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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
- 20
- 21
- 22
You can follow me for story updates and other information at ahsimwithsake.tumblr.com

A/n: My due date was on October 12. Obviously I missed it by several days, but I still got it done well before the next deadline passed, which will be in the beginning of November.

I should inform you know that I will be participating NaNoWriMo this year, and will most likely not be working on Chains as the manuscript for that. I want to start a story sequence centering around my Drow Ranger (dark elf ranger) that I created for a dungeons and dragon’s campaign. I will post all of the work on my tumblr.

I’ll keep up with Chains though. There just might not be a chapter after November 2^nd until December.

About this chapter: I honestly don’t know what to say. This is not what I had originally designed and planned when I first started plotting Chains seven years ago. Trowa was supposed to be a different person. I like where he has gone and the person he has become, but it’s very strange to be writing a portion that I had planned so intricately so different than I had planned.

I’m not sure how well it came out. Please let me know.

Warnings for this chapter: some swearing, strong negative feelings.

Chapter 21:

David came into the break room swearing, swinging his leg out as soon as the door closed to kick whatever was in range. His foot slammed into the corner of the lockers. Trowa had been changing his shoes; with a lace in each hand, he stopped and watched David hop up and down, snarling.

“I don’t think kicking the lockers is going to help, whatever it is,” he said slowly. David glared at him before huffing and throwing himself into one of the chairs at the break table.

“Maybe not, but the lockers can’t fire me for kicking for them.”

“Managers?”

“Manager.”

Trowa didn’t need to ask which one. He bent back over his shoes. “Oh.”

“Fucking hound’s out to get me,” he snapped. Trowa nodded slowly to his shoes as he tied them. He didn’t even have to ask which manager it was. “She’s got my blood in her nose and she’s not going to leave me alone until I up and quit.”

“She can’t do that.”

“Oh yes she can. You haven’t been here long enough. If Holly doesn’t like you, she’ll get rid of you. One way or another.”

Holly didn’t like Trowa. As far as he could tell, Holly didn’t like anyone, but she wasn’t openly trying to force him out or make him more miserable than anyone else (and Trowa just wanted to dare her to try). Only David thought that she had something of a personal vendetta against him.

Considering how much she screwed with his shifts, she might.

“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal,” he said.

“When has that been an issue for anyone?”

“Okay, then why is Greg still here? She hates Greg more than anyone, why hasn’t she shoved him out?”

“‘Cause she can’t. Greg’s the last of the union, and as long as he’s here, the union rules apply to him. Holly can’t just kick him out. And she deals with that bitterness by tormenting the rest of us.”

“Including you.”

“Especially me.”

Trowa tied off the bows before swinging his legs down from the bench. By then, David had gotten up and was heading towards his locker. He glared at the bottom of it, as if considering kicking it again, before attacking the lock on his with his fingers.

It was a shame that he and David rarely worked the same shifts. David was someone Tracey, and maybe even Trowa, could have gotten along with. He was unassuming without being meek. He was friendly but not smothering. He kept his emotions small and his reactions smaller. Usually, anything having to do with Holly being something of the glaring exception. But they didn’t work the same shifts; they rarely worked overlapping ones. Trowa came in, bright and early most days, and David wouldn’t come grumbling back into the break room until almost five, right when Trowa was getting ready to leave.

It wasn’t always that way, David had told him sometime during his first week. David used to have to beg for night shifts, apparently. The night Trowa had come into the store and David had taken his name for the general manager had been his first in nearly three weeks. Now he couldn’t get off night work, which was even more of a problem now that Stockton was finally planning on offering Masters work in his field. With evening courses.

If she was trying to make David miserable enough to quit, though, it wasn’t working. Separated from the “decent” coworkers as he was, David still reached out to Trowa every time they crossed, for the full five to ten minutes that they had. And David couldn’t even consider Masters work until he saved enough to make loans a buffer rather than a necessity. Which meant that David was going to be working the register for another year at least.

Watching David’s last day, which he described to Trowa with particular intricacy and fondness, would be nice. He would like to see Holly’s face when David flipped her off. It was a shame, then, that Trowa wasn’t going to be around that long. Trowa was going to be gone before the end of next month, if he had his way. If certain conditions were met.

If I stop falling off the railing.

“I can’t wait to get out of here,” David muttered, yanking open the locker door. The metal shuddered as it banged against its neighbor. “One more year. Less than a year. Bitch isn’t going to scare me off. I’m going to waltz right out on her shift. Two weeks’ notice my ass.”

“That’ll be something to see.”

“Damn right it will. It’s going to be glorious.”

Trowa picked up his coat from the wood beside him and slipped it on slowly. “Call me before you do, so I can be there.”

David paused, denim jacket dangling from his fingers. He looked over at Trowa, eyes narrowed and lips pursed slightly. He waited a moment before letting his mouth slip into his usual one-sided smile.

“You sure you want to make that trip? New York to New Jersey is a couple of hours, man. You might miss something important. One of those big book signings or drop parties. You really going to sacrifice that to watch an ex-coworker make an ass of himself?”

The only reason Trowa was ever going to set foot in a publishing house or a drop party when he finally reached New York would be to pick a card or a thumb drive out of a publisher’s pocket. And that wouldn’t happen often. Not many publishers got on marketers’ bad sides.

Of course, David didn’t know that. David didn’t know that Trowa didn’t plan on hitting New York until next summer. He’d drift through Seattle first, maybe loiter around San Francisco, and then linger in Detroit for the last few months. Their undergrounds were smaller, the work almost nonexistent, but they were there, and quiet enough that he could build up a reputation without reigniting certain people’s interest in him.

If there’s been any interest from anyone at all. Trowa had to keep reminding himself that the month-and-a-half of silence was a good thing.

David didn’t know any of that. David didn’t even know that Trowa existed. David knew Tracey and Tracey planned on getting sweet, begging invitations into the literary circles of New York City. Sooner rather than later. It wasn’t money he was after—although even Tracey would admit it was more than a decent perk—but prestige. Contemporary literature bloomed best, and wilted the fastest, in New York, and Tracey was too good and too ambitious to do anything but blossom. Ocean City was just a pause, a moment where he could save enough money for the hole-in-the-wall he’d have to survive in until a publisher begged him for his book.

And, well, you know, a pause where he could write said book, too.

That, though, that was almost a minor detail. Tracey had so many ideas; it was just a matter of straightening them into coherency and putting brilliance onto paper. The fact that it was difficult meant that it was worth it.

He smiled some as he buttoned up his coat. “You mean do I want to sacrifice the money. I’ll be living in a hole, with my luck,” he said, with a modest ease that didn’t quite reveal that it was fear and not play. “The round trip will probably cost me rent and food for a month.”

“It’ll cost you a week’s worth of classy coffee, tops. You’re going to be somebody by the time I get out of here.”

“Yup, a freeloader.”

“Richest damn freeloader in New York, with how much you write.”

Trowa hadn’t written a page, and Tracey could barely finish one. “Maybe after you get your Masters.”

“You’ll never get published if you wait on me.”

“Study faster.”

“Switch shifts with me and I’ll get right on that.”

He shook his head and stood. “You working tomorrow?”

“Yup. You?”

“No,” Trowa couldn’t even pretend to be remotely happy about it. Days off were, by far, the worst. “I’ll be in on Saturday, though.”

“Sweet. I’m looking forward to our five minutes.”

Trowa nodded and headed for the door, the dark red apron that was part of his uniform rolled and tucked beneath his arm. He nearly made it, but somewhere between the bench and the door, David noticed something that compelled him to call Trowa back.

“Hey,” he started, hands behind his neck as he tied the apron. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Why?”

David’s eyes narrowed, running slowly over Trowa’s face. His mouth dipped into a frown, one that deepened with every pass.

“Nothing,” he said finally, tying off the knot and letting his hands down. “You’re looking a little rundown, is all.”

Trowa knew exactly how he looked, and “rundown” wasn’t it. He had unfortunately broken his week-long streak yesterday, with a quick glance in the mirror while washing his hands during his break. Once he had, Trowa had found it hard to look away. Even he had to admit that he looked different: paler and thinner than he ever remembered being. His cheek bones and jaw pressed hard against his skin, making his face oddly skeletal. There were dark bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his eyes themselves were dull.

He was wearing himself down. But Trowa had already known that. He saw it in every bit of muscle he lost from his hands and arms, muscle that wasn’t coming back regardless of how hard he pushed himself. He felt it in the hunger and lack of appetite that warred in him at all hours, and the way his muscles hurt and his limbs shook sometimes at the smallest efforts.

Trowa was driving himself into the ground, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. He needed to leave; he’d take care of himself after that.

He managed a sheepish smile, running his free hand over the back of his neck. “Oh. That. I just haven’t been sleeping much.”

If David didn’t believe him, he made very little sign. His mouth quirked into a lopsided smile as he tied the apron around his waist.

“Hate to break it to you, man, but sleep is kind of important.”

“I know that, but I’ve got something right now.”

“Got something?”

“A spark. I got it, well it’s got me, and at night, it’s just incessant and I can’t let it get away.”

“You might want to. You look half-dead.”

Trowa hadn’t accidentally caught himself in a mirror yet today, so he didn’t really know. He felt worse than yesterday, though, which was probably a good indication that he looked at least a little more “dead” than before.

“You don’t understand,” Trowa said, trying to give Tracey that infectious, anxious excitement he always got when talking about writing. His voice sounded thin and tired in his ears. “You can’t just drop it. You might never get it back. You’ve got to run with it until it runs out on its own. If you drop it, then it’s gone and you’ll never get it back. Not the way it was anyway.”

“Can’t you make it the way it was if you get some sleep?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Are you sure?”

Trowa rolled his eyes. “I think I know how it works.”

“I’m just saying that lack of sleep for, how many days have you had this ‘spark’ thing?”

“A couple. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Sure it’s not. Like I said, just saying, a couple of days with no sleep—”

“I did sleep. Just not a lot.” Two hours, on average, if Trowa was doing his math right.

“—fine, lack of sleep, doesn’t really help with performance. Just saying.”

“I’m not an athlete, so it’s not the same. Besides, I do actually sleep, and I am going to sleep more soon. I just, I have to get this out first. I’m so close, I know I am.”

“I certainly hope so,” David said. “You’re getting somewhere with this ‘spark’ thing?”

“Everywhere. See there’s this girl, Eudora, and she—”

“Trace,” David warned. He was usually indulgent when it came to Tracey’s passion, until that anxious excitement turned manic, that passion twisted into obsession. David’s distaste for extended creative writing discussions was more than likely a direct result of a very tiring conversation Trowa had forced himself to have with David in the first week, and Trowa was more than happy that David ended up developing an aversion rather than an interest. Trowa wouldn’t have been able to handle holding a second one-sided, in-depth, writer’s rant.

Tracey, however, could, so Trowa snapped his mouth shut and let his eyes slip to the side. “Right. Sorry.”

“Nah,” he sighed. “I’m sorry. I just can’t stand here and listen to you get all watery eyed over your new baby. I’ll end up clocking in at least fifteen minutes late.”

“And Holly would love that.”

“Yeah, she would,” David muttered, closing his locker door. He sighed, shook his head, and hurried to the door. Trowa stepped back and then followed him down the hall. He kept a step or two behind David, just so that he didn’t look too much like he was sulking.

“Look,” David said when they reached the door out to the floor. “There’s an open mic coming up right? At the university?”

Probably. It seemed to be a bi-monthly event; Trowa was running out of legitimate excuses to miss them.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I’ll come this time, if you’ve got something good. You’ll be there right?”

Only if Trowa actually wrote something, or failed to come up with a very good excuse.

“Yeah.”

David smiled. “Sweet. Come up with something good, then, so you can tell me all about it.”

Trowa had a feeling that some of the pipes were going to burst. Soon.

Trowa waited until he was in the parking lot—with David clocked in and throwing bitter glares at Holly’s back and Holly, waiting in the entrance, throwing bitter glares at him—to pinch the bridge of his nose. Even Tracey got headaches so he didn’t let himself worry too much about slipping in public. But he didn’t linger. Shifting the bundled apron to his other arm, Trowa walked out of the parking lot. He continued for a block, head down and ignoring the few people milling about in the early evening, before making his turn: a left instead of the usual right.

He was half way to the drug store before he realized it really wasn’t a viable option. His skin tone wasn’t unusual, but the sheer size and shade of the sleep bruises would make cosmetics both expensive and complicated. By the time he managed to blend the foundation around his eyes with the rest of his face and neck, he would have used too much to keep the coverage subtle. And as laid-back as David could be, Trowa was quite sure that he would not ignore Tracey’s sudden decision to wear that much foundation.

Not to mention, Trowa wasn’t actually sure if he could bring himself to wear it.

He had to do something, though. First Greg, now David, and that wasn’t counting the looks Trowa got day after day. Holly’s greedy curiosity. Cass’ mounting concern. Christine’s slowly-building disinterest and then disgust. Trowa was letting the weakness get the better of him, and weakness couldn’t be covered up with make-up. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to expose himself in the worst possible way. Again. And he wasn’t ready to leave.

Trowa couldn’t leave. He had no system and a body that struggled with the simplest of commands. When he could keep on the railing, he could leave.

That wasn’t going to be tonight, for sure. And with the way I’m going, I’ll be lucky if I can run next month. He needed to do something. Fast.

Trowa hurried to the drug store and then lingered, wandering up and down the aisles carefully. He steered well away from the cosmetics and the temptation; it would do him no favors. But he was not exactly happy with having to pace the supplement aisle either. “Natural” or not, he had enough experience with sleeping pills already. The only thing that put the bottles in his hands was the flimsy assumption that over-the-counter sleep aids couldn’t be that strong.

The only thing that put the small pack of beer in his hand later as sheer desperation.

Trowa walked back to the apartment slowly, bags in one hand, apron in the other, rearranging his evening schedule. By the time he was at his front door, Trowa had decided that running would probably be best. Long distance, endurance-draining running, punctuated with times of walking, stretching, and, if he managed to feel up to, some balance training. Spread out over a couple of hours, it might exhaust him enough for drug-assisted sleep.   It probably wouldn’t, because nothing was, but it was something to try.

And if it didn’t, tomorrow night he might try the alcohol.

Trowa flung the apron on the couch he had been avoiding and dropped the small plastic bag of pills on the counter. He considered, as he looked at it, dumping the alcohol down the drain but couldn’t bring himself to waste money like that. Trowa shoved the cans to the very back of the bottom-most shelf of the refrigerator. As he rose, he caught a short glimpse of the pasta he had tried to eat the night before. His stomach lurched with want and revulsion in painful turns. If he was going for endurance, though, he was going to need the energy.

He managed to spoon a reasonable amount, considering the nausea, onto a plate and pop it into the microwave before his throat really started to close. Trowa splashed it with a little garlic and oil instead of sauce—he hadn’t bought any in weeks but oil was always there and the garlic had been turning—and found some bread that wasn’t entirely stale. The warm smell of wheat made his mouth water. He ate three forkfuls, standing at the counter, before his stomach heaved. The fourth bite tasted of bile. Trowa pushed the plate away and forced down a bite of bread. After the third bite, his stomach settled a little.

The pasta still ended up in the trash.

Trowa nibbled on the last of the not-quite-stake bread as he moved from kitchen counter to couch to bedroom. His stomach still rolled, but with every few seconds, and steps, that the bread stayed, he felt a little better. By the time he made it to his dresser, Trowa almost felt kind of good. He held the bread between his teeth, wearing at it carefully, as he pulled out loose jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, and then stuffed the last quarter of it into his mouth while he changed.

He was still chewing when he tugged the edge of his shirt down over the corset and hunted for a hair-tie. He had bought a pack of simple, plain ones nearly two weeks ago, the day after he decided he needed to be productive. Unfortunately, his hair was just the right length now that it went in all the wrong places in all the wrong ways when he ran or trained or did anything more strenuous than moving boxes and stocking shelves. A knot at the back of his head was uncomfortable, but Trowa preferred it to having hair in his eyes or mouth. Especially in his mouth. Especially now when it tasted so strongly of dye.

Unfortunately, Trowa wasn’t very good about keeping track of his hair-ties. He was always in such a hurry to release the pressure at the back of his head that he ripped the tie out whenever and wherever he could, and the hair-tie ended up wherever it pleased. Trowa found them everywhere all the time—except when he was actually looking for them.

He finally found one on the lip of the bathroom sink. By then, Trowa had already been looking for five minutes; he made his irritated headache even worse by pulling his hair back too tight.

Trowa was a little more careful the second time he pulled his hair back, even taking the time to brush out the knots before he twisted the elastic around the ponytail. He ran his fingers over the tight hair, checking for bumps in the blank space of wood over the sink out of pure, stupid habit. He hadn’t gotten around to replacing the mirror, nor did he plan to. Ever. Trowa didn’t want one, and he certainly didn’t need it. Out of necessity, he did nothing more complicated to himself than dye his hair, and he had done it enough by now to make a mirror unnecessary. Fading was a concern, but Trowa already knew that he could go at least a couple of weeks before the difference was really noticeable. He already tried not to let it go past three.

Besides, there were plenty of mirrors and other suitably reflective surfaces to torture himself with to, from, and at work. The least he could do was spare himself at home.

Until he left anyway, then Trowa would have to replace it. He tried not to think about that.

Trowa downed a quick glass of water from the kitchen before heading outside, stuffing his keys safely in his pocket once the door was locked. The night was cool but heavy, the air thick with the smell of impending rain. Past the bright orange glow of the streetlamps, Trowa saw nothing but dark clouds. Rain again. Definitely. He frowned. It had rained last night, and the night before, too. And that night’s daytime. He had been taking each day’s weather as it came—since Trowa didn’t have a television and was still actively avoiding the temptation of the internet—but this felt likely an oddly long stretch of rain. Trowa had no idea if the east coast had “a rainy season.” It would be problematic if it did. I better find a paper somewhere tonight. Or buy a radio.

A radio would be nice. It was much less tempting than the internet, if he stayed away from certain frequencies, and would be a wonderful distraction from the crushing silence. He wasn’t exactly sure if Tracey would have one, but it wouldn’t be too difficult to give him an excuse. Inspiration or some such nonsense.

Trowa took his time getting to the boardwalk, changing his stride and pacing at intervals to keep the walk a decent warm-up. He even started working his arms and shoulders when he was a few blocks away. By the time he was up the ramp, Trowa felt loose enough and a little warm, and the boardwalk was mostly empty. He bounced on the balls of his feet, looking down the dimly lit planks at the shadows of the few people walking nearest him and the darker shapes of people still lingering in the better light. The business part of boardwalk, with its few but popular year-round shops and restaurants, stayed open until nearly ten. That part of the boardwalk, however, was short: only two or three miles out of the boardwalk’s ten. It was directly in the middle, but it still left Trowa with about three or four miles to occupy himself with until everything shut down.

By then, he might be up to some practice in the sand, or at least feel comfortable enough in the solitude to try running the rail.

Trowa sighed. He did some last minute stretching, just to be on the safe side, and took a long deep breath. The salt was bracing. He started off at a slow jog.

Trowa sped up the first time after the first mile, continuing into the second at a normal jog. The shops and restaurants, with their brighter lights and milling people, were at the end of the second mile. Trowa cut a wide arc around a couple ambling towards it and started his third mile going back the way he came. He started running halfway through it. By the fourth mile he was running close to his usual speed. Four and a half, he was pushing himself. Right at the fifth, Trowa had to stop and lean over the rail before he was sick.

He wasn’t sick, thankfully, possibly only because Trowa had hoisted himself up enough to put pressure on his stomach and stop it from heaving. He eased himself down to the wood. Cursing, he shoved his head between his knees. The vertigo persisted until Trowa managed to stop himself from hissing through his teeth every time he breathed. When his head stopped spinning and throbbing, Trowa lifted it. He glared briefly up and down the boardwalk before falling back. He lay on the wood, glaring at the cloudy, dark sky and choking on the salt air for nearly five minutes before his chest stopped heaving.

Trowa beat his fist against the wood. His hand slipped. Trowa felt the sharp prick of a splinter.

Once he could sit up safely and start picking at the wood in his hand, Trowa realized that he had to pace himself better. Otherwise he was going to end this training session much earlier than he wanted, or else run the risk of being unable to get himself home. He needed to slow down, take more breaks, ease himself into higher speeds. He needed to take his time.

Trowa yanked the splinter out with his teeth, grinning bitterly at the pain.

Leaning back against the railing, Trowa waited for his body to cool, watching the boardwalk and listening to the ocean when he realized it would be more than a few minutes. Every so often, he would glance over his shoulder to watch the steady swell and pull of the water, but for the most part Trowa watched the last few people moving around this end of the boardwalk. An elderly couple, on their way home mostly likely, who gave him a particularly disgusted look as they passed. A late-night walker with his music up too loud. A woman with a cell phone and a dog. When she was passing under the next lamppost, nearly fifty feet away, Trowa eased himself to his feet. He felt cool enough and steady enough.

He stretched again and turned. Trowa had gone only a few steps when he heard a sharp hiss. And then a bark.

A cat, little more than a shadow in the dark, streaked past his foot. Behind him, Trowa heard the click of nails on wood, followed by a high, sharp gasp. He turned in time to see the woman scrambling to her knees just behind a bounding, barking dog. Its leash trailed behind it as it pounded after the cat. It would pass just below his waist. Trowa lashed out and grabbed it as the dog streaked past.

He realized, as he got his fingers around the nylon, that while the dog was not necessarily large enough to pull him over, it was already running, and Trowa was leaning. He managed to twist himself so that he landed on his back. The fall knocked the wind out of him, but his weight knocked the wind out of the dog. It yelped as the leash went tight.

“Jazz! Oh my god, I am so sorry, sir, are you okay?”

Trowa found his vision suddenly full of face and hair as the woman dropped over him. She couldn’t seem to decide which was more important: helping him up or wrestling the leash from his fingers. Trying to do both kept her uncomfortably close. Trowa shoved the leash at her.

“You dumb dog,” she hissed when she had the leash. She slid back with it, giving Trowa an opening to scramble back a few inches. “I’m really sorry, she’s never like that. I don’t—”

Trowa grit his teeth. “She never chases cats?”

“Well, no, I mean she barks but—”

“You might want to look up from your phone a little more,” he spat as he sat up. “Not everyone’s going to go for the leash.”

“That, that was a really impressive catch.”

Trowa glanced at her. She was crouched near him, the leash wound around her hand enough to bring the dog, Jazz, close to her side. Jazz whined and butted her head against the woman’s leg. When she didn’t so much as reach to pat the top of her head, Jazz huffed and stretched out beside her.

He sighed. “Not really,” he muttered, running a hand over the back of his head. The ponytail had been shoved up the back of his skull. Trowa pulled the tie out carefully. He flinched as it still yanked out a few hairs. “It’s too dark to be impressive.”

Her eyes followed the dark shift of his hair falling around his neck. “No way,” she said. She twisted the nylon leash between her hands. “I am really sorry. She doesn’t normally run like that, but you’re right. I should’ve been paying more attention.”

“It’s fine,” he said, because Tracey would. He was mostly fine, it was an accident, and more importantly, the woman was a stranger he was more than likely never going to see again. There was no reason to snap at her. “I shouldn’t tell you how to walk your dog. It just—”

“It hurt, right? I heard you hit the wood. It sounded painful.”

Painful was an understatement. He was just lucky he didn’t hit his head first. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Can I make it up to you?”

Trowa stiffened. “You don’t have to.”

“No, no, I insist. You really didn’t have to that and you’re being much nicer about this than you should be, and I really should have been paying more attention. You could have gotten really hurt.”

“No, really, it’s—”

“At least let me buy you dinner? A slice of pizza or something? I know nothing’s open right now but maybe tomorrow or sometime when you’re free.”

Trowa should have been much more disturbed by her enthusiasm than he was, and Tracey at least a little put off. There was something familiar, however, about her flustering: the way her words tumbled one of the other; how the small, sharp breath that she took every twenty words or so lifted her shoulders; how her fingers played and twisted the leash with her voice’s increasing pace. Trowa watched them twist. He just barely saw how pale they were. And then, out of nowhere, while the leash twirled around her pale index fingers, he found himself wondering if she was blonde or brunette. Was it white gold or that darker one like captured sunshine? Was it brown, like chocolate or coffee or warm, breathing wood? Was there a subtle play of colors with the right light, or was it solid and constant?

Maybe she had blue eyes. Blue were genetically popular in the United States weren’t they? Would they be solid, light but preferably dark, or would there be touches of color? Green to make them warm and welcoming, or purple to make them mischievous?

He should have been more disturbed. He should have run, without acknowledgement, without caring about how suspicious or cowardly it made him look. It was dangerous, where his thoughts were going. It was temptation, and he had been working so hard to avoid temptation, to finally separate. He needed to leave.

Instead, Trowa found himself muttering, “I’m free tomorrow.”

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

“You didn’t have to do this,” Wufei said for the third time, which was two times too many. Zechs, hands folded over the top of the steering wheel, turned away from the red light. He smiled a bit.

“No, but I wanted to,” he said. Wufei nodded once before he turned and looked out the window once the light had changed. Oddly enough, Zechs didn’t sigh.

Wufei knew he was not exactly patient when it came to people’s personality quirks, but he liked to think he was perceptive. He understood why Relena constantly inserted herself into her brother’s, and therefore his, life; he understood why Duo loathed silence, always needing to talk and laugh and touch; most importantly, he understood why Zechs was occasionally overcome with a sudden, irritating need to take care of him.

Sometimes.

Wufei would be the first to admit that he didn’t always see the difference between caring and coddling. That sometimes, often really, he didn’t see the difference at all. He simply couldn’t. There had been too many sneers and scoffs when he stepped to or from a cockpit, or was staring down the barrel of a gun, shooter and victim both. There had been too many watery eyes, too many quivering lips and twisting fingers, too much pity. All those years, all those looks and tears and sighs, made every single act of kindness, from a door opening to backup, a slight against his independence. His autonomy.

Unless it came from Zechs.

No one wanted to believe that a child was capable of chaos. No one wanted to believe that someone barely legal to drink was able to kill dozens of trained soldiers in a handful of minutes. They refused to believe that someone who hadn’t graduated college, or even high school, was better than they, with their twenty-plus years of experience, could ever hope to be. Even Une, on the rare occasion, got a strange strained expression on her face, as if she couldn’t, and didn’t want to, believe that he was eighteen and on her payroll. And she was just a few years older than him.

Except for Zechs. Zechs, just a few months older than her, saw him, and everything about him, differently. There was so much appreciation in his smile when Wufei knew or did something he could not. There was soft pride in him when it came to the past—not in the blood, but in the skill and the determination, in the growth and experience the war had given him—and the present. And even more when he thought about the future. Any jealousy between them was playful: a give-and-take where barbs earned smiles and laughs, improvement and success, sleepless nights and lazy mornings.

It was not because Zechs was a pilot and saw Wufei as a kindred creature, bred for battle, fed with adrenaline, bathed in blood and oil. Wufei was, as Zechs had told him once, a partner. An equal. And in many ways, his better. And Zechs so much mine. And it was out of his limitless gratitude for the appreciation and respect untarnished by loathing or pity that Wufei endeavored to understand.

He was getting better at it. A little bit. Slowly. At the very least, he wasn’t kicking Zechs out and onto the couch as often, which was honestly very pathetic. Wufei sighed.

Zechs heard, and misunderstood. “It would have been inconvenient, you know. For you and them.”

“Apparently,” he said, not exactly trying to argue.

“Come on. You couldn’t have taken a bus.”

“I could have.”

“You would have been late.” Ridiculously late, actually, considering that in this particular area, the distance a car could travel in thirty minutes, with heavy traffic, took the local buses at least two hours.

“Very late,” he agreed. “And I’m not keen on waking up at five in the morning just to take a bus.”

“No, you’re not. And a taxi is out of the question.”

“It would have gotten me there on time.”

“On the headquarters’ dime.”

Une was having enough trouble getting funding for the mission. The higher-ups had barely approved their long, looping flights and a week in a shitty rat-hole of a motel. They’d probably be more accommodating if she called it “an arrest” like they wanted. She wouldn’t, and Wufei and the others weren’t particularly upset about the consequences of that.

“On my dime, then.”

“You don’t even like taxis.”

Wufei loathed taxis. “I could have driven myself.”

“You’re going to be gone for a week at least. Who’s going to pay for parking?”

The same party who would pay for the taxi, and while he was okay with paying a grossly-overpriced cab fare once in a while, Wufei was not okay with paying a grossly-overpriced garage fare for seven days.

“Point taken.”

“And since I can’t drive you to the port, and they aren’t going to shell out enough for gas to pay for going to ours, theirs, and then the port, this, well, this is just easier.”

The “for me” was implied.

Wufei knew how upset Zechs was for being excluded. He was, after all, Trowa’s friend and colleague, and he had lost just as much sleep as the rest of them: first from worrying about him and then from hunting him down, once they were given permission. He knew how angry Zechs was at being told to stay home and wait. Getting Trowa to come home would be difficult. They all knew. How difficult, though, was the question, and that they could only know once they found him. How much did Trowa miss them? How guilty did he feel? How much did he need to run? How far was he willing to go? What was he willing to do?

They were walking into a very serious, very dangerous, set of unknown variables. Wufei was walking into it, and Zechs was being told to stay home. He understood very well why Zechs was so upset. He sympathized.

He was still glad Zechs wasn’t going.

Zechs was, and probably always would be, Trowa’s friend, but Zechs was not a pilot. He had flown Tallgeese, in all its variations, beautifully, expertly, but he was still not a pilot. He wasn’t involved in Operation Meteor. He wasn’t dragged off the streets, out of warehouse or cargo hold, or from a comfortable life, because piloting a suit seemed like a better option, a necessary option, or the only option.   He never felt the fear or loathing. He had never felt that short, painful moment of bliss when they realized they were not alone. That someone else understood the adrenaline, the pleasure, the pressure, the torture, of every minute of every hour of every day spent in those machines.

Zechs was not a pilot. He couldn’t understand Trowa, not all of him, not the way they did. And total understanding, knowing every trick and pain, every strength and weakness, was the only way they would get Trowa to come home. Wufei had explained that to him, once Zechs had stopped swearing after the order came. Zechs accepted it, partially, eventually, without liking it at all.

And Wufei accepted, without necessarily liking it, that Zechs needed to feel involved somehow. Even if it was only driving him.

Zechs pulled up to the two-story house the four of them had shared after a final ten minutes of awkward, uncomfortable silence. Wufei looked at the house for a moment, at the dark windows on the second floor and the empty space in the driveway before turning in his seat. Zechs stared out the windshield, hands folded once again on the steering wheel. He didn’t turn off the engine. It would be too much of a temptation to follow him if he did.

Wufei, looking out the windshield himself, shifted in his seat, sliding a little closer to the center console between them. He set his hand on the head of the shifter. Zechs turned his head some and blinked slowly, his eyes drifting down to his hand before sliding up his arm to his face. Wufei continued to look down the empty, quiet street. From the corner of his eye, he saw Zechs’ mouth twitch and one of his hands slip off the steering wheel. It handed lightly on his.

Wufei turned his hand until the shifter was pressing against his knuckles. Zechs squeezed his fingers.

“Call,” he said.

Wufei looked at him. “When?”

“Once when you leave, once when you find him, once when you’re coming home.”

“You can’t meet us at the port.”

“No, but I can be in the garage when you get there.”

And he would be. Wufei knew that for a fact.

Smiling faintly, Wufei slid across the seat until his hip pressed uncomfortably against the hand-break and shifter. With his free hand, he reached gently behind Zechs’ head. Zechs had tied his hair back today, as he almost always did when Wufei or work or life gave him a situation he couldn’t change. He needed that personal, momentary bit of control. Wufei eased the band out of his hair. He laced his fingers in the long, soft strands, scratching gently at the back of Zechs’ head. Zechs sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back into the caress.

“I can call every day.”

“You’d hate that.”

“You’d love it.”

“Duo will never shut up.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

Zechs chuckled. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against Wufei’s. “Every other day.”

“Promise.”

Zechs laced their fingers. Wufei turned his head lightly, just enough that their noses brushed and Wufei could place a small kiss on the corner of his mouth. Zechs squeezed.

And then he let go. Wufei slid out of the truck, his duffle bag slung across his back. He stood on the sidewalk until Zechs turned at the distant stop sign, smiling to himself. The hair tie was still wrapped loosely around his fingers. Wufei slipped it around his wrist.

Duo answered the door almost a minute after Wufei had knocked. Leaning into the frame, and blocking the entrance entirely, he looked Wufei up and down. Duo’s mouth quirked into that irritating smile that meant he thought he had something funny to say.

“No kung fu pants today?”

“For the last time, Maxwell,” he started. Duo’s smile widened.

“Shredded in the laundry?”

He snorted. “Along with your cassock.”

“My cassock was blood stained so I threw it away. Like two years ago.”

“A shame. I liked the cassock. Those parachute pants of yours, on the other hand.”

“Hey, I like these pants.”

“That makes one person,” he said, shouldering his way into the house.

The house was oddly dark and chilled. Of course, Wufei really didn’t have much to compare the current state with. Wufei and Zechs usually hosted their get-togethers, mostly because Wufei liked to have an excuse to cook and Zechs liked to have an excuse to open his liquor cabinet. During the few times he had visited, though, the house had always been bright and warm. Quatre was used to that particular environment, and Duo was, sometimes worryingly, naturally cool-blooded. And Heero and Trowa didn’t seem to care either way.

For the house to be so obviously empty... Wufei looked around and caught sight of the two duffle bags waiting by the end of the couch.

“Where’s Quatre,” he asked, dropping his on top of the two.

“He left almost three hours ago. He’s probably sitting at the gate by now.”

Not entirely unlikely, considering Quatre’s connections.

The protective detail surrounding him had finally been dropped a week ago, mostly because Duo and Heero had made it very clear to headquarters that they would not trust his safety with anyone else, nor would they be barred from retrieving Trowa once all of Heero’s tracers ferretted him out. Which meant that Quatre, for all intents and purposes a civilian, would be dragged along on an operation involving a rogue Preventer agent. An agent that was his friend. The higher-ups would have none of that. Unfortunately, once he was free of the limitations the Preventers put on him, for his own safety, Quatre was free to act at his own discretion.

And his own discretion told him to book a flight. Any flight would do, but he would prefer the same one that took Duo, Heero, and Wufei.

Une hadn’t bothered to advise him against it. She also hadn’t informed her superiors that it was his intention. Quatre was an informant still not legitimately recognized by the system; they had no control over him. Wufei could imagine her smirk.

"Got it,” he said. Wufei slipped his hands in to the pockets of his jeans. “Heero?”

“Bedroom. Running last minute tracing programs.”

Wufei frowned. “He missed something?”

“Standard backup, he said. In case Trowa,” he paused for a moment and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “In case he noticed and pulled up.”

That would be highly unusual at this point, considering how much trouble Heero had had pinning him down. Trowa had apparently been actively avoiding anything even distantly connected to the internet. Heero had been reduced to checking video feeds until he figured out which port Trowa had left from and could finally pin his face to an alias through time stamps and luck.

Of course, Trowa could have accessed the internet recently for any number of reasons, the most likely of which were cabin fever and paranoia. He had been gone for over a month now, and if Heero’s data was correct, he was currently living as a civilian. A very boring civilian. Wufei simply wasn’t sure Trowa could go another month without looking for something to compliment his skills, not without going insane anyway.

And when he did finally access the network, the first thing Trowa would do would be check his tracks.

“Anything?”

“There’s no swearing so I’m assuming everything’s green right now. Drink?”

“Just water.”

Heero came down the stairs when Wufei was half way through his glass of water, leaning against the table and watching Duo go through a last minute mental checklist by his bag. He stopped on the bottom step, laptop under his arm. Even in the bad light, Wufei could tell that he had lost just enough sleep to make him look tired.

“When’d you get here?”

“Five, ten minutes ago.”

“I didn’t hear Zechs.”

“He had things to do, so he just dropped me off.”

Heero’s mouth twitched briefly. He nodded once. Wufei took a sip of his water. Duo looked over from where he was crouched over the bags.

“Well?”

“No changes. No sudden withdrawals or closures. We’re clear,” he said. Duo smiled a bit as Heero came over. Heero dropped down beside him and started rearranging the contents of his bag. He slipped his laptop into it and covered it with the folded clothes he had removed. When Heero zipped it up again, Duo’s hand drifted to the small of his back. Heero’s head dipped forward as Duo’s fingers kneaded the muscles carefully. His shoulders rose and fell with a long, silent sigh, and Heero reached out to touch Duo’s knee. He squeezed it, harder than Wufei was used to seeing, as if he needed stability and support.

Duo’s hand slipped down and squeezed his hip. Wufei finished his water quickly and took it to the kitchen.

They both were standing when Wufei went back to the table. Duo had his bag across his back. “All set,” Wufei asked.

“Seems like.”

“Did you turn off the heat,” Heero asked.

“Yeah, an hour ago, in case you can’t tell.”

Heero rolled his eyes. “The car should be here in about five minutes. We should head outside.” Wufei went over to the couch and swung his bag up onto his shoulder. Heero didn’t pick up his. “I’m going to check the windows one more time.”

“I already checked them, and you checked them twice.”

“Outside, Duo. I’ll be right there.

Duo, shaking his head, muttered under his breath about paranoid boyfriends as he headed towards the door. Wufei followed him, a couple steps behind and twice as slow. By the time Duo was outside and starting down the driveway, Wufei was still at the door, holding onto the sturdy, reinforced wood. He glanced briefly back of his shoulder.

Heero moved about with quick efficiency. He finished the large living room windows, pulling the curtains tight, before moving on to the kitchen. He lingered there for just a minute before heading to the stairs, and then past them. Wufei shifted just enough that he could catch most of Heero’s profile as he stopped at the first door after the stairs.

Trowa’s door, no doubt.

Wufei watched Heero’s hand lift and press itself gently against the wood. Heero’s head dipped forward until it was nearly pressing against it. And although he couldn’t hear him, and the angle was just bad enough and the house was just dark enough that he couldn’t quite see his face, Wufei swore he saw Heero’s mouth move.

Then Heero moved, turning back towards the stairs. Wufei had seen his foot shift and was out the door before he even finished turning.

Wufei walked quickly across the gravel. He had always been very perceptive. He had had his suspicions, but this. This was a surprise.

A/n: I apologize to any and all Wufei fans for, more than likely, butchering his personality. I personally hate people who assume Wufei is an unfeeling, arrogant asshole. Like the rest of them, Wufei feels deeply and passionately. I believe he does, however, have a lot of issues with independence and is very quick to feel slighted. That doesn’t stop him though from being witty, caring and affectionate. In his own way.

I want to take the time to thank everyone who has stuck with me through the last seven years. This has been an exhausting but rewarding labor and I know that as a writer I have taken a lot of advantage of you, my readers. Until recently, I took too many hiatuses, left you with too many dead ends. And for that I’m sorry. Thank you for continuing to read. Thank you for your support and continued interest. I couldn’t write if it wasn’t for you.

Thank you for all the reviews. You have all given me a lot of smiles, warm feelings, and important things to think about. Please, continue to give me your anger, your happiness, your confusion, and your suggestions. I live for criticism.

As always, read and review if you have the time. I remain, forever, your humble storyteller.

~*~LadyYeinKhan~*~

You can follow me for story updates and other information at ahsimwithsake.tumblr.com
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The Chains We Wear