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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
- 23
- 24
- 25
A/N: I'm not even going to make excuses. It's been more than six months since I've posted anything, there are a lot of reasons for that, but nothing I can say can make up for the fact that I left all of you waiting. Again. I'm sorry. I truly am.
My life has been very unstable for the last year, but I'm back home with my parents and trying to get my feet back under me. Hopefully, the familiar ground helps and hopefully this story gets some traction again.
Warnings for this chapter: some swearing. Trowa being a difficult patient
Chapter 24:
“I’m pretty sure I asked you for ice, Maxwell.”
“There is no ice, ‘Fei, so that’s going to have to do. It should be cold enough.”
“No ice…”
“What do you mean there’s no ice—”
“No ice.”
“—Did you even wring this out?”
“Yes, I wrung it out. Stop squeezing it and it won’t drip. And there’s no ice. Shit, he doesn’t even have frozen vegetables.”
“God damn it, Barton.”
“No. Ice.”
“Yes, ice,” Wufei snapped. “You’ve got a fever and a concussion. Congratulations.”
Trowa let out a growl that had none its usual strength.
Heero sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. At this rate, Trowa wasn’t going to be the only one with a massive headache. He leaned his shoulder against the wall of the small hallway that ran between the bathroom and the living room, the meager first aid kit dangling from his fingers. When Quatre came out of the kitchen and joined the tense knot around the couch, Heero let his head thud silently against the wall.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen.
“That’s not the only thing he doesn’t have,” Quatre said. He bent over the arm of the couch, arms crossed. “Why is everything wilted, stale, or expired?”
Between Wufei’s side and Duo’s hip, Heero saw Trowa tilt his head back slightly and glare without heat. “It’s not.”
“Oh I assure you, it is, or else you have found varieties that I really didn’t need to see.”
“Lettuce staring at you, Cat,” Duo asked with a tired smile. Quatre snorted.
“I wish. That could at least be funny.”
“My food is fine,” Trowa muttered.
“Your food is just this side of lethal, and has been that way for a while, by the looks of it,” Quatre said. “When was the last time you even looked in there?”
“Yesterday.”
“Liar.”
Heero let out a silent sigh and stepped off the wall. Trowa wasn’t in any condition for an argument. None of them were, actually, but him least of all; he’d only regained consciousness twenty minutes ago. Heero crossed the living room in short, brisk strides. He gave Quatre’s shoulder a light squeeze before pulling him away from the couch and turning him back towards the kitchen. Heero pretended not to notice the sneer.
He dropped the first aid kit into Wufei’s lap. “Best he’s got is aspirin.”
Wufei threw Trowa a look of intense irritation before snorting and going back to folding the large, wet towel. “That’s better than nothing, I guess.”
“One of us can run to the store later,” Heero said.
“I’ll go,” Duo said. Heero glanced at him, eyebrows raised. Duo’s smile somehow warmed and thinned at the same time. “Between Wufei and Quatre, we’ve got bed rest covered, and you’d be much better at pinning Trowa down. I need something to do.”
Duo also needed space. Heero could see it in the stiff way he rocked forward onto his toes and the agitated way he ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers. Duo was almost always moving, inactivity making him anxious and irritable. Proximity and intimacy, however, had allowed Heero to notice subtle differences.   Relaxed or worried, Duo always played with his fingers; the difference between them could be as small as which finger he started with.
If anyone else noticed, they didn’t mention it. Wufei let out a low, thoughtful noise as he leaned forward to put the folded, wet cloth on Trowa’s head. “That’d be helpful.”
Trowa didn’t have the strength or the energy to avoid Wufei, although he certainly tried. He ducked awkwardly from beneath his hand before pushing at him. Wufei nudged his hand aside. It took Trowa several seconds to find the will to get it to move again, and by then Heero had already caught his wrist and pinned it to the couch. Trowa turned bleary, narrow eyes up at him. His mouth worked into an irritated line.
Then Wufei draped the cloth across his forehead. Trowa’s expression fell beneath the cool touch. Heero sighed and sat down on the arm of the couch.
“If you’re going out,” Quatre said, coming out of the kitchen again, “you might as well get a few things. Right now, all I can make is toast, and not much of it.”
Trowa’s face grayed at the mention of food. His voice, however, was surprisingly steady.
“If you all are hungry, I can suggest a few places,” he muttered.
“Not for us. For you.” The muscles in Trowa’s neck worked as he swallowed hard and gagged.
Duo nodded. “Yeah, we already ate. Besides, you think we’re going to leave you like this?”
Trowa’s irritation was just enough to get his hand moving. He managed to pull the towel partly off his forehead before Heero pinned him gently back to the couch. He threw Duo a look before fixing the cloth on Trowa’s head.
Duo gave him a faint, strained smile before looking back at Quatre. “What do you want?”
“Fruits, vegetables, bread. Stuff for stock. I guess a couple of canned soups, too, to tied us over until I get something made.”
This time, Heero matched the face Trowa made. As long as he didn’t have to eat that processed swill.
Duo nodded as he made mental notes. “Anything in particular I should look for?”
“Clear soups. Nothing that says ‘hearty’ or ‘cream.’ You should probably stay clear of anything with noodles or rice in it, too."
“So no chicken noodle. Isn’t that the staple sick food?”
“Not when you’re half-starved and dehydrated.”
Heero caught Trowa’s wrist before it reached his cheek.
“Good point.” Duo swung his jacket onto his shoulders and patted down his pockets. “‘Fei?”
“Anything for fevers that’s not aspirin,” he muttered, sitting back and folding his arms. “Cold medicine or something should be fine.”
“Pick up something for his stomach, too,” Heero said, his hand reaching down to press lightly on Trowa’s wrist. Trowa strained against him for a second.
“Got it,” he said. Duo zipped up his coat and headed towards the door. “I’ll be back.”
“Got enough,” Quatre asked.
“As long as I don’t go crazy, I should. Otherwise, I’ll just smile and bat my eyes.”
Trowa snorted. “Pray Holly’s not ringing you up, then,” he muttered.
“Take some extra, Duo,” Heero said.
“I was kidding,” Duo said as he opened the door. “I’ve got plenty. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back—oh.”
Duo rocked back away from the door, stumbling once. The boy, skinny and with a fist raised to knock, looked at him briefly before lowering his arm. It took Heero a second to recognize him as the boy with the soccer ball. His jaw clenched momentarily.
The boy looked around with curious, brown eyes. He stopped briefly on each of them before locking onto Trowa. His hand raised a bit.
“Hi Tracey,” he muttered.
“Hi Sam,” Trowa said. It took everything Heero had not to stare.
Trowa didn’t sound stronger when he slipped into “Tracey” as easily as any of them would slip into clothes (although he did manage to sit up by himself). He sounded weaker. It had nothing to do with exhaustion or fever or injury. There was just something about this “Tracey,” about this personality that Trowa had made, that was frail. Damaged.
Heero already decided that he didn’t like it; he had no idea how Trowa could stand it.
“Mom wanted to know if you had plans for dinner,” Sam said. Trowa nodded once and fiddled with the wet towel that had landed in his lap.
“That’s nice of her, but I’ve kind of got company right now.”
“They’re invited, too.” He pushed back some of the curly brown hair that had fallen into his eyes. “It’s just meatloaf, but Mom says it’ll be better than the convenience store stuff they’ve been eating.”
Wufei shifted before glancing towards Heero. Quatre and Duo’s looks were a slightly more noticeable. Heero frowned. He couldn’t remember seeing a woman who shared physical features with this boy near the apartment (although he supposed that mothers and children didn’t always share features for one reason or another). He couldn’t remember seeing that many people near the apartment, period (although he would admit he had been rather distracted). Still, Heero should have noticed someone paying that much attention to them.   Clearly, he was losing his touch.
Which didn’t endear Sam to him any further.
“That’s nice of her,” Quatre said, arms folded over his waist and a smile on his lips. “Tell her we said thanks but no thanks. We already ate.”
Sam stared at him before turning his attention back to Trowa. Trowa gave him a faint smile.
“It’s probably not a good idea tonight anyway, Sam. Holly thinks I caught the flu.”
Heero kept his eyebrows from raising. It was a better cover than he could have come up with so quickly. Considering the slow reaction times and disorientation he had been showing, though, Heero was surprised Trowa came up with it at all.
“Yeah,” Sam asked, looking Trowa over more thoroughly, as if he only just noticed he had been sprawled on the couch.
“Yeah. I don’t think your mom would appreciate me giving it to you two.”
“I don’t mind,” Sam said, smiling. “I’ve got a math test this week.”
“Erin might. Doesn’t she have a field trip soon?”
The smile fell. “Oh yeah.”
“You better get home before you catch it.”
“What about them?”
“Don’t worry about us,” Duo said before Trowa could even open his mouth. “These guys never get sick, and I already got the flu once this year. It’s like chicken pox: get it once, you’re clear for the year.”
Sam didn’t question the lack of logic or simple medical knowledge—Heero supposed he was too young to care—and just smiled up at Duo. He rocked back and forth on his toes.
“I got to my elbow before Mom called me in.”
Duo, leaning against the door, whistled. “Nice. Knew you had it in you. Keep practicing and you’ll have a thing or two to show those state boys.”
Sam smiled before turning back to Trowa. “Do you want leftovers? Mom made plenty.”
“No thanks, Sam.”
“She’s going to make me bring some over anyway, so you might as well say yes.”
Trowa gave a single, watery laugh that made the hairs on Heero’s neck rise. “True. I’ll find space for it in the fridge.”
“‘Kay. Feel better, Tracey.”
“No doubt about that. I’m in good hands.”
Trowa stayed up until Sam had to be halfway to his own apartment. Then he swayed. He didn’t bother fighting as Wufei guided his falling torso away from the edge of the couch. He narrowly missed hitting his head on the couch arm or Heero’s knee.
Duo closed the door a bit before frowning over his shoulder. “Meatloaf?”
“Do I even want to know what you taught him,” Trowa muttered.
“Soccer trick. Meatloaf? Seriously?” Trowa shifted before managing an awkward shrug.
“Tracey’s not a vegetarian,” he explained.
“Clearly,” he muttered. Duo, hand on his hip, looked Trowa over once before nodding slowly. “Yeah, I don’t think I like ‘Tracey’ all that much—”
“You don’t have to,” Trowa said.
“Can’t say I’m going to miss him.”
Duo didn’t linger. Heero bit back a sigh as he rose and moved to shut the front door. With the distance and the load and his obvious need for time, Duo would probably take at least half an hour. Probably closer to a full hour. Heero locked the door and leaned back against it, arms folded.
“Can’t say I disagree,” he said after a moment. Trowa peered around Wufei’s hip and the wet towel draped back over his head. “About not liking him.”
“Don’t remember anyone asking you to,” he said.
“You could have made someone different.”
“I didn’t need someone different. I needed him.”
Heero supposed that was true. Trowa had needed to disappear, and although he had only seen a few of the personalities he crafted (and one much closer than the others), Heero knew that most of them weren’t meant for that. The worst of them skated the outer edge of the radar: hard to notice, harder to track, unless you knew exactly what you were doing. Which Heero did. Trowa had needed someone worse. He had needed someone who couldn’t leave even a second-long blip. He needed mediocre. Helpless. Pathetic.
Tracey was certainly that. Heero was almost impressed with how long Trowa had lasted with it.
Across the living room, Quatre leaned back against the dividing wall and frowned. “He couldn’t be a vegetarian, too?”
“It didn’t suit him,” Trowa said, rolling his head carefully towards him. Wufei caught the towel before it slid off. “It’s only a problem when Cass shoves food at him.”
Considering the green that briefly tinged Trowa’s face as he mentioned it, Heero assumed that was fairly regular occurrence.
The color change wasn’t lost on Quatre. “How often is that?”
“Not as often as she’d like. Accepting dinner invitations also doesn’t suit him.”
“And mirrors,” Heero asked. Now seemed as good a time as any to mention the empty space above the sink in Trowa’s small bathroom—the space with unused support hooks. Quatre and Wufei threw him curious looks, so they missed the embarrassed and irritated flush that darkened Trowa’s already fever-pink face. Heero locked himself against the guilt. “Those don’t suit him either?”
“Tracey doesn’t care one way or another,” Trowa said. “I didn’t want it there.”
It was the most strength Trowa had had in his voice since before he had passed out. It left an awkward, ringing silence. Heero shifted against the door. He had found one or two bits of glass on the floor under the base of the sink. They could have easily fit under a fingernail. Trowa must have used an excessive amount of force to break it. His knuckles would have been more than enough, but even from the door, Heero could tell they were fine. A little swollen, perhaps, but they bore none of the signs of severe impact trauma. Trowa must have hit with something. Hard and fast. He might have left an impression of it on the wall: an impact mark of some sort. Heero could probably figure out the general weight and shape of the object Trowa had used if he examined it.
He didn’t need to know.
Quatre shifted after a moment, stepping off the wall and letting his arms down. Wufei shook his head as he opened his mouth.
“We can discuss this later,” he said. “Right now, you need to sleep.”
“You’re not supposed to sleep with a concussion,” Trowa muttered. Wufei rolled his eyes.
“Fine, doze. Just stop talking.”
Wufei tugged the damp cloth down Trowa’s forehead until it was draped over his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He held it there carefully with his hand. Trowa shifted and batted at him a few times before letting his hand dropped. Wufei waited a second before taking his hand off Trowa’s head. He moved the limp, fallen hand from Trowa’s side to his stomach, and almost smiled when Trowa moved it back.
There was no clock that they could see, but Heero’s internal clock was as good as ever. Quatre waited several seconds before making an abortive move towards the couch and then disappearing back into the kitchen. Wufei lingered at Trowa’s side for several minutes, fingers on his pulse, before rising and heading down the hall to the bathroom. After five minutes, Heero was still standing with his back against the door. He was tempted to remain, but Duo wasn’t due for at least forty-five minutes—much too long not to be suspicious.
Trowa’s laptop was on the table, neglected to some degree, judging by the fine layer of dust on the top of it. Heero’s was in the hotel room; he hadn’t thought to bring it, which was a mistake. There were reports he could finish. At the very least, he could submit a status update. Heero could keep himself occupied. Unfortunately, his laptop wasn’t here, and Trowa’s was, and while he knew that Trowa hadn’t bothered with internet, most of the other tenants did. Hacking one of theirs would be easy. Getting into Trowa’s computer, less so although the challenge would be refreshing.
Heero stepped away from the door and wandered into the kitchen.
Quatre moved about the kitchen with the grumbling confidence of someone who knew the place and was thoroughly disappointed. He put an empty pot on the stove and a knife and cutting board on the counter before crouching down and rummaging through one of the cabinets. Heero drifted towards the sink. Half-a-loaf of bread was waiting in it. It was crusted over with ice. He gave the solid slices a light poke before looking around, spotting the microwave, and deciding to get a knife.
Quatre brought over a battered kettle as Heero slowly worked slices apart with the knife. He watched the knife sink too fast through the last quarter of the current slice and scrape hard against the bottom of the sink.
“Just don’t cut yourself,” Quatre said.
“How many slices?”
“They’re small,” he said, maneuvering around Heero’s arms and holding the kettle under the faucet. “Three or four should do.”
Heero nodded and worked the last slice apart. “Plates?”
“Second cabinet on the left. Cover them with a paper towel first.”
Nodding, Heero left the knife and bread in the sink and stepped away, careful not to upset the kettle. The cabinet had only a few plates of varying sizes. Heero found a medium sized one closer to the back. He brought it back to the sink and piled the frozen bread slices on it.
“How long?”
“Twenty or thirty seconds. Make sure you use the defrost setting. There should be a button.”
“Got it.”
Quatre moved away, carrying the full kettle to the stove. He set it on a burner. He tried turning it on twice before noticing the valve at the back. He grumbled about gas burners. At least he didn’t need a match to light it; Heero wasn’t sure if they would find any.
Heero realized, as he took the plate to the microwave and draped a paper towel over the slices before popping it in, that that had been the most they had said to each other without getting at least irritated with one another. It was not something he was particularly proud of.
Heero didn’t exactly blame Quatre for his recent shortness or lack of control, over his emotions and his empathy. It was unrealistic to expect an empath to always keep an absolute grip on himself, especially when everything seemed to be tugging and pulling and chipping away at it. It was unrealistic for Heero to expect him to be okay after two months of stress on every side, after two months of living and working with people who had little to no control of their emotions and the residue they left on Quatre’s senses.
It was unrealistic, and Heero wasn’t anything if not realistic. He didn’t blame Quatre for any of that. He accepted all of that. The jealousy, however, was a different matter.
Quatre was jealous—or perhaps it was envious. He didn’t have Trowa’s affection after all, and wasn’t possession a prerequisite for jealousy? Then again, Heero didn’t have Trowa’s affection either, and it was the want of what another had that defined envy. Heero supposed it didn’t really matter. Quatre was something and had been this something for several months. It hadn’t particularly bothered him (concerned him, yes, but not bothered) until recently, when he became the focus of it. He hadn’t minded the grumbling and unsubtle glares when they were directed at a nameless, faceless boyfriend; actually, Heero had joined him—privately—in his irritation quite a few times. Directed at him, though, put Heero’s “back against the wall,” as Duo described it. Being quite familiar with the tension and the defensiveness and the shortness, he had been able to explain it when Heero had admitted that he had been less than two words away from punching Quatre in the mouth.
An explanation, of course, didn’t stop that unnecessary feeling, or the occasional desire to cause Quatre harm; it did, however, make Heero aware. Once he was aware, he could control himself. At the very least, he could ignore those feelings or urges until he had time or privacy. Sometimes both. Unfortunately, none of them had gotten much of either in the last month or two. But now that Trowa was here—
Except Trowa wasn’t here. Not really, not the Trowa he remembered. Heero bit back a sigh, shook his head once, and removed the bread from the microwave.   The pieces were soft. Too soft, actually; the paper towel was sticking to them. Heero brought the plate over to the toaster before attempting to peel it off.
Trowa had been keeping the toaster on the counter running along the dividing wall. So Heero had an excellent view of the couch while he carefully removed the towel from the bread. Trowa was sleeping, as far as he could tell, or at least he was doing an excellent impression of it. His chest was rising and falling at the exact rate Heero would expect for an ill, sleeping person, and there was a calm slackness to his mouth. Every so often, he would shift and the hand on his stomach would tense, but Trowa never attempted to get up or move. Best of all, he hadn’t tried to take off the towel. Heero had been sure that was the first thing he would try once Trowa realized he had been temporarily relieved of them.
With Trowa asleep, though (or faking it beautifully), Heero had the opportunity to survey the damage. He had been avoiding it, which was unlike him, but he just didn’t want to, which was also unlike him. Trowa tended to cause those kinds of reactions, though. When Trowa was awake, it was easy for Heero to ignore what had happened to him. There were other immediate (and unemotional) concerns he could dedicate his focus to. Now that Trowa was resting and the others had dispersed and there was nothing more pressing than the toaster, Heero couldn’t stop himself from focusing in.
Trowa was thin. He had always been thin, of course, but the bones of his hands had never pushed quite so hard against his skin before. The cut of his jaw and the angle of his cheek bones were sharper too. And Trowa was pale. Not the pale Heero was used to: a few shades darker than Quatre but quite a bit lighter than Duo. Trowa looked almost gray, except for his eyes. His eyes were blue and purple and disturbingly sunken. And then there was the hair. The black might have suited Trowa when he was well. When he was sick, it just made him corpse like. Honestly, Heero wished he had cut his hair or even shaved his head.
Heero was just noting how badly Trowa’s clothes fit him—exactly how much weight had he lost, and over how long—when a particularly burning smell caught his attention. The toaster popped. One of the mostly charred pieces jumped too high and tumbled over the side. Behind him, Quatre made a noise. It took Heero several seconds to realize it was almost a laugh.
“Maybe I should have mentioned to check the settings,” Quatre said, his tone lighter than it had been in weeks.
“Maybe you should have,” Heero agreed, letting a smile drift into the words. “We’re all kind of helpless in the kitchen compared to you.”
Quatre smiled. “We can scrape most of it off.”
Once Heero had started the second two slices, and adjusted the settings, he followed Quatre over to the refrigerator. Quatre had apparently decided to tackle the refrigerator while the water boiled. He had the kitchen trashcan propping open the door. Heero wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant sourness coming from it. The shelves weren’t exactly bare but they still looked unused. Heero glanced into the trashcan as Quatre rummaged around a drawer. Quatre had tossed quite a few things, and there was still plenty left in the refrigerator.
Quatre came back with a knife, and then Heero started adding charred toast-topping to the pile.
Wufei came into the kitchen when Heero started on the back side of the first piece. His eyebrows raised.
“Toaster’s broken?”
“Toaster’s fine, as long as the settings are right,” Heero answered. “The settings weren’t right.”
“Clearly,” he said. From the stove, the kettle let out a low whistle. Quatre sighed and rocked back onto his heels. Wufei shook his head. He walked around them and set the kettle on one of the back burners.
“Cups are in the cabinet on the left,” Quatre called.
“Is there a reason,” Wufei asked as he looked through the cabinet, “why you’re throwing out perfectly acceptable tupperware?”
“Would you like to try to clean the mold out?”
Wufei grimaced. “No.”
“Well, neither do I,” Quatre said, dumping the armful he had in the trash. “We’ll buy more later.” He glared down at the trash can. It was more than half full. “This needs to get tossed before it stinks up the place or attracts anything.”
Heero nodded once and moved onto the second slice of burnt toast. “There should be a dumpster or cage around somewhere.”
“Probably around back,” Wufei agreed. “Tea?”
“Cabinet left of the sink,” Quatre said. “At least he has that.”
“And not much else. Your toast is done.”
“We can run it downstairs once he’s eaten, and you’ve finished with the fridge.”
Quatre sighed. “Might be two trips. I haven’t even touched the vegetable drawer or the freezer.”
“Then it takes two trips,” Heero said, shrugging and scraping off the last of the burn. He took the two scraped pieces back to the toaster, left them on the plate, and went to the sink to wash his hands. Trowa probably wouldn’t appreciate char-flakes on his food.
“So tea and toast,” Wufei said as he set the steeping tea near the plate. He plucked the two pieces from the toaster and put them on the plate. “That’ll do, for the moment.”
“I’ll start some clear stock once Duo gets back,” Quatre said.
Heero wasn’t sure Trowa would be able to stomach either of them at the moment. Still, he followed Wufei out of the kitchen with the toast. Wufei set the tea on the end table before sitting carefully on the edge of the couch. He laid his hand over Trowa’s, and then shook it when Trowa didn’t move at all.
“Wake up for a minute.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Trowa said, after several seconds. There was a distinct heaviness to Trowa’s voice and it made Wufei’s lips twitch towards a smile.
“Of course you weren’t. Can you sit up?”
“Why?”
“You know, I was kind of hoping you would be less irritating now, being sick and all. "
“I’m not irritating.”
“That remains to be seen. Sit up.”
“Why?”
“Clearly, I was wrong,” Wufei said, glancing at Heero with a sigh. Heero shook his head. He set the plate down next to the tea and walked to the couch arm. He leaned over, slid his hands under Trowa’s shoulders, and carefully started to push him up. The noise Trowa made would have been amusing in other circumstances.
“Come on, sit up for a minute,” he said. Trowa twisted, nearly dumping himself forward off the couch. Wufei caught his shoulders and steadied him.
“Get off.”
“In a second,” Wufei said as he and Heero moved Trowa until his back was supported somewhat by the couch arm. When he was satisfied, Wufei reached around Trowa. Heero passed him the plate before sitting on the arm. Wufei set the plate in Trowa’s lap.
“Here.”
Trowa swallowed. “No.”
“You need to eat something. I don’t want you taking anything on an empty stomach.” Trowa frowned at him. “It could mess with your stomach pretty badly, and believe me, that’s worse.”
Trowa gave Wufei a look that clearly disagreed.
“One piece at least,” Heero said, picking up the tea and holding it between his hands. The movement caught Trowa’s attention. He looked at the tea, his eyes focusing on it for a moment and his face almost regaining a touch of color. Heero almost smiled. That was something, at least. Sighing, Trowa looked at the plate. He picked up the top piece with two fingers and held it for half a minute before trying to break off the corner.   When Trowa had finished off all four corners, Heero offered him the tea. Trowa took a long, slow sip of it and passed it back.
Trowa managed to get through almost two pieces. He ate slowly, ripping off small pieces and chewing them with unusual care before swallowing hard. A sip of tea every now and then, though, seemed to keep him going. Halfway through his first piece, Wufei had reached down and picked the wet towel off the floor. He gave it a squeeze, frowned, and took it to the kitchen. Heero hadn’t paid much attention to him after that, except to notice that the water in the sink never actually ran. Quatre might have grabbed him for a moment. He might have been checking the water in the kettle. Trowa had drank more than half. He was going to need more.
Trowa stopped eating during his second piece. His pace had slowed considerably, and although he accepted the tea when Heero pushed it on him, Trowa took smaller and smaller sips. Finally, Trowa just pushed it back. He swallowed hard and repeatedly, one hand at his throat. His other hand covered his mouth.
Heero cursed. “Wufei!”
Wufei must have looked first because he came back with the kitchen trashcan. Heero got the plate and the mug out of the way before Trowa pitched forward. He lunged after him, wrapping his arms around Trowa’s chest. His stomach clamped hard beneath Heero’s arm. Wufei grabbed Trowa’s shoulders and turned him. Trowa’s head was practically in the trashcan when he started retching.
Trowa spent an unnerving amount of time with his head in the trash—either because he was that ill or the rotten food was pungent enough to maintain the reaction. Wufei held the bottom of the trashcan, not trusting Trowa’s tight but quivering grip. Heero shifted his grip, moving his arm down towards Trowa’s hips. It would still keep him up but, hopefully, it would be a little easier on his stomach.
Soon (but not soon enough) the gagging stopped. Trowa panted for a few seconds, clutching at the edges. His fingers flexed once before he tried to push himself up. The trashcan wobbled. Heero put a hand on Trowa’s shoulders and helped pull him up.
“Just one piece next time,” Wufei said slowly.
Trowa sank back against Heero, panting and shivering. He sat there for several seconds as he shakily pulled hair from his cheek and mouth. He didn’t seem to mind when Heero’s arm tightened around his waist or his fingers moved slightly along Trowa’s heaving side. Then Trowa’s fingers found a very wet chunk of bread. He grimaced as he plucked it from his hair.
Heero hadn’t even thought to pull Trowa’s hair back.
“Come on,” he said, moving carefully out from behind Trowa.
“Come on where,” Trowa asked, his voice low and rough and wet.
“Bathroom,” he said. Heero grabbed Trowa’s bicep. Trowa tried to twist out of his grip.
“I’m fine.”
“You should at least brush your teeth,” Heero said. “Can you take that out, Wufei?”
“Sure. Quatre, can you find the trash bags?”
Quatre had followed Wufei when he rushed out of the kitchen with the trashcan. He must have stumbled to a stop at the end of the kitchen; he was still leaning against the wall, watching with an odd look on his face. At the question, though, he jolted.
“Hang on,” he said before darting back into the kitchen. Heero shook his head once and returned his attention to Trowa. He had gotten Trowa under both arms and was trying to help him stand. Trowa twisted and pulled every second.
“Get off, Heero,” he growled. “I can walk.”
“Fine, then do it,” Heero growled back. He let go.
Trowa fell back onto the couch with an undignified gasp. His face turned a sudden, sharp white. Heero worried for a moment that he had set Trowa’s stomach off again; the fall wasn’t very far and the landing wasn’t very hard but Trowa was clearly very sensitive at the moment. Trowa swallowed once, twice, and then his fingers loosened from the grip they had on the couch. Trowa’s mouth worked into something closer to its usual line. He lifted his chin and shifted before starting to push himself off the couch.
Trowa would do it. He would stand on his own two feet out a pure stubbornness, and then he would take a step and probably fall face-first into the trash. If Heero let him.
Heero waited until Trowa realized that outcome for himself before grabbing his arm. He pulled Trowa straight as he teetered forward.
“Point proven,” Heero said as he drew Trowa’s arm over his shoulders. “Come on.”
Trowa didn’t struggle or argue, although he kept up a frown that clearly said he still though he could make it on his own. Even so, Heero struggled with getting him to the bathroom. Trowa wasn’t the tallest anymore—Duo had finally beaten him—but he still had more than an inch or two on Heero. Worse, Trowa’s legs were hardly stable. Trowa’s weight lay awkward and unbalanced over Heero’s shoulders; he was glad the walk was short.
Heero had a few options once they reached the bathroom, although he liked none of them. He didn’t quite trust Trowa to be able to stay up on the toilet; the narrow ledge of the tub was completely out of the question. He could put Trowa in the tub. It would be appropriate, considering he needed to get Trowa cleaned up. Trowa’s clothes would be a problem, though. They would need to come off, or they would get soaked and then need to come off. Trowa probably wouldn’t like that.
When they got into the bathroom, Heero did a quick comparison of the size of the trashcan and the height of the tub walls and decided Trowa could sit on it, as long as Heero stayed within reach. The edge of the tub would be fine for him. Heero sat Trowa on the floor, letting Trowa grab the edge of the tub and lower himself (although it was more of a drop) the rest of the way. He went over to the toilet and got the trashcan that was tucked between it and the wall. It was metal, rather tarnished, but sturdy and empty. Heero turned back with it.
Trowa was watching him, which wasn’t particularly surprised. He was more slumped than sitting against the tub, which wasn’t surprising at all. His knees were raised, though, and one pale hand was clutching at the neck of his shirt. Trowa’s breath came out in slow, trembling bursts.
No, Trowa didn’t like the idea of removing his clothes, at all. The fear and distrust on his face were almost painful.
Heero set the trashcan near him. “Can you get yourself on that?” Trowa looked at it before rolling his eyes up to Heero. His hand didn’t loosen from his shirt.
“Heero.”
“I can get you on it, but I thought I should ask,” Heero said. He turned to inspect the shower head. “Just don’t tip it over.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
Heero looked down at him, frowning. “Of course I do,” he said slowly. Trowa held his gaze for a second before turning away and shifting his shoulders against the tub.
“That was different,” he said finally. “You almost died.”
Yes, Heero decided once he realized what Trowa was referring to, that had been different. He had barely been able to move, then, all those years ago, and Trowa hadn’t dared to move him anymore than necessary. So Trowa had done everything with the utmost care. He changed the linens and bandages without complaint. He cleaned any exposed skin with warm water and a mild soap and a clean, sturdy rag. He had figured out—when Heero’s back was strong enough to take it—how to wash Heero’s hair with a chair, a bowl of water, and a pitcher.
And when he woke and before he slept, Trowa had worked his body. His long, cool fingers had run over Heero’s skin with a quiet certainty, rubbing muscles and working joints to prevent sores, stiffness, and atrophy. He never asked if Heero minded, and he never missed a session, even after a show or a long day training and working on the circus grounds. Sometimes Trowa had talked as he worked on Heero, and sometimes he hadn’t, but there was always a sense of care in the push and pull of his fingers. And Heero had never known what that meant. He never asked because the chance that it meant nothing—that the care was clinical, the cool closeness of someone looking after a valuable asset and not an individual—was too great. Even when Trowa was just someone Heero owed his life to, he didn’t dare ask.
Because the memory of that intimacy was warm and sweet, and so little had been warm then.
So, yes. It was different, and not just because their roles were reversed and Trowa hadn’t tried to kill himself spectacularly (which was debatable). There was time between them now. Memories. There was the war. There was the awful moment when Trowa turned on him and Heero thought it was real. There was the bittersweet relief when Trowa turned up on the colonies after Vayeate, remembering none of them. There was Mariemaia and the last stand in Brussels and the bright flash that ended their time as pilots. There was the difficult adjustment to civilian life, and the less-difficult adjustment to working in law enforcement.
There was Trowa moving in and the two weeks that he hadn’t had a bed because of the worst kind of miscommunication. There were months of breakfasts and dinners and weekends at home and away. There was the constantly choking engine and the week Heero and Trowa would spend taking it apart.
There was Trowa.
There was certainty.
“Yes, and no,” Heero said finally, letting his hand drop to his side. He perched carefully on the edge of the tub. “It depends on which part you’re referring to.”
Trowa was easier to read when he was sick and most of his usual defenses were down. The look he gave Heero, though, was too new or too complicated for him to pick apart. There was an odd, uncomfortable stiffness to Trowa’s face, as if he was thinking too hard about something too difficult. Brow furrowed, Trowa opened his mouth. He paused. After a second, his mouth closed. Trowa waited a few seconds and tried again. His mouth shut even sooner. Something in his expression loosened; whether it was with ease or realization or resignation, Heero wasn’t sure. Trowa let out a low, long sigh.
“I don’t think I can do it,” he muttered finally.
“That’s okay. I’ll help you.”
Trowa raised his eyes. They were narrowed and the most focused they had been since he had woken up. The dull green moved slowly over Heero’s face, lingering for several seconds in one place (his lips, his cheeks, his eyes) before moving on. Trowa’s mouth flattened, pursed, and smoothed out into a thoughtful line. He lifted a hand.
Heero took it; Trowa’s hand was cold. Heero gave the thin, shaking fingers a soft squeeze. Trowa made a noise and wriggled his fingers. Heero, tilting his head, loosened his grip. He frowned as Trowa’s fingers inched towards his wrist and held on loosely. Then Trowa’s shoulders shifted. His grip on Heero’s arm tightened as his feet slid across the floor. Heero slid closer and wrapped an arm around Trowa’s back.
Between the two of them, Trowa managed to get to his feet and stay there for a few seconds. He held on awkwardly as Heero moved and righted the trashcan with his foot: one hand clutching Heero’s wrist, one arm slung over Heero’s shoulders, and most of his weight pressed back into Heero’s arm. Both of them sighed gratefully when Heero helped Trowa onto the upturned trashcan.
Heero moved Trowa’s hands up onto the edge of the tub. “Lean back and hold on.”
The shower head was detachable, so Trowa didn’t have to lean too far back. He still grimaced, although whether it was from the position or the situation, Heero didn’t know. After a few minutes of the warm, gentle pressure though, Trowa closed his eyes. Heero smiled a bit and moved the shower head along his scalp.
“Beats the bowl and the chair, doesn’t it,” Heero asked eventually. He ran his fingers through Trowa’s wet, warm hair, loosening knots and combing out bile and chunks of food.
Trowa snorted and squirmed. “Speak for yourself,” he muttered. Trowa breathed a sigh as Heero’s nails ran along his scalp. He turned his head slightly.
“At least I can’t pull the tub out from under you.”
Trowa’s eyes opened slightly. “I did not pull the chair out from under you.”
“No, you kicked it.”
“My foot slipped.”
Heero smiled and shook his head. He reached for the shampoo nestled in the corner near the wall, leaving the shower head in the tub. The shampoo was unfamiliar. Heero wrinkled his nose at the smell.
When he rinse the soap from Trowa’s hair, the water left soft, gray streaks down the tub wall and around the drain.
A/n: We're reaching the end, slowly but surely. A few more chapters, five or so, if everything goes according to plan. It is very odd to think about, actually, but I'm looking forward to finishing.
As always, I remain your storyteller--and hopefully one that's not so flightly in the future.
~*~Ladyyeinkhan~*~
You can find story updates and other random and fandom related information at ahsimwithsake.tumblr.com
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The Chains We Wear