Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Twelve ❯ Most Things Happen For a Reason ( Chapter 6 )

{Author Notes}

Before I let you loose to run loose in this decadent candy shop of a story, I've got to address a few things. At first, each chapter was well over 10,000 pages. You have to understand that I started this story nearly two years ago [man, I'm behind, no?] and back then... I was insane! With my debut into the... well, let's call it interesting, at least, world of high school, I've got a lot less time to spend on my baby fanfiction here. The chapters won't stop, they'll just be about 4 or 5 thousand words which I'll try not to make suck with the frequent gaps of inspiration that I have. Which is no fault of my wonderful readers, I promise! Each chapter should premiere around the fifteen of each month or so.

At the moment, I'm also working on another, fairly large Heero x Duo project for the 2004 One True Pairing [OTP] challenge that absorbs a lot of my writing time and inspirations. Once I finish it, I'll be able to post it in its entirety. I can't tell you much about it since it may qualify as posting it previous to the contest and disqualify me, but I will tell you that it's currently titled The One-Eared Neko and is set primarily in a delivery truck and on American roads. So any scene suggestions are welcome and I'll consider them if I can fit it into my very twisted and often flawed plot lines. Thanks, and enjoy, debasers of the world!

-- Kaitsurinu



Disclaimer: ** baa baa! **


Pairings: 2+1, Rx1, 3x4, Sx5, CB+2, H+2, 9x13, 1x2x1


Potential Warnings for All Chapters: Relena, stupid humor, angst, minor violence, het, shounen-ai, yaoi, romance, language, suggestive dialogue, drugs, limey, NCS, suicide issues.








Chapter 6

"Most Things Happen For a Reason"





Precious Sith had been the only one Duo had ever looked at in that desiring, sleazy streetlight kind of way and not seen the face of his Japanese best friend glaring back coldly in denial instead. The first man he'd admitted to having an attraction to, a certain twist in his stomach and buttery leap in his throat. And besides that, he was only one who ever made him forget how much he missed Heero and all those regrets of never saying anything to him. Even if it was only for a night. The only one that could mask that puncture wound in his heart well enough to let him ignore some of the pain. Not only because of his stunning looks and smile like a fresh champagne bottle, but the inviting, gregarious, and absolutely oddball personality that was an echo of his own. There simply had been no time to brood over his old friend at first when he had stumbled down onto the model's humble doorstep on a hot Californian afternoon starving and thirsty enough to kill for a chance just to lick the water off a sidewalk. The yellow-eyed man had leaned out the door and asked him if he needed a bottle of water with a friendly voice that was butter to the ears.

Once you were in the room with the eccentric Canadian man, he would lavish you with his absolute attention and do anything to cause you to smile, male and female alike. And that was what Duo needed. A beautiful distraction.

And Precious was more than happy to oblige in a rebound-relationship as well.

If only for one night, there was a gap in Duo's life that was inexplicably filled once he was with the infamous model who was currently fleeing the media. Though his eyes were the polar opposite of the deep blue of Heero's eyes, his hair was pale instead of dark, and his personality bubbly and playful and on the bimbo-ish side of the fence, there was still something roughly magnetic about him in his complete contrast to Heero. Almost as if he was rebelling against the deep infatuation he held for the other man simply by staring into his face. And the thought of saying 'screw you' to the remembrance of Heero's distant face had been so delicious back then.

Delicious enough to let himself in to Precious's bed, at least. But beyond that, he had planned nothing but to leave in the early morning with a raided refrigerator as a souvenir of his half-hearted one nightstand. There was no room in Duo Maxwell's life for a loved one or lovers whom he would only end up injuring or hurting in some way when his luck finally ran out and he was exposed as Shinigami again. Or so he thought. But something had drawn him back again only matter of minutes later, turning him around as soon as he had reached the streetlight on the corner. Perhaps it was just another show of weakness, or some strange deity's will, but he stalked back through the darkened kitchen and up the stairs to where he was sleeping. Duo used his efficiency in stealth to slip back into the covers like he'd never woken up but it was to no avail. Since the Canadian man had apparently been aware of his every movement and the fact he had planned to leave him and embraced him like a delighted child when he didn't. And that had made him smile.

Duo had never known a man who had needed him like that. And he needed to feel needed for something besides a backup gun, a reconnaissance man, or a hacker's access into an enemy computer system.

So, they became fast friends. They were both equally easygoing and infatuated with having fun and cracking jokes. Without bullets exchanged, without vice-foreign-ministers-to-be on their heels, without a shadow of doubt between them that they were instantaneous best friends. It was pure freedom and honesty between them. He could leave without warning, he could drop by without warning. The model loved to cook him meals whenever he found himself without a regular job or pay and Duo would in return make an ass of himself just to make Precious laugh whenever he needed it. After a month or so, both confessed they were still in love with the people they had let slip away from them. And it didn't bother them. They still could have fun with each other.

For Duo, he still couldn't force the cold, aloof soldier from his constant, everyday thoughts. And for Precious, he'd left a girl back in Texas, a tall blonde model named Veronika who was so deeply in debt from lending money to her struggling Czechoslovakian family she was close to being deported. He had loved her, and loved her still, but his best friend and former boyfriend Cody had pressured him into leaving her behind. A similar sad story to Duo's own, but it'd been that distant look that challenged humanity with its reservation that had pulled Heero away from him. And Relena as well, apparently.

But he never expected to for the wild, rave-loving man to ever settle down so quickly, so readily...

But then again, if he had the chance, he would have married Heero if he were barely out of grade school.

He just didn't have that chance.


[ --- ]


As much as he dreaded facing that concerned look in those unnaturally blue eyes of his, there was a definite disappointment when he found himself unescorted back into the fitting room. The American glanced over his shoulder back at the doorway and sifted his eyes through the loops and arches of tinsel and traditional Christmas decoration, anticipating a very upset Heero Yuy following him inside. Surely, he was either going to firmly walk up and interrogate him over the bruise, or give him frowning glances from across the room and generally just brood in his own stoic way, both of which required his presence in the room to do so. It was a little strange. In place of the pilot, Rosy came clicking back into the room a few seconds later, clipboard pressed faithfully against her breast. She looked at Duo in the center of the room, unescorted and dressed only in boxers and a dress shirt, and smiled.

"Well, you've got one down, hon. Now, finish getting dressed, I wanna see how it fits overall." The blonde woman trotted over on her heels and retrieved the pile of clothing she'd abandoned at the beck and call of the unattended telephone. Rosy smiled up at the American's face, but he didn't have one in return.

"Oi, where'd Heero go?"

Rosy paused and quirked her face into curiosity for a moment. "Oh, he said he was going out to buy some lunch for you." The professional, warm, buttery smile reminiscent of Precious returned as she held up a dark grey waistcoat to him as innocently as could be. The white of her teeth made something hurt in the bottom of Duo's stomach. "He's really very sweet like that, you know."

"Yeah," Duo said with a half-nervous laugh. "I know."

When the American bachelor finally accepted the waistcoat and slipped it on over his shoulder, Rosy was free to put the rest of the immaculate pile on a little velvet footstool that she pulled from underneath the chair with her foot. After that, her manicured fingernails descended upon the row of black buttons stemming up from the hem. She deftly buttoned them all and spoke at the same time, allowing Duo to stand and relax.

"He also said that we might as well get you started on the rest of your wardrobe while he's out," Rosy said cheerily.

"Hmm? What do you mean?"

She tilted her head and leaned down to snatch up another garment gracefully, still maintaining eye contact. "You know, for the rest of the trip! I caught him in the hall just before he left and he mentioned to me that you brought very little luggage with you. It's nothing too extravagant, mind you, just some decent clothes and coats and swimsuits and such."

Red color lingered across his face and it glowed above his sheepish grin. "Oh no, it's fine. That's very generous of you both, but I don't want to be a burden. You know, price-wise."

"Come on! Heero wouldn't care how much you spent, don't you think?" The blonde woman giggled and offered him his black slacks in a neat square of fabric, simultaneously slapping playfully him on the chest.

"It's not him," he protested. "It's me! I would feel horrible, feeding off him like some aimless parasite! I lived like that my entire childhood, and I caused too much trouble ever to take back."

"Calm down. You don't be have to be so dramatic! He's your best friend, Duo! There are things friends do for each other without having to ask or be asked. It just works that way."

"I guess," Duo half-huffed in defeat.

"You guess? Be a little more confident in him, why don't you?" She jabbed at him to accentuate the point. "You need to realize that you and the other pilots are his sole family. He loves all of you so dearly, I can tell. It's what he wants to give you!

The light in his violet eyes was dim and thoughtful, looking back into her round, chipper face. "Yeah, I know."

Rosy scoffed, letting the slacks be lifted from her grip, and chastised him with an amber-brown stare, her hands promptly placed on her hips. "Oh, don't beat yourself up."

The expression in her incessant smile was a little warming, at least, and Duo soon felt his guilt relent a little in its strong presence. It was a lot like his own, from his war days he spent at the side of a very unwilling Heero, cracking jokes and jabbing at him with harmless dosages of sarcasm and optimism. Always on, always persistent and gleaming. He had to admit that it was very hard to resist a smile of his own when she was being so upbeat and optimistic and infectious.

"Heero's getting married to the Vice Foreign Minister, remember? He's rich!" The blonde woman giggled and leaned down for more clothing, unaware of the destructive power of her words.

That's what's so depressing, Duo thought bitterly, furrowing an eyebrow slightly upward. Why did he need to be reminded so often, huh? Shinigami must have some sort of personal vendetta with him. But, like the patient soldier he'd grown to act during the immense pressures and responsibilities of war, he knew it was best to stay quiet sometimes, about certain things. He slipped on his clothing without much more comment, brushing the bangs out of his eyes dully. It matched the lifeless spark of his eyes as he thought of the wedding he'd be attending in this tuxedo, the last hope he'd be selling out in this black suit.


[---]


"Are you going to tell him?"

"Sam, don't be immature." The delicate-looking blush-rose pink liquid swashed around the thin glass bottle as she sprayed her neck.

The blonde woman's voice matched the perfect description of well-breed polish and friendly discreetness, brilliance and manners with a cold edging. It was almost too flawless; while it sounded fine in an auditorium over a high-tech digital broadcasting system, it was distant and insincere in the confines of a simple room. The dim lighting added to that removed sensation, blocked by the heavy curtains that hung in the background. She finished with her perfume as professionally as one could be at an early morning like this one and placed it in a pocket in her purse. After that, a layer of reapplied lipstick was next, marked by the habitual female lean toward the hazy mirror.

For anyone entering the room, they could have instantly tasted the heavy tensions that lay in the air. It wasn't a dramatic presence, but a very important one nonetheless. One of life-changing repercussions.

Relena turned while she smoothed out her dark blue business skirt and took the effort to smooth out her hair. She glanced up, her eyes adjusting easily to the dim lightning more quickly as she found herself in this position more and more frequently. Across the room, she held the attention of the tall, Italian-French publicist who was constantly at her side while she traveled the world, promoting the continuance of peaceful days.

"Will you be fine by yourself?" she asked, slinging her purse under her arm.

"Don't worry," Sam said reassuringly, lounging back, neck against the headboard. "Though it won't be easy without you here, it'll all be fine. The press is notoriously easy to coddle. I can manage."

"I know you can," she said, smiling encouraging. It had that same distant, lovely appeal of a teacher falsely smiling. "Your ability is superb. As always."

"I know," he said, his angular, masculine features lightening a bit. He rubbed at his sleep-worn face briefly and waved it off like a true easy-going man. "What are you waiting on? Go, it'll be fine."

"Thank you, Sam." Her deep, cornflower blue eyes grinned in return over the traces of a reserved smile. She curled a piece of her hair behind her ear in habit and rested her weight temporarily against the dresser behind her. The shadows played across her face darkly, glowing blue as she stretched her mouth faintly.

"I appreciate it more than you can understand."

"And I've always said that you're more than welcome, Relena."

She smiled again, as a way of answering wordlessly. A way of never losing her professional, lady-like reserve and clean-cut edge. A nod was exchanged between them and their silent goodbye biddings were completed. Simple, and clean.

Long fingers rummaged across the top of the oak wood dresser and, standing femininely, she turned to glance at him again with a pair of discreet black sunglasses in her hands. The hints of light that did remain in the room reflected off them. They found a resting spot on her face as she glided out the room silently, her arm trailing behind her as it shut the door. The brass knob twisted with the squeals of years of wear as it was released and the delicate, precise sound of footsteps led down the hallway and disappeared, destined for the dark, glossy and anonymous escort car that would take her to the bustling Pakistani airport. Leaving no untied ends. Simple and clean.


[---]


A sea of feathery snowflakes descended from the clouds, sifting through the air slowly and coating the gentle ground with downy white. White and innocent, like the silk of a baby girl's dress. The snow fell from the sky just as sparks would fly in the pitch-darkness of night when the guns and deadly weapons of mobile suits would clash so loudly. But there was no need to think of the things of the past like that. It was Christmas time, and Quatre was happy and healthy. Nothing was better than this, and he didn't need to linger on the bygone violence of his life.

While the snowflakes silently swathed the world in white, in the hallway a blonde young man was pulling the closet door open, rummaging through piles of slush-covered winter boots. Numskull sniffed curiously behind him, poking his head between the Arabian's leg and the door. He pulled on a pair of thick, bulky brown boots, sitting on a mahogany and happily pulled the leathery laces tight while the dog sniffed at his shoes. A maroon-colored winter cap pulled over his bright blonde hair and dressed in a heavily insulated grey coat and knitted black mittens, Quatre was ready to roll around in the snow until his face froze clear off. He grinned happily, looking out the frosted window at an expanse of white cut only by the dark green spruces and distant, jagged grey lines of civilization.

Numskull yipped excitedly at his heels and he looked down and promptly patted his head, ruffling his scraggly fur.

"Yeah, you want to play outside too?"

Again, the puppy yipped, his pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Quatre kneeled down on one leg and playfully roughed up his face. The little dog fought back against the onslaught of mittens, growling ecstatically. A blur of scrappy brown, Numskull wrestled with his hand, clamping his tiny legs on his wrist and thrashing his head from side to side and nipping playfully. It was one of his favorite games, but even so, he had to be careful not to knock over the young puppy.

"Huh? You wanna?" Quatre asked, smiling brightly. "Okay, come on!" He stood up, and as he reached for the brass doorknob with his knitted black mittens, the innocent quiet was interrupted quite suddenly by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him. Quatre's head whipped around, the cap that he wore causing his ears to pop out rather cutely, and he was confronted with his fiancée standing in the wood-paneled hallway behind him. Looking rather impatient, as well.

The lean angle of his legs in blue jeans was like that a suspicious parent, waiting at all hours of the night for their child to walk through the door. All it lacked was an expectant tapping of the foot. His arms were tucked tightly together in a loose, sleeveless paint-stained white shirt he had no doubt usurped from Heero's dresser.

"Hi, honey," Quatre said innocently, although he had a knot tying itself quickly in his stomach. Trying to keep the innocuous tone was very difficult in the face of the danger of being caught. "What's up?"

Beneath his cinnamon-colored bangs, there was a very distinct, level look in those green eyes.

"Quatre..."

Instantly, the grown blonde man, head of a major corporation at the scant age of sixteen and a seasoned soldier at the even scantier age of fifteen, suddenly stomped his foot like a three-year-old would have if he had been denied ice cream.

And he meant it.

"Trowa! Please, just come on!" he pleaded. Or just whined, however you want to word it. "It's Christmas, and it's snowing outside! I just want to have some fun!"

"Aren't I any fun?" Trowa asked, putting a flat, humorous hint of disappointment in his voice.

Quatre's big green-blue eyes begged along with him, underneath his hat-matted bangs. Beside his puffy dark coat, his fists were clenched threateningly. In mittens. "Of course you are, but you're being ridiculous about this!"

"I don't want you going outside, that's all," Trowa said. He walked noiselessly up to his blonde fiancée in a pair of ratty socks and put his hands on his shoulders. "I'm worried about you."

Both pilots looked into each other's eyes, but each seemed completely beyond the range of their normal ways of behaving as they stared across the two-inch difference in heights. The characteristically warm and compassionate tint of Quatre's eyes was brooding and slightly resentful toward the markedly openly emotional expression of his taller fiancé. His very handsome fiancé, he had to admit. His dark, cinnamon-colored hair had grown longer than it had been during the war and concealed more of his green eyes, but it was radically more kept and attractive. And his cold-hearted, empty stare that had once struck fear now just overflowed you with guilt with their over-protectiveness. He pouted his lips sullenly up at him. "You're psychotic," Quatre stated finally.

"Why don't you stay inside with me? I'll watch City of Angels with you again if you want," the Heavyarms pilot offered to convince him, gently putting both arms around his waist and pulling him faithfully closer. Drawing his adorable fiancé near. "Even though I've seen it too many times to count and still retain my mental health."

It was a sweet gesture, but...

"Nope!" Quatre squeaked in refusal.

The blonde, much in the excessive mind set of a three-year-old, thrashed out of his grip by squatting down and dropping out of the circle of his arms. With a laugh, he scrambled back to his feet in an attempt to race out the door before his half-bewildered boyfriend had the chance to realize what he'd done. Trowa lunged after him, a sly smile stretched on his face, and managed to wrap his long lanky arms around the familiarity of the Arabian's waist while the blonde struggled against him, both snickering to themselves. Quatre's hands wrapped tightly around the brass doorknob, a vice of death. Had it been alive, it probably would have choked to death instantly. Meanwhile, Numskull yapped wildly between them and darted back and forth.

Trowa grunted after he tugged at his fiancé's midsection and found he wasn't appearing to be letting go. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep those ever-so-precious pleasantries in his tone. "Quatre, let go," he asked.

"No!"

"You're being unreasonable, so let's talk, please," the brunet bargained in response. But the blonde's stubborn streak was scrubbing out to the outside, and it refused to be defied. His grip tightened.

"You're the ridiculous one here!" Quatre shot back with just as much conviction to his words. "I couldn't reason with you now, you're too paranoid!"

Trowa tugged a little harder, just enough to jar his suddenly snobby blonde amore, just enough to let the jagged tone of a growl slip into his voice. It was only for persuasive measures, honestly.

"Quatre Raberba Winner, you let go of that doorknob right now. I don't need to go through this just to talk to you!"

"When you're crazy you do!" he retorted, straining his fingers tighter around the smooth brass doorknob and his boots against the floor. His green-blue eyes furrowed, turning unnaturally dark and resistant. "I tried, but you've gone past sanity, Trowa, I'm afraid. It's this house, and I'm gonna go outside before the demon claims me too!"

"What? Quatre-!"

"No, I'm not gonna stay in here!"

"Quat-!"

A flurry of soft gray coat and knitted black mittens was all the Heavyarms pilot managed to catch glimpse of his unusually stubborn blonde fiancé as he shook him off. Like a sack of bricks, Trowa was dropped to the floor and landed painfully on his ass, barely escaping a head collision with the large, mahogany wood shoebox on the side of the hallway. Emitting a little, 'Oof,' of surprise, he leaned heavily against the wall in a half-daze in order to regain his balance and looked up to the door. It flew open on its hinges and Quatre dashed outside in a grey, black, and blonde blur with the scrawny little Border terrier hot on his heels. In his haste, he let it swing open and an icy blanket of air crept slowly inside. It nipped at Trowa's feet as he irritably mumbled to himself while standing back up and slamming the door.

He stared out the dim, frosted window in the center of the door like the half-jilted thing he was, only distinguishing the dim outline of the other blonde pilot growing smaller toward the drifts of snow. At first he just ran, but soon found immense happiness in flinging snowballs up in the air, probably in full knowledge that his fiancé would be watching him half-sullenly. His expression narrowed slightly. "Duo's been corrupting you somehow. You're acting just like him," Trowa commented flatly, with strings of unhappiness detectable in the sardonic humor.

But this wasn't finished for them.

The Heavyarms pilot ran back upstairs in search of warmer clothes. If Quatre wanted to act like a child, then the only reasonable thing was to act like one, too. He snatched up a hat and gave a curt little sigh to himself, pulling it churlishly over his ears.


[---]


It'd been a cheery, colorful rollercoaster of clothing at the honor of the blonde Sith sister, and her subject and more than adequately handsome model was dressed and undressed again and again. Like a bright-faced Barbie doll, he went welcome into each venture she found hanging patiently for him on a wooden hanger in the closet. Clothes were of no expense here. Not necessarily to buy, but to slip on; this was recreation time for both of them. Sunny-faced and bushy-tailed, Rosy darted to and fro between the lush closet to the half-naked man she held in her custody if only for the afternoon. Silks and cottons and colors and apparel billowed out from her arm and landed in Duo's sometimes-overwhelmed arms. In front of the spotless, gleaming mirror, he dressed in dapper brown slacks and cherry red sweaters, slim, swank and Gap-labeled tanks and shorts, beautiful dress clothes, spin-offs of Duo's affection for priest colors, and the unanimous favorite, the brazen punk and roll t-shirts with obnoxious, but keen, slogans in boxy letters and baggy dark denims that hung on his hips temptingly. Like a dream. He could barely remember being so swept up in extravagance and finery like this.

But as he stared into his reflection, looking blankly into his own violet eyes and hands lying limp at his sides, his mind couldn't stop wandering from the petty clothes.

A gunshot, the memory of the scent cold midnight sea spray hovering in the air, and the sight of a familiar dark-haired boy of only fifteen thrown to the ground by his bullet. And more recently, the image of a blond-haired man smiling warmly down at him from his vista on the doorstep, hand extending to the opened doorway in the thick, buzzing humidity. And his grinning amber eyes.

{Good morning, stranger. You wanna come inside...?}