Adult-FanFiction.org : Gundam, Beyblade, DBZ, FMA

The Chains We Wear	By : LadyYeinKhan Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 13123 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
A/N: Merry (or Happy) belated Christmas to you all and an early Happy New Year. Work has been busy but I've been trying to keep up with my chapters and wanted to post the next one before I skipped off to Yamanashi to ring in the new year with my host parents for a few days. As always, thank you to my readers, both silent and vocal. Knowing that people are interested, knowing that they have ideas and expectations, really is what makes writing a joy. I enjoy telling stories but it is much more fulfilling when they can be shared with others.

Allow me to clarify my own position on the Fanfiction debate: I am not now nor will I ever be an enemy of fanfiction. As a writer, I think it is an excellent exercise. How difficult, but how rewarding, is it to write a continuation of a story already completed, to take characters that have a certain way about them and craft a story that complements them? It's difficult, especially for those of us who want to stay in character, but its a pleasurable challenge. And a part of me would be rather glad to see my work made into fanfiction. It means that something generated enough interest in my readers that they do not want to see the end.

Getting off the soapbox now.

No major warnings for this chapter. Larger author's note can be found at the bottom, where larger comments and warnings will be posted. As always, read and review (if you please). And of course, more importantly, enjoy.

Chapter 12

In the hands of Quatre Winner, champagne was a lethal weapon.

“I am so sorry,” he said, trying once again to get at the mess of glass, water, and partially-dead petals on the floor. Wufei shooed him away with the broom. Thwarted but far from deterred, Quatre turned to Trowa who was still trying, unsuccessfully, to soak water from a sweater with a towel.

“It was an accident,” Trowa said before Quatre finished opening his mouth. Duo grinned.

“But what an accident.   We should have armed you with a wine cellar back in the war.”

Quatre kicked at him. Heero pulled him out of range by the braid and shoved a dustpan in his hands.

“Alright, alright. Bad timing, I get it.”

Bad timing or not, Trowa had to admit—silently, of course, because between Quatre’s guilt and Duo’s ego, he would never hear the end of it—that he had a point. Quatre was an impeccable shot, when he wasn’t trying. If Trowa had been more distracted, the cork would have shot straight into his throat. Of course, if he had been less distracted, he would have instinctively spun out instead of dropping down and his sweater would not be soaked.

Quatre was still apologizing, and avoiding an irritated swipe of the broom, so no one noticed how Trowa wrung the edge of his sweater like it was a certain Middle Eastern, terrorist-bastard’s thick neck.

“Don’t. Period.” Wufei warned. Quatre frowned. Wufei sighed and leaned on the end of the broom. “It was an accident. You can’t really apologize for accidents. Now if you knew you couldn’t open a bottle without it exploding, and were purposefully aiming for the vase, then, maybe, you could apologize. But I wasn’t particularly fond of the ugly thing anyway.”

“That ugly thing,” Zechs said coming from the bedroom, “was a late birthday gift from my sister.”

“Mm yes. One which had a perfectly acceptable place on the top shelf of the hall closet until she started stopping by unannounced.”   Wufei said, sweeping slightly more harshly than necessary.

He frowned. “Only one person is allowed to call my sister’s gifts ‘ugly’.”

“And I’m still waiting to hear it.”

Zechs rolled his eyes. Turning away, he shoved a bundle of cloth into Trowa’s hands.

“Way to encourage the addition of color,” Duo said after Trowa had shaken out the black turtleneck with a quiet word of thanks. “A holiday party and you give him black.”

“It’s perfect for a New Year’s party,” Zechs said. Duo snorted. “Think of it as the little black dress of the season if you must.”

Silence. Even the hollow cheering from clips of global New Year’s celebrations playing on the television was muffled by the heavy awkwardness. Wufei sneered, hands tight around the broom handle and knees locked to keep from shoving it into his lover’s mouth. Zechs swallowed, eyes looked on a piece of glass on the floor. Duo glanced up at Heero, his left cheek dipping in slightly where he was chewing on it. Heero didn’t look at anyone. He had found something apparently very interesting about the light switch. But he shifted ever so slightly towards the small space between Trowa and Zechs.   Quatre simply stared.

Because Trowa had promised himself that tonight would feel as normal a get-together as possible, he scoffed.

“As if we want to think about the little black dresses you keep in your closet.”

Heero reacted first, letting out a snort that suspiciously sounded like badly-suppressed laughter. Wufei bent over the broom handle, shoulders shaking. Duo actually laughed. Satisfied that the room was once again relaxed—as relaxed as it could possibly get, anyway—Trowa headed towards the bathroom.

He didn`t turn the light on right away. Closing the door, Trowa leaned back against it and listened to Zechs threaten, without malice, to use Duo as an ice sculpture—“I refuse to keep anything that ugly on the front lawn,” Wufei snorted. Quatre and Heero laughed. Trowa sighed at the burst of sound and the lower rumbling that drifted through the sturdy door.

Don`t make it awkward, he reminded himself. None of them could deal with it anymore, and since the awkwardness came from Trowa`s body and his willingness to ignore their unwillingness to talk about it, it was up to him to keep things…normal. If it was possible. If things had ever been normal in the first place. But they deserved it, or at least the attempt. Even Zechs, although a part of him still wanted to shove the turtleneck down the man`s throat.

Trowa switched on the overhead light after a moment of blind searching. Off-white walls and unornamented tiles. A ceramic sink with metal fixtures in need of some cleaning. A narrow glass shower stall.

He sighed. Trowa hadn`t realized how much he had missed unadorned necessities. Oh, there was a touch here and there indicative of personality—a half-hidden incense burner, a subtle dusting of silver in the paint. But these were minor and easily ignored. Nothing demanded his attention. His mercenary mind didn`t reel from an overload of sheer waste and the dangers it brought. He could actually use a bathroom without feeling a little sick.

Because he certainly hadn`t been able to appreciate his own practical bathroom recently. Not when he spent all of five minutes in it taking a cold shower and brushing his teeth because, once again, he came home too late and too tired to do little more than sleep. And there was nothing practical within five miles of Fahd`s apartment, and the man seemed dead set on keeping it that way.

Trowa tossed the turtleneck on the toilet seat and yanked on the water. Already soaked, he wasn`t careful about scrubbing his face. He couldn`t come out with a face redder than when he went in, not if he wanted to keep them happy and ignorant. Cold water did wonders for anger.

So would a roll in the snow, but they would ask about that.

He wouldn’t need the icy dousing, or the clenching fists or the biting of cheek and tongue, if Trowa could simply stop thinking about Fahd Kader. But that was impossible; Fahd had seen to that.

The bastard apparently liked Trowa’s ever shifting expressions and reactions. And dodging flatware, he thought and buried his face in a towel. Fahd got some sort of additional, and equally perverse, pleasure out of keeping Trowa off-balanced, mentally and physically. There could be no other reason besides complete and total sadism for the food and the blindfold, the teasing and stroking, the sex and the sex, the—

The cell phone in his back pocket vibrated with an irritating rhythm.

--the phone calls.

It had to be Fahd, since his “public” cell phone (a “public” cell phone!) was tucked away in his coat in the closet, and everyone and anyone else who would actually bother to call his cell phone was already here. Trowa snarled into the towel and considered throwing it out the window, or at the very least ignoring it, for all of twenty seconds. He tossed the towel in the sink and fished it out.

“What,” he snarled. The line was silent.

Trowa could almost hear the grin stretching across Fahd’s face. “I think you enjoyed that spanking much more than you’d care to admit.”

He flushed. Trowa had ignored Fahd once in the whole three weeks of consecutive work, and he had not taken it well. Fahd had greeted him that night with a tsk and a smack on the rear hard enough that Trowa yelped. It didn’t matter that Trowa had been buried so deep in paperwork he had forgotten about not only eating lunch but actually buying it. He had responsibilities. Fahd would not abide such blatant laziness.

At the time, the only response Trowa could think of for being treated like some spoiled and irresponsible child was a slap across the face that ended up hurting him a lot more than Fahd. He only got a couple of solid hits in before Fahd manhandled him over the back of the couch. Nizar was going to bitch about the bite marks in the leather forever.

Trowa had hurt for days.   There was nothing he could do that didn’t aggravate his backside, save for lying perfectly still on his stomach, which he simply didn’t have time for. But Trowa forced himself to sit and stand without grimacing or fidgeting. He had to. There was nothing he could say in explanation that wouldn’t finally attach Heero to his hip out of frustrated suspicion.

Mindful of the threat, and not wanting to give Fahd anything remotely close to a reason for a second round, Trowa swallowed the anger and embarrassment. He unclenched his jaw.

“What is it,” he asked as blandly as possible.

“Passable. But one would think you would be a little happier to hear from me, all things considered.”

Trowa wondered exactly what he meant: that he had left Trowa physically alone since last weekend, but unless Fahd wanted Preventors breathing done his neck, Trowa needed to “come home from work” with something of a regular frequency; or that on his first weekend free, he had let Trowa be dragged to Wufei and Zechs’ small New Year’s Party.

Of course, if he had said no, it wouldn’t be long until Heero was breathing down Fahd’s neck with a loaded gun.

But that didn’t stop Trowa from wondering why. Of course it would have been messy, not to mention noisy, to wear Heero down to the point where Nizar could shot him in the head, but Fahd could still try. And he didn’t.

“Expecting a thank you,” Trowa asked, unable to keep his irritation from simply not understanding out of his voice.

“You aren’t very good with words.” Fahd paused. “Where are you?”

Trowa ground his teeth. “You know where I am.”

“No but I could. It would only take me a minute to get into the satellite feed. Of course, I might have to put in target coordinates first—”

“The bathroom,” he snapped.

“Was that so hard? Get undressed.”

Trowa blinked slowly at his reflection. He was sure he had heard wrong. “What?”

“Get undressed,” Fahd repeated slowly. “Or just your jeans if you must be difficult.”

“Are you insane?”

“No, I am getting my thank you.”

From what? It’s not like he can see me! “I’m in their fucking bathroom,” he hissed.

“I’m aware of that. Now.”

Trowa looked at the door. The banter had lulled, which made him assume clean up was finished and everyone was back in the living room with champagne and the last of a warm dinner. He assumed. Trowa couldn’t be sure, and he had certainly been in the bathroom for far too long already. Someone, hopefully Quatre but at the very least Wufei, would come knocking. Soon. And unless they had actually gotten that far down on the “minor repairs and home improvement tasks” list since his last visit, the lock was still broken.

“No.”

“You really are just itching for another turn over the couch.”

Trowa gripped the sink. “Not now. Not here.”

“I really don’t think you have much choice in the matter.”

There was a creak from the hall. Or something Trowa thought was a creak. “Later. Whenever.   Please.”

Fahd was silent. Trowa didn’t think he sounded that desperate. He swallowed as he heard the low drumming of thoughtful fingers. It was not the full sound of tips on wood or cushion. Trowa glanced sideways towards the window and started to wonder only now exactly where the man was.

“Are you staying there tonight?”

Trowa shook his head. Quatre had a late start tomorrow, but work nonetheless. “No.”

“Be awake at 2 AM. And hope you are home then, because I will not care if you are not.”

Fahd hung up without his usual leering farewell. Trowa closed the phone with a shaky sigh, doing his best not to imagine what the man’s irritation would mean for him. Phone back in his pocket, Trowa wriggled out of the wet sweater. He wrung most of the water from it before draping it over the shower door and pulling on the borrowed turtleneck. He shoved the slightly too-long sleeves up to his elbows. At least it was thick enough, and loose enough, to hide the corset’s contours.

“Took you long enough,” Duo said, handing him a glass of champagne as he padded into the living room.

“Forgive me for needing the necessities.”

“Alright, but only because it’s Christmas.”

“Get a calendar."

“Sorry nuance nazi, ‘the Christmas season.’ That lasts until the tree hits the curb.”

“Which will be tomorrow because I am done sniffling.”

“People are not allergic to pine trees, just to pine sap.”

“Which is why you’re dragging it to the curb tomorrow morning and not me,” Heero called from the couch.

Duo clinked his glass against Trowa’s with a grin. “A small price to pay for getting to have one this year.”

It wasn’t that Heero, or Trowa for that matter, were against Christmas trees. They were pretty, usually. And Trowa was sure they smelled “heavenly” (Duo’s words and he almost choked on his tea when he heard it). Not that he could actually smell it. They just seemed so unnecessary. And messy. How did a slowly dying tree—which had only gotten inside the house with a lot of effort, cursing, and bruises—covered in one too many shiny things and dropping so many pine needles that he would be finding them in spring make the holiday better?

Unless it was the Christmas spirit thing Duo always went on about.

Because there had been a definite change in the air, once the tree was actually in place. And once they figured out, and solved, the small issue of Heero not only being unable to touch the tree, but also being unable to touch anything that had touched the tree. Including Duo. It was the only time Heero ever took a sick day, and Trowa suspected it was more to keep from killing Duo at work out of embarrassment and frustration than from the fact that he had to sit and stand with his legs more than slightly apart.

Even though he threatened to burn the damn thing almost daily, even after Duo had proved that washing his hands with a hypochondriac’s fervor kept the irritating rash at bay, Trowa knew he liked, if not the tree, then the energy it gave Duo. Trowa had caught him, more than once, leaning against the doorframe watching Duo fret and fuss over the tree and the presents, humming toneless Christmas carols. And while Heero didn’t actually smile, there was no mistaking the total bliss revealed by his rarely tensionless face.

It was a catching mood. Trowa found himself almost smiling Christmas Eve while Duo clucked over the tangled lights and sought Trowa’s hands through the needles to move the strands since apparently Trowa couldn’t do it right. His eagerness gave Trowa enough energy to last the full hour of sticky, pointy labor until Quatre came home. But no more.

Not that Duo was terribly disappointed with the quick turn over. Quatre made a much better decorating partner since he wouldn’t constantly sneeze.

“You should have gotten a fake one,” Zechs said from his place on the arm of the arm chair Wufei was sunk in.

“Oh like your dinky little ceramic one there? I’d rather not have one,” Duo snorted, planting himself between Quatre and Heero.

“Which could always be arranged,” Heero grumbled.

“You liked it.”

“Hardly.”

“Ceramic is tasteful,” Zechs said with a shrug.

“It ain’t Christmas.”

“Well considering this was done mostly as a courtesy for two irritating people, I think its fine,” Wufei said.

“I’m surprised Relena didn’t drag one from her yard here.”

“It was not for lack of trying…” Wufei muttered.

“She means well,” Zechs said.

“The woman needs someone new to irritate. Preferably someone far away from here.”

“She’s—”

Wufei glared at him over his glass. “Don’t say it.”

“Well she is.”

“That’s no excuse.”

Quatre sighed. Leaning his head back on the couch, he smiled up at Trowa, who had drifted over when he finally decided that hovering behind the couch was less awkward than hovering by the far wall.

“Won’t be long now.” He said. Trowa wasn’t sure whether Quatre was referring to the New Year and the end of televised drunken revelry, or Wufei and Zechs’ inevitable fight.   Either way, he could nod safely.

Quatre smiled up at him, briefly and tightly, his eyes moving back and forth across his face. Whatever Quatre was looking for, he found; he sat up a little too quickly and took a drink. A long one. Duo refilled his glass without comment.

Wufei and Zechs reached their inevitable stalemate and took to their usual practice of glowering in opposite directions. Trowa did his best not to sigh as silence crept in. But one could only take so much rustling of fabric and creaking of cushions as someone shifted uncomfortably. He turned to the television. As boring as he found this worldwide broadcasts, it was better than looking around and seeing bland, worried, or worse angry and confused, expressions.

Trowa was about to comment on the dress, or lack thereof, of women on holidays—he had promised, no awkwardness, he had to say something—when Duo leaned forward.

“Ah that’s where I want to go,” he said leaning his chin in hand. Quatre tilted his head.

“Hawaii?”

“Yeah man. Look at that.”

Heero looked, right when the screen switched from white sands to tanned cleavage, and snorted.

“Should I be worried,” he spat.

“The sun, the sand—”

“Sand really isn’t that impressive, Duo.” Quatre said. “Trust me.”

“—the surf.”

“As if you’ve ever been near a surfboard, Maxwell,” Wufei snorted.

“Hey, I could learn.”

“Mhm, well don’t expect me to drag your drowned ass out of the water.”

“Why would I? I got him,” he said with a grin. He laid his head on his shoulder. “You’d fish me out, right?” Heero turned his glass slowly between his fingers. “Right?” He took a long, slow drink, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

Wufei smirked. “Might want to stay out of the water.”

“At least Heero can swim.”

Trowa relaxed some as the conversation to the familiar, and comforting, turn towards talk of the future. He wondered, briefly while listening to Heero assure Duo that the day he got him anywhere near a surfboard was the day he gave up his gun, if Catherine would be surprised. She had always assumed—after realizing that Trowa would never tell her—they talked about the war. Old missions, old victories. Old trials, old scars. Relived “the glory days” (there was so much disgust in her voice when she had said it that Trowa was almost surprised) like all veterans do.

Maybe it was because they were young, or maybe the assumptions about veterans were just plain wrong, but they rarely talked about the past. Not the war and nothing further. Work trouble, car troubles, the interesting—or irritating—habits of people.   Places to go, things to learn, things to make. Present and future occupied their conversations.

They dove into the past only when one of them was having one of those posttraumatic stress disorder moments the Preventor shrink warned them about pre-hiring. Talking through whatever had made Quatre and Duo wake screaming helped, if done in small douses and with very small numbers. But those conversations were blessedly rare.

If Heero and Trowa hadn’t learned to wake silently, nightmare or no, they wouldn’t be.

Trowa blinked as Duo let out a rude snort. He tilted his head, and glanced at the television for a hint as to what he might have missed. The procession of images had moved down into Latin America. More revelry, more lightly-clothed women.

“I am not going to England. Ever. Islands are not meant to be cold,” Duo said.

Quatre folded his arms. “Well I am not burning in Hawaii.”

“You lived in the desert.”

“Inside or underground.”

“Come on. It’ll be good for you.”

“Peeling skin is not good for you.”

“You could use a little color.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Which is why we should hit the beach.”

“Not a chance.”

“One minute,” Heero said looking at the screen. Duo and Quatre stopped mid-argument.

The clip show was, thankfully, over. They all had a clear view of the televised, over-energetic crowd in New York. Trowa wasn’t sure why the city had kept its pride of place as the New Year’s city. He suspected it mostly had to do with history and tradition, since its reconstruction efforts were not nearly as impressive as some other, heavier hit places. But there was something to say for tradition. Even when it’s stupid.    And thousands of people crammed into one area, the entrances to which were so congested with bodies that rescue and military personnel had no chance of aiding any disaster victims, was the height of holiday stupidity. He would never be caught dead in such a compromising position.

Considering his current position, though, Trowa wondered if he should be more careful with such statements.

The New Year’s ball, an ornament gaudier than even some of Duo’s most beloved pieces, began its slow descent. The clock at its base ticked off seconds. A low chanting began, growing louder as the final ten approached, until the entire rolling mass of revelers was screaming out the countdown.

Ten. Nine. Eight. Glasses were set on the coffee table, out of harm’s way. Seven. Six. Five. Wufei leaned forward. Four. Three. Two. Quatre’s fingers gripped the cushion.

Two.

One.

The crowd erupted. Outside, fireworks cracked and cookware banged. Screams of “Happy New Year” pierced the walls and bulletproof glass. Not one of them heard any of it.

From the first syllables of celebration, Wufei had buried his face in his hands.   He didn’t shrug away from the hand that rubbed slow circles along his back. Duo had collapsed back into the couch. Trowa caught the glint of a tear before Duo rolled to the side and buried his face in Heero’s shoulder. Heero lay his chin on his head, blank-faced but swallowing. Quatre’s head hit the couch arm.

Trowa didn’t move. He wouldn’t. Not until--

“Should old acquaintances be forgot—” burst from the television and the street. Trowa ran a hand over his lips. They trembled.

It had really passed. A year without gundams. A year where they didn’t have to sleep on the ground, or in a cockpit, for days. A year where they weren’t huddled in a coat and blanket, eyes glued to a sight or a computer, waiting. A year where they didn’t wonder, even for a moment, if fifteen, sixteen, seventeen really was too young to die. It was over.

A year without blood and the chilling curiosity about the lives of names targets.

It was over.

A year without life-or-death aliases.

A year without training.

A year without breaking.

A year not on the streets.

A year not alone.

Over.

Quatre shifted first, lifting his head as he turned. Trowa shuddered at the intense relief—and obsessive, choking grief—in the watery blue eyes. Leaning forward, he snatched the bottle from the table. Heero only blinked his now-dull eyes when it almost hit him in the nose. He murmured something against Duo’s hair, nudged him lightly with his chin, while Quatre picked his glass up. Duo squeezed his shoulders while Trowa filled the glass. Champagne dribbled down the sides as he shook. Zechs ducked down and kissed the back of Wufei’s neck lightly. Quatre raised his glass.

“Happy New Year,” he murmured, eyes glittering. Trowa felt the burn prick at his own. They clinked glasses.

It was hollow.

*-----*-----*

“Look on the bright side. Maybe he’ll take the damn sick day.”

Heero glared at Duo as if he had personally offended him—perhaps he had—while helping Trowa carefully move Quatre from the backseat. Quatre groaned and swatted at them before collapsing against Heero’s chest.

“I can do it,” he slurred.

“Shut up.”

Trowa climbed out of the car. The gravel shifted noisily as he lost and caught his balance. The ground was shifting, slightly. Maybe they should have been a little more careful with the alcohol.

Duo had recovered first, as usual. And, as usual, he made up for the momentary emotional plummet with heightened exuberance. For once, they all let themselves be swept into it. Three bottles of champagne, and Zechs’ liquor cabinet, were considerably lighter by one-thirty in the morning, when the dangerous swaying on Duo and Quatre’s part signaled the end of the night. Thankfully the ride home was short.

“Geez if you’re going to give me looks like that,” Duo sighed. “Let me help.”

“Let’s see you unlock the door and then we’ll talk about helping.”

If the porch light hadn’t been working, Duo might have been able to fake sobriety. He dropped the key twice, taking more than five seconds to find it both times, and then tried unlocking it from the wrong end.

“Get the door, Trowa.”

“I can—”

“Shut up.”

Somewhere between the front door and the staircase, Trowa ended up with his arms full of a half-conscious Quatre. Most likely somewhere around the coffee table, where Duo had tripped and almost cracked his head open. Trowa decided, while the pair argued about Duo being carried to bed like a girl—or an old carpet if Heero decided to just beat him senseless and be done with it—that going first might be a good idea. If Duo was going to be difficult, and conscious, he would rather not be behind Heero on the stairs.

Quatre groaned as Trowa adjusted his grip before bending down and hooking an arm beneath his knees. He insisted to himself that it was the alcohol, and only the alcohol, that had him fumbling back a step as Quatre’s body rocked into his chest. Still, he took the stairs carefully.

He was at the bedroom by the time the two had stopped bickering enough to at least start up the stairs. Quatre hadn’t stirred at all from that noise so Trowa didn’t worry too much about waking him with a bit of jostling to grab the doorknob.

Ever polite and tidy, Quatre had made his bed. Trowa set him carefully in the center of it until he had pulled back the duvet and untucked hospital corners. He stopped as he reached for the edge of the sheet. Shoes under the bed were one thing. Shoes in the bed, however. Of course if he dealt with the shoes, he should deal with the rest. Trowa’s eyes slid slowly over Quatre’s body. Somewhere, he heard the faint echo of a breathy, needy sigh.

Trowa shuddered. The clothes weren’t too nice. Quatre could be bothered to sleep in them once.

He took his time, undoing the laces and sliding the shoes off carefully because Quatre needed to stay asleep right now. But when he slid the sheet over Quatre’s chest, Trowa caught the faint glimmer of irises in the dark. There was a rustling, and a hand reached out from the dark.

Trowa stood, bent over him, while the warm hand molded to the curve of his cheek. It trembled slightly, from inebriation of course. The thumb swept slowly over his cheek bone.

It isn’t me, Trowa thought. He could barely see Quatre’s face, inches from his own. Quatre’s eyes caught the faint light of the clock, but even with a gun to his head Trowa wouldn’t have been able to tell the color of his eyes, if he hadn’t already known they were that tender shade of blue. Heero and he were about the same height, hair similar shades; in the dark, they could be brothers.

And if by some miracle Quatre could see in the dark, he was drunk enough to mistake.

Trowa turned ever-so-slightly into the palm. The guilt made him nauseous.

Heero met him out in the hall, after the hand had collapsed in a drunken stupor and Trowa finished tucking him into bed.   His hand itched to cover his cheek, as if to cover lipstick, or a stain.

“Thanks,” he said softly. Trowa nodded. “You alright?”

Trowa opened his mouth, and shut it when he heard a not-so-distant thump. Heero cursed.

“Better than Duo,” he said.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Hurry or he’ll beat you to it.”

“Good night. Sleep well, Trowa.”

Not possible. “Night.”

Trowa kept a hand to the wall as he staggered downstairs. The steps spun in the dark, because he was drunk; his stomach heaving from bitterness and guilt had absolutely nothing to do with it. He stumbled over the hall carpet and opened and closed his bedroom door harder than necessary. Or safe. Trowa swallowed, back pressed against the wood. He waited. The ceiling creaked, the sound moving across. Not down, towards the stairs. Trowa watched the ceiling, imagining cautious feet moving from one dark bedroom, one dark bed, to another.

He all but ripped the coat from his body. It landed on the bed, followed by the “private” cell phone which bounced once onto the pillow.

It started vibrating almost immediately.

Trowa ran a hand over his face before glancing at the clock. He snorted. Was a five-minute leeway supposed to be impressive? He sneered at the phone, buzzing so incessantly it was starting to slip down the pillow’s side. Snarling, he snatched it up.

“No hello?” Fahd asked after a half a minute of silence passed.

No. Not even a growl. Not now.

“Well, considering the lack of protesting, I suppose now is a good time,” he continued, sounding none too concerned about whether or not the timing was “good.” “There’s a bathroom near you, isn’t there? Get in it.”

He considered staying exactly where he was, perched on the edge of the bed with nails digging into the mattress hard enough to dot the material with little crescent-shaped holes. It wasn`t like Fahd could see him—except he probably could. Fahd had proven, time and again, that he could do damn near everything Trowa assumed he couldn`t.

Trowa got off the bed and crossed the short distance with little more than a huff. He wondered what difference location could possibly make in whatever Fahd was plotting until the overhead was on and the blue-toned bathroom awash with light. Trowa`s reflection clutched the doorframe.

“Over by the sink,” Fahd said. Trowa stood in front of the mirror, watching his nostrils flare and his chest strain against the corset. He could have kicked himself for not being able to control his breathing even a little, if he was sure he could unlock his knees without crashing to the floor. “Now then. Unless I say otherwise, do not put the phone down. Jeans off.”

Undressing one-handed was not a skill Trowa practiced. None of his clothes had ever mattered enough to warrant their removal while he held a gun to a target`s head. So he growled low in his throat as the jeans struggled against his insistent pulling. The button slipped through his fingers. The denim waist clung to his hips, jerking downwards as Trowa yanked on one leg and then the other. Obviously, it knew something he didn`t.

“You might need a new pair soon, by the sounds of it. May I suggest something a little looser next time?”

“There won`t be a next time,” he hissed.

“Keep thinking that. Kick them away.”

Since he was imaging it was Fahd’s severed head, the jeans got good distance and thunked against the base of the toilet.

“So? What do you think?”

Trowa sneered at the crumpled denim as if it had somehow betrayed him.

“Trowa.”

Maybe if he stared at it long enough, it would burst into flames. Popping and beg for forgiveness would work just as well, so long as nothing short of force made him—

“Look at the damn mirror.”

He wasn’t in the room. He wasn’t even near the house. Fahd couldn’t be. And even if he was, by the time he got inside, Heero would already be at the bottom of the stairs covered in blood and brain matter.   There was nothing Fahd could do to make him obey.

Except growl commands in that low voice. The one colored with the faintest tinges of insanity. The one that promised pain and something Trowa refused to acknowledge, let alone name. He shuddered as if hot breath, and not hard plastic, caressed his ear. And even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to look away, Trowa glanced at the mirror.

He had shoved the turtleneck up his chest to attack the button and zipper of his jeans. It had slithered back and settled, wrinkled and crooked, on his waist. Trowa saw his slightly rounded hips. The finger-shaped bruises had finally faded. He traced the curve of protruding pelvic bones with his eyes, down to the patch of auburn hair. It made the skin of his abdomen, only a few shades lighter than the rest of him from lack of light, look almost milky white. And then further still, to his flaccid cock which twitched enough at the scrutiny to make him nauseous.

“What do you think?” Fahd asked again.

Trowa gripped the phone as his overactive imagination saw what he could not. The small slit behind the smaller-than-average sack, glistening with the start of arousal because Trowa was either that weak or that perverted.

“I hate you...”

*-----*-----*

“We need to talk.”

Heero was apparently expecting Trowa to jolt. He didn’t raise an eyebrow, or even blink, when Trowa spasmed hard enough to scratch a long, black line across his paper. Considering the question, Trowa assumed that Heero assumed it was from reluctance about a long overdue conversation. Which suited Trowa just fine, since he wouldn’t have to come up with a logical explanation—logical by Heero’s definition, which even he failed to fully understand sometimes.

Trowa didn’t think “distracted by masturbating on the bathroom floor” would cut it.

Trowa turned in his chair with a carefully sculpted, appropriate expression of mild curiosity and slight apprehension. “All right.”

Heero shifted his weight enough that Trowa knew he hadn’t quite expected that answer. “Have you gotten lunch yet?” Heero asked. Obviously not, what with the lack of sandwich on his desk. But Trowa shook his head instead of snorting. “The place you like is close, right?”

“Less than five minutes. Across the street, little bit down.”

“Let’s go then.”

Heero’s jacket was already on, his hands shoved deep into its pockets.   But it was open. If Trowa wanted, he could refuse the invitation. He could turn back to his work and Heero to his desk. He could drape the coat back over the chair and go on to the cafeteria without any hard feelings. The matter would be closed, for now.

He wasn’t that cruel. Such obvious expressions of thoughtfulness were not only rare but Trowa suspected simply difficult for Heero.

Which made Trowa wonder suddenly if Heero had been led to it, or was about to do some leading of his own. “What about Duo?” he asked.

He snorted. “Duo has a report he damn well better finish before Une decides his head looks better on the wall than his shoulders. And without him, Wufei and Zechs will either argue or flirt, neither of which I’m in the mood to see.”

Satisfied, Trowa nodded and shrugged before pushing back from the desk. Heero was already heading for the stairwell when Trowa rose. He snatched his coat from the chair and followed, swinging the coat about his shoulders. He paused at the door, despite hearing Heero hurrying two flights below. Duo was at Heero’s desk. He ran a hand through his hair, looking around for a moment as if Heero might spring from a drawer. Trowa ducked into the stairwell and pulled the door shut behind him.

Heero was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, face more relaxed than irritated. He walked beside Trowa through the cold parking garage at his usual, less purposeful pace. The tension in the fabric of his coat eased as his shoulders lowered and his hands rose ever-so-slightly out of his pockets.

Lying was not beneath Heero, but could, apparently, be distinctly uncomfortable. And whatever he wanted to talk about was something he wanted Duo so far away from that he lied and all but ran away. It peaked Trowa’s interest.

There was no snow but a hard, biting wind. Neither of them cared to wait for the pedestrian light with the wind yanking on their coats. Heero followed Trowa as he ran lightly across the partially-frozen asphalt at the first available moment and down the more thoroughly-frozen sidewalk. The wind snapped the door Trowa had held open for him shut behind them.

The café was warm from the ovens and the press of lunch-hour and heat-seeking bodies. Trowa stood near the door for a moment, feeling Heero tighten beside him. He had come here enough that the number of people, the number of potential but unlikely enemies, didn’t register any longer. He let Heero calculate, analyze, and conclude while he searched for a table. He found nothing threatening and followed Trowa when he spotted a corner table.

Heero arched an eyebrow as Trowa tossed his coat on the chair.

“You might not have noticed, but it gets a little busy at lunch. So unless you want to eat standing up or outside, claim your seat.”

Heero grunted but followed his example. He took a moment to take in what little he could see through the bodies: brightly colored walls, brightly colored tables, brightly colored mod-shaped lamps and knickknacks.

“I hope their owner isn’t the cook, too,” he muttered.

Trowa shrugged. “Food’s good even if the colors aren’t. Besides, I eat at my desk, remember?”

The crowd was thicker today than usual, so Heero waited at the table—neither put it past someone to simple knock their coats to the floor—while Trowa ordered his food. It would give Heero plenty of time to reach the same conclusion Trowa had: that the likelihood of anyone remotely threatening to them working here was under one percent, and it was simply bad business to try and poison a customer.

Trowa still couldn’t totally convince himself of that, but it was only on days when he had a really bad night.

“That is not a peanut butter sandwich,” Heero commented, eyeing the green bundle on Trowa’s black plate, and the rare and minute spring in his step, curiously.

“It’s a spinach wrap with lettuce, tomato, mozzarella and Portobello mushrooms.   They don’t offer it much. Get your food.”

Since it wasn’t hot, Trowa waited for Heero before taking the first bite. He blinked when Heero returned with the spinach wrap but said nothing, picking up the sandwich. Heero eyed his hands for a moment before copying and taking a tentative bite. His eyes widened a fraction. The next bite was larger.

Heero wasn’t anti-vegetable. Vegetables were a necessary and often attractive compliment and little more. Trowa knew that his vegetables-as-a-meal preference baffled Heero. Not that he would say anything, but Trowa caught the occasional mild confusion in his expression. For Heero, vegetables simply weren’t filling enough for a meal. Of course, if expression and pace were any sort of judge, then Heero could be on the verge of making a single exception.

Trowa to smile, but didn’t. He was too slightly offended for that.

Quatre and Duo would never use such an underhanded but clever method: Quatre simply because he couldn’t be underhanded if you brandished a gun in his face and Duo because as clever as he could be, he wasn’t this clever. And clever it was, to make so many gestures, to be so considerate of another’s feelings, that the thought of denying the surrounding party anything twisted the stomach with guilt. Single-mindedness at its best.

Trowa hoped he was jumping to that conclusion because someone was being so underhanded his considerations.   This was Heero, who had demanded of himself a quest to offer his life to the loved ones of his victims.

But this was Heero, who would do anything and everything for an end. And while he may not fully understand emotion, he was quite good at twisting it for a purpose.

Quatre and Duo would kill him of course, if that really was the point behind the consideration. If they found out. And could get their hands on him.

“Kind of loud in here,” Heero said. He tried to make it seem casual, pushing his plate away and leaning back to observe his surroundings before speaking. But Trowa read impatience and anxiety in the way the plate scrapped over the table and how tightly his arms pressed into his stomach.   He shrugged.               “Never really noticed,” he said. Heero nodded, watching Trowa finish. He was more than willing to sit here in the headache-level noise, because the more Trowa thought about it, the more sense it made and he was not going to be guilted into—

“Grab a drink to go?”

He knew he should say no. He was allowed—that was the risk that came with Heero’s strategy. Trowa could doom them both to twenty minutes of awkward silence in a headache-inducing, disgustingly-cheerful café. He should.  It was an appropriate punishment.

But he wouldn`t.  Appropriate or not, underhanded or not, Trowa couldn`t stop himself from basking in the thoughtfulness that was so difficult for Heero.

“Sure,” he said.

Drinks took a good deal less time, and they found themselves shivering sooner than they had hoped.  Heero headed into the wind, away from the headquarters, clutching his coffee cup in both hands.  Trowa followed him with his tea.  After a few steps, he almost wished they were having the conversation back in the crowded café.  With the wind howling and circling, clawing at his coat like a starving lion, Trowa wasn`t sure he was willing to unlock his jaw for anything.

They hadn`t trudged far before Heero ducked under the stone awning of another sky rise.  It was blessedly quieter, the wind just whistling over the edges and the space itself empty of chatter since the businessmen and accountants decided to take lunch inside, or skip the oh-so-needed cigarette break.  Neither absence made it any warmer, of course.

Trowa waited until the gulps of hot liquid had made the stone bearable enough for them to lean against, and until Heero`s pointed stare threatened to start burning holes into the polished floor, before speaking.

“We need to talk,” he reminded.

Heero eyes narrowed, all but glowering at the floor.  Nodding to himself, he rubbed them before turning the drilling gaze of on Trowa.  Trowa locked his knees, tightening his grip on his cup.  He would face whatever accusation or demand dancing on Heero`s tongue without flinching because he had agreed to the strategy.  After that?  Then I might throw tea in his face.

The blue eyes flicked quickly, memorizing Trowa`s expression for future analysis.  “Are you seeing someone?” Heero finally asked.

Heero didn`t need to scrutinize the one or two cracks in an otherwise expressionless face; Trowa felt his own mouth drop open.  He had expected quite a few choice things—“How could you do this?” “How did this happen?” “Get out before I kill you.”—but not that.

“What?”

“Are you seeing someone?” he repeated but with a definitely shaken resolve.  Unsettled by the unexpectedly open reaction, Heero dropped his gaze.  Like he was embarrassed.  Or worse, ashamed.

“Where`s this coming from?” Trowa asked, trying to ignore the warning bells screaming in his head.

Heero ran a hand through his hair.  “You`ve been different recently.  Distracted.”  When Trowa only frowned, Heero straightened, expression freezing into the blank slate he used for information retrieval and status reports.  “You`ve taken more calls at work recently than I`ve seen you take in six months.  You`ve been texting.”

“Once, that was once.”

“You`re reluctant to come home,” he said.  Heero actually flinched from Trowa`s glare.  “More reluctant than…than I`d expect.  And even you are home, you aren`t…there.  So, are you?”

The faint downturn of Heero`s brows, the faint disappointment in his question, like he was some simpering teenage girl denied access to her best friend`s choicest piece of gossip, infuriated Trowa. He crushed his empty cup with his foot.

“I don`t see why I should alert you to changes in my relationship status,” he spat.

Heero ground his teeth against what he thought was unjustified spite. “What’s that supposed to mean, Barton?”

“When you decide to tell me about changes in your love life,” Trowa growled, “I’ll tell you about changes in mine.”

Heero had the decency to look confused, and then surprised.  “You heard us.  On New Year`s.”

Trowa doubted he would have heard them in the next room, let alone on the second floor.  He had been a little preoccupied with the fingers up his ass and the low, heavy voice purring orders in his ear.  Trowa turned away to hide the blush.

“It`s not what you think,” Heero said.

“And what is it that I think?” “You know how he gets,” he said.  He didn`t shrug, instead running a hand through his hair before looking at Trowa with hard eyes.  Sympathetic but unapologetic. “It helps.”

Heero offered him not the weakest of excuses but the most honest, and in his mind logical, of reasons, and Trowa wanted to break him for it.  He wanted to see Quatre shatter.  Trowa longed for it, the bastard, because thinking about it—about not being told, about not being asked—practically blinded him with rage.  Did they think he would have said no, that he would deny Quatre anything that made his heart a fraction lighter?  Did they think he would leave that burden on Heero and Duo, abandon them when Quatre swayed on the edge of emphatic insanity?

You would.  He would have fretted and lied, feigned embarrassment, or even disgust.  Anything to keep exposure to them away.  The weakness and cowardice sickened him.

But they hadn`t known.  They had no real reason not to ask, except for simply not wanting him.

Trowa was surprised by how much it hurt.

“Just,” Trowa started when he could open his mouth without screaming.  The hollowness raised Heero`s eyebrows.  “Just tell me if it`s always been like this.”

Heero blinked twice before his eyes widened a fraction.  His nose scrunched at the thought of starting this after Trowa moved in—and, Trowa suspected, his insinuation of it.  But his voice was carefully neutral when he spoke, which was good or Trowa might have swung at him.

“A couple of months before you moved in.” Trowa`s throat tightened. He nodded and turned to watch a piece of litter shot past. Heero`s hands dug deep into his pockets again.

Trowa was wondering why he felt worse—it wasn`t like Heero had just admitted it had been the three`s resolution, which should have been worse and somehow, for reasons Trowa didn`t want to explain, wasn`t—when Heero sighed.

“So. Are you?”

He wanted to say no. Vehemently. He wanted to bask in the horrified flinch that would shake Heero`s shoulders, because he was that selfish and petty.

No. You don`t want him to believeyou. Because Heero would. A relationship was the perfect explanation, more so because Heero had arrived at it himself. If Trowa said yes, he would finally back off. No more lingering glances, no more silent cross-examinations. He`d be able to let Trowa do as he please, and Trowa would be able to breathe again at home. All he had to give up was the one excuse that kept him out of Fahd`s apartment and the noose Fahd liked slipping around his neck.

Breathing, apparently, wasn`t an option. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Trowa nodded.

Heero growled, long enough and deep enough to snap Trowa`s head around. Heero`s face had tightened, brow creasing and blue eyes growing flat and dark from the rapid spinning of thoughts, but only for a moment. Heero blinked and nodded.

“A preventor?” he asked, as if he hadn`t just looked like he was inside a cockpit about to open fire on twenty enemy suits. Trowa folded his arms.

“I don`t think that matters,” he said.

Heero nodded. “Not a preventor then?”

“Does it matter?” Trowa asked, the sharpness putting Heero on his guard.

“Sounds like it might,” he said. Trowa snorted.

“And since when I have been your youngest daughter?”

Heero`s face spasmed, caught between mirth and discomfort. He shrugged when it finally smoothed into its usual line. “Since never. But—”

“I don’t need your permission or your approval, Heero.”

“This isn`t about permission. It’s—”

“I’m not a little girl who needs taking care of, Heero. I don`t need you watching my back.”

Trowa had seen Heero hurt before; he had nursed him, after all, after his attempt at self-destruction. For weeks, every movement, even just a shift in bed, had caused brief contortions of pain—and occasionally a hiss. But he had never seen Heero in skin-whiting, muscle-tightening pain. Trowa shuddered at the way his hands clenched and the muscles in his neck stretched with swallowing.

Heero nodded, slowly, and turned away to finish his coffee. Trowa’s hands found their way into his pockets. He didn’t bother to think it was the cold.

“Can I ask something?” Heero asked when he could look at Trowa with flat eyes again.

“Sure,” he muttered.

“Is it a guy?”

This time, Trowa managed to keep his mouth shut, but only by clenching. Heero waited for him to unlock his jaw and run a hand through his hair.

“Yeah. He is.”

Not finding whatever understanding or closure he had hoped for, Heero nodded curtly, crushing his empty cup with his foot.

*-----*-----*

“You’re looking particularly furious this evening,” Fahd said setting glass and file down on the table. Sneering, Trowa yanked his usual chair out. He sat down, grabbed a piece of bread, and bit into it as if it had a head he could rip off. Fahd, eyebrow arched, looked at Nizar who grunted and shrugged.

“Trouble at work?”

Oh no, not at all. Work had been perfectly fine after the awkward conversation in negative-degree weather, aside from occasional narrowed glares, and then stares, and then contemplative glances, coming from one particular desk. Trowa even got to stay until the appointed 7 P.M. meeting time with little more than a huff from Duo, thanks to Heero.

Trowa bit the head off another piece of bread.

A normal person, understandably vengeful after suffering as heavy a verbal blow as the one Trowa had given, would have at least tried to make it difficult to see the ultimate source, and at worst let the boyfriend’s existence “slip” in front of oblivious housemates and coworkers. But no one accused Heero of being normal, which had to be why he leashed Duo—on the verge of a mild tantrum because hadn’t he just finished forced overtime—in with an accepting shrug and mild-mannered request that Trowa eat dinner. The bastard.

Heero had believed him, as he knew he would. Trowa had expected him to leave Trowa to his own devices. Turn a blind eye on his “new” behavior, as it were. Not be a damn facilitator. He couldn’t reject the unspoken “help,” either, not without triggering suspicions and scrutiny that would have made the last few weeks seem pleasant.

Get used to matchmaker-Heero. You might even want to smile. Trowa stabbed the serving fork into the plate of broccoli.

“I see. Well,” Fahd said, pushing himself from the table. “I was going to wait but now might be the best time, considering your mood.”

Trowa wondered what he meant, biting into his vegetables, until Fahd returned with a box wrapped in red and green paper complete with holly and jingle bells. Then he just wondered if Fahd was really that stupid.

“It’s customary to give others a gift at Christmas, is it not?” Fahd asked.

“Christmas is over.”

Fahd’s smile darkened. “Indeed, but I was under the impression that ‘it was the thought that counts.’ Not the day.”

Trowa snatched the box out of his hands if only to keep his hands away from the knife and fork so conveniently close to Fahd’s thighs. It was smooth in his hands, and heavy. Pushing back from the table slowly, Trowa set it oh so gently into his lap, as if it were alive, or about to explode. He stared at the papered lid with mingled curiosity and dread. Fahd’s fingers twitched towards him. Trowa quickly lifted the lid and pushed aside the tissue paper.

The sheet music was bright against the red tissue paper and polished wooden flute case. Trowa fingered through the pages’ corners slowly: Bach, Chopin, Mozart, Handel. Compositions and scores he already had shuffled with ones he had been eyeing. His fingers drifted towards the case. The wood, stained a warm, flawless honey, was warm beneath his fingers. There were no etchings or adornment, save for the brass hinges and clasp and a single, faintly curved groove on the lid—a deliberate and loving imperfection set by the crafter.

It was something Trowa would have gladly gotten himself, if he had the mind to purchase frivolously. It was a sensible, and sensitive, gift, one that revealed careful thought and intimate concern towards the receiver. Trowa swallowed trying to crush the heat rising in his face. Why?

Trowa had lingered over the purchasing of all his gifts to the point of driving Catherine insane. Knives, and worse guns, were not acceptable Christmas gifts to her, knife thrower or not. But she had let him linger and silently fuss over the switchblades and pistols, butterfly knives and glocks, because there was a feel he was looking for he would not force.

He expected it was the same for the others. There had to be a sense of appropriateness, of perfection, in the gift. It had to match—more than match. It had to fit. The Celtic-carved butterfly knife and glock had fit. The blue vest (because Quatre might have strangled him if he got him a gun and Catherine knew clothes better than he did) had fit. The case fit. And it shouldn’t. There was no reason. Why did Fahd care? He shouldn’t care about the fit.

The fact that he did frightened Trowa.

Trowa muttered “thank you” low enough that Fahd wouldn’t be able to hear how high his voice had gotten. He busied himself then with the tissue paper so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at the face that went with the chuckle. He had to be grinning and Trowa didn’t want to see it. His knuckles brushed against something hard. Trowa peeled back two edges and stared before shoving the box away.

Fahd caught it before it hit the floor. “Of course,” he said with a white-toothed leer, lifting the vibrator from its tissue-lined hiding place, “you must give yourself a gift, too.”

A/N: A part of me isn't quite sure how she feels about this chapter. On the one hand, it seems rather filler, perhaps because it's Christmas and New years now. On the other hand, it feels like there is something vital in this chapter. Trowa's relationship with the other pilots, the first of several "conversations," the complications of Trowa's situation, more of Fahd's unnerving Trowa.

There have been a lot of great reviews and interesting discussion and ideas. I find this is actually a very difficult piece for me to write because in some ways it touches on issues very personal to me. Not that my life is anything like that, but the idea of being pariah, physical or social, of believing yourself to be so completely untouchable and unwanted. But we write what we know. Someday I might go back and rewrite the second section and add the actual details. At the time, going through the details of phone sex didn't seem all that necessary. Maybe I'll change my mind later. And besides, the next chapter will have plenty of sex and torture.

The next chapter will have one of the first scenes I developed for this story--and what does that say about my brain I wonder? Things will not be pleasant.

As always, please read and review. Your opinions matter to me.

~*~LadyYeinKhan~*~
- 11
- 12
- 13
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Chains We Wear