Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Twelve ❯ Games of Innocent ( Chapter 7 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Disclaimer: We love the subs! They are dollar off! When you bring in a coupon! ...Yeah, spongemonkeys kick ass. And don't you forget it!

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


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



Chapter 7

"Games of Innocent"





Quatre had escaped, and with that escape came a rush of freedom and giddiness that he knew only convicts and teenagers speeding off toward college experienced. The sweet sensation of defying rigid and ridiculous structure. Normally, the blonde man was considered as mild and sweet mannered as a cup of English tea, for good reason, but as he fled the doorstep, his boots slipping beneath him as he sprinted though the snow, he felt deliciously mutinous. His yapping accomplice dashed ecstatically beside him, snapping at the snow that flew up from his feet. Like a thief with money spilling out his jacket, Quatre felt amazed to be out and the short burst adrenaline still circulated through him in purity. One of the only other times he'd run like that, panting and praising his god for simply being alive, was during that horrible war. Running through darkness, with bullets raining down and death always snapping at their heels if they slowed, and collapsing into the safety of their mobile suits or safehouses at the end of nights of unholy fighting.

He and Duo had always shared a common sense of morbid exhilaration after the many close shaves they'd had when escaping, though Duo's was much more radical and filled with outbursts of laughter. Quatre could smile weakly after defying death, but it was quickly followed with a sickening hole of guilt and distress afterward. The American, however, seemed to deal with those aftershocks with a similar smile and humor with underlying disgust and demons. The others, the more stoic and internal pilots, never joked about it and often were displeased to see anybody laugh at the horrors of war. But it wasn't laughing. It'd been crying out, just wishing for an end to it all so desperately that there was nothing to do but laugh at their extravagant situation. But for it to be over... that only made the elation in Quatre grow even more. He'd never dreamed how much fun it would be to ditch Trowa for a little while, and just be without the presence of the man he loved so much. For being as notoriously levelheaded as he was, Trowa could still act like a real fool sometimes.

Quatre dashed across the driveway and plunged into the deep snow just to the side of the house, where the dark firs and pine trees grew silently, their evergreen boughs loaded down with bundles of snow. He struck at one branch playfully, and a lump of snow fell to the ground with a dull, wet thump and made him grin. He laughed to himself and waded through the deep snow. But, hovering back, much too diminutive to ever dream of making it through such a sea of snow, Numskull yapped unhappily as he watched his other master walk further and further away without him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the blonde Arabian said, beaming brightly. He went back for the scraggy brown puppy, which paced back and forth at the edge of the deep snow, pink tongue lolling and steam racing up from his mouth. Another curt yap and Quatre kneeled down beside him. "I didn't mean to leave you, Num. Come on, I'll carry you."

Numskull whimpered happily, a very vocal puppy, and nearly leapt into the blonde man's arms, dousing his chin in happy doses of saliva as he did so.

"Ohh, it's okay," Quatre said. "Yeah, such a good boy! You want to sneak away with me, don't you?"

Just as he cradled the tiny, anxious bundle of fur in his left arm, Quatre's head turned at a sound. It echoed crisply through the background of wintry pines and distant gleams of metropolis and slowly entered the Sandrock pilot's ear, slowly giving him realization as well. He secretively clutched the border terrier closer to his snowflake-dusted winter jacket and grinned as he heard a series of footfalls on the front step quickly pursuing him.

Quatre's expression was uncharacteristically smug, still tinted with his unique innocence, as he whispered playfully against the puppy's head. "That'll be Trowa." He giggled when another sensation of defiance struck him at the moment. The steady, half-ominous crunching of boots on the snow rang steadily louder and louder in their directions. As strong as Quatre's bond was with Trowa's, his was equally keen and he knew it would be moments before the cinnamon-haired man would hone in on him, with a disgruntled mar across his features. And that incited a challenge which the unusually deviant Arabian wouldn't dare pass up. He blamed it on the burnt toast he'd eaten.

"Come on, let's show him he's just being paranoid, huh, Numskull?" The blonde man whispered to the adopted pet, as he quietly shifted and slunk carefully through the mounds of wet snow, slipping deeper into the dotted trees like a grinning specter with flecks of snow flying out from his heels.





Duo nervously bit his tongue so pink peeked out the corner of his half-furrowed lips, straining to see his image in the reflection of the mirror, craning over his shoulder as he flourished a turn for Rosy's evaluation. The silky, wondrous fabric felt like nothing across his skin, perfectly draping over his shoulders so that it was loose and airy and immensely comfortable, but it still fit his slim frame and unnaturally bony shoulders. Awe stole the breath from Rosy's throat, soaking in the bewitching image of the brunette American dressed in traditional Japanese clothing, a sensuous and strange jet-black kimono. Duo himself struggled once or twice for reality, washed with an overwhelming feeling that homeless, poor war orphans who had scrapped like common rats in garbage and worn discarded sheets could appreciate for every fantastical ounce.

Out of all the cultured clothes, offered with Peacecraft money in mind, this one practically broke Duo's heart the instant he laid his hungry eyes on it. He'd been allowed only a few ensembles and instantly dropped them all in favor of this more expensive piece. And, much to Rosy's amusement, the rather body-conscious pilot had practically sheered the buttons off his previous garment, stripping as fast as he could, just to pull the kimono on. Rosy's amber eyes smirked at him, relishing in the image, as Duo shifted to stare into the mirror, his slim black-draped image reflected around him thrice.

Rosy explained as she clutched the clipboard to her breast how the beautiful black silk had come to rest in their tailoring shop. Since Heero's arrival in the city, he'd been aware of Relena's and his wedding preparations. He made acquaintances with Rosy's shop and requested many items, groomsmen suits and clothing one of those. With his distinct taste in styles similar to Feudal Japanese classic clothes and his future relocation to Japan, Rosy had invested in a few kimonos, one of which was the black beauty Duo now reveled in.

"It's nice, huh?" Rosy said, smiling hazily at the back of the American's head. The sinuous plait of hair swung rhythmically at his back, bushing the silk of the kimono ever so slightly.

"Fucking gorgeous," Duo drawled in return, adding an almost feminine flair by pivoting his foot on the toe as if to flaunt his shoes. His infatuated violet eyes never left the black silk in the reflection. "I can't believe no one's snatched it up. I've never had good luck like this before."

"I don't display it much. It's more off a special-interest item, anyway. Special ordered from Kyoto." The mastertailor, with her bright yellow hair spilling around her shoulders, clicked over to Duo and smoothed out the creases along his shoulder and back. Duo barely registered her presence, enraptured with the black kimono. "We specialize mostly in wedding attire and formal events, so a kimono wouldn't sit well displayed beside a tuxedo and rose prom dress. It's a shame few people have seen it. For those who appreciate the culture, it is very beautiful."

The American gaped quietly. "God, I wanna live in this thing!" Duo whispered, hungrily licking his lips simultaneously.

Rosy laughed and patted his shoulder as she clicked away. "Don't you just?"

"Absolutely!" With a half-dramatic sigh, he collapsed his shoulder against the wooden rim of the mirrors unfolded before him and rested his cheek on the cold glass. "You have no idea how much I love this," Duo sighed, daydreams clouding the distant haze in his eyes, and stroked the silky, seamless fabric before spinning a beaming smile at Rosy. "You're sure it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

The mastertailor scoffed and scooped up the discarded ensembles in order to meticulously replace them. "It's your choice, Duo! You can pick one of whatever you want, aside the swimsuit and dinner attire and things, like I said before. Were you even listening?"

"But it's so nice! I feel like I'm robbing you," the American mumbled with a moping overtone. A mischievous smirk quickly cut through that like a knife, realizing the irony in his last phrase. "Then again, that's half the fun, right?"

"Hell, honey, I'd eat you up like this. It's yours."

The last, sugar-dipped compliment rolled dully off Duo's hearing and away from his abstracted brain as harmlessly as beads of water off glass. Long, lanky fingers that had clawed through the grime and horrors of war now absently brushed at the loose hair pooled behind his ears, his left hand accustomed to curling around his insanely lengthy plait of hair. Duo's dark violet eyes flickered around the mirror, soaking in every inch of the magnificent gift with a faint awe-struck expression occupying the usual brash and defensive smile.

He was so wrapped up he barely registered the clicking heels and warm greeting as Rosy smiled and strode over to the door, too infatuated with the kimono and the realization he could actually own something so nice to catch the fresh aromas of food. Not even the dark reflection lingering behind him caught his attention. Only when a hand brushed off his shoulder, straightening out the liquid black fabric to model perfection, did Duo resurface to reality and turn his head to see Heero standing behind him, dark eyes muddled and stoic and a large brown paper bag in his fist. The wafting smells of fresh Italian food clawed suddenly at his nose.

"Hey!" Duo drawled, spinning around happily. "Funny meeting you here!"

An instant later, the petite blond Sith sister inhaled deeply as she pulled at the lip of the bag of newly retrieved foodstuffs. Rosy sighed hungrily and peered inside. "This smells really good, Heero. Where'd you go?"

With his jacket still slung over his shoulders, dusted with minute traces of snowflakes and now being pounced upon, shifted half-uneasily, drawing the lunch away before Duo's thieving quick fingers managed to grasp anything inside the bag. "Fazoli's," he grunted. "Duo, I wasn't sure what you liked. Is fettuccine alfredo alright?"

Like an alerted puppy, Duo's spine suddenly became unnaturally straight as he bounced up with a grin. "Alright? Of course it's alright! It smells delicious!" The American squeezed his violet eyes shut and flashed his tongue over his lips. Again, despite the frowning expression growing on his Japanese friend's face, he bent down and mischievously peered down into the sweet-smelling darkness of the bag, rattling the sides playfully.

"Oh man, you have no idea how much I was starving!"

Heero blinked at him evenly. "You'd be surprised."

It only took a moment for that soft-spoken phrase to take root in Duo's mind and slowly sprout into a crawling vine of guilt, thinking back to the intensely concerned expression, at least in soldier standards, aimed at him when Heero had noticed how frail and malnourished he was becoming. Seen his ribs pawing out into the air. Seen the bruise. White rimmed his eyes and he managed a low, "Shit," staring up at the stern Japanese face like a deviant teenager caught scribbling swearwords on the teacher's answer key. His hand slipped off the bag like it was bubbling acid and he quickly clutched it to himself, officially busted.

Heero, though, only graced him with a stern look and turned to the blonde mastertailor. "Rosy," he said, efficiently communicating something through his cryptic message. The diminutive blonde nodded compliantly and smiled warmly as she scooped up her clipboard again, now littered with chicken scratches of fitting notes and completed order forms.

"You can have lunch in my upstairs office, if you'd like," Rosy commented, swinging the corner. She paused, French-manicured nails gripping on the wall, and beamed mischievously at the American wrapped in black oriental silk. "I have scheduled customers after lunch. If I don't talk to you again today, Duo, I'll see you later."

"I'll promise to call, alright?"

The blonde woman, feline and kittenish on her black heels, flashed a final smile. "And don't leave Precious out either!"

"Of course not," Duo replied happily. "Bye, Rose."

Rosy gave a curt, girly wave, curling her fingers down once or twice, and clicked out of sight. Leaving him with the very unwanted and unpredictable Yuy demons of wrath. Awaiting a vicious sentence or berating the instant all possible witnesses had left the area, the American automatically braced himself for a lashing out of any kind and flinched when Heero turned to him.

His eyes scanned over him and Duo feared it was to find a weak spot. But of course, the perfect solider knew that perfectly well. Instead of a glass jaw, whatever family tree Duo descended from probably had a line of glass stomachs. Land just about any caliber punch below his ribs and he'd collapse to that person's mercy like a rag doll. To Heero, whom Duo had seen twist solid steel like playdoh sticks, it would have been so easy to become upset with him, but he didn't. Instead, those fuming dark eyes carefully watched him at a distance and he lingered on the voluptuous shape the semi-loose gi held while draped over Duo's shoulders. "It's a very nice kimono, Duo. You should change out of it."

"Right," Duo agreed sheepishly. There were countless frantic butterflies in his head that heaved a collective sigh of relief.

The Japanese man seemed to be able to sense it, and he shifted his weight unhappily. The gleaming slivers of fierce concern, almost anger, returned to his eyes and his expression darkened a tad. It took a few minutes for Duo change out of his beloved new piece of clothing, and much flushed voicing out for Heero to loan him some common decency and at least turn around, although he'd dressed and undressed countless times during the war and made little ado about it. Once finished, the American laid the kimono out beside his selected tuxedo and other ensembles and jauntily dusted off his palms with a clap. Feeling bold and enthralled and immensely sick in the stomach with fear simultaneously, all in the pit of a disgustingly erratic and nervous stomach, Duo slung an arm casually over Heero's shoulder as they walked side by side. Tiny stings of cold from the snowflakes melted under his warm skin, but they couldn't hold even a stumpy candle to the stings in Duo's brain. He grimaced dramatically to himself where no one would notice.

He would have a lot of explaining to do. A whole fucking lot, he supposed.





Quatre soon dropped the bundle of fur and energy otherwise known as Numskull for the sake of his tiny new mission: escaping capture. For as soon as he began to stalk through the expanse of dark, intertwining firs, Norwegian spruces, and red and white pines towering far above the Sandrock pilot's head, a cool wind snaked through and brought scent of Trowa swiftly downwind to the young puppy's nose. And being the selfishly spoiled pseudo-child that he was, the small terrier began to keen out for his father and yap loudly in his direction. Faced with little choice if he wanted to escape the confines of the house and enjoy the snow, Quatre gently placed the puppy in the snow and bolted furiously in the other direction. He ran knowing very well that Trowa could easily track Numskull rapid tracks to his own, and his own tracks straight to him. Snow spit from Numskull's flying paws as he skimmed over the icy snow, yapping wildly.

The blonde ducked behind a tree as soon as the not-so-distant sounds of boots crushing snow, pausing, and the low hum of his fiancé's voice praising the tiny dog. A squealing yap of happiness rang through the snowy hills and Quatre was sure that Trowa had hooked the snow-dusted puppy under his arm and resumed the hunt. He smiled though he cursed, and began to creep as noiselessly as he could, prey to the intensely acute senses of his husband-to-be. No doubt it would only be a matter of seconds before Trowa closed the gap.

Not only was he a skilled soldier, he was also getting very pissed off with Quatre's flippant behavior. That would only slice his time on the run drastically in half. So, rubbing the stinging cold of his face with stuffed black mittens, the Arabian glanced around for any possible way of escape. His blue-green eyes shifted from snow-covered dark bough to snow-covered dark bough until the barren trunk of a long departed deciduous tree appeared in his vision. And he smiled.

Only moments later, a very perturbed Trowa Barton strolled into a tiny clearing of snow which was surrounded by dark green pine trees. Across the snow, obvious traces of his blonde fiancé crisscrossed endlessly, as if he'd sprinted across the clearing many times over, and a quick frown marred his features. The bundle of warmth and fur and the so-called traitor named Numskull was of course cradled in his arms, panting happily and whipping his ears back and forth. Endless spoiling on Trowa's behalf had done him good and formed an alliance with the terrier, which had proved very fruitful in this situation. The little yipping dog had indeed left a trail of pawprints that could be traced to Quatre's last known location. Trowa frowned though, confronted with an unreadable clue.

His skeptical green eyes shifted around suspiciously, as tiny crunching sounds of snow drifted to his ear from undistinguishable places. Saturated sunlight drifted down through the intermittent cover of intertwining fir boughs, scattering shadow and light across the snow. It was completely empty to untrained eyes, but a soldier such as himself was not satisfied.

Suddenly, Numskull yapped loudly and surged out of his master's arm to scamper to the ground. Trowa knew something was coming, and quickly turned his head to the source of a sudden snowy noise. Despite years of mercenary training and bloodthirsty fights in dark and treacherous nights, it could do nothing to prepare him from the icy snowball that he received in the face.

And Quatre began to laugh.

Dumbfounded and struck with fuming disbelief, the cinnamon-haired man stood frozen in place as snow and ice dripped slowly down his face. Minor icy pain ran through his skin where the bulk of the snowball had struck him, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut in response to the icy slush now dripping along them. The winter air ran clear with the delighted giggling of a certain blonde man as Trowa slowly pressed the palm of his hand to his face and whipped the snow away. He brushed the trails of melted water already streaking down his cheeks and dripping down into the borrowed shirt he wore. Instant green daggers were aimed at Quatre, perched happily between the forked branches of a barren, sleeping maple tree. The vexed expression soon degenerated into something extremely sour.

"Quatre Raberba Winner!"

"Yes, love?" Quatre giggled innocently, tossing another snowball rhythmically in his black mitten.

Trowa frowned up at him. "I want you to come back in-" The half-fevered words, unusually passionate for one very stoic Heavyarms pilot, were cut short with another blast to his pride. The second dripping, soggy snowball landed precisely in the location of the first: On his handsome face and deep within his fractured pride.

Quatre paused and reveled in his victorious glow, flashing a smug smile down at his fiancé, before he suddenly let out a yelp of surprise and was tossed off balance. The Arabian swung his legs frantically out to save him and snatched at branch. Before he could be sent toppling to the ground, he managed to recover his precious balance. Panting in adrenaline fear, he shifted his bright blue-green eyes toward the vengeful snowball plastered powerfully to the chipping bark, scant inches from his face. Icy cold air still stung at his cheek. Surprised, Quatre looked down at Trowa again, this time his victory a shade paler.

He leaned forward, still tightly gripping the branch. "Trowa!" he snapped defensively, with slivers of fear still audible in his tone. "What-"

Another snowball burst crisply on Quatre's mouth and induced an instantaneous playful glare of vengeance down at the smug brunette, now hurriedly balling another handful of icy snow. Simultaneously, the blonde man laughing uncontrollably in his sniper's perch overhead reloaded, snatching snow and ice caked onto the very tree itself and pounding it into a roughly round piece of ammunition. The two launched their assaults at the same time, and Quatre squealed when his fiancé's snowball smacked his ear and Trowa easily sidestepped his own attack.

Sputtering and clawing the snow off his ear, Quatre paused and stared down at Trowa, and received a silent look in return. For a split second, the only noise drifting between them was the permeated silence and the tension radiating across their gazes. Then Trowa twisted his face in a smirk and lashed his arm, flinging another snowball, and Quatre laughed and hopped down to narrowly avoid the attack, crouching behind the broad, snow-encrusted trunk. With a wildly excited puppy yapping and dancing around his heels, Trowa launched after his fiancé, scraping snow off the ground as he sprinted.

The Heavyarms pilot leapt as he sharply turned, ready to launch another snowball assault, but was half-stunned to see nothing but pale snow gleaming up at him behind the trunk.

"Lookout!" Quatre's voice yelled playfully. Frigid snow bit his neck and a shocked Trowa Barton bodily collapsed into the snow. From behind a stumpy pine sapling, hidden only mere feet from his fiancé's critical miscalculation, a wildly giggling Quatre sprinted off while smiling recklessly. Another icy snowball was quickly developing in his snow-crusted black mittens. Craning his head over his shoulder, he slung his ammunition again and struck him squarely in the ass.

Trowa's head whipped up and it took only an instant to launch off his hands and knees, spitting out a rather unpleasant taste of grassy snow. Where one would naturally expect a sour, vengeful glare there was only an engulfing, beaming smirk. He staggered up and, with Numskull vaulting from boot-print to boot-print in his wake, Trowa sprinted after the disappearing blonde specter. A glimpse of sunny yellow hair, tucked beneath a maroon skullcap, flashed behind the house and he pursued. Seconds later, the gap shrunk very dramatically. It was unfair to his poor lover, Trowa thought. When Quatre staggered through deep sweeps of snow clear to his knees, the snow would barely lap three or four inches past his ankle.

Quatre craned his neck and fleetingly glanced over his shoulder. He yelped in surprise, realizing with a nervous laugh just how hot his fiancé was on his heels. Seconds later, it was inevitable. Still flushed with adrenaline and sheer excitement, the blonde Arabian spun on his heels and slapped powder in Trowa's direction as a pitiable last defense and squealed fearfully as a warm, thin weight tackled him to the ground. Both pilots, grinning widely, collapsed into a convenient snowbank with a thud, spraying fresh, drifting powder into the air. Two possessive arms clutched around his waist and Quatre laughed in defeat as Trowa kissed him despite the snow stinging at his face. He smiled into his fiance's lips and happily surrendered, sliding his mittens around his still-dripping neck.

After a loving exchange, Trowa pulled back, craftily smiling down at Quatre, whom was still shaking with mild laughter. "It's no fair. You're so much faster than me," the blonde mumbled, with a mock-sullen tone drawn across a bright smile.

"Don't I know it," Trowa said smugly.

The snow-dusted Arabian rested the palm of his hand on the cinnamon-haired man's neck. "See?" he asked, shrugging his slim shoulders. "It's not so dangerous to be outside. You didn't need to be so paranoid."

"I wasn't being paranoid," he said calmly, a mild expression of disapproval haunting his face.

"Nothing happened, Trowa! We went outside and nothing happened! You have to stop believing that everytime I set foot past the threshold that-"

The Latin pilot simply frowned in concern, propping his weight on a narrow elbow, casting his dark look down at the face of his husband-to-be. "I don't want you getting hurt again like you did."

A clouded expression flooded Quatre's eyes, as his hand painfully gripped Trowa's forearm. "Trowa, please! No one will find us here, I promise!"

And even more painfully, the Heavyarms pilot's brows furrowed upward, still maintaining an ambiguous amount of frustration. Forerunners to tears gleamed in his eyes, significantly more emotional since his days as a cold mercenary. "Wasn't that the mentality we had last time? And you were still attacked, Quatre. Rebels lingering on memories of war can't relinquish the past. They'll hunt you down again."

"Trowa-"

"We were sure they wouldn't find us the last time," Trowa firmly asserted in his gravelly monotone, possessively weaving his icy fingers into Quatre's. "The last time, I had to watch them try and assassinate you."

Blue-green eyes equally distressed, Quatre looked unhappily. "I know," he sympathized softly. "But what kind of life is that-living in fear? Of course I'm afraid to death that those White Fang remnants will never relent, I'm afraid for my entire family and especially you, but I'm more afraid of losing to them."

"But they will win if they kill you Quatre," Trowa stressed, gripping the tiny hand resolutely.

"No," the blonde protested, adopting his diplomatic tone of wisdom that only truly enlightened souls possess in times of adversity, squeezing Trowa's hand equally emotionally. "The rebels left over from that horrible war still hate the Gundams for crushing their last hopes, however misguided and violent they may have been. They want to make us miserable. And if we're intimidated into hiding so badly we can't step outside without fearing for our very lives, then they've truly let them win, Trowa."

His eyes bore deeply into those glazed-over ones of his beautiful fiancé, trying to convey the sincerity of his words to their fullest. The naturally stoic pilot, with his cinnamon bangs matted with snow, stared wordlessly down at Quatre as indecision and striking fear for his loved one churned painfully in his stomach. To deny the truth of any of those words was futile; he knew that Quatre was infinitely right with his calm head under pressure.

But that didn't vaccinate him of the fear.

A commiserating, half-crooked emotional smile crossed the blonde's face. "Maybe," Quatre murmured, "that's just the price I have to pay to be with you. If so, it's worth it."

A moment later, after countless complex gears had shifted and deliberated, absorbing all the beauty offered up to him, Trowa stretched his lips in the biggest smile they would allow. All ways the wise one, his Quatre. Without a word, the Latin pilot nodded in silent agreement and his fiancé smiled contentedly, drawing him closer. Suddenly, the blonde man gasped as a snowball was smugly planted on his face and Trowa laughed. Quatre yelped and swung out at his retreating fiancé with a fistful of icy snow as well. Numskull only whined and dutifully followed as the two began to dance yet another dance of ice and snow.





Duo found it hard to even dream of eating food when he believed it would be his Last Supper of sorts. It wasn't fear of being actually hurt or insulted by the intense Japanese man, whom currently was courteously opening the door for him, it was the sickening, acidic dread that misted over his brain of explaining all the very questionable things Heero had noticed. That would be the difficult part. And those lethal blue eyes would demand an answer, that was certain. Stepping inside the generously heated office branching off the main, Christmas-lavished reception room, Duo glanced momentarily around, deeply inhaling the signature, indescribable Sith scent. The sweet, earthy aroma clinging into Precious's hair when Duo had nuzzled against his neck. It was simply decorated room, and appealed immensely to the American's senses. To accent the very gracious amount of sunlight that spilled through the second-story window, the walls were painted black and highlighted with white accents and objects. Bright lamps also scattered around them, making sure the dark color didn't overwhelm the room.

And behind him, radiating exotic Italian aromas, Heero shuffled past him and set the brown paper bag upon the central table pressed against the window. Wordlessly he extracted the steamy containers filled with fresh pastas and avoided making eye contact or hollow small talk before the American uneasily pulled out his chair and sat down. Rhythmically stroking his thick plait of chestnut hair in sheer nervousness, Duo bit his lip and sheepishly thanked Heero. The Japanese man simply pinned a pointed, awfully blue look upon him before taking his own lunch and sitting opposite of him.

Two violet eyes stared blankly at the delicious plate of pasta, then flickered uncertainly to his comrade. There'd been an unnatural, loathing ease to their movements; tasks were accomplished with cold simplicity and simply forgotten, instead of the lingering nostalgia and warm inviting conversations that had recently marked their interactions. Goddamn, Duo cursed, once he'd seen a war-absent Heero, it was impossible to relate to the icy and precise Perfect Soldier. But he also accepted that an upset, probably very upset, Heero was his doing. Had he been able to keep his damned shirt on, those haunting Prussian eyes would have never seen the thin skin stretched over his bones. And that goddamned bruise!

Warm, glowing yellow sunlight spilled across the polished wood of the table, cascading along the distinct Japanese features of his comrade, whom noiselessly had begun to eat his tastefully devoured spaghetti. His eyes glided along the plate, deep blue and deeply distant in contemplation of a billion possible equations. Duo swallowed nervously, and quietly joined the bandwagon of a silent luncheon, nervously picking up the black plastic fork. Despite the lurching butterflies in his stomach, his hunger was undeniable and overruled the tension seething within him.

Wrapping a lick of white-dripping fettuccine around the prongs of the fork, Duo lifted it to his lips and automatically glanced upward. Heero stared fiercely at him, his intensely attractive face marred by an unreadable harsh expression. The American paled under the scrutiny, and sheepishly licked his lips. But still, the Japanese man nearly glowered at him, the heat of his glare centered on the stringy food pressed precariously to his lips. Duo understood momentarily and meekly pressed the pasta into his mouth and chewed carefully, realizing his best friend must believe he was stricken with some sort of eating disorder.

"Alright, Heero, just hear me out before you-" Duo started restlessly, disowning the fork with a tinny clatter and flashing his palms in instant surrender. But the firm, rich tone of Heero Yuy's voice swiftly cut off his protesting words.

"Duo, whatever you can tell me whatever you feel free to tell me. I'm not here to lecture you," the Japanese man insisted graciously, inducing a few shockwaves in his usually brash companion. His eyes focused solely on the stringy dish with bright red sauce, blue and entrancing, respectful and diplomatic where mission-oriented abrasive force had once fumed. "It's your choice of what you decide to share with me, and I respect that completely. The occurrences in your life are your private affairs and I don't have the right to stick my nose where it doesn't belong."

The American was amazed, to say the least, at the diplomacy he was offered. Normally, he would have swallowed so many harsh, abrasive words and critiques, stemming from Heero's lethal perfectionism, that it would be impossible to count. To see a respecting, awfully sensitive man instead of a simple, painfully direct soldier sitting across from him, it was a bit surprising. Then again, a decade could cause billions of changes in a personality, and being human beings, Heero and himself were no exceptions. Duo leaned forward to interject.

"However," Heero stated, pointedly lifting the fork.

Ooooh, man. Here we go, Duo mentally sighed. The American visibly restrained a frown from bubbling to the surface and marring his face, but it was inevitable. Tirade time.

"However, that doesn't stop me from worrying about you, Duo." Two fiercely blue eyes captured his face, refusing to release it. "I hope, after all the horrible things we've endured together, that you'd trust me enough to give me an entire truth. I hope you don't feel like you have to lie to me."

"What?" Duo asked, visibly shaken. "Of course I'm honest! That's my philosophy! I run, I hide, but I never tell a lie!"

"Yes. I admit you have never lied to me, Duo. You don't know how much I have appreciated that."

The American painfully furrowed his eyebrows. However charming the newly modernized, smiling Heero Yuy may be, his eternal cryptic speech still toyed almost cruelly with his composure. Decrypting the words of such an intensely intelligent man was walking a knife-edge. Duo hated being unable to understand him completely. That beautiful enigma.

The internal frustrations leaked audibly into his baritone voice. "Then why are you so upset?" Duo asked incredulously. "You said yourself I've been nothing but truthful!"

Heero was not ruffled by the sharp inclination of his comrade's tone, accentuated by the defense spark running across his face. He simply pinched his lips and formulated the words to continue smoothly. Darkness seeped into Prussian blue. "Completely honest. But, I know you have just as much pride as I do, and how much you hate to show your weakness. I don't blame you, Duo. Our bloodstained pasts wouldn't allow that. Survival meant effectively hiding our soft underbellies."

"Oh, I'm the callous one now, am I? Bottling up my hazardous emotions?" the braided man asked sharply. "What's my crime?"

Heero's Asian face slighted in a frown. "Withdrawing the truth from me." In an inconspicuous twitch of nervousness, his callused, working hands clasped uneasily together, littered with hairline souvenirs of numerous losing battles. "By not telling me about how you're starving."

There it was. The statement he'd been waiting for, scruffing his feathers in preparation to defend, and suddenly, Duo couldn't find it in him to spark back. The true concern on his comrade's face was rarely exposed. "Heero, listen."

"I am," he replied quietly. The thin, twisting lines of steam rose from his unattended food, highlighted in the bright Seattle sunlight. Duo hesitated but licked his lips and pressed on, knowing it would be a slow-burning hell if he didn't explain and spend the remainder of their time together dodging glares of worry with a stumbling tongue and sheepish grin.

"Before you jump to conclusions," the American said, kneading his fingers in the ridges of hair braided at the nape of his neck, "and perhaps it's too late for that, I have to tell you it's probably not what you think, all right? I'm not anorexic or bulimic or anything as pathetic as that, Heero, don't worry. I'm not some teenaged girl worried about being invited to prom, so just spit that image out. Besides, I'd look like shit in a pink halter-top dress anyway." His weak attempt at humor seemingly struck a tiny chord with in the Japanese man and he provided a small, half-hearted smile still visibly laced with concern.

"That's true."

"Hey!" Duo playfully quipped, mock-slamming his palm on the polished table. "It's funny when I insult myself, but it's just cruel coming from you."

The smile didn't diminish. But the gleam of laughter in those Asian blue eyes swiftly disappeared along with humor. "Then what happened to you, Duo? You're painfully thin," Heero said quietly. He paused, furrowing his eyebrows darkly. "It hurt to see you starving like some war orphan. You're a grown soldier, you don't deserve starvation for all the good you've done."

The American closed his eyes and pulled the paper cups of beverage from the brown bag, smiling a self-derisive smile. "Ah, but I've also done many horrible things." Sipping on the sweet-tasting pop he'd extracted, Duo stared down at his plate of pasta. "Perhaps I do deserve it."

Heero frowned once again, obligatorily accepting the paper cup of black coffee.

"But anyway-" The black plastic fork descended, swirled thrice in the pile of pasta, and forked a taste of alfredo fettuccine into the American's mouth. "It's nothing like that. It's just that juggling travel expenses and food costs is a little tricky in my situation. Trust me, it's nothing serious. I've always been skinny, and if I miss a few breakfasts then I start to look like an Ethiopian orphan. Bad genetics, I suppose."

"I see." Although it wasn't obvious in his neutralized expression, Heero wasn't comfortable with the total flippancy with which Duo handled a possibly very fragile situation. "And the bruise? What that also from missing a luncheon here and there?"

"No, it's not," Duo admitted quickly, slurping loudly. This section of the interrogation was not so systematic and clean. This was rather sloppy, to think in layman's terms. The American continued, the red-striped bendy straw pressed against his lip and eyes nervous to meet Heero's. "That... that, um, I got a week or so ago. Denver." Duo seemingly felt less than inclined to disclose the rest and simply stuffed his mouth with more pasta to quench the growl in his stomach.

However, there was one man who wouldn't stand for it. "From whom?" Heero asked firmly, eyes planted upon the cherub-shaped American face.

Duo gave him a startled look as a limp piece of fettuccine hung from his lip, amazed he'd be so forthright and almost embarrassingly blunt in pressing the issue. But as much as his fear of admitting clawed at him, the smoldering intensity of the Wing pilot's stare overcame it. "From whom, Duo?"

"No one in particular."

"Sidestepping."

"Am not," Duo pouted.

Heero calmly placed his coffee cup down while taking a complacent sip and heaved a soft sigh. "I know you, Duo. You may have ridiculously bad luck, but I've yet to see you trip on anything. You're not as clumsy as that, so don't play me for the fool. Please."

"I'm not," he argued, narrowing his eyes unpleasantly.

"You're lying to me, in your own way of keeping your hands clean." The tone was gradually turning harsher in light of Heero's patience ebbing and his pure-hearted concern swelling in it's place. "I want you to tell me the truth. All of it. I'm not going to berate you."

"Unless I keep ' lying', right?" Duo asked with a crooked smile.

It was restrainedly returned. "Of course."

"So... I have to tell you then?" The American flashed a sheepish smile that hoped for an easy solution.

And in response, Heero took an icy drink from his coffee, his voice turning flat and uninviting. "You want to go with us on vacation, don't you?"

That merited an instantaneous frown from across the table, but a grudging eventual answer. With a final sigh of defeat that the prideful Duo Maxwell would only concede to someone like the Perfect Soldier, he dropped his fork and curled his elbows together, leaning his head down and kneading his lanky fingers through his bangs.

"It was a two, three day fling at the most," Duo grimly started, violet eyes glazed over in cheerless nostalgia. "I was passing through Denver, getting sloshed and generally cruising for trouble. I knew it would come. I was asking for it. This… guy, he was involved with a real estate agency and when I asked about property prices, he insisted we discuss it over a beer. I was already thoroughly sloshed, so I though, ' What the hell.' " The American's distant violet eyes came to rest on the safety of the glowing yellow sunlight of the window, visibly delving into memory as he did so.

"I liked him, I admit. So I indulged in one too many beers on his behalf that night. The next, we accidentally crossed paths again and decided to be spontaneous and catch dinner together. I managed to somehow split the check, even though I was pretty much broke. I spent the night at his place and the next night, I was ravenous for something to eat once again. This time I was dead poor and I raided his fridge. And not just a causal raid, I mean. I fucking unloaded his refrigerator.

"Needless to say, he didn't quite find that attractive and when he discovered me 'robbing him out of house and home', I got my just deserts," Duo finished quietly. "Seems everyone knows my weak spot. I snapped at him and he hooked his fist into my stomach and I fell."

"But not to the floor," Heero cut in sharply.

"No," Duo sighed, massaging his temple. "Not right away. There happened to be a staircase on the way to the ground." He shrugged with a forced display of insouciance.

Sharp Prussian eyes follow every minute inflection, every minute gesture that the American was willing to disclose, swiftly analyzing it all and booting up a very displeased expression in response to the overwhelmingly negative evidence. "You didn't deserve that."

Duo sighed, still gazing out the window. He lifted the beverage to his lips and slurped tiredly. "What was I supposed to do, press charges? I was the one stealing his food."

"You were hungry, and he invited you over. It's perfectly legal to have a fast metabolism."

"Yeah," the American muttered, moodily stirring his white pasta. Red-tinted traces of embarrassment boiled to the surface, flushing Duo's face, thinking how readily he'd implied sleeping with another man in front of the engaged Japanese man. Sure, he was sure that Heero had absolutely no problem with Quatre and Trowa's relationship, but the circumstances were different. Those two were like inseparable soulmates and had lavished in each other's presence openly and quite often; Duo was furtive and reluctant to admit his sexuality. It made him feel rather whorish, trying to sidestep it and walk on eggshells around his best friend.

Worse of all, he thought the aforementioned best friend was the most beautiful man he'd ever had the rare luck to lay his eyes upon.

"I'm sorry." A sudden, hushed voice spoke up. Duo glanced up and was met with an apologetic look. "If I made you uncomfortable asking all those questions, I shouldn't have done it."

A quick reappliance of energetic smile and sociability masked whatever arcane expression had lingered on the American's face before. He waved it off insistently. "No, no. It's all right. You deserved to know, I guess. You are my best friend, you know." He cracked a rather brash smirk in an attempt to inject a little sunshine into the rather heavy-toned conversation.

"Well, at least I hope so! You've barely touched your food. Does that mean that you hate eating with me?" The American drawled playfully, leaning across the table and childishly tilting his head in the direction of Heero's averted eyes. "Huh, Hee-chan?" Suddenly, those flash-quick, pickpocket hands flickered up to the Asian man's face and pinched his cheek, tugging so the precise white of his teeth gleamed to the back of his jaw. But faster than even Duo's keen eyes could trace, rough but gentle fingertips, callused by winning losing battle for years on end, whipped up in response. The American yelped mildly in surprise to be pinched identically back, airing out his wisdom teeth, and to be presented with a rather mischievous, rather kittenish smile on Heero Yuy's face. With breathlessness choking his throat, Duo stared blankly, absolutely tossed for a spin. For a few moments time, they remained there, until the tendons in his calf muscles began to ache from bending his knees to lean across the table.

"You lfft gu," Duo slurred. [1]

Heero's smile twisted further across his face, tugging in Duo's grip. "You frursst." [2]













[1] For those translation-challenged in Drunkard-ese, a useful guide. "You let go."

[2] "You first."

Thanks for sticking by my lazy ass. I love you guys!