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

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
A Stagnation of Love

Chapter 2

Part 3
　

I went through the rest of my school day waiting for an anvil to fall on my head. When we went to our lockers to pick up all the things we would need to do our homework that night, I stayed as close to Quatre as I physically could. Every time I heard a locker door slam, someone laugh, or something drop, I flinched like a soldier with shell shock syndrome. And every second that something didn't happen, I felt worse. The worst moment, however, was when Quatre and I had to separate for our last class. At that point, I was more scared for him than myself. Relena and Zechs had barely messed with all day since they had been so focused on me, besides destroying his stuff and what Relena had done in our history class, but it still worried me having him out of my sight. It didn't really matter, there was nothing I could do to protect him, but I was still young then and had this stupid hope that being there with him mattered.

My last class was, unfortunately, math. I was spared Relena for that block, but not Zechs. He should have been taking the 8th grader mathematics course, but he had nearly failed math the previous year, so they had stuck him in the same class with us, and he was actually doing worse than me, which is saying something. I don't know if Zechs actually sucks at math or not. He was one of those kids Mrs. Kline had mentioned, someone who just didn't care about his grades. Usually he just barely skirted by, enough to graduate that year, but the older he got, the less that was true.

I had been waiting eagerly for our sixth year to be over so that we could advance to the seventh grade and Zechs to the ninth. That meant that we would have two whole years of peace from him as he went to the high school, but he robbed that from us. That year, Zechs would fail three of his classes and his parents would be called in to talk to his teachers. Normally, failing more than two of your classes meant you were immediately held back, otherwise you were forced to take summer classes, but Zechs was a Dorlian. No one wanted to piss off his wealthy and powerful parents and I think that one of the big reasons why Zechs had slacked off that year was because he thought he was untouchable.

Ironically, it was his own parents that Zechs hadn't accounted for. I could never blame them for how Zechs turned out, they were actually upstanding people that wanted the best for their kids. I mean, actually wanted the best, not just what a lot of parents thought was the best, catering to them and letting them get away with anything. When they had heard that Zechs had failed so many classes, and the principal had meekly suggested he go into remedial classes or do summer schooling, his father had put his foot down. According to the school gossip, which giving the circumstances I don't think is a lie, he had told the principal that Zechs was to retake the eighth grade until he got it right and learned how to play by the rules.

It sounds like a great story, the school bully finally getting what was coming to him, but as much as I could respect his parents for making that decision, all it did was hurt us underclassmen. We had been cheated out of one whole year of freedom. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought that Zechs had done it on purpose.

For me, Math was usually hell, but that period it was a thousand times worse. I was completely distracted trying to keep an eye on Zechs that I kept getting yelled at by our teacher for 'spacing out'. I was so sure that the older boy would do something horrible to me in the time that we were trapped in the same room with each other, and the fact that he never did made me more and more on edge. When the bell finally ran, I bolted from my seat and almost ran out of the room. I wasn't going to give him a chance to corner me. I walked as quickly as I could to find Quatre and get to the gymnasium as I could. I don't know why, how I could have been so stupid to think that neither Relena nor Zechs would try something in swim class, but I apparently was. I had thought that if I could at least get to the swimming pool without them catching us on the way there, it would be fine.

Swim class had become mandatory for grades four through six about eight years ago when a boy had drowned at the town pool. He hadn't known how to swim, he had just fallen into the pool and sank like a stone. Even though most of the people in Nausten know how to swim because for a lot of us, our local beach is the only way to keep cool in the summer, the town kind of freaked out over it and decided that ALL of the kids would learn how to swim. Only, instead of introducing the program to the younger kids, they decided that fourth grade was the best time to start for some reason. Starting in the spring, we had swim class after school every Tuesday for four weeks. My dad had griped about having to sign off on it because it took me away from work for an hour and I had known how to swim since I was eight years old.

I hated swim class because it didn't even get me away from Relena or Zechs for an hour. Relena obviously had to take the same class that we did and their parents had volunteered Zechs as a lifeguard's assistant for the class. I think they had hoped it might look good for him to do that or teach him some valuable lesson, hell if I know. All it did was make him more miserable to be around since he was stuck with us underclassmen instead of hanging out with the rest of his friends. All he did was the same thing he did at school, torment us or ignore us entirely. I'm sure if one of us did start to drown, he wouldn't give a shit.

We had to walk to the local pool for our lessons, which wasn't that bad since it was just a ten minute walk from school, but since I was on red alert for any signs of Relena and Zechs, it felt like the longest walk in my life. I didn't feel much better in the boys' locker room, rushing to put on my swim trunks and take the shower we were required to take before we got into the water. Three showers seemed so gratuitous to me, but whatever, a hot shower was a hot shower. Zechs ignored me in the locker room, too, he didn't even glare at me or glance my way, but I didn't dare to think that my luck was changing.

The first half of our class our teacher and lifeguard, which of course was Mr. Strum who couldn't bare to let anyone muscle in on his athletics territory, had us go through laps. Every class we had, we got taught a different technique. Last week was freestyle, this week was the butterfly stroke. I hadn't minded swim class in the fourth grade when it had all been techniques to not drown, but the more we took these classes the more I was under the suspicion that our teacher was just looking for volunteers to join the town's ever dwindling swim team. I liked the butterfly stroke a lot better than the back stroke when had learned our first week here this year. I hated that feeling of not knowing where I was going or if there was anything under me.

The last half of our classes was always free swim. Quatre and I usually kept to one corner of the pool, just floating and talking while Mr. Strum occasionally snapped at us and everyone else that wasn't taking that time to do laps. We all just ignored him anyway. Once free swim started, Quatre and floated over to that corner and for a few minutes, we were left alone. It was the best I had felt all day. Then, Quatre glanced over my shoulder and paled. I felt my heart sink. Was it too much to hope that I would be left alone for an entire hour?

"Beat it, Winner, fag and I need to have a little chat," Zechs said from behind me.

Quatre flashed me a look and for a horrified moment I thought he would actually disobey Zechs. Quatre had told me not to fight back and because I hadn't, this was happening, and now he was thinking about going back on his own good advice, for what? It irritated me. I wanted to yell at him to pick his priorities, either stay out of it or help, stop being so wishy washy about it, but I knew that that rage wasn't directed at him and that to say something like that would be unfair. He wanted to help, I knew that, the same way I always did when I saw him being bullied. We were both helpless, I was just too stupid to accept it. Quatre always was the smart one.

"Go, Quatre," I snapped at him and felt better when he did.

That made Zechs chuckle.

"At least someone here has brains," he jeered, "or maybe you don't. I thought we had an understanding here, Maxwell, and yet my sister tells me you've been a real pain in the ass. You make her feel unwanted, then you dump dirty water all over her. That wasn't very gentlemanly."

I dared to glance over at his sister. She was on the other side of the pool, watching us intently but not moving towards us. She was going to stay out of it, and just watched with that superior expression.

"You going to apologize, faggot," he asked with a bitingly cold tone, "or am I going to have to teach you another lesson about what happens to trash like you that think they're better than the rest of us?"

I stayed silent, just looking at him. I had apologized for hurting his sister because I had actually been sorry. I knew that I should apologize for this, too, because Zechs was going to beat the shit out of me if I didn't, but I didn't feel sorry. Relena had deserved it and no matter how much I tried to force the words from my lips, I just couldn't muster an apology for some reason. Zechs didn't give me a choice. He grabbed my hair in the same exact spot he had this morning and twisted it again, sending familiar pain shooting through my scalp.

More than pain, I felt weariness. I was tired of all of this, the bullying, the pain, the violence, and seeing my best friend, the most wonderful person I had ever met, cowed by this boy. I just wanted to go home and go to sleep and forget all of this. Zechs gave my hair another sharp tug.

"Well?" he snarled at me.

I was aware that some of the other kids were staring at us, but most purposefully weren't.

"I'm sorry," I finally gasped out, "I'm sorry."

He let go of my hair and I winced, my eyes watering.

"That's better," he said coldly, "but we really need to do something about that attitude of yours. I don't really believe you are sorry, even if you say so," suddenly his entire expression brightened and that was worse somehow, "I know! Let's play a little game. The longer you can hold your breath, the more I'll believe you're not lying to me. If you can hold it a really, really long time, I'll be sure you're sincere and we won't have a problem. Yeah, let's try that."

I tried to back away from him, dread settling in my gut, but he still had a strong grip on my hair. I barely had the time to take a deep breath before he shoved my head under the water. The water we were standing in wasn't deep, but he was incredibly strong, too strong for me to simply stand up and escape the water. I flailed in his grip, my fingers scratching desperately at the side of the pool for purchase, but it was useless.

As my head was submerged in the water and I felt every frightened instinct to take a gasp of air that wasn't there, I flashed back to my first day in the fourth grade. Relena holding my head down in that urinal... unable to breathe, unable to do anything but what she wanted me to do. I hadn't felt this helpless since then and the realization that I had to put my entire life in the hands of a boy who didn't just hate me, but enjoyed hurting me, was terrifying. I cried in the water and scratched at his hand, but he didn't let go of my head. In his hands, I was nothing. I was less than nothing, and if I survived this, it would be because of a whim.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes. My lungs burned and my chest ached. Worse, I felt dizzy and lightheaded and it was getting harder to remember where I was and why I couldn't breathe. Every try to hold your breath for a long time? Your brain knows it needs oxygen, it's all you can think about. Trying not to breathe in that water was the hardest thing I had ever had to do. I remember thinking 'I'm going to die', just like I had when I was nine. Only this time it really was my fault. What had I been thinking? Fighting back against these two... and in such petty ways. What was the point of it? They would win. In the end they would always win. And just like that, what little fight I had left in me vanished. It died in the way that especially powerful dreams did when you finally realized they would never come true, it went clawing and screaming, the scars it made angry and bitter. As I started to see grey, all I could feel was rage. Rage against my father and Relena and Zechs for always winning. Rage against my mother and my teachers for not caring or being outright blind. Rage against Quatre for never fighting back, for just taking it like I had been stupid to do. But most of all, I felt rage against myself for being so weak.

I finally took a breath and sucked in a huge mouthful of water. I don't know if I really had given up in that moment, if I had just not cared if I had drowned or not, or if I had just lost control over myself for a moment, but when I breathed water instead of air, my entire body panicked. My feet lashed out and met with the bottom of the pool and I suddenly found my head above water. Zechs had let me go. At some point, Zechs had stopped holding my head down and I hadn't even realized. And he had let me. He would have let me drown.

My hands found the edge of the pool and I weakly pulled myself up. I gasped for breath and violently threw up water over and over. Each breath I took after that felt like I was breathing in fire instead of air. I had no strength left and started to sink back down into the water when someone wrapped their arms around me and kept me above the water.

"Duo," I heard Quatre whisper and rest his forehead against mine.

It was the most wonderful thing in the world, his skin against mine, his arms holding me as I shook, my body starting to realize that it really could breathe again. My best friend's blue-green eyes were red from crying. I glanced over at Mr. Strum and for a brief second, I caught his gaze. I wish I hadn't. He just as quickly looked away and began yelling at two girls that were splashing at each other. He had seen. They had all seen. And no one had done anything to stop him. For the first time that day, I let myself cry freely. It didn't matter. No one could tell the difference between my tears and the pool water.
*****
Quatre and I didn't go out to dinner. Looking back now, I really wish that we had, and not just because it would be another pleasant memory of him before he left my life a year later, but because I think I really had needed it and it would have prevented everything that happened that late afternoon. But we didn't. I was tired and depressed and, above all else, angry, and having a nice dinner was far from my mind. Almost drowning to death had robbed me of my appetite anyway. We didn't talk about it, any of it, not even the drowning. I was ok with that and I was grateful that he didn't ask me if I was ok. It would have been a stupid question.

I felt dejected and furious about everything. It was all I could do to not fall apart as I walked Quatre back to his house. He hugged me and said that he would see me tomorrow. I hugged him back, probably a bit too tightly. I didn't even feel happy that my school day was over, I just felt incredibly upset. I guess at that point I could have gone to the town park on my way home and just stayed there, maybe punched a tree or threw rocks in the pond until it was late enough to go home. I didn't forget that my parents thought I was at work, I just hadn't cared at that point. I guess I couldn't even call this day a bad one, or that I had zero luck. It was more like that day had been a string of shittier and shittier choices that I had made. Going home angry had been the worst one, even worse than standing up to Zechs.

If I had made a worse mistake than that, it had been walking into the house brooding the way I was after seeing my dad's car out front. I didn't even care about that, either. He came home early sometimes and I certainly hadn't expected him to be there now, but it was all over my head. All I kept thinking about was my anger, not even about the worst things, but the rage I felt over the little things, too, like my grades in history. Was this how my dad feels all the time? It was not a good feeling.

He was sitting at our kitchen table, flipping through what I assumed were bills. I didn't say hi to him. I was going to make a beeline for the fridge and see what we had left. We needed to get groceries, but we didn't have a lot of money right now. Dad's car had broken down a couple weeks ago and it had taken a hefty amount to fix, but it had been necessary. Every cent we had left that wasn't going to go to bills this month would have to go to food. I was supposed to go shopping tomorrow since I didn't have work. My parents were even out of alcohol, which was a lot more telling of our financial situation than us being out of food.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" he growled at me, not even really paying attention.

I was about to tell him the unfortunate truth, even knowing he would get pissy at me for it, when I saw the beer can in his hand. I froze, a nasty suspicion rising in my head. I strode over to the counter, each step bringing a new swell of anger in me as I tried to remember if Dad had saved a can or hid it some where, but I knew that he hadn't. My father was not the sort of man that would save alcohol for later. Which meant that the can was new.

I looked in the jar we had on the counter where my mother would drop her tips after she came home. Right now those tips and what little my dad had left in his checking account was our grocery money. Sure enough, money was missing from the jar, money that had already been light.

"I'm talking to you!" he snarled at me, rising from his chair and I just couldn't muster up the strength to care or even be afraid that he was probably preparing to unload on me.

I could hear the tension in his voice, and given that he had been going through bills, he was already probably in a mood. And I couldn't care. I threw open the fridge and my hands curled into fists. There on the first shelf was a case of beer and a couple bottles of vodka and that was pretty much all we had in there beyond a couple of chinese food boxes that were a week past being eatable, a bottle of water, a bottle of ketchup and a bottle of mustard, and the remnants of the pizza Dad had brought home from work three days ago. I slammed the refrigerator door shut and I felt this tidal wave of anger like I had never felt before hit me.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" I yelled at him, "We needed that money to get food and you bought fucking beer with it?! Are you a moron?! Now we're going to run out of food before you or mom gets paid again just so you can get drunk!"

I think at this point, deep in my head, there was a red warning light going off, telling me just how deeply I had fucked up. I heard Quatre's voice in my head asking me what I was doing and I don't know. I don't know why I snapped at that moment, if it was just the straw that had broke my back, or if I had been so depressed I had wanted my father to strike me. If that had been the case, I should have just lied and said I skipped work or dropped a dish on the floor. Even when I saw my father grab an empty vodka bottle from our recycling bin by the fridge, I didn't run and just by the amount of rage that was in my father's face, I should have.

He struck me with it across my face. It made a dull 'thwack' sound as it hit me and by some miracle, it didn't break on my cheek.

"Who the fuck do you think you are that you can talk to your father that way?!" he roared at me and hit me with it again, this time on my back, between my shoulders.

This time the bottle did break and I felt glass puncture my skin. I cried out in shock and fell to the floor more from surprise at the pure power behind the blow than from the pain itself.

"I work for my money, you pathetic little shit, and if I want to buy some fucking beer so I can have a goddamn drink when I come home, how is that any of your business?!" my father punctuated almost every word with another hit from the bottle.

I could feel the shards to glass dig into my skin with every strike. My arms, my shoulders, a few even buried themselves into my side. Blood soaked my shirt. It wasn't as bad as getting cut by a sharp knife or stabbed, but it stung like nothing else and the cuts were numerous. Still, I did nothing to defend myself, even as I cried from the attack. By the time he stopped and threw the bottle, or what was left of it, down in front of me, I was nearly laying on the floor, blood smeared over my arms and shirt, a small puddle of it on the floor.

"Clean that up and you can walk yourself to the damn clinic," he snarled as he tossed his empty can of beer into the recycling box and picked out another from the fridge, then strode into the living room to watch some television.

My body shook as I crouched there on the kitchen floor surrounded by blood and shards of glass, but it wasn't from pain. I could feel tears streaming down my face and before I could stop it, I was sobbing. I don't know how long it took for it to stop, but it felt like a long time. I started to stand up and gasped in pain as the shards that were embedded in my skin grated and dug themselves further in. I felt like I was going to throw up. I rubbed at my wet cheeks and only managed to smear blood over them. I sat there, lost as to what I was going to do. I probably would have stayed there for a long time, maybe until I passed out, if there hadn't been glass all over the floor.

Without standing, I grabbed the trash barrel near where I had fallen and began picking up the shards, one at a time, and throwing them in the barrel. I told myself that I was doing this way because it just hurt too much to stand up and find the broom and dust pan, but that was a lie. I did it because I deserved it. Every one of those shards, I had deserved to be dug under my skin, to make me bleed. I had deserved every hit, ever screamed word, and I wanted to hurt myself more. And if one of those shards cut my fingers, I deserved that, too. You can call it feeling sorry for myself if you want, and that's close to the truth. The depression I felt was like a cloak made of iron draped over me. All I could was cry and think about how it was all my fault to begin with. I felt pathetic.

Eventually I picked myself off the floor and cleaned up the blood with our mop and some kitchen tiles. I probably hadn't done a very good job of it, but it was hard just standing. I put my back pack in my bedroom and took out my health insurance card. As I did I realized I didn't have a dime to spend on the co-pay and hoped that they wouldn't turn me away. I was covered in blood and glass, they really couldn't refuse to help me, could they? It was that or try to pick all the class out of me myself and the mere thought of that almost had me heave. I certainly didn't have enough money for the bus, either, and I didn't even think they would let me on bleeding the way I was. I nearly collapsed again, just out of the hopelessness of it. I didn't even stop to ask myself why I wasn't angry at my father for doing that to me. I think that after everything that had happened that day, I was numb.

The pain was getting worse as my shock started to ease off, but I didn't feel any hurry to leave. I wasn't looking forward to the long walk to the clinic. I could go to the free clinic that was near where I lived, but even in my condition they wouldn't see me right away and I just didn't want to go through with that. I'd have to go to the hospital in the town center, the walk would be longer but I'd get better service and they might let me stay there awhile instead of kicking me out for the room. I took the time to put on a jacket. It wasn't cold out, but I didn't want people to see my blood stained clothes. I couldn't do anything about my jeans, but my shirt was the worst. Priorities, right?

I didn't see either of my parents as I left the house and began my long journey. Everything flowed right over my head, other people on the street, my pain, even my tears. What pride I had seemed gone for good. At that point, I was fully expecting to be hit by a car or something. No one really stopped me on the street to ask me if I was ok. It was almost six and everyone else but me was more concerned with leaving work to go home and get dinner. My concerns about our grocery money were a mile away.

I got halfway to the hospital when the pain finally started to get to me and I had to sit down. I found this nice bench outside a video store to sit on and almost blacked out right there. I looked down at my hands. There were a few cuts on them, none of them serious, and they weren't bleeding very badly anymore. None of the blood had seeped through my jacket yet, which was a good sign, but I was more worried about the glass in me. I think I must have dozed off a little, because I just remember blinking and seeing Quatre suddenly in front of me, like I had summoned him telepathically in my moment of need. He looked absolutely horrified as he took in what damage he could see. I was incredibly glad that I had put my jacket on. He couldn't see the glass.

"Oh my god, Duo, what happened," he said as he kneeled there in the grass, taking my hands in his.

It was then that I realized just how cold my hands were and I remembered the blood smeared across my cheeks.

"I need to go to the hospital," I simply said, feeling myself start to shake again, the feeling of the glass in me now that I was a bit more clear headed was horrible.

"Do you want me to call an ambulance?" Quatre asked, his voice starting to rise with panic.

I shook my head.

"No, but I'm bleeding and I have glass stuck in my skin," I admitted.

I didn't tell him much glass I had embedded in my skin, but he still paled.

"C'mon," he urged, helping me off the bench, "we can catch a bus."

He didn't ask me what happened or just how badly I was hurt, just put a hand against my back and kept me walking.

"Thanks, Quatre," I said meekly, not telling that his hand was on one of my puncture wounds.

"Don't mention it," he said with a half hearted smile.

The bus stop wasn't far from where I had collapsed, thankfully, and I managed to stay awake the rest of the trip. Quite a few people on the bus stared at me and I rubbed at the blood smeared on my cheek self consciously, but at least I didn't have to have Quatre drag me the rest of the way. The bus stopped right at the hospital and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Even if they made me wait awhile, Quatre was with me. I could get past this like I had every other thing life had thrown at me.

When we got to the reception desk to check in, while I was about to flash my insurance card and ask if I needed to go to the emergency room or urgent care or some other place, Quatre flashed his instead.

"Can you please tell Dr. Williams that Quatre Winner is here to see him, it's an emergency," he told the woman at the receptions desk.

She wrote down his name and he lead me away to the elevator.

"I have health insurance," I started to protest.

I didn't bother to tell him that it was pretty shitty health insurance and I couldn't even afford my co-pay right now, but he just shook his head.

"Mr. Williams is our family's doctor. He'll see us right away and be discrete."

"You're going to make your parents pay for it?" I asked incredulously.

"It's fine, Duo," he soothed, "Let me do this for you, ok?"

I sighed in defeat. I was too tired to argue with him and I just wanted this nightmare over with.

"What were you doing out there anyway?" I asked him as we got off at the third floor which read 'family practice' on the directory sheet.

"My parents changed our alarm code," he murmured, blushing, "They forgot to tell me about it, so I couldn't get into my house. I was just wandering around until one of my sisters got home."

As much as I was hurting, as angry and depressed as I was about everything, I ached for him. That one statement said a lot. His parents hadn't forgotten to tell him the pass code. They had forgotten him. If he hadn't been out there, I don't know what would have happened to me. He was always taking care of me and it seemed like I could never do a single thing to help him. I stopped in the middle of the hallway and hugged him tightly. It hurt like hell, but I didn't care right then. He hugged me back and it made me feel a little better.

I didn't volunteer what had happened to me. I didn't see the point. The second Quatre saw my injuries, he would piece together the truth himself and it would only upset him. He wouldn't understand that it was my fault and it wasn't any worse than any other beatings my father had given me, I had had a lot worse. He wouldn't even understand that, if this had happened on any other day, I might have been able to handle it on my own. He would see the glass and the blood and the cuts and he would freak out. We had never talked about my father's abuse, but that had never stopped Quatre from looking sad and upset about the wounds I got.

We walked into another reception area and I looked at the chairs like a dog might look at a steak. I hurt. I can't put it more plainly than that. My body was fully aware, even as I tried to ignore it, that there were things in it that did not belong and I was practically itching to get them out. Since I couldn't do that, the feeling of it was wigging me out, kind of like I was going in and out of shock. Being upright was not what I or my body wanted right then.

"Quatre Winner" my friend told the receptionist who smiled warmly at him.

"Yes, Dr. Williams said you'd be right up," she said, typing on the computer, "he said to go right in to examination room 3. He'll be a little late, though. You're lucky, he was almost on this way out the door."

"Thanks, Gail," Quatre said with a beaming smile and gestured to me.

"Do you come here a lot?" I asked him as we took the door next to the reception desk and walked down the hallway.

Quatre had seemed really friendly with the receptionist, like he knew her well, and he had gotten an appointment with his doctor mere minutes after showing up out of the blue. I knew that Quatre's family was rich, but even this was a bit much.

"Not really," he turned that smile on me, "but the staff here knows my family well. We all go here, including all six of my sisters, one of my uncles works in radiology and my parents donate a lot and throw a lot of charities for this hospital, so we get a lot of personalized service."

I almost shook my head in amazement at that. It must be nice to be loaded and to get care whenever you wanted. If I had gone to urgent care, I would have been waiting for an hour at least, even this late at night. The two of us walked into the third examination room and I sat up on the table in relief. I was so glad that my dad hadn't hit me on my legs. I felt dizzy enough thought that even if he had, I still would have sat down.

I glanced at myself in the reflection of the cabinets that held innumerous medical supplies and realized the reason why people had been starting at me had not been because of the blood on my cheek, which was just a faint smear, but the huge, black bruise that arched over my cheek, missing my eye by mere inches. The bruise from Wren slamming my head against the locker had merged beautifully with the much darker one from my dad striking me with the vodka bottle. My eyes were still a little red from crying and the pepper and I could see the scratch on the opposite side of my face from Relena's nails. I looked like I had been in a truly epic fight, and I guess that I had. Fuck, had all that really happened today? Relena kissing me felt like it had happened a week ago.

"Won't your parents be mad?" I blurted out, "Using your health insurance card for this?"

"Don't worry about it," he assured me, "My parents don't really look at their bills that closely. They just pay whatever amount it says and the same thing goes for their health insurance summaries. It's not something they really worry about. They won't even notice," he paused for a moment.

I almost sighed. It really must be nice. My dad scrutinized every bill like if he studied them for long enough, a number might change. It never did.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Quatre suddenly asked me.

I thought about lying to him to placate his worry, but I nodded.

"A bit," I admitted and I could see that trying not to ask me what had happened was just killing him, but I appreciated his self control.

Someone knocked on the door and Quatre told them to come in. Dr. Williams was a short, middle aged man wearing a typical white coat and carrying a laptop. When the receptionist had said that he would be a little late, I had thought she had meant an hour, not twenty minutes.

"Now, Quatre," he said as he put his laptop down on the counter and opened it to what I presumed was Quatre's medical history, "what's the big emergency?"

"Actually, Doctor," my friend actually managed to sound contrite, "my friend is the one that needs care, not me."

Dr. Williams noticed me for the first time and eyed me suspiciously before regarding Quatre not with anger or frustration, but with just reluctance. I guess he was well aware who signed his paychecks, even if Quatre was just a kid.

"Quatre, you know full well that you can't use-"

"I know, I know," Quatre tried to placate him, "But Duo really needs help and you're the best doctor I know. I'll pay out of pocket if you're worried about my parents."

I stared at him in shock but Dr. Williams sighed and shook his head.

"That won't be necessary," he said and turned back to me," What is the problem?"

I was surprised that he didn't talk down to me as Quatre's obviously broke friend, but his tone was the same as when he had talked to my friend, both casual and respectful. Maybe he figured Quatre would be pissed if he was abrasive with me, or maybe he was one of those rare doctors that actually cared about treating people.

"I- I have some glass... stuck in my skin," I said as I struggled to take off my jacket.

It was a lot harder and more painful trying to get it off than it had been putting it on. My arms felt stiff and my hands, not wanting to cooperate, were still shaky. With a sad look in his eye, Quatre jumped off of his chair to help me, but the second it was off, he turned pale and horrified. Even the doctor seemed put off by my appearance. My arms were nothing but a mess of black bruises, cuts, puncture wounds, and faint smears of blood. There were cuts in the shoulders, back and left side of my t-shirt and I'm sure I was badly bruised those places, too. Honestly, it looked worse than it was. It was the bruises, not the cuts, that were hurting the worst at that point, although the cuts stung like hell. My father had focused on hitting me with the bits of the bottle that had remained intact. If he had been more concerned with hitting with the broken end, I would have gone to the emergency room in an ambulance, but I didn't expect Quatre to accept that argument.

"Oh, god, Duo," he gasped, "why didn't you tell me?"

I couldn't look at those sad, frantic eyes or I knew I would blurt out the truth, so I focused on Dr. Williams instead.

"I was making dinner but I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing," I lamented, "I tripped and fell on our box of recyclables. There were all these glass bottles. I probably could have picked out all the glass myself, but I was scared and my parents weren't home, so I didn't know what to do."

I had seen my dad lie about my injuries a thousand times, but it still shocked me how easily the lie came out of me. I watched as the doctor stared at my cuts, the shards of glass sticking out of me in some places, and the bruise on my face and I knew he didn't believe my story for a second. I knew Quatre sure as hell didn't. But to my vast relief, neither of them voiced the conclusion they had both come to.

"It's just as well that you didn't," Williams said, still looking at my wounds, "You might have hurt yourself further pulling these bigger ones out,"

Clearly deciding to just treat me instead of question me about the incident, Williams bustled about the room, gathering this and that. I watched him with paranoia. Even though I was no stranger to hospitals and doctors visits, I still hated them, especially shots. The doctor put a variety of bandages, cotton swabs, a bottle of some kind of fluid, tongs, scissors, and a petri dish on the tiny table next to where I was sitting. All of it made me nervous.

"Is it going to hurt?" I asked childishly.

"Taking the glass out is going to hurt considerably less than it did going in," Williams promised, "It will hurt a little, but you'll feel much better afterwards. I'd give you a painkiller but it's too wide of an area for a shot. This," he pointed to the bottle of liquid, "I'll put over the wounds after I get the glass out, it's an antiseptic and very mild painkiller."

"Ok," I said, secretly very happy he wasn't going to give me a shot. I'd rather the pain, honestly.

I flinched as he picked up the scissors and he noticed it.

"I need to cut your shirt off to get at your other wounds," he explained.

"But I can just take it off," I started to protest. I didn't know how to say that it was one of my only shirts, and even though it was all cut up now, I could sew it and clean it, without feeling pathetic about it.

"Duo, I will buy you another shirt," Quatre huffed in frustration, looking slightly angry as he looked at the damage on my arms, I knew he was going to be down right furious when he saw the rest of it, "I know it hurt taking your jacket off, it's going to be worse getting your shirt off."

I sighed heavily, but I let the doctor cut my shirt off of me. Just like I had predicted, when Quatre saw the wounds on my back, shoulders, and side, his face twisted in an anger that was totally out of character for him. If either of them had had a single doubt that my story wasn't true, they sure did now. With all the areas that the glass was stuck in, it was more likely that I had rolled in the shattered glass than fallen on it. I felt calm as Quatre's doctor picked up the tongs, but I had to squeeze my eyes shut as he pulled the first shard of glass, one of the big ones in my left arm, out of my flesh.

It did hurt, but it wasn't pain or how much it stung. It was that feeling of it being pulled out of me. It made me feel dizzy, even that 'plink' sound as the shard was dropped into the Petri dish made me want to hurl. And that was just one of the shards. When he plucked another one out of me, I squeezed my eyes shut harder and curled my hands into fists. If I had been alone, I would have cried. I felt all of my anger and fears and anxieties from that entire day boil in me and I hated my father then, truly hated him.

I opened my eyes as I felt Quatre hold my hand. All traces of anger were gone from his face. All I could see there was my friend who loved me and worried about me. I felt a deep love for him and also a deep sadness. I wanted to go to my parents and scream at them, 'is it really so hard?! Would it kill you to sit with me and hold my hand when I'm scared and in pain?! That's all I want, all I need!' But my parents weren't there, just Quatre.

"It's ok, Duo," he soothed, Everything's going to be ok. You can squeeze my hand if you want to, as hard as you need."

I did. A few times I probably squeezed his hand too much, but as small a thing as it was, it actually did help. By the time Dr. Williams got the last, tiny sliver of glass out of me, it was hours later and we were all tired. I was trembling from the experience and half asleep as I leaned against Quatre. The ones in my back had taken the most out of me and I felt incredibly relieved they were gone.

"There, that's the last one," the doctor said and I was amazed when he smiled at me.

I had expected him to be annoyed to be working so late because of someone that wasn't even his patient, but if he was he didn't show it.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Williams," I said earnestly but tiredly.

He chuckled.

"Well, we're not quite done yet," he pointed out, "I still need to get all this blood off of you and dress all these cuts. The worse ones will scar but none of them are deep enough to require stitches at least."

Thankfully, the doctor went quickly getting the blood off, covering my cuts with the antiseptic and bandaging them. The antiseptic burned like nothing else but it was still better than the feeling of the glass being pulled out, shard by shard. I looked like a war victim, especially my arms, but I felt mostly human again and less like a pin cushion full of shrapnel.

"Doctor, I know you don't work at urgent care or the emergency room, but would it be alright if we got a room?" Nate asked, surprising both me and the doctor, "Just for a couple hours. Both of our parents won't be home until late, and I would feel better if Duo laid down for a little while before I walked him back home."

"That's not necessary," I protested, "I can make it back home ok."

"It is necessary," Quatre refuted, his voice still and very adult all of a sudden.

Our eyes met and I flushed a little. He knew my father had done this, and he knew that I was scared to go back home. I had tried my hardest not to let him see that, but somehow he had. Quatre was always so practical, and any practical person would have told me that hiding out in the hospital for an hour wasn't going to matter. I was going to have to go home and face my father eventually. But Quatre was actually going to help me to do just that.

Williams glanced at me and I must have looked like absolute shit because he nodded.

"I'll see if urgent care has any rooms available and get you some samples of antibiotic cream. You're going to need to apply it to your wounds twice a day. I expect you back here if any of them get infected," he lectured me and then bustled out.

"I sure hope you give him a tip or something for this," I muttered.

"Dr. Williams isn't just the family doctor," Quatre confessed with a soft smile, "he's an old family friend. He's also a very kind man. He volunteers at the free clinic a lot, so I don't think he minded that much."

"You're sure you won't get in trouble for this? Or you?" I prodded, suddenly feeling very guilty, "using your health insurance to help someone they've never met. I mean, isn't health insurance fraud illegal or something?"

"It's like I said," Quatre's all too familiar sad smile returned and I regretted bringing it up at all, "my parents won't even notice, like everything else when it comes to me. Even if they do notice that there's another hospital visit on their insurance, I'll just lie about it. They won't pry further and Dr. Williams is smart enough not to mention it. It'll be fine, Duo."

I dropped the subject, not because I accepted his answer but because I knew it was upsetting him. I felt like the worst friend in the world. He had helped me when I had been hurt and had no one to turn to, but I kept reminding him that all he had to go to home to was a quiet house. At last one of his sisters were home by now, but none of them wanted to talk to their baby brother when they had friends, boyfriends, homework and whatever else teenage girls worry about. It was nine at night. His parents should be home, worried sick wondering where their son was, but they were still at work. They didn't even call the house to check up on him. My own family was nothing to look at, and it was what had landed us here, but it still made me sad.

"I'm just glad I was able to help. I really wish you'd let me buy you a cell phone. I could have gotten you to the hospital sooner. Anything could have happened when you were passed out on that park bench! You don't have to do everything on your own all the time, ok?"

It wasn't his intention, but Quatre's kind words were daggers of guilt piercing my heart. It wasn't just that I felt guilty that I had relief so much on Quatre to help me, or that I felt I had taken advantage of his family's wealth even though I hadn't asked him to do any of this. I didn't even feel that guilty knowing that he was right, I had a huge problem relying on other people and even if I had a cell phone, I still wouldn't have called him for help. That I could ask my best friend to help me when I had been hurt and bleeding from more than just physical wounds hadn't occurred to me. I had immediately thought that I would somehow get to the hospital all under my own power.

It was just... what had I ever done to deserve a friend like Quatre? I felt so worthless all the time. I wasn't just a carbon copy kid from the south end, I was worse. Being bullied and being abused had shown me how out of place I was, how all I had to offer anyone was my services as a punching bag and the more I fought against that, the worse things got. I didn't deserve Quatre. He was kind and smart and wealthy. Next to him, I was a bug. Relena and Zechs understood that, so why couldn't he? Why did he like me? Why did he worry about me? Why couldn't he see that he was the one that didn't deserve to be bullied and be the one to fight? What right did I have to try to struggle against my situation when he wouldn't? It just made that bitterness and anger in me, both from my desperate need and inability to protect him, swell up to mammoth proportions.

Dr. Williams returned with the promised ointment and news that there was a bed available, but lectured us not to stay for long or our parents would be worried about that. In my head, I laughed . He was even nice enough to escort us to urgent care after Quatre helped me into my jacket so I wouldn't be walking around the hospital shirtless. As we were ushered into the room, which was just a single bed, we were given privacy although the nurse that showed us the room eyed Quatre and I curiously.

"You can go home, you know," I said to Quatre as I sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around at all the complicated medical equipment, "Your sisters are home by now and it's getting late."

Quatre pointedly closed the door and snorted at what I had said.

"I'm not leaving you here to walk home in the dark. You're probably still woozy anyway," he said and sat down in the chair by the hospital bed.

"I'm fine," I insisted, "I'm just going to sit around for a little bit then go home. You don't need to baby sit me."

"I'm staying," he said in that authoritative way he used every now and then, especially when I was being stubborn, like an adult talking to a child, and then he spoke in a very soft mutter, "I'd much rather stay with you than go home."

I didn't know whether to feel very sad at that confession or very happy.

"Lay down, Duo," he gained that adult voice back, the voice of his father.

"I'm not tired-" I lied.

"Lay down."

I huffed, but did so. There was just no arguing with him when he got this notion that something was good for me, even if I didn't want to do it, like him buying my school lunches.

I blacked out. There's no other way of saying it. The very second my head hit that pillow, I was gone. I was horizontal for the first time since early that morning without a blow being involved and my very, very long day had finally caught up with me. When I opened my eyes, the room was dark and I had trouble figuring out where I was and when. There was enough of a glow from the medical equipment for me to see Quatre. He was still there, sitting in the chair, and was watching me. It made me feel odd that he had been watching me sleep, but his face was drawn and tired and I didn't think he had been watching me so much as spacing out, deep in thought.

He must have turned the light off when I had fallen asleep. That annoyed me a bit. He knew that I hadn't wanted to stay here long and should have woken me up so he could go home, but he had turned off the light so I would sleep longer.

I sat up in bed and winced. I had been sleeping long enough for my bruises to turn from discomfort to severe ache and stiffness. My cuts didn't hurt as badly anymore, but that just made my bruises feel worse.

"What time is it?" I asked Quatre.

He got up, turned the light back on, and sat down again. He looked so tired and small in the bright hospital lighting, like a soldier waiting to be relieved. His expression was tight with anxiety and, for some reason, anger.

"12:03," he finally replied.

I stared at him with wide eyes.

"Twelve-," I sputtered, "Quatre, why didn't you wake me up?! Your parents have got to be home by now! They must be worried sick!"

"My cell phone hasn't rung at all," he said with an eerie calmness, "I haven't even gotten any texts from my sisters, either," he seemed strangely all right with the fact that no one in his family had realized he hadn't come home from school yet, "besides, you looked like you were sleeping really deeply, I didn't want to wake you up. I figured you'd sleep better here than at home."

I didn't tell him that he was right and sleeping in that hospital bed had been the best sleep I'd had since my father had spent two whole days out on a stakeout a few months ago. It took two people to scream at all hours of the night and morning. My house had been as quiet as a tomb with just my mother there.

"Will your father be angry at you?" he asked, but even the tone of his voice told me he knew the answer of that question.

I doubted that he would have let me sleep this long if he thought my father would punish me for it. His perceptiveness was creepy sometimes. He knew I wouldn't be in trouble and he knew my father was the one I was scared of, not my mother. And there was that look on his face again, an out of character expression, pensive and angry. I couldn't figure out what was bothering him so much. It wasn't his parents, that look had been slipping on and off of his face ever since the doctor had treated my wounds.

"Probably not," I admitted, "He doesn't care that much about what I do or where I am unless he needs me for something. I really pissed him off tonight, so the longer I stay away from him, the less upset he'll be. We don't fight that much, but when we do it takes him a long time to cool off."

For some reason, that only seemed to make my friend more upset. He stared at me, his eyes both stormy and like stone. When he finally spoke, that authoritative tone was back but it was tinged with anger and frustration now.

"I want you to tell someone about your dad, Duo," he said, his arms crossed over his chest defensively.

I opened my mouth to protest. He didn't understand, not at all! This was my father. How could I tell on him? And even if I did, he was a cop, he would never get into trouble. I didn't want him to go to jail, I just wanted him to stop hitting me all the time. But when he strikes me, it's out of anger, because of stress over his job or Mom or our finances, or it's because I did something bad or stupid, like telling him not to drink so much. Quatre just didn't understand that.

"Look at you," he snapped, "He's going to kill you sooner or later!"

I don't know why, but at that moment all of the rage that I had felt that entire day exploded in me, like hot water through a cracking dam and nothing I did, no matter how much I tried to temper it, it wouldn't be stopped. Maybe it had been hearing Quatre say my father was going to kill me. He wouldn't do that, he loved me, I had thought back then. But some part of me had known, had feared that very thing. Hearing my fear come from my wise and unbiased friend was the last thing that I had wanted.

Maybe it was because, with that one statement, Quatre had destroyed our unspoken agreement not to talk about it just as surely as he had destroyed the denial I had spent twelve years erecting and put another huge dent in the armor around the fears and worst of the darkness in me, the armor that I called my father's love for me. Or maybe it had just been hearing him say I should tell someone. Quatre , the same person that had told me never to fight against Relena and Zechs because it would only make things worse, was telling me to fight against the man that had bullied me my entire life. Relena and Zechs had always gone after him worse, so what I said to him then was inexcusable, but at the same time I couldn't understand it. Relena and Zechs were nothing compared to my father. Why couldn't Quatre get that?!

I opened my mouth again and my father's voice came pouring out.

"Just like you've tried to stop Relena and Zechs?" I said to him coldly, my voice twisted into something ugly, full of spite and anger and all of it was directed at the only friend I had ever had.

I didn't even recognize my own voice, my own tone. I had become the one thing I had begun to fear I would one day become.

My words stripped that maturity from Quatre and he fell silent, his confidence and surety gone. He looked like a small defeated child.
*****
I never should have said that to him. I had known how much Relena and Zechs tormented him, how it wore on him and he struggled with knowing he could do a single thing to fight back against them. I had no business rubbing his face in it. I let my anger, which had absolutely nothing to do with my best friend, overwhelm me and control me. I let it hurt someone I deeply cared about, just like my father. I will never forgive myself for saying those cruel things to him, when all he had tried to do was help me.

I wish I could write here that that was the end for us. Quatre finally woke up and saw what a shitty friend I really was and finally dumped me. He got a better friend, someone who appreciated him and could protect him. I wish I could write those things because it's exactly what he, and I, deserved. But I can't because that isn't what happened. We didn't talk about any of it after that, not my father's abuse or the horrible thing I had said. I walked him home in complete silence, too ashamed of myself and scared of what else my rage might make me say to speak. I didn't even have the guts to apologize to him for it. But the next day it was like none of it had happened. We just kept going like we always had.

I should have been a better friend to him. Maybe if I had, he would have gotten the strength to stay, or maybe it had been inevitable, I don't know. All I know is that I treated the one good thing in my life like shit. I got so wrapped up in my own pain, I never saw how deep his ran and goddamit, I should have! If I could do it all over again, I'd tell him how sorry I am, how I never deserved him and how much I love him. But I can't. The best thing in my life and I couldn't keep it. Now I have nothing, and that's exactly what I deserve.

I miss him. I miss him so much and it won't stop hurting. I keep praying to God, something I've never done in my entire life, for Quatre to come back, but he never does. He's never going to come back home. Nothing helps. Not even this fucking journal. Mrs. Khushrenada gave me this stupid thing and said it would help with the pain. Well it hasn't! Nothing is going to help, all it does is remind me of what a fuck up I am and how I don't deserve to have people like Quatre in my life!

Fuck this journal. Fuck Mrs. Khushrenada, fuck Quatre's stupid family. Fuck my parents. Fuck Relena and fuck Zechs and fuck this whole town.

I'm done. I don't want to talk about this anymore.
　

End Chapter 2
Author's note: Ugh, that was draining. Now I'm off to start chapter 3, thanks for reading ^_^
　
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A Stagnation of Love (rewrite)