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A Stagnation of Love (rewrite)	By : shinigamiinochi Category: Gundam Wing/AC > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 2207 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing AC or the characters from it. I am making no money from this story

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
A Stagnation of Love

Chapter 4

Part 3
　

I didn't see or hear from Trowa for a month after that disastrous date. I was partially relieved, still too hurt and angry at him to want to see him, and apprehensive after he had tried to feel me up. But it also worried me a lot. After the first week of no phone calls from him, I had started to become anxious that Trowa had decided to break up with me and just hadn't informed me of that fact. After the second week, I became sure of it.

But then August swung around and my father was bellowing at me that I had a phone call. Trowa's voice on the other end was both wonderful and aggravating to me. I, apparently, can hold a grudge for a long time but don't have the spine to act on it. I didn't forgive him for verbally bullying me or for his unwanted advances, but hearing him on that phone had lifted some small darkness around my heart.

It still amazes me, the myriad tangle of emotions he had made me feel. What I felt for him was the closest thing to love I had ever had for someone who wasn't my parent. I felt attraction and affection for him, enough so that the thought of him breaking up with me made me feel panic. But he also brought out anger and hurt in me far too easily. Our relationship was at times endearing and the only good thing I had, and at others cold and frustrating and messed up. I wanted to believe that he felt something for me that was more than friendship at the same time that I didn't want to be any closer to him than I already was.

To say my feelings confused me is probably an understatement. I should have called the whole thing off then, but I couldn't. Being with him was all I had, he was the only color in my gray world and I needed him, no doubt more than he had ever needed me. So when he asked me to see that movie he had promised to take me to a month previous, I didn't even hesitate in telling him yes, even if he made me equally nervous and angry.

That date was, thankfully, uneventful compared to the past one. We met in the theater, Trowa buying me my ticket and some nachos and hot dogs to share between us. The movie was fun and entertaining, but I felt this twinge of anxiety running through me the entire time. I took me the first hour and a half of the film for me to realize what it was coming from. Trowa was being friendly and easy with me. He hadn't had a trace of the angry and frustrated attitude he had had the last time I had seen him, which I was grateful for. But not once during the movie did he try to hold my hand or even touch my leg with his.

I felt this wall between us, one that wasn't made of hard stone, but of soft glass that could easily be broken if either of us acknowledged it. I felt awkward and shy around him, like I had when we had first begun to be friends. That was exactly what it had felt like to me, that we had taken this huge step back and weren't boyfriends anymore, but just friends again. Was that what Trowa wanted? Was that what he had intended when he had asked me to the movies, not as a date, but just to hang out with a friend?

I realized then that that wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want to have sex with him, didn't want any of that kind of intimacy, but I didn't want to go back to being just friends with him, either. Was I really content to just... stay frozen the way we were, not progressing at all towards what Trowa wanted, but incapable of telling him that, incapable of admitting we shouldn't be dating, even if I liked being around him? I could easily understand Trowa's frustration with me. Hell, I frustrated myself.

Trowa walked me halfway to my house, it being late enough at night that there weren't many people around. He was very quiet and I wanted to scream at him, to demand him to just tell me if he wanted to break up with me, but I couldn't force the words out. Then I didn't need to as he grabbed my wrist, his green eyes glancing to see if anyone could see us in the desolate alleyway we were in, and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek. I blushed happily in the dark where he couldn't see and dared to return an equally soft kiss to his lips that he just as happily accepted. I felt such an intense joy and relief that it was hard to breathe. I could just barely see his own smile and the relief in it was as good as an apology to me.

We went on a couple more dates that month, all of them similarly laid back. Trowa was almost sweet to me, moving at a pace that I was more comfortable with. We made out, held hands, talked, and just did things together. He didn't push me again, not like he had. We didn't talk about sex or what I had done to his wrist. That was our relationship in a nutshell, and in a way, that was comforting to me.

It reminded me so much of how my friendship had been with Quatre, how there were things we would never bring up. I suppose complacent is a better word to describe it than comfortable. I was content with that, it was better than thinking about all of the things that were wrong with us or all of the things that I was scared of. I even rewarded Trowa's patience, and catered to a small measure of my guilt by letting him slip a hand under my shirt one time when we had been making out. I guess that seems outright ridiculous, such a tiny thing. But it was a step more than what I had been letting him do, a sort of negotiation between what I was comfortable with and what he wanted.

If anyone reads this, they'll laugh at me, if they haven't already, but even just that scared me. As I had felt his hand trace across my skin, his fingers dangerously close to my nipples, but never really touching them as he laid his palm over my heart, my heart had beat erratically and I had almost panicked again. It was ridiculous, I wasn't some girl having her breasts touched, so why did that tiny bit of intimacy scare me?

And when that rough hand had moved down my chest and ribs to rest on my stomach and I had thought that all of my organs had turned to frantic butterflies and startled sparrows and my skin had turned to somehow both fiery and chilled electricity, I had looked up at him. I'll always remember it, how his handsome face had seemed so bright and alive with a joy that was almost endearingly childlike if not for the could of lust in his eyes. I had known in that moment that it had been the right thing to do, the right thing to give him and I can't even begin to say what it did to me to know that I had given him that happiness. I couldn't have sex with him, but I could give him that much. Couldn't I?

For his part, Trowa kept his hand there on my stomach, never venturing any lower than that. Looking up at him, I had known that he desperately wanted to. But he hadn't. He had just rubbed the flat of my abdomen around my navel and kissed me deeply. I kissed him back eagerly, loving him a little for respecting my fears. I foolishly thought that it meant we were past what had happened before, that he understood why I was frightened and would wait. I childishly thought that, without even discussing it with him, and like I had forgotten that fervor of lust that had overtaken him that day in the park, that he could wait.

The return of school was a blessing and a curse to me. A blessing because it helped pass the time, got me away from my father, reduced my work hours, and I could see Trowa more, if only at a distance. And it was a curse because it meant that my dates with Trowa were going to be sparse between having less time to schedule them and more of our classmates were back from family vacations.

The return of school was stressful for me. Even with my only sleeping four hours a night on average, it was hard to find time to finish my homework with the job hours I was keeping. Suddenly, I had to think about my poor grades and even poorer future again. It was my Junior year of high school and that terrified the ever loving shit out of me. Two more years before I left high school. Two more years before my father was no longer obligated to keep me around. Two more years before I would need to fend for myself with nothing more than a high school diploma, if I even managed to graduate.

My fear of intimacy with Trowa seemed so petty compared to my fears of ending up homeless if my parents kicked me to the curb when I turned eighteen. And what if they didn't? All that gave me was a roof over my head. There was a part of me that wanted to leave, wanted to get away from them at the same time that I felt lost without them. But whether they kicked me out or not, I felt like I had no future and soon, I would have to come to terms with that.

But, worst of all, the return of school meant the return of Relena and Zechs. I hadn't seen either motherfucker the entirety of our Summer vacation, which was plenty to keep me in a good mood. After I had broken Zechs's nose, the strange ceasefire they had given me had effectively ended. I'll never know exactly why they had stopped bullying me for that short time period, if they actually had some kind of twisted remorse about what they had done to Quatre, if bullying me just hadn't been as fun with me so deep into my grief that I didn't care, or what they had done had satisfied their bloodlust for awhile, but when I had attacked both Relena and Zechs, it had fueled their cruelty.

As time had passed, the Darlian siblings had only become more vicious towards me, some of the pranks and attacks against me almost obscene and violent. I think I made it worse with my recent... attitude problem. I still didn't really fight back against them, that lesson is too deeply ingrained in me now and I just don't see the point of it anymore, why I should have even a moment's worth of peace, but their maliciousness doesn't affect me like it once did, either.

I suppose, deep down, it does. The things they say and do hurt me and rip open these vulnerable soft spots in me. But I don't let them see that most of the time. It has nothing to do with spite or self-preservation, it's simply because I don't have it in me anymore. Quatre's death made Trowa bitter and hard, that softness, that shyness that he used to have only seldom showing when he couldn't help it. Well, Quatre's death had had the exact impact on me. Only I hadn't had much softness to me to begin with. Now? I'm just all hard edges. I can't remember how to be openly vulnerable and hurt. I don't know how to cry and let out all the bad stuff anymore.

I could do it before, thanks to Quatre. I had someone to cry to, someone who understood what I was going through. I don't have that anymore. I couldn't even begin to imagine, even after a year of dating him, telling Trowa about my bullying problems. Sure, he hated Relena and Zechs as much as I did and he went to the same school as us, he was well aware of what they were doing to me. But my bullies were on that invisible list of things we couldn't talk about, smack between Quatre and my various injuries he would 'notice'.

Trowa would never understand what it felt like to be bullied and tormented, how it felt to be picked on by two people that I would like nothing more than to strangle or beat to a pulp. You think that I forgot my rage, forgot that horrified look on Quatre's face when he saw his diary posted on the school bulletin board? Never. Never never never never.

From now until the last day of my life, I will always remember what they did to the only good thing that had ever happened to me. I will always remember the kind of monsters they are. I will never forget what they are inside. Cold blooded murderers, the both of them. And just punching the both of them had not done a thing to quell my desire to see them hanged for it.

I think about it sometimes, when I wake up from a nightmare of the memory of the worst day of my life. I wake seeing Quatre's sad smile and the splatter of blood from the train hitting his small body and I think about grabbing my father's gun from nightstand drawer in his bedroom and finding Relena and Zechs Darlian. I think about torturing them with it, shooting out their knee caps maybe. Or maybe I would just walk up to them and shoot them both in the head. The amount of satisfaction I feel when I indulge in that fantasy terrifies me some nights.

But I don't do it. I can't. I'm a coward and I could... could never do what they had done. The fantasy of it is blissful, but the reality only makes me feel cold. And what's the point? Quatre is dead. Maybe Relena and Zechs need to be punished for that, but killing them wouldn't be a punishment. Making them feel what I feel now... what Quatre felt right before he killed himself would. Death is too quick for the both of them.

I can't even bully them back. While I would love nothing more than to go after Relena and put her in a full body cast, I can't even manage that much. I had hit her out of pure rage and reflex, same with Zechs. I can't seem to dredge up those feelings anymore. My anger is too clouded with depression and I can't see the point in it. And really, I'm still more angry at myself than at them.

What they do to me is what I deserve, every bit of it. I bottle the hurt up inside and let them do those things to me and I think they sense it and it frustrates them. Those vulnerable spots in me are hidden behind a wall of grey and nothingness. While my nightmares and Trowa's coldness might be able to reach it, Relena and Zechs can't, not like it used to.

But that's not to say that it doesn't hurt or anger me or make me want to find a way to get them to stop, it just seems... faint compared to everything else in my life. If I'm afraid of them, then I'm terrified of my father. If they hurt me, my dreams and memories of Quatre tear me into shreds. If them calling me a faggot or a pussy or a cunt angers me, Trowa's looking through me or telling me that I look like a girl or trying to feel me up enraged me. So, I lived through the bullying like I was in a fog. I was still grateful not to have to deal with them in the Summer.

Coming back to school, back to that was like a splash of ice water in my face and I'll admit that I felt a bit of fear walking through the high school's dark blue doors and through the main hallway of lockers for our grade, only to see Relena talking and laughing with Dorothy. I wasn't scared of what she would do to me when she saw me, I was scared of myself.

It was the same fear I had felt the previous semester, when Trowa and I had started to go out. I had been so high strung about our dating back then, and so sure that when those ice blue eyes, like chips of ice, fell on me, then she would know. There had to be something, some look that I had, that would tell her or Zechs or some other classmate that, not only was I gay, but I was dating Quatre's love interest.

It had been enough to make me feel sick. While I didn't have Trowa's terror of being outted, I did fear it. More than that, I feared people finding out who I was dating because a lot of the time, I wondered about my sanity and my morals in dating him, too. Maybe I was a step in for Quatre for Trowa, but that did absolutely nothing to diminish my guilt.

But the days and then weeks and months had passed and no one had caught on that there was even a friendship between the two of us and that paranoia had faded. It should have faded all the way, but since Summer vacation had started, we had gotten closer and more intimate and that fear cropped up again once school had started.

I felt like everyone could tell that Trowa and were becoming more involved, delving deeper into the things that made people like us so hated in a town like ours. Every secret place that Trowa had touched me and kissed me felt like it was burning. I was very, very happy that Trowa was considerate enough, or paranoid enough, not to leave hickies on me. Now there was something I did not want my father to find out. I don't think he would believe me if I told him I had a girlfriend. He would make me tell him her name and then beat the shit out of me for lying to him. And that was my best case scenario.

Just like before, all my paranoia was unfounded. Relena saw me and sneered at me before flicking her hair over her shoulder and resuming her talk with her best friend. I passed her without her trying to trip me or anything juvenile like that. Trowa and I walked by each other on our way to our respective homerooms. Although my heart sped up a little, we didn't so much as glance at each other. We were beyond discreet, we were like fucking undercover agents. We never stopped for a chat when we saw each other during school. We didn't nod to each other. We didn't look at each other. We didn't bump shoulders. We treated each other like we were strangers, just bodies in a crowd. For people like us, that's how we survived.

Sometimes I hurt with wanting to be like every other couple I saw in school. Standing in the dark corners of hallways where they hoped teachers wouldn't be able to see them or the bolder couples that didn't care if they got yelled at, holding hands, hugging, necking, making out, or just staring into each other's eyes in a way that was paradoxically sweet and sickeningly disgusting at the same time.

Of course, I guess actually being in love would help. But I couldn't even risk just... brushing my hand against Trowa's in the hallway or meeting his gaze across a room. Maybe I wasn't in love, but there were times when I just felt so indescribably lonely or upset after Relena and Zechs had finished tormenting me that I wanted to seek out my boyfriend and let him touch me, let him kiss me and pretend that we were different than we were.

I wanted to pretend that I loved him deeply like that. I knew that if I could hold his hand in those moments, it would make me feel somewhat better. But I couldn't even have that. I really did feel like we were undercover agents, that during the day we were ghosts with each other, but at night we were something completely different. It made me feel so strange. I can't describe it well enough. I just knew that I hated it.

When I entered my homeroom, my stomach dropped. I saw a large group of our classmates, many of them that did not belong to our homeroom group, all clustered around the middle of the room. I knew right away what they were looking at and while in middle school, that knowledge would have made me feel dread, I only felt very tired and beaten. And my day had already started.

The group parted for me, some of them in fear, some of them in mirth. I heard more than one giggle. It was all white noise to me at that point. I managed to get about a five second look at what had caused the commotion before our homeroom teacher strode in to see why there were so many students in his room.

It was my desk everyone was gawking around, obviously. Of course it was. I remembered Relena's sneer and felt my hands curl into fists, realizing the purpose of it. Someone, again, obviously her, had taken something sharp to my desk. A knife, the edge of a screwdriver, it was hard to tell. But someone had violently scratched and carved into my desk various nasty, threatening, and vile things.

Faggot... cum slut... kill yourself... shit licker... trash... cunt... flamer... cocksucker... they just went on and on, getting more and more obscene. Looking at them, looking at how deep the marks were and how many words were there, I knew that it hadn't just been one person. My desk was destroyed and it was just too easy to imagine Zechs and his asshole friends partaking in it with his sister and probably Dorothy, too.

I wouldn't be surprised if there was something equally nasty waiting for me inside the desk, too. Not that I would look, I had learned my lesson about my curiosity a long time ago. This was the third time since middle school that they had done this to one of my desks. I felt the crowd completely disperse as our teacher walked up to me like he was on a warpath.

"Duo Maxwell!" he bellowed at me as he got a good look at the remains of my desk, his face turning a very splendid shade of red and he jabbed a finger into my chest, "What the hell is wrong with you?! This is school property-" he was winding up for a very long and tiresome rant, I could sense it.

"That's right," I sneered coldly at him, "I carved 'fudge packer' into my own desk."

All that red in his face drained away into pure white of embarrassment and just a bit of fear as he both realized how stupid his reaction had been and who it was he was talking to. I had to admit that that fear was kind of amusing to me, if only because I couldn't stand my homeroom teacher and his snide, uppity attitude towards me.

When I moved on from middle school into high school, I... well, I would say that I changed, but that's putting it mildly. People my age think that they're adults. They're older and wiser and get privileges they never would have dreamed of when they were younger. They act like they're different than how they were in 7th or 8th grade, like graduating from middle school turns you into this different person.

Well, it doesn't. Being handed the keys to a car or being able to see a rated R film doesn't magically turn you into an adult. Becoming a teenager sure as hell doesn't make you a different person. The kids I go to school with in high school are basically the same people I went to school with in middle school. The only real difference is that they do adult things and think that makes them mature. They make out with their girlfriends and boyfriends. The ones with well off parents drive to school instead of take the bus. Some of them smoke. Some of them talk back to teachers and other adults because I guess being a mature teenager makes them feel entitled to.

Me? When I walked into this high school for the first time, I became a different person, but not because I was suddenly an upper classman or some stupid shit like that. Middle school was like... a different life. Everything I had known and once cared for lay in that building, every memory I held close to me, whether it was a bitter one or a sweet one.

I had met Quatre there. I had met Relena and Zechs there. That building held my tears, happiness, anger, and blood. It was the place where I had realized that Quatre was in love with Trowa, the place that had taken everything away from the both of them. It was the place had become more of a comfort to me than my own home, and the place that held all my nightmares. And when I left it, I resolved to leave all of that behind, all of those terrible memories. I left behind Mrs. Khushrenada, the only teacher I had ever had that had actually given a shit about me. I left behind every person that had really known what I had been like as a child, how I had cared about my schoolwork, how I had tried my best to be quiet and well behaved, how easily Relena and Zechs had hurt me at times. I left them behind and buried them. I burned that child out of me because that wasn't who I was anymore.

My very first day of high school, Relena dumped spoiled milk on the teacher's desk and I got blamed for it. The teacher hadn't known me, but apparently my fake reputation of being a juvenile delinquent had carried over into high school somehow. And having my unusually long braid didn't help to not paint me as some kind of teenaged rebel. I bet if I had asked that teacher why they thought I had done it, what terrible things they had heard I had done, they would have come up blank. But I didn't. Nor did I try to correct anyone's assumptions of me, the way that some of the underclassmen would hurry out of my way if I looked like I was in a bad mood.

I developed, for a lack of a better word, an attitude problem. That first day of high school, as the teacher had yelled at me and Relena had smirked, no doubt expecting me to defend myself or break down, I had had a thought. If everyone thought I was a delinquent, then maybe I should just become one. If that was what everyone was going to think and gossip about me, just a bit of white trash from the South end, and nothing I could say or do would make a difference, no matter how hard I tried at school or how polite I was to my teachers, why not turn that into the truth? What difference would it make?

I don't go out of my way to make trouble. I don't spray paint graffiti or bully the younger kids or disrupt class. I haven't changed quite that much. But I reward the people who believe those stupid rumors. When my classmates look at me with fear or disgust or I heard them gossiping about me, I would glare at them and watch them turn pale, like they thought I was going to pull a knife on them. I'm sure my punching out the two richest kids in school had helped feed that fear. And when teacher's gave me attitude about something they thought I had done, I gave them twice as much attitude back. I acted like I had zero respect for them because they had at least that much for me. Suffice to say, I got sent to the principal a lot.

The principal and I have a... strained relationship. That first day of school when I got blamed for the spoiled milk? I got sent to him and he had asked me if I had done it. Very first person that had actually asked that question instead of immediately pointing their finger at me. I had rewarded that with honesty and had been shocked when he had believed me. Or at least he had believed me enough to send me back to my class without more than an 'adjust your attitude' lecture.

Since then, every time I was sent to him, he would ask me 'what is it you were supposed to have done now?' with a kind of bored, flat tone. My respect for him always has me telling him the truth. And he just sighs, lectures me about being so caustic or for talking back to my teachers and sends me on my way. It's been the subject of a few terse meetings between him and my teachers, no doubt frustrated that I haven't been at least suspended for my disrespectful attitude yet.

He's the only member of the school staff I have anything but bitterness for, although I know it frustrates him that I don't try to get along with my teachers or act like the 'good kid' he obviously has decided to see me as. My teachers can't seem to get him to think otherwise and I guess my homework percentage hasn't swayed him into thinking I'm just a delinquent loser like everyone else does.

Principal Stoan reminds me a bit of Mrs. Khushrenada like that, that just because I get my homework in on time and maintain a C+ average (barely), that means I have some kind of lukewarm potential. I don't know if he realizes that my attitude is just an act yet, but at least I haven't gotten suspended. That would... not fly so well with my father. But even my fear of him can't keep me from being abrasive to the people I cross paths with at this stupid school.

I stared my homeroom teacher down and knew that he would be reporting this little incident to the principal by the end of the day, probably as soon as our short homeroom period ended. By the way, that teacher that blamed me for the spoiled milk? This prick. We've been at each other's throats ever since. I could see him trying to reason through it, looking for some proof that I had done that to my desk, even if he knew I made perfect sense. That I had embarrassed him by pointing out, in front of a large portion of his students, that his knee jerk reaction had been stupid didn't help his pride.

"Take your seat," he snarled at me.

I couldn't have helped the snide smirk I threw at him if I had wanted to. After three years of this, this cold and hard act I threw on in front of other people was starting to not become an act at all. Sometimes I wonder if it ever had been or if this is just the person I am. Sometimes I wonder if this was always how things would have turned out if I had never met Quatre and he had made me a better person while I had known him. Had I always felt this anger and bitterness towards other people? I... can't remember.

I sat down like I had been planning on doing that to begin with, which I had, and rested my head on my hand, staring at the man with complete boredom. He strode back to the front of the room and the rest of the mass of students started to take their own seats. Relena sat in the row next to me, further up towards the front, saving me from having to look at her triumphant stare.

I had been at school for twenty minutes and I could already feel the beginnings of a truly bad headache brewing in my skull. I told myself that it was just frustration from my interactions with my teacher and it had nothing to do with the carvings in my desk that I was resting my elbow from. And if I didn't dare to look down at them, that was only because I didn't care about them, because they bored me, not because they hurt me in any way. Denial is the best self preservation tool there is.

Our homeroom teacher read the daily announcements to us, handed out our schedules, and sent us on our way, but not before throwing another bitter glare my way. I breezed right past him, pretending I couldn't even see him. I tried to put the entire thing out of my head, tried to ignore that every time I closed my eyes, I could see those words, like they were etched into my brain instead of my desk. It would be pointless to get worked up about it anyway, I knew from previous experience that my desk would be replaced by tomorrow and I only had that desk through homeroom and Biology, anyway.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake my bad mood through the rest of the day. My path with Zechs didn't cross until the lunch period, when I passed him on his way to the cafeteria. He was too busy talking to one of his friends, a dark skinned brunette named Bran Mueller that liked to wear sunglasses all the time, to notice me. Bran was shorter than Zechs, taller than me by just three inches, and was just as brutal as Zechs was. I stayed away from the lot of them.

I hoped that this year, I wouldn't be in any of the same classes with any of them and could minimize my exposure to Zechs. I had managed to get a single year free of him in middle school when he had finally graduated to high school and this should have been his last year with us, but as usual, the universe really doesn't like me. Zechs flunked out of three of his classes last year after a record round of playing hooky and not doing most of his homework and ended up in our grade.

If I had thought he had been bad before, ending up in the same grade as his sister had made him an absolute monster. I don't know who I felt worse for, myself and all the other people who had to deal with Zechs for another year, or his parents who had not really done anything wrong by him, but now had their nineteen year old son still being a Junior in high school. Being held back would have made a lot of kids rethink their priorities, but Zechs still had that superior attitude of his that made him just not give a shit about anything but slacking off, hanging out with his equally shitty friends, and beating up anyone who dared point out his problems. At least Relena got good grades.

She hadn't really tried anything besides the desk thing all day, either. She was too busy gossiping with the rest of the female population of the school about some new transfer student we were getting in a couple of months. He was supposedly some hotshot, star baseball player from some Southern state whose father was an award winning psychiatrist or something like that. It didn't hurt that, according the girls, who had looked him up on the internet through his previous school's yearbook, incredibly good looking. I could almost feel bad for the guy. The second he stepped into this school, he was going to get mobbed.

I took the lunch I had made for myself and went to the third floor of the school, sneaking past any teachers that might have yelled at me for not being in the cafeteria. The third floor of the high school was where all of the art rooms were; the photo lab, computer design lab, watercolors, and a few others. I could hear a few lectures going on, but got to the stairwell without being seen. There was a little set of stairs next to the computer design lab that led up to a studio-type room. In previous years, painting classes and clubs used to meet up there. It was a really nice, cozy room that always managed to catch the right amount of light in the day time that you never needed to turn on the overhead lights. There were couches and chairs and even a table and a leftover radio from when the painting club had been doing projects on still-lifes.

Normally, there would be a class up there during that time of day for the underclassman, but no one uses it anymore since it came to light last year that the teacher in charge of the painting club had been taking one of his female students up there after school hours for a little... 'private lesson'. The teacher had been fired, the student transferred to a different school, and the room locked off so no one else could go up there for some alone time that wasn't so alone.

Which, of course, was exactly why I liked going up there. Not even teachers went up into that room anymore, just the janitors at the end of the day. And why would they? The door was kept locked. That thought almost made me laugh. Sure enough, when I got up to the door, it was locked tight like it always was. Of course, the lock itself was nothing special; it was an old turn style lock that had probably been purchased at the lowest cost to the school possible. There wasn't even a secondary lock or a deadbolt. The first time I had come up here, I had looked at it with disdain. Of course, this wasn't like the computer lab where there were things the school didn't want students to make off with.

I fished a pen out of my bag, unscrewed the top of it and took out the ink cartridge, feeding into the lock. The very first time I had attempted this, I had broken the cartridge and gotten ink all over my hands, but I was used to doing this now. It took a couple of tries, but with a few twists of the cartridge, I was able to get the door open and my pen put back together. One of my coworkers at the factory, Solo, is a convict out on probation for theft and car assault. Picking locks to him was like turning on a light switch for anyone else, and one day when some genius had locked the equipment room on us and had lost the key, he had shown me how to pick a door lock.

Picking the studio door was really the only time I had used that knowledge. I still hadn't figured out how to do the same thing to the front door of my house when my father locks me out, but Solo promised me that one day he would show me that, too. I had repaid him for his knowledge by making him some gingerbread cookies from scratch, his one weakness. He even teased that if I kept making sweets for him, he would teach me how to steal a car one day, but I recognized it for the joke that it was.

A lot of the guys that I work with at the factory don't like me very much. Half of them are like Solo and are working at the only place that would hire them straight out of prison or juvenile hall and refuse to speak to me because I'm a cop's kid. The other half just resent me because I'm too young to be doing that job and could be working at a grocery store or something, but my father had pulled strings for me. Solo is the only one there that not only will talk to me, but seems to enjoy my company. That my father is a police officer doesn't faze him that much. I think he realized early on that I'm not exactly the type to go running to daddy because of some off color jokes or because he had taught me a few... helpful skills.

The room was exactly like how I had left it on the last day of school. I debated sitting on the couch or the table to eat, but decided against both when I saw the thick beam of sunlight coming through the sky light. I dragged a few pillows onto the ground where the sun was hitting and sat down. Although it was only early September and Summer was still technically with us, it had been unseasonably cold the last couple of days and the sunlight was wonderfully warm. I wanted to pretend that I was a lizard and just lay down and bask in it. I have never liked the cold very much.

I was halfway into my chicken sandwich when the door opened behind me. I knew from the sound of the person's footsteps that it wasn't a teacher, but I didn't relax until I heard the door close again and lock.

"Up here again?" Trowa asked as he sat down next to me with his own brown paper bag in hand.

"Didn't feel like dealing with Zechs today," I confessed, "and it's too cold still to eat outside."

"You're going to get caught one of these days," he said, taking out various foodstuffs from his bag.

I just shrugged at him. I went up there a bit too much, that was true, but it was better than being in the loud cafeteria. I almost shot back that if he was that worried about getting caught, why join me at all, but I was happy that he did. He didn't do it that often, he was too cautious for that. I disappeared during lunch quite a bit, so our classmates were used to that, but if he started doing it, too, someone was bound to notice eventually. He usually met me there just once every two weeks, if that.

Trowa pulled something wrapped in tin foil out of his bag, opened it, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. I glanced at it and shook my head in amusement. It was another one of his mother's egg salad sandwiches. Trowa hated them and I didn't really blame him. She always used too much onions and mayonnaise, something that Trowa didn't like that much even in small doses, and not nearly enough eggs. She didn't even put any pepper or radishes in it like I did, though I could see a few pieces of chives sprinkled here and there.

I took a second sandwich out of my bag and gave it to him. He quirked an amused eyebrow at me, but took my sandwich, handing me his. His entire face lit up when he unwrapped it and saw that it was roast beef. I had taken some of my allowance money and bought some on the deli because they had had a sale, using half for the sandwich and half for another that I gave my father. I had packed it in his lunch yesterday and when he had come home last night, he had said 'thanks, kiddo.'

I wouldn't tell a single person how that light praise had made me feel stupidly warm and happy inside. Both my father and Trowa the roast beef sandwiches I make. I always make up for the cheap roast beef I have to buy by layering the sandwich with onions, sour cream, mayonnaise in my father's, horseradish if I can find any in our fridge, tomatoes, and just a little bit of lemon juice, pepper, and vinegar. I don't get to make them often, but it always puts both of them in a good mood. I had packed the extra sandwich that day in hopes that I would be able to see Trowa and give it to him. If not, I would just have it for dinner later.

"Thanks, Duo," my boyfriend said earnestly and took a huge bite out of the sandwich, making a content noise as he chewed on it.

"No problem," I tried as hard as I could, but I just couldn't manage to stop the sappy and moronic smile that broke out on my face.

I felt that same warmth in my chest, that same happiness over something so small and I wanted to slap myself for it. It was just a fucking sandwich. I mean, didn't everyone pack lunches for their boyfriends? It had just been a bit of luck that I had made it on a day that Trowa had wanted to seek me out anyway...

I took a bite of his egg salad sandwich and winced. Yeah, Mrs. Barton was not what one might call a good cook. Or even a mediocre one. There were maybe half of the eggs in it that you were supposed to use and way too much mayonnaise. There was a lot of onion in it, too, the same mistakes she made every single time, but I liked red onions, so I didn't mind that.

I dug a packet of pepper out of my backpack, a trophy from the pizza joint, and sprinkled it over the sandwich before taking another bite. It made it slightly better. It needed more chives, too. If I were any kind of picky eater, I would thrown the whole thing in the trash, but I'm not and was of the mind that any free food was good food.

Trowa made a face at me as I polished off the sandwich. I wasn't a fan of mayonnaise, either, especially not that much of it, but it was thick and filling on top of the chicken sandwich I had already eaten. I guzzled the entirety of the water bottle I had brought with me to get the taste of mayonnaise and onion out of my mouth and when Trowa handed me a couple of chocolate chip cookies from his lunch, I gladly ate those, too. They were store bought.

"You're like a bottomless pit," he said with an amused chuckle that was quite pleasant sounding, "Is there anything you won't eat?"

"Anchovies," I said, only partially joking, and shuddered.

The way things at home were going lately, I never really knew if there was going to be food in the fridge when I opened it, or that my dad would be in a sour enough mood to refuse to let me eat. As he was so fond of saying if he was drunk or in such a mood, 'Why the fuck should I just give you the food my hard earned money bought me? What have you done for me lately that's so great?' So, I wasn't going to turn my nose up on anything that was given to me.

However, that being said, I am not so pathetic that I'll eat something as disgusting as anchovies. Not only are they oily and weird, they just... stare up at you. I'm not a bleeding heart vegetarian. I like animals. I'll be the first to try to pet a cat I see on the street and I'm not such a hard ass that I can't admit I feel a bit... sad when I see lost pet posters. I even feel bad for chickens and cows, but I still like eating meat. Still, the thought of what I'm eating looking up at me with dead, unseeing eyes freaks me out. Anchovies are definitely some of the only food I absolutely refuse to swallow. Even a half eaten burger fished out of someone's trash would be preferable.

"Can you stay for awhile?" I asked him timidly, "Or do you have to rush back to class? My Home Ec class is free reading period for the rest of week. Ms. Schbeiker had some kind of family emergency and they couldn't find a sub on short notice."

He smiled at me. The kind of soft and affectionate smile that reminded me why I liked spending time with him.

"I just have Gym. I can play hooky for a bit, it's only the first day of school, after all," he said and lightly touched my hand.

I felt guilty that I could convince to skip class so easily, but the twinge was small. Trowa was practically an adult now and could make his own choices. Plus, he was right, it was only gym and it was the first day of school. And he was a Senior. Teachers seemed to be of the opinion that when you became a Senior, anything wrong you did became not their problem anymore since you were going to graduate.

A sharp depression came over me at that thought. Trowa was a Senior. That meant that next year, he would be going off to college. Specifically, he would be going to the Carning Institute of Science in Hope. It was the closest college to us, and a fairly small one at that. It was a good school and while I have no doubt that Trowa could have gotten into a better one with his grades, his quitting basketball had kind of screwed his chances of getting into a really great college. Carning was the best choice for him since it had the kinds of classes that he was interested in taking, whether his father approved or not, and it was close by enough that his parents wouldn't have to pay for meal plans or lodging for him. While they were much better off than my own fucked up family, they weren't rich and Trowa hadn't qualified for any scholarships.

Even though he wasn't going across the country for school and would be commuting to and from Nausten, I knew the reality of the situation. I was going to have the rest of my Junior year and the Summer with him, and then it would be an outright miracle if I would see him for more than a few days a year during holidays and the Summer. We didn't see each other that much as it was and while a part of me would be relieved, that part of me that was chicken shit and reared its ugly head whenever Trowa touched me someplace I wasn't comfortable with, mostly? I was going to miss him.

I was going to miss moments like this where we were just hanging out together, no pressure to do anything more than touch or kiss lightly, if we dared. I was going to miss talking with him. I was going to miss talking with someone, because I knew that when Trowa left, that was it for me. There was no one else. Trowa was all I had. That I would end up back in the grey void that had nearly swallowed me whole after Quatre's death terrified me. Maybe I didn't want to be around people, to have the kind of connection I had once had with Quatre with anyone, and maybe I didn't even like anyone besides Trowa, but I hated being alone even more than I hated all the people I was forced to go to school with.

I laid down on the pillows, placing my hands on my stomach, and looked up through the sky light. It was truly a beautiful day out. The sky was cloudless and I could see blue for what seemed like an eternity, broken only by the occasional bird. I felt Trowa wrap his hand around mine and looked over at him. He was lying next to me on his side, staring at me with that heat in his eyes again. For once, I didn't feel fear of him. We were at school, there was no way he would try anything here, right?

Instead, for the first time, I just examined his face and didn't let my anxieties make me turn away from him or try to guard myself. That heated, lustful look made him look so... adult and handsome. I hadn't realized it before. I felt a strong affection for him then and a sort of pride. Even if I didn't love him and even if he didn't love me, he was still my boyfriend and I liked the thought of that. I rolled off the pillows and pressed myself against him, letting his arm curl around my back as I let my head rest against his chest.

We had never really... snuggled before, and I wasn't sure what had possessed me to take that step, there was just something about the combination of my full stomach, the pleasant warmth of where we were laying, and his expression that got to me. It somehow seemed more intimate to me than kissing or him putting his hand on my bare stomach. But I wasn't frightened of that kind of closeness.

It was nice, laying against him, feeling his heart beat. I had never done something like this before, had never gotten this physically close to another person before, not even Quatre. But it just felt so good to me, like some barrier in me was coming down for just a fraction of a second. It felt so good that when Trowa moved his body down mine until we were face to face and pressed his lips against my throat, I didn't even protest.

He had never kissed me there before, another first. I felt those cool lips move against my fragile skin and shivered when he nipped me a little, not even caring about the possibility that he might have left a mark. I felt his other hand caress my chest, those deft fingers daring to rub against one of my nipples through my shirt. I breathed sharply at the weird feeling of anyone touching me there, how sensitive it made my nipple feel. My heart fluttered and I could feel that familiar anxiety and fear cresting in me. But then that hand simply held mine again and I relaxed. Why did I like him holding my hand so much when I was so scared of him touching me other places? It made no sense to me.

I heard the sound of a zipper being pulled down suddenly and felt confused, because Trowa was definitely not touching my jeans. But then he was pressing his lips to mine and kissing me in this intense, forceful way that sent chills right threw me and that was all I could concentrate on. Right until I felt his grip on my hand become more purposeful and he slid it into his open jeans.

I blinked my eyes open, startled to feel the smooth material of his underwear and the smoldering look in his green eyes nearly knocked the breath right out of me.

"Trowa... what are you doing?" I could keep the fear out of my voice, "Stop..."

"Sssh," he soothed, his face flush with excitement, "I won't touch you... I'll be real slow, Duo, I promise..."

Before I could ask him what he was talking about, he had my hand under his briefs and he forced my fingers to close against his member. My eyes went huge, like an owl's as I realized what it was that I was grasping in my hand and I think I might have gasped and not in a good way. I jerked my hand away, but his grip on me was like iron and the reflex only had him giving out a soft, happy moan. I realized rather quickly why he was moaning and felt sick to my stomach.

He was... warm. Warmer than I had ever thought he would be. I had never touched an erect penis before. It was so strange. Hot and hard, but soft and wet. I know what pre-cum is, I had to go to the same sexual education classes as everyone else in my grade, but for some reason, feeling that wetness and fullness shocked me, just the idea that Trowa Barton was hard for me. His grip on my hand forced me to draw my fingers tighter around him. I could feel his heart beat. I could actually feel it, through the veins in his penis. His heart was racing so fast. Or maybe that was my own thundering heart. It was so intense, that realization, so intimate and made me feel raw with emotion. The emotional centers in my brain, however, could not decide to be more frightened or more in awe in that moment.

But just like all the last time that my boyfriend had tried to advance our relationship like this, the fear won out and I panicked. And isn't it just pathetic that all I could think about in that moment, besides how freaking fast my heart was pounding in my ears, was how inadequate I was. I had touched another boy's cock for the first time in my life.

It had not been... horrible. Frightening, yes, because of the things it might lead to. But it had also been interesting to me, and I had kind of liked how Trowa had felt in my hand. But the fear I felt wasn't just of sex. I was scared because after everything... after him kissing my neck, something that I had enjoyed, and after touching him, I didn't feel anything. In my own jeans, my own dick was as flaccid as it had been my entire life. Touching him and feeling how hard he had been only made me remember the day that I had tried to jack off to pictures of naked women.

Well, I was very slowly coming to terms with the fact that I like guys. I was touching a guy in a very private place. So shouldn't that excite me... down there? Shouldn't I feel something? The fear that I might never know what it feels like to want, to feel myself grow hard like that and desire another boy like Trowa obviously did was overpowering me. But the fear that my boyfriend would realize how hollow I was, how much of a freak I was, was even worse.

"Dammit, Trowa, stop it!" I cried out, but there wasn't an inch of anger in my tone. Only fear and desperation and I hated myself for it.

I successfully managed to wrench my wrist out of his grasp and out of his pants and pushed away from him like my life depended on it. He stared at me in shock, that pleasing blush still on his face. He looked like I had effectively dumped ice water on him, or I had woken him up from a truly wonderful dream. And just like that, he exploded in this flurry of action, practically shoving me away, jumping to his feet, and running his fingers frantically threw his hair.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he snarled at me, pacing like some kind of wild animal.

I flinched, the image he presented to me was a mirror reflection of my father when he got into one of his rages. The only thing that was missing was a beer bottle and broken furniture. I sat up quickly, ready to defend myself if I had to. I couldn't really imagine Trowa hurting me out of anger, the move was just reflex. Even so, the pure rage on his face scared me. I tried to recall what that same face had looked like before and how I had found it handsome, but in my panic, I couldn't remember it.

"Do you get off on this?!" he hissed at me, "Or is this a big joke to you?!"

"I am not getting off on anything!" I protested in desperation and almost cringed at just how literal that was, "Trowa, I can't-"

"Can't what?!" he roared and I was starting to get worried that someone could hear him, hoping that we were far away from any classrooms for our voices to carry. Well, his voice since he was the only one yelling.

He suddenly laughed and it was the most horrible sound I had heard, with the only exception of hearing the sound of Quatre's body hitting the train, which might have only been in my imagination.

"Can't let your boyfriend touch you?! Am I repulsive to you or something?! Or are you planning to live your entire life a virgin?!" he strode up to me and for a moment I really did think he was going to strike me, he was that furious. I felt my eyes go wide with shock again and I pushed back from him, but didn't dare get to my feet, "You're sixteen years old, Duo! You aren't a child and you sure as hell some pure, blushing fourteen year old girl! You're nearly an adult! What exactly are you saving yourself for?" he asked me with this completely snide sneer that made my stomach curl, "Do you think you're some prime lay? You?! Do you think some knight on a white horse is going to come by and fuck a piece of white trash like you?! You're lucky you even have anyone willing to nail someone as dull and unwanted as you, and you have the gall to act so superior?! What is so fucking special about you, Duo, that you think that you can do better than me?!"

He was like a hurricane of pure rage, hatred, and meanness and I really was surprised that he didn't start throwing things or hit me. He was unable to contain it anymore, or he had enough sense to realize that he was getting close to doing a lot more than yelling at me, and he stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard that it actually rattled the walls a little. All I could do was stare after him in complete and total shock, unsure of what I had just seen. I was very distantly aware that I was shaking. I couldn't tell you what from. Fear, shock, or just plain hurt.

I wasn't angry at him for the things that he had said to me. I would be, the next day, but right then? I just felt like I had been blown apart and no one had bothered to put me back together. I can't even say what, exactly, had hurt me. I felt like a hit and run victim, one minute just walking along, totally unaware, and then next struck and left bleeding and broken.

I couldn't get my mind around what happened, his fury at me for not letting him do what he had wanted. I realized how complacent I had been. I had thought his not trying anything with me had meant that he understood not to push me. I could have laughed at how stupid I was. It wasn't like we had talked about it or I had admitted my shyness to him.

I guess I should have been angry. What he had done, making me touch him, was a bit... I wouldn't call it wrong, but disrespectful? I think I had understood what he had been trying to do, that he had thought it would have been easier for me to touch him instead of him touch me. I guess someone else would have found it sweet, but I didn't. I couldn't. All I could think of was his hand around mine, forcing me to touch him and how it had made me feel.

I tried, really, I did, but the rage wouldn't come. I played his words over and over in my head so many times that even if I didn't have this irritating, memory quirk, I would have remembered those exact words for the rest of my life. I relived that hurt, letting that knife stab into my heart over and over, and still, I didn't feel mad. I felt pain, I felt sadness, I felt depression, and yes, I did feel anger. But not at Trowa. At me.

He had tried to ease me into it and I had thrown it back in his face. And now... now Trowa thought that I didn't want to have sex with him because I thought I was better than he was? How could he think that? I should have felt betrayed at him calling me trash, but all I felt was that I had betrayed him. He had just wanted me to touch him and wasn't that my job in this stupid relationship? I was nothing but a cock tease. I deserved everything he had screamed at me.

He deserved better than me. He deserved someone who wasn't broken inside, someone who could love him and have sex with him without constantly pushing him away. He deserved Quatre. And he had gotten me. I wrapped my arms around my legs and buried my head in my knees. I was going to lose him. The only thing I had left before I would be completely alone again, and because of my fears and childishness, I was going to lose him. I couldn't hold on to Quatre because I had been selfish, and now I was going to lose Trowa.

I could stop it. If I had the courage and I wasn't sure that I did. I didn't want him to go. I remembered how good it had felt laying in his arms before things had gotten too intense for me. Why couldn't I have that? That was all I wanted, just to be close to someone who cared about me again. But I had pushed him away. What sort of person did something like that? I didn't want to be alone again. I didn't want to let Trowa or Quatre down. I didn't want to have sex just to keep him... but I couldn't have all of those things, could I?

In the warm sunlight, I trembled. I felt so cold and empty. I wanted him to come back and let me lay against him again, but I knew that he wouldn't. He probably would never come back again. I sure as hell didn't expect him to. It was what I deserved for stringing him along like this.

The next period came and went before I found the strength to stand back up. I cleaned up my mess and walked back down to my next class. I think my teacher yelled at me for being tardy. I didn't hear it. Zechs could have walked right up to me and punched me in the face and I wouldn't have felt it. There were so many thoughts and awful feelings swirling around in me, it's a miracle I didn't start screaming right there in class.

The more time passed, the worse I felt. Trowa's words and that enraged look on his face sunk deep into me and took root instead of dispersing with time. By the time school let out, I had a pounding headache, was so sick to my stomach that all it would have taken was a sight of a nearby toilet to get me to hurl, and a deep tangle of self-hatred and depression.

I couldn't even shake it off at work. I think Sal realized there was something wrong. For once, he refused to let me answer the phones, make the food, or interact with any customers, instead sticking me out back to do inventory. I must have looked especially pathetic and quite like a whipped dog because he told me to go home an hour before my shift ended and clapped me on the back on my way out. I barely noticed, I was so submerged in my fog of confusing thoughts and anxiety.

I went to the beach. Usually, a long walk down by the surf helped calm me down and I hoped that the peace and quiet would make me feel better, but it was too cold and I felt too tired and too down to feel any enjoyment there like I usually did, so I went home. I opened the door and almost tripped over an empty beer can. There was a trash bag with a rip in it by the door that it had obviously come out of. I nudged the bag with my foot and saw through the tear that nearly the whole thing was filled with beer cans. For some reason, that caused a wave of frustration and misery to swell up in me. I wanted to take that entire bag and just throw it's contents all over the stupid house.

"The toilet's clogged," my father said gruffly when I walked into the kitchen, "You'd better fix it before I need to use it."

The sight of him there, nursing another can of beer disgusted me. It actually repulsed me. I felt my depression squirm in me and I just couldn't handle it. I couldn't handle him on top of everything else that I had had to deal with that day. I walked right past him and fished a bottle of water out of the fridge.

"And take the damned trash out," he barked at me, "It's overflowing. I give you a handful of things to do in this shit hole and you can't even get them done. I bust my ass all day to put food on this table and you can't even take out the goddamned-"

"Why don't you just shut the fuck up already?!" I whirled and snarled at him.

My rage at him lasted all of a second before his cold, measured stare filtered into my head and I realized what I had just said to him. I was running as he stood up from the chair so fast that it fell over. I don't know why I bothered. I'm fast, but my father has a long stride, and he was too close to me for me to have any chance of outrunning him. Even if I had, there was nowhere for me to go. Every room in this house was a death trap waiting for me, and I knew that if I tried to make it to the front door, I would either trip over the trash bag or get caught opening the door.

But still, I ran. I think got five steps before I felt that strong, familiar hand grab and twist my braid, pulling me down like a crocodile with a grip on a zebra. It was a pure miracle that I didn't hit my head on the hard floor. Still, when I felt my shoulder blades impact on the hard surface, I felt the breath go out of me. I felt my hip hit something, though I don't know what. It felt like the edge of a wall or table.

"What the fuck did you just say to me, you piece of shit?!" he snarled at me.

I thought of Trowa. He had had the same look of hate and rage in his eyes for me, too. I wondered for a second what was so ugly, so horrible in me that made me so hateful.

I was expecting a punch, had braced myself for one, not for those large, rough hands of his to wrap around my throat and squeeze. I stared up at him, but I just couldn't handle looking into those grey eyes, like hard stones, glazed over from drink. Even though he was strangling the life out of me, I had to look away. Somewhere far away from me, far away from my horror and betrayal, I realized that he was yelling something at me, but I couldn't hear him through the red haze. His breath washed over me, hot and thick with the smell of beer so potent, I thought I might throw up and die, choking on vomit. No, I thought as an entire half a minute passed, I was going to be strangled to death instead.

Terror consumed me and I kicked at him and clawed useless at his wrists and arms, the sound of my attempts to draw breath were terrible. Black spots were intruding on my vision. He had done a lot of things to me in anger, but never this. He was going to kill me, I realized with clarity. And suddenly, when I wanted them the most, all those thoughts about how he was my father, my daddy, and no matter how mad he got, no matter how drunk he got, he would never actually try to hurt me like this, abandoned me.

It's strange, three years before, I had tried to kill myself. But there I was, about to die, and not only was I fighting for life, I didn't think of Quatre once. Just when I thought I was going to black out, he let go of my neck. On pure instinct, I gasped frantically for breath. The feeling of air rushing down my throat was the most beautiful thing in the world. Through the hacking gasps and dry coughs, I heard my father say,

"You're not fucking worth it."

Then he got up and left me there, lying on the floor, breathing air through burning lungs. He probably wanted to return to his beer. I don't think he had his hands for more than a minute. It had felt like an hour.

When I had gotten enough air into me that had assured me that I wasn't going to die, but I probably wasn't going to be saying much for the rest of the night, I rolled onto my side, wincing in pain as my weight rested on my injured hip, and staggered to my feet like a zombie. The room swayed and I felt that urge to throw up again, but I was too scared that I might not be able to. My throat felt like a collapsed tube, even as I was breathing hard through it.

I staggered into the bathroom on legs that were more liquid than solid and threw on the light. I wish that I hadn't as my reflection greeted me. I was white as a sheet, my eyes red and irritated, but none of the blood vessels were broken, so I guess that, despite my fear, my father hadn't grabbed my throat as hard or as long as I had thought. That fact brought me zero comfort.

My neck looked especially wonderful, dark red and already starting to bruise black. The bruises formed the shape of my father's fingers. I could count them. I touched them lightly with my own fingers, seeing how much smaller my hands were still compared to his. It hurt, but the physical pain of what my father had just done in one of his common fits of rage, over something so small and insignificant, didn't even touch me. My heart hurt too much to feel anything else.

"You're not fucking worth it."

My breath hitched and I thought I might cry then, but the tears just wouldn't come. I wasn't worth it. I wasn't even worth killing. Or maybe I just wasn't worth his time. I felt that cold again, a chill deep inside and an emptiness that seemed to run right through every inch of me. What was I worth? Was I even worth Trowa's time, his effort for companionship? Was I worth the money that my parents spent on me, the time my teacher's spent on me?

In the mirror, my gaze became a glare. What is the point of you, I wanted to ask my reflection, just what is the fucking point of the air you breathe?

"Do you think you're some prime lay? You?! Do you think some knight on a white horse is going to come by and fuck a piece of white trash like you?! You're lucky you even have anyone willing to nail someone as dull and unwanted as you, and you have the gall to act so superior?! What is so fucking special about you, Duo, that you think that you can do better than me?!"

Trash. They thought I was trash. My father's voice in my head. Trowa's voice in my head.

'You think you're anything special? Ha! Get something straight, Duo. The only reason why I send you to school is to get you out of my sight. You're trash and that's all you'll ever be, so get used to it."

"... a piece of white trash like you?!"

I wondered which one hurt the most and which one hurt less.

"I know," I said to my reflection, "... I know."
　

End Part 3
I want to thank all of the lovely people on fictionpress, fanfiction.net, and archive of our own for their reviews. Because of you, this part got out a whooooole lot faster than it would have. I'm not saying I'm the kind of jerk author who holds stories hostage for reviews, but hearing from people who like this story makes me write faster, lol. You guys are awesome.
Also, check my livejournal: thegrackelknows for more frequent updates. I also have a song list for this story if anyone is into this kind of thing.
Still open for betas, if anyone is interested, even though every time I take one on, they disappear on me :
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A Stagnation of Love (rewrite)