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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
- 18
- 19
- 20
You can find updates for The Chains We Wear, and other information, at ahsimwithsake.tumblr.com

A/n: This project of mine is apparently working. I’ve been working under deadlines for close to two months now and I am actually producing.

Am I producing quality? That’s the question.

Maybe I’m just still in a spot—who am I kidding? I haven’t left it—but I keep second guessing myself. This story is seven years in the making and in those seven years I’ve learned a lot about being a writer. I’ve changed. I’m just wondering if those changes are for the better. I’m too close to it to make that decision though.

Enough of that. I’ve been whining a lot, and you do not need to hear it. Moving onto the chapter.

I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you will as well. Several of you wanted to know what happened to Trowa. It might not be what you expected.

As always, read and enjoy.

Warnings for this chapter: swearing

Chapter 19:

“I know it’s might not be much to look at, Mr. Reynolds, but it’s very sturdy. Never had any major problems.”

Trowa wasn’t listening. He hadn’t been listening since he had walked into the landlord’s office and shaken hands with the heavy-set, balding, overly-enthusiastic man. Of course, he made obvious signs of attention as they moved from the small office to the stairs and finally the apartment in question: small gestures of the head, singular answers and some mild interest in the physical nuances pointed out. None of that took any significant effort, but if the landlord decided to ask him about the points he made, or worse repeat them, Trowa would be utterly unable to. Which would be inexcusably rude at best and too suspicious at worst.

But the landlord seemed too excited about having a prospective tenant to pay that much attention to Trowa’s inattention. That suited Trowa just fine, since he needed most of his mental energy to recite Tracey Reynold’s elaborate narrative. Again.

Trowa normally gave himself at least a week of serious study before adopting a persona. He’d recite extended, detailed histories at least twice a day, usually during mundane tasks that didn’t require his full attention. He’d undergo short, daily sessions where he crafted and mastered the new identity’s facial expression, body movement, stature, and tone. Trowa was thorough when stepping into a persona; identity was a difficult process. It only took one slip to undo months of work. Trowa never slipped.

Tracey Reynolds, however, hadn’t gotten a week. He hadn’t even gotten a day. Tracey had gotten the thirty seconds Richards had waited for the name he would print on Trowa’s new identification papers. And then Tracey had gotten the long run from the penthouse to Ocean City, New Jersey, for a life and manners, voice and gestures, to be crafted haphazardly during long stretches of hitch-hiking, cheap motel stays, and red-eye flights.

It was exhausting, so Trowa was trying very hard not to get too irritated when the unfamiliar name made his brain stall for a second.

Trowa, continuing to feign interest under the excited eyes of the landlord, moved slowly around the small apartment. He missed his old gait, but Tracey Reynolds didn’t need an elegant stride. Tracey needed small, slightly twitchy steps: hesitant, one foot barely clearing the other, twisting on occasion. He needed to look like he was on the verge of falling without realizing it. And he needed to look like he trusted it, as if it had protected him more times than failed him when he lived at him.

In short, Tracey needed to look pathetic.

Tracey would notice the water stains on the floor and upper corners of the faded walls. He’d notice the slightly rotted and chewed look of the baseboards and the feet of the furniture. He’d notice the sharp creak of the floorboards. None of it, however, held any particular meaning for him. Or concern. The old rancher he grew up in had the same, and more, and never fallen. Normal wear-and-tear in Tracey’s mind. So Trowa turned as he rounded the small, worn dinette a second time, mouth quirking slightly.

“No problems,” he asked. Tracey’s voice was a little high, with a waver that could be either natural or nurtured. The effect was almost immediate, just as he planned; the landlord, leaning against the doorframe, flushed a faint, embarrassed pink and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Small things, really. There were some leaks last year after some heavy rain but those were patched up. Never had another. And we had an infestation years ago, but that hit the building. Whole thing was gassed. Made some new rules and never had critters since. And the floors have always creaked. Not much you can do about that.”

Trowa glanced at the walls and rocked slowly on his feet, a thoughtful gesture while he tested the wood for fatal dipping. He gave an easy shrug and said, “Can’t help stuff like that,” when he found none.

“No, you can’t. Can’t control nature.”

Trowa nodded, still looking around the apartment with Tracey’s eyes. “It’s nice,” he said slowly. “Really nice, for what you’re asking. I’d thought it be more expensive. You know. Furnished and all.”

The landlord flushed a few shades darker. “Yes, well. It all belonged to the previous tenant—”

“And what? They just didn’t want it anymore?”

“Not exactly. She died.”

Trowa looked around at the furnishings again, and suddenly understood why a furnished 2LK was going for less than five-hundred American.

“Oh.”

“Nothing unusual. Angie was in her eighties. Heart just gave out. Problem was that she didn’t have many people. Only child, no kids, dead-beat husband long gone. Just a couple of friends, and they didn’t want half the stuff here.”

“Like a piano?”

Trowa had been waiting for a slightly-less blatant way to address the upright standing against the wall between the balcony and the end of the couch. And since Trowa assumed that most people wouldn’t be exactly pleased at finding a piano in their prospective apartment, Trowa didn’t mind the slight sharpness that accidentally slipped into Tracey’s mild tone.

The landlord smiled almost affectionately at the instrument. “You could hear her playing all the way downstairs. Angie used to do concerts, you know, back in the day. I actually heard her a couple of times when I was a kid, on the radio. She moved in here about ten years ago, and got that piano the very first week. She played it every day after they brought it up. Right up until the day she died. Kept her fingers and mind sharp when everything else started to fall apart.”

Trowa felt a faint stirring of appreciation that was entirely foreign to Tracey, who liked music with the vague, begrudging appreciation of someone who had been forced to play in elementary school.

“She gave lessons. Kids from all over town walked here every day after school. Couple of my nieces and nephews, and my eldest grandson, got them too. I took the lesson fees out her rent, and a couple of extra bucks. My eldest niece, Rach, she loves the piano. Wants to be in an orchestra. And she nearly died when she found out Angie played Carnegie regularly. Angie made her so damn happy.”

“Sounds like a nice lady.”

“Great lady. Brilliant, sweet, and nobody was around when she died. We didn’t even know until her first lesson Monday came down to my office and asked me if she’d gone out or something.”

“Oh.”

“Coroner said it was quick, and she probably didn’t feel much. As if you can’t feel your own heart stopping. It was probably awful.”

The landlord ran a hand over the back of his neck, as if he was only just realizing he had stumbled into an uncomfortable topic. “We can get it removed, if you want. It won’t take more than a week to get some movers or sanitation.”

Tracey had no real interest in playing, and Trowa shouldn’t. He was separating himself from that life. He had left the flute and all the sheet music on the desk so he wouldn’t be tempted to cling to what needed dropping. Trowa couldn’t have music. He couldn’t run the risk of remembering, longing, and succumbing.

That piano needed to be thrown out.

But Trowa had always been a little drawn to the piano, and Tracey was rather sentimental, and moving a piano probably cost a lot.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s no big deal. Who knows, maybe I’ll decide to learn.”

The landlord looked relieved, perhaps even a bit excited, before turning surprisingly pale as a shrill voice came from down the hall.

“There you are!”

The landlord stepped slowly out of the apartment. “Oh Mrs. Cass, good to see you. How are the kids?”

“Still peeing in the dark. You told me you would fix it last week.”

“Yes, well—”

“Do you know how many batteries I’ve gone through, showering and brushing teeth by flashlight?”

“A lot, I’m sure.”

“I need that light, Mr. Muller, and I need it now.”

“I’m a little busy at the moment,” he said, gesturing into the apartment. Tracey, who was curious but also uncomfortable around fights, had migrated towards the piano. A better line to see the potential neighbor, a better place to hide.

Mrs. Cass poked her head around Mr. Muller. A stout woman with narrow, curious eyes, she stepped a little closer to the door, adjusting both purse and plastic shopping bag. Trowa managed a small, friendly but cautious smile as she looked up and down. Obviously she was a teacher, probably junior high school. She seemed curious, possibly friendly, but strict and unyielding. The perfect personality for dealing with unruly fourteen and fifteen years olds.

She had also forgotten to unpin plastic-protected plate that informed him she was “Rebecca Cass, East shore JHS” from her neat blouse.

“Oh,” she said, having the modesty to look a little embarrassed about interrupting. “A pleasure.”

“Likewise,” he said, gripping the edge of the lid lightly. “We shouldn’t be much longer. I like the place.”

Mr. Muller seemed less happy about the declaration than Trowa had hoped. Then again, he didn’t exactly seem the electrical type or very keen on using whatever limited skills he might have on a broken bathroom fixture. Mrs. Cass, glancing around the apartment with mild dislike, sniffed once before stepping back.

“As long as that light gets fixed today.”

“I don’t know about today. I might have to get parts—”

“That’s what you said last week—”

In the few seconds it took Trowa to look down and watch his fingers stroke the edge of the lid once, Tracey had an uncle with the proper skill sets, and enough affection for his nephew, to take Tracey under his wing until a fatal construction accident.

“Maybe I could fix it,” he said, trying not to sound too eager or confident. He was apparently successful; they both stared at him as if he had sprouted extra limbs. Trowa only managed a small step backwards under the scrutiny. Tracey probably would have retreated more, but the incredulity rankled.

Mr. Muller was at least tactful. “Have you done anything with electronics, son?”

“A bit. My uncle was in construction. I wired a house for him once,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and shrugging some, because Tracey would consider wiring a house a small accomplishment.

Mrs. Cass was suitably impressed. She glanced at the landlord once before nodding down the hall. “My place’s down here. Come have a look.”

Mrs. Cass lived three doors down in an end unit. The front door was a little worse for wear, dinged and chipped in places thanks to the energy of how ever many kids she had. But the lock was sturdy, giving a satisfying thud as she unlocked the door. She led them through a small front hall, stepping carefully over abandoned shoes and toys, to the second door on the right. She turned on the hall light and handed Trowa a flashlight.

“Hang on,” she said, “I think I’ve got some tools in the kitchen.”

Trowa had never checked the wiring of a bathroom. It couldn’t be anywhere near as complicated as installing computer modules or repairing the motor wiring on a Gundam. So when she returned with a couple of screw drivers, pliers, and a hammer, Trowa took them without a word. He opened the door and felt along the dark bathroom’s wall for the switch.

“Can someone hold the flashlight?”

Mr. Muller took the flashlight from him and held it surprisingly steady as Trowa unscrewed the cover. There were surprisingly few wires, but most looked frayed. In some cases chewed. Trowa set the cover and screws down carefully before climbing onto the toilet seat and unscrewing the fixture.

Trowa wasn’t dumb enough to play with wires while the electric was one. “Wiring’s bad. Can we turn off the power so I can fix it?”

In the time it took Mr. Muller to find the breaker, shut off the necessary currents, and come back, Trowa had worked out a suitable fix. It was temporary, of course, but a light fixture was not as crucial as a targeting system, so temporary was fine.

It took him less than ten minutes to reestablish the connections and screw the fixture and the wall cover back on. When he flicked the switch, the bulb flickered once before washing the room with cool white light.

“Let there be light. About time,” Mrs. Cass said.

“It’s a temporary fix, but it should last a little while at least. If I can get new wire, maybe I can rewire it.”

“We’ll get a spool,” Mr. Muller said, looking up at the light.

Mrs. Cass smiled. “I appreciate this Mr.—”

“Tracey.”

“Tracey. I owe you a dinner for this, so I hope you stick around.”

Trowa was walking back to his prospective apartment, wondering if Tracey seemed like a suitable vegetarian, when Mr. Muller spoke.

“What else did you do with your uncle?”

Trowa waited a moment, running a hand on the back of his neck, before answering. “Installation stuff mostly. Windows and cabinets and stuff. Did some wood working and painting, installed floors a couple of times. And repairs. Lots of repairs.”

“Plumbing?”

Researching simple plumbing fixes couldn’t be that hard. “Not really, but I could probably figure something out.”

Mr. Muller looked along the hall, tracing ceiling cracks and eyeing chipped paint. “We haven’t had a half decent maintenance guy in years, and I’m not much of a handyman.” He looked at him. “Are you thinking of staying, Mr. Reynolds?”

“It’s a nice place.”

“I’ll knock off a couple of bucks from your rent, if you help me out. Small stuff, like that damn fixture.”

“How much is ‘a couple of bucks’?” he asked. Tracey wasn’t that stupid.

“About a hundred a month. You’ll get reimbursement for whatever materials you have to buy.”

Sounded reasonable if Trowa got a job, and if he couldn’t get a job, Tracey’s wavering voice might be able to renegotiate.

“Sounds good, Mr. Muller.”

“Welcome to the building, then, Mr. Reynolds.”

The paperwork took less time than Trowa thought it might, but was still a good hour of fine print and house rules. He asked few questions, submitted his deposit, and signed the lease with a cramped little signature. Mr. Muller offered to help him get the landline restarted. Trowa asked about internet capabilities and Mr. Muller said he’d get something ready within the week.

With key in hand, Trowa collected his duffle bag from the corner (he had wanted to look a little desperate when he arrived at the office, just to hurry the process) and walked the two flights back up to his apartment.

Once inside, Trowa locked the door. He tossed the duffle at the couch and banged his head back. The sharp pain did nothing for his headache.

On assignment, Trowa would never drop a persona. Waking or sleeping, private or public, Trowa was whomever he had crafted. But Trowa wasn’t on assignment. He wasn’t in “designated” housing, where the monitoring of his private activities was a very real concern. He was in a water-logged apartment, previously owned by a very dead concert pianist, paid for with his own limited funds. He was playing still, not being.

And damn it, playing Tracey was exhausting.

Trowa didn’t have anyone but himself to blame. He had wanted someone who would be difficult to find. He had wanted someone without short cuts or connections. He wanted someone who had to take the long road through the murky underground, someone who had to trip through mazes of paperwork. He had wanted some vulnerable and skill-less, someone who surprised when he managed something well.

Trowa had wanted someone weak, because they wouldn’t be looking for weak.   They would be looking for someone capable, someone with just a little too much of one of Trowa’s skills. They would look for someone with particular connections. They would look for someone deeply embedded into the cyber underground, into thievery or mercenary—which was why Trowa had stayed well away from the internet, and why he hadn’t heard from Heero yet. Not a whisper.

The fact that Trowa had now gone two weeks without even a hint of being tracked made him more nervous rather than less. Heero was very good. There was plenty for him to find, even with Trowa neglecting all of the “standard” paths. Airports, hotels, surveillance tapes. There were only so many ports within “highly unlikely but possible” distance. He could easily realize, if he was particularly focused, within the first twelve hours that Trowa was avoiding the methods he knew and start looking for the dives and red eyes. He hadn’t, which meant one of two things. Either he wasn’t searching or he was scheming.

The idiocy he couldn’t seem to beat down actually hoped it was the latter.

If Heero was plotting, it could be weeks before he made a move, which meant that Trowa would have to play Tracey for much longer than he had hoped. He wasn’t an idiot; he planned on dropping Tracey first chance he got, once it was safe to get back in the network. Not now, of course. Even a minute was too much. Just a minute, to see what was brewing, what someone needed, where Heero was in the hunt, was too much lead. Heero could find him with less. But eventually Tracey would disappear. When he could make some connections—sometimes after Heero got tired of searching, and he would eventually get tired—Trowa would leave and set up again. Probably in a city. Under a new name, of course, but with his own habits.

But that could be months. Trowa wasn’t sure he could handle months of Tracey. I’ll have to. Biting back a groan, Trowa stepped away from the door and examined the apartment with his own, far more critical eye.

He could have afforded something better, something that would have lasted him more than a few years. In less than five, Trowa had no doubt that the cracks in the ceiling would spread, risking large leaks, possible even collapse, and the floor boards would be rotted enough to dip under light weight and possibly splinter under the heavier burden of furniture. He could afford something better, if there was anything better to be had. But the war, and the years before it, had not been kind to small cities like this. Governments saw no reason to flood such mediocre places, with mediocre people and mediocre lives, with the same amount of money and attention as the classic cities.   Which on the one hand was a shame because it must have been a quaint little place, enjoyable even for him perhaps, in its heyday, and on the other hand it was perfectly acceptable since mediocre, dilapidated, and depressed were excellent covers.

At least the apartment was clean, if not cleaned recently. There was a thin layer of dust and only the faint smell of lemon and bleach. There was no mold, however, or webs, no pellets from small rodents. And it was furnished, which was convenient since he didn’t have a car nor did he plan on buying one since the paperwork was too easily tracked. He did wish the pieces were a little better matched.    The small oak table with its four chairs didn’t particularly match the floral-printed couch, and the end table and piano match with neither. Everything was sturdy, however, if not a little chewed or knicked. Well-used but well-cared for, as one might expect from a single, elderly lady.

Trowa was throwing the doilies away first chance he got, though.

The kitchen was just as mediocre as the living room, the narrow island partly separating the two having lost most of its varnish. The countertop was chipped and the sink was a bit rusted. There were no leaks or drips, however, and the stove and refrigerator both seemed in working order. He’d have to buy a microwave, which was an expense he didn’t expect. When he opened the few cabinets, the upper ones in slightly better condition than the lower, he found half-decent cookware, a subtle white-and-blue dish set that was suitable, and plenty of space to store dried or canned food. The drawers had most of the cutlery he might need.

He’d have to read up on cooking, considering he had been rather spoiled living with—

Trowa slammed the drawer shut a little harder than he meant to, nearly catching his fingers. Do not remember. Do not name. Do. Not. You cannot separate if you name. You need to separate.

It was irritating how hard separating was, and disturbing how much separating hurt.

Deciding to find a library as soon as possible—cooking and repair books should be available for borrowing—Trowa left the kitchen to slip down the short narrow hall. There were two bedrooms, one of which was obviously a guest room, given its unnatural tidiness and the strong, musty smell of disuse. The guest room’s dresser was empty except for a scentless pouch of potpourri. The closet had a few hangers and an old coat. The bed looked stiff, with a thick flowery duvet and far too many pillows. A small bear sat on the front of the pillow pile, its brown fur clogged with dust.

The whole room had the slightly uncomfortable feel of a disused hotel room. Once he got settled, and could afford it, he might dismantle it. Get rid of the dresser and add a desk. Put up some shelves if he was allowed. At the very least, the duvet and pillows were going. The bear could stay.

The main bedroom was right across from the guest room. Matching the layout piece for piece, it at least looked inhabited. The dark blue duvet was flattened with nightly use. There was a small clutter of things on the dresser: a comb, a mirror, some bobby pins and hairclips. The drawers and closet were empty, thankfully.

There were, however, bookshelves, one of which spanned the width of the bed just over the pillows. Trowa toed off his shoes and stepped onto the bed. He gave the wood an experimental tug and decided that yes, it had been installed properly and most likely would not spill books on his head in the middle of the night. He scanned the titles briefly. Mostly paperback romances, but there was a biography or two about people he had never heard of but suspected were musicians and a few hardback copies of classic literature.

It was nice to know he already had material for when the nightmares woke him up.

The bathroom was at the very end of the hall. Trowa opened the door, felt along a wall for the switch, and wasn’t surprised to find it in the same general area as Mrs. Cass’. Trowa flicked the switched. Part of him had been expecting it, but he still reeled when he caught his reflection in the mirror.

He was never going to get used to black hair. Never.

Of course, it wasn’t really black. Black would have been noticeable. It was more of a dark brown that could appear black in just the right lighting. Trowa approached the mirror slowly, plucking at hair that had slipped into his face. The color, unusual, unfamiliar, unwanted as it was, at least didn’t clash with his eyebrows. Not noticeably, anyway. Trowa could dye them if he wanted. He’d be refreshing the color in a week anyway, and it would be much easier to do now that he wasn’t bent over a too-small sink in a seedy motel with his heart racing. But dyeing eyebrows was such a hassle, and he had enough hassle.

He had considered cutting it that night, too, if only to spare himself temptation. The style was far too conspicuous. Little though he liked hair brushing constantly at his neck and shoulders, Trowa just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not then, not now. Perhaps in a few more weeks. No more than a few months.

Possibly never. Trowa turned off the light and closed the door on his reflection.

Returning to the living room, Trowa collected his bag and then spent far too little time settling in. He only had a week’s worth of clothes, a few toiletries that would soon need replacing, some necessary odds and ends, and his laptop. He had a place for everything in an under an hour. In another hour, he had a list of things he needed, which was broken down into shorter lists of “immediately,” “soon,” and “eventually” in the third.

Trowa, setting his pen down, glanced out of the glass door leading to the small balcony. Sunset. He would have to open a bank account and look for a job tomorrow. He could at least get some basic necessities, like food, tonight if stores were still open and not too far. Trowa pushed aside the notebook, picked up the “immediate” list, and crouched down by the duffle bag now next to the couch. He reached in, pulled on zipper hidden in the lining, and then removed the sturdy foam that comprised the bag’s fake bottom.

Trowa was already uncomfortable with money. People tended to do stupid things for it, and Trowa had incapacitated more than one man looking for “easy cash.” Carrying thousands of it, therefore, made him extremely uneasy, even with the precautions of a fake-bottomed bag and his own skills. Of course, it could have been worse. If he had gone to a dealer, or an honest pawnshop, there would be another twenty thousand lining the bag. It made him almost glad the back-alley shop had bought his bike for practically nothing.

Almost.

Trowa slipped a couple of hundreds into his wallet, reinserted the fake bottom, and hid the bag temporarily in the guest room. He’d have to be careful about depositing it. Small increments—a couple hundred at best—every few weeks so no one asked questions. It would probably take at least a year. If he opened a second bank account later, it might take less. He’d have to come up with a good reason for Tracey to have two, or make another persona.

Wallet and list in pocket, Trowa locked the apartment and headed downstairs.

Trowa had come from the northern part of the little city, from a small motel he had sprung for because he was tired of sleeping on benches. He hadn’t seen much in the way of grocers or banks on the way. The ocean was about at least mile to the east; he could smell the sharp brine as it wafted around the dirty bricks of empty office buildings. Trowa headed west.

Outside once again, he walked with a fast, twitchy gait, hands deep in his pockets. Out of place, slightly paranoid. Tracey would be an easy target in a larger city. And the few people he saw on the quiet, darkening street knew it. Only one looked even remotely like a threat. Trowa didn’t establish eye contact and fluttered by without incident.

About a half a mile from the apartment, he started to see a different side of the city. Promising, active. Several banks lined the street at strategic, competitive intervals. And only one of them, a very small, very local branch, appeared to be on the verge of closing. Trowa paused outside of each, weighing chances. He’d stop into all of them tomorrow. Ask all the appropriate questions about savings accounts and deposits and wiring money, but most likely he would go with the national bank. It was a little risker, but it would be the most convenient and the clerks would probably ask the least amount of questions. He would be a number as opposed to a “customer,” which suited him just fine.

Of course, if one of the smaller branches was better about discreet wiring, he’d open an account there instead. He had already paid Richards but felt a little extra was in order. Trowa still felt rather guilty about threatening to shoot his wife.

Further down the street, Trowa encountered more locals and budding social life. Most of the shops that had yet to face indefinite closing were finishing for the day, owners and clerks bidding lingering customers a pleasant evening with obvious false cheer. They eyed Trowa warily until he skittered by and the threat that he would extend their work day skittered off with him. Only then did they look after him curiously before closing the door and flipping over the welcome signs. The few restaurants here, which obviously stayed open longer, spilled light of various colors and brightness onto the sidewalk. Occasionally he heard the faint chink of china, a bar of music, or the laughter of diners. One or two of the doors were open and when he passed, the air was filled with fresh bread and grilled fish, seasoned with the salt of the sea behind him.

Trowa couldn’t stop himself from lingering. He had survived most of the last two weeks on protein and energy bars, too concerned with not staying in one place for too long to have anything more substantial. That and the sandwich he had dared the first week had nearly lost him an entire day’s worth of travel. Thankfully, he had been at a motel that night. He could stop, of course. There was nothing wrong with Tracey going to a restaurant. In fact, he might do it rather often if he proved to be a subpar cook. But it seemed too early for Tracey. Tracey was uncomfortable. Tracey was self-conscious and going to a restaurant seemed to be an insertion of himself into the public that he just wouldn’t be realistically ready for.

That is, unless Trowa didn’t find a grocery store sometime. Then Tracey would just have to fidget at small wicker table and drop his fork repeatedly.

Trowa continued down the street, watching the stores and restaurants carefully, making notes about places that would be convenient or necessary and then comparing them to Tracey’s preferences. He’d see diners on occasion: couples walking hand-in-hand out of small cafes, families with small children held tightly but lovingly to their parents’ sides. Most of them ignored him. A few, mostly the families, smiled at him and Trowa endeavored to return a small smile. He even managed a small “evening” on occasion.

He turned at the next corner and, once he was sure no one was around, leaned against the wall for a minute. Trowa rolled his shoulders back and let out a very un-Tracey sigh, pinching his temples. He heard the sharp click of a heel around the corner. Trowa straightened, rolled his shoulders forward, and moved on.

Down the block, Trowa saw the sidewalk washed with unusually bright light. As he neared it, he heard the sounds of a car door and then the gentle clack and ring of metal carts. Trowa watched the grocery store, standing off to the side so he wouldn’t be in the way of cars.   It was a small one with a parking lot fit for only about a dozen cars. There were only three at the moment, soon to be two. Trowa wondered if it closed early, or if it was on the verge of closing permanently. There was a sign in the window. Trowa approached, stopped when he was within reading distance, and then continued inside.

He’d take a look around before asking what kind of “help” they were looking for.

Trowa had wandered up and down three small aisles, basket in hand, before figuring out the help they needed. The store was surprisingly crowded, considering the lack of cars; customers obviously walked or took whatever public transportation was available. Several of these customers left aisles grumbling. Trowa slipped down several of them and noticed that there were more than a few shelves nearing empty, and only one very harassed-looking young man running around with a hand-trolley.

Stock. Refilling shelves and produce bins, maybe unloading trucks if he was lucky. And grocery stock ran none—or at the very least fewer—of the risks that ammunition, casings, and wiring crates did. Physically labor might keep him distracted.

He needed distracted.

Trowa lingered in the aisles, filling his basket with distracted looks at his list as he memorized the general locations of items. Fruits, vegetables, breads, drinks, snacks, cans of soups, cereals, frozen meats and dinners, household products, soaps. His basket was pulling heavily on his arm by the time he reached the checkout.

Four cashiers were on duty. Trowa choose the one closest to him in age, although the line was longer.

The young man in the black t-shirt and red apron smiled as Trowa emptied his basket onto the conveyor.

“Have a price card?”

“Oh, um, no.

He nodded and started scanning items. Trowa, rubbing the back of his neck, moved slowly towards the end of the conveyor. As the food piled up, he glanced around with mild but obvious curiosity.

“New to town,” the cashier asked.

“Just got a place today.”

“It’s not a bad town, if you like kids and old folks. My old man said Ocean City used to be really sweet at night, back, you know, before I was born.”

Trowa tilted his head with a curious hum. He took a plastic bag from the pile and started packing.

“I mean, the boardwalk isn’t bad. There’s stores and restaurants and rides and stuff. It’s kind of cool, in season. But none of the good stuff is open yet."

“When’s it open?"

He sighed. “Summer, and if I have my way I’ll be out here long before then.”

“College?”

“Grad school. Can’t really afford it but it’s better than sitting around waiting for my BA to be relevant.”

Tracey had dropped out of college in his second year. He sold his books, packed everything he could, and caught buses from Colorado to New Jersey. The night before the first leg, he had ripped up a dozen letters to his grandmother, who had scrapped for his meager college fund for years. Before withdrawing everything, he had slipped a small note in her mailbox: “I’m sorry.”

So he smiled just a little, allowing a faint, embarrassed flush to run briefly over his face.

“What about you? Going to Stockton, or did you come with folks?

Stockton was one of the nearest colleges. The fact that it was still open was something of a small miracle. Tracey had dreams of being a writer, without any formal training, so he wouldn’t be caught on campus unless there was an open mic where his short stories would be indulged.

“Thinking of applying for the fall term.”

“It’s a nice school. My best friend went there. He liked it.”

Trowa nodded, sliding the last loaf of bread into a bag. He paid, slipped two bags onto his wrists, gripped the last two tightly, and turned. Then he paused, glancing over his shoulder. As he hoped, the cashier noticed and turned away from the elderly woman he was just starting to ring up.

“What’s up?"

Trowa shifted his feet slightly before speaking. “What time do you guys?"

The cashier smiled. “Nine. But the general manager is usually here at seven.”

“Would it be okay if I came around ten?”

“Sure. If you give me your name, I can leave a note on the door telling him to expect you.”

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

After the cashier scribbled down his name, and Trowa mumbled apologies to the irritated woman waiting with her cart, Trowa headed back to the apartment. Halfway, Trowa decides that 85 dollars’ worth of groceries is just a little too heavy to carry often. He’d have to more careful next time.

The apartment was rather dark when Trowa came in, fingers throbbing and his breath coming out in a soft pant. He dropped the bags on the counter and ignored the one that fell as he went to turn on the light. He rubbed his fingers as the frosted overhead threw pale white light across the ceiling.   The light in the kitchen was fluorescent, thankfully.

Trowa picked up the fallen bag. Of course it was the bread.

He took his time putting food away, making the cold items were at least in the refrigerator before beginning to organize. Frozen vegetables in the back of the freezer, half of the bread in the front. Fruits and vegetables in the crisper, except for the apples which he decided to keep in a bowl on the table. Cans in the back of the cabinet as safety rations. Cleaning materials went under the sink, except for the shampoo. That eventually made it to the bathroom.

Trowa finished quickly. Too quickly. He pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. For a moment, he leaned against the counter and drank.

And then the restlessness descended

He could shower. He was hot and tired from the walk, and scalding water would distract him and maybe even ease the knots in his shoulders. The problem was that he wasn’t tired enough to take a shower. He wasn’t tired enough to undress and stand beneath a stream without his hands moving, restless and thirsty for touch.

He could sleep. God knew he was exhausted. But the roaming hands came faster and more insistent in bed, and then the nightmares after that.

He could write. Tracey would probably make a friend or two. He would probably mention his dream of writing novels and said friends would probably express at least mild interest in reading his work. Trowa should have something to show.

Why were all his options nothing short of torture?

When he was contemplating booting up his laptop and hijacking someone’s wireless—which would make Trowa that much more likely to be found—Trowa swept up his keys. He was going to walk.

Trowa started by going north, up the main road he had taken this morning from the motel. He walked past it, dark in the evening except for a window on the top floor and the sick yellow glow from the reception desk. He walked past the park he had slept in the first night since he had timed everything wrong and stepped off the highway too late for check-in anywhere. He walked past the traffic circle and stopped at the bridge where he first caught the whiff of the edge of continent.

Then Trowa turned west, heading south on occasion. He wandered past dunes and sand grass that chinked as the wind caught empty cans and rolled them down the hills. He moved empty houses and boarded up apartment buildings. He stepped around garbage and strays. He ignored and was ignored by narrowed eyes and the brief red flare of cigarettes. When he heard the scuff of a shoe behind him, Trowa turned true south. The scuff gave up after a block.

Trowa continued south until he found his way back into occupied residents. Most of the windows were dark, but occasionally he heard low noise: the whine of a dog, the rumble of late-night television. He walked under the streetlamps past empty streets and empty cars, until he passed a school. He turned and passed another and then started towards the east.

He passed another school, larger than the first, and then a squat building with a tall sign that could only be a theater. As the smell of the sea grew stronger, Trowa found the library he wanted. He made the brief note of it and then continued down the street. Salt tickled his tongue. Tracey’s stride slowly lengthened into his usual long gait. His stride quickened, carrying him almost at a run over disused trolley tracks and up the weather-beaten wooden ramp.

Trowa stood on the boardwalk, the wind curling around him, sending grains of sand skittering noisily across the old, wooden planks. He was on a segment far away from the “sweet” part the cashier had mentioned.   There were no stores or restaurants. No buildings of any kind. Or even lamp posts. Only the wood and its rusted bearings, and a thin sliver of moon in a black sky.

He leaned against the walk’s railing and breathed for a moment. Then Trowa toed off his shoes, stuffed his socks in them, and left them by the railing as he dropped down into the sand.

It was cold. Barely spring, there was none of the meager heat of the day left in the white grains. But the chill and hard scratch against his skin was fresh and new and more than he had imagined. Trowa walked carefully to the water’s edge, feeling every step as the sand shifted beneath him. The sand grew colder, almost moist, as he crossed the line were the tide would rise sometime in the next few hours.

Trowa watched the quiet breathing of the sea, the gentle susurrus of foam, grey in the darkness, as it broke against the shore. He felt the light touch of the salt water as it wafted up from where waves kissed the sand, taking long, thin lines of the earth back into the black expanse. He stood, listening to the world change through a quiet, constant sign of water and earth, and for a moment, it all actually seemed like it was worth it.

A/n: Part of me really enjoys this chapter, if only because trying to write “two” personalities at the same time is interesting. Part of my hates it because it’s also difficult and I think my pronouns are confusing.

A couple people noted that Heero was partially out-of-character last chapter, which was entirely true. Thankfully, the part where I wrote him—and not where Fahd was observing—was truer to his character. But I’m really striving to keep the characters as they are (sometimes I wonder though if Trowa himself is a little ooc). Thank you for pointing it out to me.

As always, please read and review. Constructive criticism is a god-send, and getting that email notification makes my day in ways that are impossible to describe.

I remain, as always, your humble story teller.

~*~Lady Yein Khan~*~

You can find updates for The Chains We Wear, and other information, at ahsimwithsake.tumblr.com
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The Chains We Wear