trowa asked, one hand at the ready in his messenger bag, as Quatre washed his pizza down with a hearty swig of soda. Quatre nodded.
"All right." Trowa devoted his entire attention to the bag and began searching through it. As he searched, head down, he added, "It's not much, but I think you'll like it."
"I like anything you give me," Quatre told him sincerely. "You don't have to knock yourself out, Trowa."
Trowa shrugged. "I don't, usually. You're an exception—a-ha! Found it." Triumphantly Trowa swept something up from the bag and presented it to Quatre.
It was a small, heart-shaped metal container with the word Gladbury written in a golden script on the top. Quatre's eyes widened and he only barely stopped himself from bouncing in his seat as he took the container. It was Gladbury chocolate, and he *loved* Gladbury chocolate.
"Thank you, Trowa," he breathed happily, opening it to take a peek. Within nestled twelve chocolates, each in their individual paper crib. He took one and nibbled it—it was coconut, his favorite flavor. He finished the chocolate under Trowa's amused eye and offered Trowa one, but Trowa shook his head.
"I have to maintain my slim, girlish figure," Trowa deadpanned, rising. Quatre got up as well, and they began walking out of the lunch room. "I'm on the gymnastics team, remember?"
"How could I forget? When I saw you at your first meet I thought you were going to dislocate your spine." Quatre placed the chocolate in his bookbag to the tune of Trowa's quiet laughter.
"I've always been flexible. It doesn't hurt. There's never a need to worry."
"Doesn't mean I can't, though."
"Suit yourself, I won't stop you. Anyway, Quatre, weren't you going to tell me something?"
"Oh yeah…" At once the events of the previous night rushed back to Quatre, and he sobered, feeling vaguely guilty for putting them outside of his mind. "Let's go outside and sit someplace nice, huh?"
"Grab your coat, the weather systems are being weird again," Trowa said as they passed by the first floor atrium. Quatre snatched his jacket from where he'd tossed it at the beginning of the lunch period and shrugged it on obediently.
The Vera Langel Institute, being a very high-brow educational institutional, had itself a little garden surrounding its six-story building. There were park benches and an actual tree there, a weeping willow imported directly from Earth. The area beneath the tree was free, so the two students made their way over and relaxed against its base. Quatre rested comfortably against Trowa's shoulder within the crook of his arm and played with his fingers, hanging more or less in front of Quatre's face. Trowa chuckled but tolerated this.
"Are you going to tell me, Quatre?" he queried after a short while. Quatre sighed.
"It's about my father." Quatre snuggled in against Trowa's side for the warmth and safety he offered. Trowa's fingers brushed his face gently. "You've heard this before, but he was yelling at me again."
"About what?" Trowa asked.
"Just everything… me, you, pacifism, the usual… I was trying to get him to accept the Maguanacs as bodyguards because I was scared for his life, what with the unrest in the Federation." Quatre let out a long breath. "He refused because he said it wouldn't be right, wouldn't be the pacifist thing to do, and after a while Iria came in to rescue me, and she told me that… that…"
He closed his eyes and turned his face into Trowa's shoulder. He could feel Trowa's arm tighten around him, and his fingers stroked Quatre's hair soothingly, though he said nothing.
"Trowa, my father's going to die." Through sheer willpower he forced back the tears this confrontation with reality brought. "It's cancer, late- stage, out of control. Iria says there's nothing we can do, and now I understand why he was doing all that stuff with having supplies brought here. When he dies, I'm the next in line for the company. I don't know how I'm going to handle it, and I'm so ashamed, for acting like such a selfish brat before him, going on and on about what I thought instead of just listening to him and—"
"You didn't act like that at all," Trowa said softly. "From what I understand you were only trying to have him accept bodyguards, that's all. Don't take blame that isn't rightly yours."
"I don't know what to do," Quatre sighed. "I don't know what I should do."
Trowa said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He stroked Quatre's hair with slow, lulling motions until Quatre nearly fell asleep, though the thoughts looming in his mind were dark and ominous. There wasn't much Trowa could do, but having him as a shelter made Quatre feel a bit better.
After too short a time, activity began around them, with the few students outside in the cold weather retreating back indoors for the start of the next period. Trowa, clearly not wanting to get up, mentioned, "Class begins in five minutes."
"I wish I could just cut and stay here the entire day with you," Quatre muttered, opening his eyes. "How important, really, is feudal Europe?"
"I would cut class just for you," Trowa said honestly. "But I'm on scholarship and I can't afford to lose it. Catherine would beat me with her rolling pin.."
"I know. I'm just being an idiot," Quatre said, resigned, and reluctantly rose.
"You're too intelligent to be an idiot." Trowa got up and stretched.
Quatre shrugged. "Do you have a free now?"
"No, I have Algebra II."
"Can I get a kiss before class?" Quatre asked hopefully.
Trowa smiled. "If it'll make you feel better," he said, and took Quatre in his arms, and kissed him.
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/... mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti vobis fratres [2]... oh. Oh, *damn*!/
Duo bolted straight up in bed, then groaned and smacked his forehead in dismay [3]. What *time* was it? He was supposed to meet his librarian, Mrs. Jackowski, at three o'clock. She'd rake him over barbed wire if he was late - with infinite sweetness and a chocolate waiting for him after the ordeal.
The green digits, when he discovered them glowing on the nightstand beside him, read 1:01. Duo chewed thoughtfully at his lip. He'd slept for a little while, but he'd woken up at least two hours ago, so he must have spent his time praying, of all possible useless things. He supposed it was a knee- jerk reaction. He honestly hadn't known it till his appointment jabbed into his mind, snapping him out of his hazy, semi-comatose state.
But it was over. Right? It was over. He'd killed already, he'd mourned, he'd repented and sacrificed and he wasn't into masochism. So he didn't need to torment himself further. So, he wouldn't. Duo sighed, tired despite his two hour semi-nap.
Enough of this. He was sixteen. He had a life to live. And he would live it, too, wring all the hope and happiness out of it that he could. Otherwise Dorlian's death would have been for nothing. And that he wouldn't stand for.
Well - he glanced at the clock again (1:02) - he had two hours before Mrs. Jackowski would be expecting him. Maybe a jolt of caffeine would get him going. He swung his legs out of bed and yawned, letting them dangle, before hopping up to go get dressed, determined to brood no longer over what he had done.
Duo was a quick dresser by necessity. He threw on an oversized black T- shirt and a pair of black leggings, then looked around for his shoes, feeling definite de'ja'vu. He found no footwear, so he kneeled down and started rummaging beneath his cot, hurling crap out from underneath it willy-nilly. He extricated his favorite and sixth-favorite mangas, five dollars, three nickels, broken headphones, a keychain, a few thin wires, a pack of gum, two empty wallets, a dagger, and a cardboard tiara emblazoned with the nearest fast food restaurant's logo before finally drawing out a scuffed white pair of cheap tennis sneakers. Triumphantly he wriggled his feet into them and yanked the laces tight. Then he tossed on the first jacket he found, one folded neatly on his chair. It proved to be blatantly raincoatish, all glossy waterproof material, but he didn't really give a flying camel either way.
Hilde would be back home from work around nine o'clock tonight. Plenty of time to distance himself from encroaching madness and review from algebra to geometry while he was at it.
He left.
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1.1.1.3
Ladyjane's Café, his personal favorite, was a nice, drowsy little place just off the corner of Sixth and Freedom Boulevard. The ivy crawling up its stone walls gave it a particularly picturesque appearance. There were quaint iron-wrought black tables set up outdoors with classy little umbrellas to protect from the insanely bright artificial sun - L2's weather control administrators should be taken out and shot - and one of the walls was actually a glass window like the one in his room, so one could peep inside at the cozy, armchair-splattered interior.
It was mostly empty today, most people either at work or queuing up outside the Unemployment Agency. Duo nodded at the manager, Ladyjane herself, who was scrawling fiercely on a piece of paper on a table strewed with similar documents. He'd worked here during the mornings for a while before he met Hilde. Ladyjane looked up from beneath bushy black eyebrows and nodded tersely before returning to her work. Duo repressed a wince for Ladyjane's sake; the poor woman knew she was hideous and needed no confirmation of the fact.
Up at the counter, he noted that Basio, the usual cashier around this time of day, was absent; in his place was a new guy. Anything was better than bumbling, nervous Basio, but this new cashier looked particularly promising.
For a start, his looks were a great improvement over Basio's thin, substanceless features. Duo consciously refrained from licking his chops, for the new cashier was quite handsome, with large brown eyes in a heart- shaped face. Long dark red hair fell into the expressive eyes until, fed up, the cashier tied it back with a scarlet hairtie and a soft curse. Caught, Duo couldn't help but watch the cashier's movements, the poise and grace wasted in such a menial position.
Somehow he tore his gaze away long enough to look down at his watch. It was 1:30 – shift change time at Ladyjane's. Damn. That meant the new guy would be on his way out. Ladyjane lifted her head briefly to bark out a clean-up order, to which the cashier made an ironic little bow before acquiescing.
Too bad that sexy cashier was gonna have to work some overtime, because no way was Duo letting this chance escape him. A mark like that was just what he needed. Duo came up to the counter and the cashier called over his shoulder, "Sorry, gotta clean up... be right with ya..." A few moments passed before the cashier put away the towel he was "swabbing" with and turned around.
Duo smiled at him, a little goofily – egads, the Demon losing his famed composure? He hastily wiped the goofy look off his face and replaced it with a more acceptable smile.
The cashier grinned cheerfully at him and leaned against the counter. "Hi, I'm Heart," he said. "D'ya want something? Sorry about making you wait... Ladyjane woulda killed me or something if I didn't clean up..."
"Not really. Just wanted to chat. And hey, no fear." Duo quirked an eyebrow. "I know her too." He gave a mock-woeful look. "She's a nice woman and everything" -- he cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure Ladyjane wasn't paying attention (she wasn't) -- "but if you don't do what she says, you're 'ejected,' no trial!"
The cashier nodded and chuckled. "I have no idea why she doesn't just say you're fired. No, it *has* to be 'ejected.' Here's to hoping she did not just hear me say that."
Duo pretended to lift a wine glass -- Heart caught on and did the same. They clinked the nonexistent glasses in midair. "Cheers," they said simultaneously.
Ladyjane looked up from her paperwork and barked, "Are you quite done, Kinning!"
"Yes ma'am," Heart replied promptly.
"Then disappear," the woman ordered. "It's Skulley's shift now. Come back at six."
"Yes'm." Heart looked hopefully at Duo. "Hey, wanna walk home with me?"
Duo grinned. "Oh, I'm yours."
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"So where's your place?" Duo asked Heart as they navigated the crowded L2 streets. Heart was quite adept at it, slipping in between people or pushing some aside in order to clear a way.
"I live with my family. 412 Pride Drive. Ever been there?"
"Passed it by." Actually, a lot of Duo's customers were from around there. "That's a pretty rich section of town. You loaded or something?"
Heart snorted. "I wish! If I was loaded, I wouldn't be workin' under Ladyjane. It's my old lady that's rich. My dad was a Fed, he fell in love with my mom, married her, and along came my humble self." A sly smile. "Daddy-o died of poisoning later on, though... they convicted and hanged one of the servants."
Duo raised his eyebrows. "That's interesting..."
"The courts thought so too," Heart said cheerfully. "But anyone can be bought, ne?" Duo flinched, but Heart didn't seem to notice. "Anyway, stranger, I never caught your name. I can't just keep callin' ya 'handsome.'"
"Thanks, flirt." Duo grinned a bit. "I run, I hide, but I don't lie, I'm Duo Maxwell." At Heart's laugh, he added defensively, "Hey, I picked it myself. What's your excuse?"
Heart had the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't have laughed, especially not when I'm saddled with a name like -" he made exaggerated quotation gestures with his fingers - "'Heart.'" He sighed. "You wouldn't believe how many schoolyard fights I got into over that name."
"Sure I can," Duo replied easily. Heart's inquisitive look invited elaboration which Duo did *not* give -- his childhood memories weren't happy ones. "So what's the story behind the name?"
"Curious?" Heart laughed. "Yeah, I could see that. Okay, here goes: my mom is a little, well, not normal." He rolled his eyes. "Actually, to be blunt, she's a freaking lunatic. She named her kids all weird. I got a sister named Felicity Joy Cheer -- she's a freshman in high school -- and two little brothers named Justice and Right. Right's been insufferable ever since Mom named him 'right' and he's only five. Juju's at least still a baby and can't talk yet!"
"Heh! Did your mom remarry or what?"
"Nope. She has no idea who the kids' fathers are. But I'm old enough to act like a guardian for them. Or a role model. Or something."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two. I'm graduating from the university this year."
"Wow." That was a surprise. Heart looked Duo's age. "I thought you were younger."
"Lots of people do." Heart shrugged. "I have to go through a lot whenever I want a damn drink." He flipped his voice to an obnoxious whine. "'This ID doesn't look valid, sir... I think I need your driver's license, sir... Go home and get your birth certificate, sir...'" He shook his head in disgust and gave a rueful sigh. "I haven't heard that one yet, but I carry a little copy of the certificate in my wallet just in case. I don't feel like bribing some snotnosed bastard twice as much money as his lousy beer is worth."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. The only reason I can get a drink without any trouble is because I know a hell of a lot of people, so no one ever bothers me about my age."
"Yeah? How old are *you*?"
Duo thought. "Sixteen, seventeen, around there. Forgot when my birthday is, I just count another year every Christmas."
"Oh." Heart looked saddened. "War orphan?"
"Right on the mark."
There was a short awkward silence before Heart asked, "So, why don't the bartenders bother you? They sure harass everyone else."
A grin from Duo. "It's a professional secret, my friend."
As the conversation went on, Duo relaxed. Heart was a lively conversationalist who was willing to glance over all sorts of topics. He never stayed very long on any of them and Duo got the impression of a rather flighty person, but he was pleasant company. Heart also made it clear, over the course of their talking, that he was interested in Duo -- for more than just this one-time walk home. The flattering epithets he sprinkled his comments with -- gorgeous, sexy, hot stuff -- conveyed the other guy's interest very well. Duo was very glad not to have to come right out and ask which way he swung. Some people found that offensive for some reason.
"We're almost there," Heart said, glancing up at the name of the intersection they were currently passing. "We're on Peace Road, just a bit more till Pride. Anyway, I was wondering, do you have a job?"
Duo coughed. "Well, yeah..."
"What is it?" he asked curiously.
The braided teenager made a face. "I can tell you what it's not. You guess what it is."
"Twenty Questions? Sounds fun to me." Heart grinned. "Okay, are you a student?"
"Kinda," Duo said, thinking of Mrs. Jackowski's tutoring sessions, "but I wouldn't describe it as my job."
"Okay... are you a teacher?"
"Depends. Whoever's new is usually shuffled over to me because I've got the most experience."
"Hmm. This is tough. Hey," Heart looked suddenly stricken, "you're not a soldier, are you?"
"No way. Under the Feds? I'd rather blow my brains out."
Heart smiled, evidently relieved. "I was scared that in that case, I wouldn't ever see you again!"
"Flatterer," Duo accused playfully. "I'm just one guy. There are other fish in the sea. Granted, most of the cute ones are either taken or het..."
"You'd be wasted in the military," Heart declared fervently. "Unless you were a special operative or something, you'd be so wasted."
"Yeah? How'd you figure that one?"
"Well," Heart said, as if it were obvious, "you're smart." Duo was ready to protest that, but then his companion stopped, so Duo did as well. "Sorry, we're here."
Duo's gaze traveled up neat white steps, a brown oak double door carved with animals and flowers, and two pristine marble stories of proof of wealth.
"You're loaded," said Duo with conviction, staring at the stained glass windows on the second story.
Heart shrugged. "Think what you like." Then, for the first time in the conversation, Heart hesitated. "Hey, Duo..."
"Yeah?"
"Well, I really liked talking to you." The young man paused again. "I was wondering if maybe we could meet somewhere again."
Duo smirked. "You want to date me? Are you really sure about that?"
"I want to know you better," Heart said earnestly, cheeks faintly pink.
Duo nodded, smiling that annoying goofy smile again, but he couldn't help it – he couldn't remember the last time he'd been on a date and not been paid for it. It was so cute. Heart's blush was just too much. "All right then. Let's see – how about tonight, 48th and Independence Road?"
"You sure? I can pick you up at your house and we can cruise around for a bit," Heart offered.
"You drive?" That was a surprise, though now that Duo thought about it, he could remember Heart's reference to his driver's license.
"I'm a senior in college." Heart grinned. "Of course I drive. I'd be laughed out of the university if I didn't. So what time is good for you?"
"Whatever time is good for you," Duo said playfully, tossing the decision back at him.
Heart looked sardonic, in his ever-cheerful way. "I'm not gonna wiggle out of setting the time, am I? Do you know how bad I am at making decisions? It took me four tearing hours of indecision before I could finally pick a color to paint my room."
"So what color did you pick?"
"Heh heh heh. I didn't. Couldn't decide. That's how awful I am at making decisions."
"Then I shall be noble and make your decision for you," Duo pronounced loftily before dropping back down to the colony again. "I work at a club. Work at the Club, actually. The one where the Demon works."
That he just had to add in.
Heart's eyes widened. "Damn. Ever met her?"
"Him," Duo corrected, frowning slightly. There was more than one downfall to sporting a braid. "The Demon is definitely a him. Well, anyway, I work there, and I need to be there by, hmm, eleven. So pick me up at Independence Road and Freedom Boulevard at 10:30, that oughta give us enough time. We can party at the Club. I live in #27 with my roommate Hilde."
"Okay. You sure the bouncer will let us in?"
A feral grin twisted on Duo's face for a moment. "She'd rather die than not let me in. So, see you at 10:30?"
"Of course." Heart smiled happily. "Thanks, Duo. See ya."
He lifted his hand in a farewell gesture. "Later."
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Duo was singing, and it was annoying. He had been singing since half past nine. Oh, sure, he'd kept it down to humming for the first half hour that Hilde had gotten home from work, but finally he just burst into full, glorious song.
Well, it had been full and glorious when he started. Duo had a beautiful voice that he played like a master, like it was an instrument. He could do amazing things when he sang, whipping out his voice until it trembled but only because he allowed it to tremble, letting it soar with the passion of the music until it shook. Usually Hilde loved to hear him sing. But God, he was in a weird mood tonight. He either belted out obscene bar-songs with a vibrato the envy of any opera singer, or mauled Hilde's favorite tunes, or treated Hilde's least favorite songs with reverence and – she grudgingly had to admit – made them sound, if still not good, passable.
It was now ten fifteen, according to her watch, and he still hadn't run out of songs. She had a sneaking suspicion that once he ran out of English songs, he'd simply move on to stuff in Dutch or Japanese or Spanish or something, likely with the most atrocious accent he could mutate his voice into. At least he was still in his room changing, so it was yet possible to get away from him.
Desperate, she grabbed a drink, a blanket, and her headphones and took over the couch in the living room, incidentally at the opposite end of the apartment, blasted her own music up to full volume and started singing defiantly herself. The sound of Duo's singing coming through the walls had stopped for a moment, and when he started up again, this time a notch louder, she heard the grin in his voice.
He would not be defeated. He had to have ordered those lungs direct from God. Briefly she wished him asthma or bronchitis or something before she had to get up and strangle him, then was ashamed and took the wish back, falling silent, though he certainly didn't. She didn't really want to ruin his voice. Then she remembered that he'd weathered the L2 plague and felt even guiltier.
Hilde didn't wish any real harm on him. She liked him a lot… it was possible she loved him. She worried for him and wanted to care for him and enjoyed his life and light and spirit. That sounded kinda like love. Then again, she wouldn't recognize love if it came up and smacked her ass with a wet towel; her emotional IQ was about negative five.
Lust she could recognize, came the thought unbidden into the virgin-pure fields of her mind. She colored at the thought, then choked as a very uncalled-for mind-picture bubbled into her brain, of Duo in one of those risque outfits that had practically caused her death from blood loss.
Well, frick. His quirky mood had to be getting to her, too. If only he would just Shut. Up! Before he drove her stark raving mad, like or love or not!
Suddenly, Duo fell silent. Immediately her music was way too loud and she turned it off, then listened suspiciously. Was he creeping up behind her, ready to pull one of his notorious little pranks…?
"Whaddya think?" Duo called out as he bounded into the living room, dressed for work.
Work which, incidentally, allowed, hell practically required, a very creative interpretation of what being "dressed for work" meant. Hilde swallowed as Duo rotated, arms flung out, to give Hilde a view from all sides. "Like my outfit?" he asked brightly.
Like? Mere like was too weak a word.
He had on fingerless black gloves and wore an unbuttoned, high-collared black jacket of some unidentified glossy material that looked, surprise, stunning on him. Beneath the jacket was a white, glittering mesh shirt that hung loose, revealing tantalizing glimpses of a fine physique. Black pants that looked like leather were artfully torn and patched up by safety pins with the occasional rag fluttering here and there. He wore plain, dirty white tennis sneakers, but they didn't detract from the overall image of glittering punk angel he presented.
Duo flipped his hair over his shoulder, watching her cheerfully. He had braided it messily tonight, allowing strands of rich chestnut to escape here and there, alluringly. He'd dusted silver glitter all over himself. The only makeup he had applied this time was in the form of something that made his face shine softly, and some eyeliner, just a little, really, since his eyes were already big and lovely without it. He looked so happy he nearly glowed, a definite improvement over the painful false happiness of the past couple of days. "Well?" he prompted expectantly.
Hilde shook her head as her heart twisted. Whatever way you put it, Duo Maxwell was a creature of beauty. "Duo, you're gorgeous. Why is it," she said, half jokingly, half plaintively, "that no matter how hard I try, I just cannot look as good as you do?"
Duo snorted. "Hah! Don't go looking for pity here, Hilde. If you'd give me free rein when you're going to, say, a party or something, I could guarantee you'd be the belle of the ball, knock 'em all into orbit, but nooooo, you have to get all suspicious of me…"
"Yeah, yeah. So, hey," she commented, "you seem pretty happy. Is anything special going on?"
Duo grinned maniacally and twirled, braid thumping aggressively off whatever hard surfaces it encountered. "Leetle Duo has got…" He stopped twirling and paused dramatically. "A date."
Hilde's face crumpled for a moment before she quickly transformed it to innocent surprise. Duo didn't seem to notice. "O-oh… so, um, who's the lucky girl…?"
If Duo noted her trailing voice and the throbbing disappointment Hilde wasn't quite able to cover up, he didn't comment. "Lucky guy, actually," he corrected fondly, glancing at his watch. "He should be here soon."
Her heart sank even further. "You're not –"
"—Gay?" he finished for her. He gave her an odd look. "Jesus friggin' Christ, Hilde, duh. You hadn't noticed? Come on, would a straight guy cart around a braid like this?" He waggled the mass of hair in her direction teasingly, but Hilde's attempt at a smile abruptly fizzled out, and he finally seemed to realize that she was absolutely crestfallen. "Oh, hey, Hilde…" He sighed. "You don't… I mean, like me… do you?" It was clear from his suddenly uncomfortable expression that he dearly wanted the answer to be "no."
To her shame, her lip started quivering, and her vision blurred with tears.
"Oh, shit." Duo sighed again and went over to her, got down on his knees on the couch, since she was still snuggled firmly there. "C'mere. I'm sorry. I didn't know." He held out his arms to her and she turned her face into his shoulder. He smelled like vanilla and strawberry – had to be his shampoo. He was so inordinately vain about his hair, insisted on the best for it, always. "I didn't know," he whispered, breath warm against her ear, and his arms tightened around her, but it was the warm, dry embrace of a friend, not a lover. There was not even a bit of seduction about him now, just pure… pure… friendship. Concern and tenderness… for a friend.
He had never wanted her the way she had wanted him. There'd never been a hope for her.
She realized that she was sobbing and ground her sobs to a halt before she messed up Duo's clubbing gear. He looked freaking gorgeous and he was happy again and now she hated herself for poisoning his joy. He hadn't had anyone since the day she met him. She should have at least pretended, for decency's sake, to be happy for him. No, instead she had to bawl like some kind of little girl who'd been denied the toy she wanted.
Feeling her sobs stop, Duo pulled away anxiously and sat back on his heels. He looked entirely remorseful. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said worriedly. "I swear by everything I hold sacred, I really didn't know." He checked his watch, then straightened up and looked down at her, an awful sadness in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Hilde. I really am."
She managed a wan smile and stood as well. "It's okay. Really. That was just a shock. I'll be fine. Go."
His hands were holding each other tightly. "Yeah?" he said doubtfully.
She nodded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin tonight for you. I'm… I'm happy for you. It's what you want, so I'm happy for you. Go, before you're late and your boss kills me."
He moved hesitantly, casting frequent glances over his shoulder, and he paused at the door. "If you want, I can leave. If I bother you. I'll come back long enough to take my stuff and live somewhere else."
"Don't be an idiot," she snapped, a little more harshly than she'd intended. "Of course I want you back here. You need someone to take care of you."
He gave a rueful laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Look, we'll talk when I get home this morning." Then he slipped through the doorway and was gone.