Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Wayward ❯ Wayward - Chapter Seven ( Chapter 7 )

Authors Notes: Do I still have any readers left after the last chapter?!? ::sound of chirping crickets:: Erm… okies then. After the previous chapter, things are going to start sliding really quickly, and there are no more than four chapters left in Wayward by my reckoning. I could always be wrong, but I don't think I am this time. Thanks to Marika Webster, whose inspiration knows no bounds and leaps over tall buildings. Thanks to Girl-chama, who said she wasn't going to read this anymore, and won't admit she's hooked. ::grin:: Thanks to the amazing disappearing Rashaka-chan, whom I've decided is off in India somewhere learning master meditation and floating techniques from some mysterious guru.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing. And please don't come and try to kill me. It's just a fanfic after all. Also, in no way do I condone the actions of Duo or any other character in this fic. Violence is never a way to solve anything.

Special Warning: **PLEASE READ** Marika and I often discuss my pathetic attempts at citrus in my fanfics. ::blush:: We've basically come to the conclusion that my citrus doesn't even begin to approach lime. I write grapes. So, in this chapter is my attempt to write a citrus scene that surpasses grapes and maybe gets into the realm of oranges. I've been told it's even a really great lime. It might even be considered a lemon, but Marika says not. I'm only rating it R, but some people may be more sensitive. If you think I've made a rating mistake, blame Marika. You have been forewarned.

Wayward - Chapter Seven

Beneath sickly blue lights that washed away all remnants of health, Trowa sat in silent and melancholic contemplation. His uninjured hand clasped the bandaged one, both limply resting between his legs, his feet planted flat on the tile floor. Without the lights to flush the color from his face, Trowa would still have been pale, save for the dark smudges of lost sleep about his eyes. The acrobat's posture sang of his distress; the boy slumped with curved back, head hanging, all spirit chased from his form. This perfect picture of bewildered misery decorated the morgue.

Doctor Albert Galer stood just outside the metal double doors. He wasn't sure if he should push them open and insist that the boy vacate his morgue, or allow Trowa a bit more time to say goodbye.

He swallowed hard, turning away. Such a sight couldn't be dwelled upon for too long; one began to remember their own losses. And Albert had suffered losses. He lowered his head, squeezing the bridge of his nose tightly, forcing away a burgeoning stress headache. Dark confusion and rage bubbled up from his gut, threatening to spill blackness out through his mouth, nose, eyes and ears and devour him from the outside as well as in. The suppression of this fury caused his entire body to tremble. At last, unable to only stand and shake anymore, he took out his anger on the nearest wall by punching it mightily. He succeeded only in hurting his hand and making absolutely no dent in the wall whatsoever.

Sucking on the hand that throbbed, Albert looked up when the morgue doors slammed suddenly open. Trowa marched past him. He shuddered upon seeing the utter hatred shining behind the green steel orbs settled into Trowa's stone face.

"Trowa," he reached out to stop the boy. More swiftly than his life had crumbled around him, Trowa's hand reached out and grabbed Albert's collar, the strong arm pushing him back against the wall. Not one green eye even flickered his way as the tall one spoke.

"Don't. Touch. Me." They remained that way a moment longer, prisoner and stoic warden. Then, at last, Trowa's fingers relaxed and released Albert's shirt. As the boy passed completely by, Albert opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

What are you going to tell him? What CAN you tell him? Nothing, that's what. If you know what's good for you, that is.

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

How long had it been? How long since he'd run that nosy doctor into the wall? Two hours? Three? Surely no longer than that. A person just couldn't lose that much time.

Trowa spun the bullet chamber again. Spin. Click, click, click. Since letting Galer know exactly where he stood, Trowa had been sitting alone in the locked study. He sat cross-legged in the same large, leather chair that Quatre spent his last moments in, holding the same revolver, staring down at the blood-caked carpet. He'd been sure to let all the staff know that the servant who cleaned the study floor would be the servant to die.

Spin. Click, click, click.

He didn't really even see the gun. He stared straight past it. The bloodied floor really interested him. Quatre's blood. Quatre's life essence, part of what had made him so uniquely, exquisitely, beautifully Quatre. Gone. Spilled over this meshing of polyester and who knew what else that was quite frankly rather ugly. Surely Relena had possessed more sense than to choose such hideous carpeting, so he had to blame the decorating faux pas on some Peacecraft before her.

Spin. Click, click, click.

After this turn of the wheel of fate, Trowa untangled his long legs from each other and set them on the floor, emulating perfectly the prim and proper manner in which Quatre had been sitting. Settling the pistol beneath his folded hands, Trowa let his gaze slip once more over the floor and to the sticky puddle of red. It wasn't really a puddle anymore, because the blood seeped deep into the fibers, making itself a permanent fixture in the room. No matter how washed it was, how clean the carpet looked, it would always hold some remnants of Quatre and therefore memory of his death. Leave it there another day and no servant would ever be able to clean it. They would probably have to shut away this study and create a new one.

"Barton?" Knock, knock. "Barton, we know you're in there, dammit, so you might as well acknowledge our presence and let us in!"

Trowa stared at the floor.

"Barton!" The sound of Wufei grumbling behind the door and the shuffling of feet.

Trowa lifted the pistol to his temple.

Hiiro and Wufei slammed into the door, breaking the hinges and falling over each other through the entrance. Their tall friend waited motionless as they sputtered and cursed, pushing each other away in attempts to untangle their arms and legs. Wufei was first to stand, brush himself off, and look up. But Hiiro was the first to speak.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I have no intention of killing myself, if that's what you're thinking, Hiiro."

"That's not what it looks like." Hiiro finally managed to push himself to his feet behind Wufei. His deep voice held a sharp warning in its monotone as Hiiro slipped back into the habit of being stoically disapproving. Trowa realized that while his potent feelings were more prominent, the Perfect Soldier would still be able to handle himself. The hiding of emotions came far more easily to him than the expressing of them, and old habits were hard to break.

"This is how Quatre felt." Trowa replied, his gun hand beginning to shake ever so slightly. "Only multiply it by ten. I'm doing this of my own volition. I don't know if I pull the trigger now whether I'm dead or lucky. Quatre knew there were no empty chambers. He knew that if his finger squeezed he was dead. He couldn't do anything about it." He felt his body tremble with a suppressed sob. "Duo came when Quatre was at his weakest. When the demon knew that he couldn't fight back." Feeling the rage, the fury, the loss, and desolation, Trowa pulled the barrel away from his head and aimed squarely at Hiiro. "I'm going to kill Duo. And I'll kill anyone who tries to stop me."

Anger. Pain. Confusion. These flashed behind Hiiro's Prussian eyes. The confusion Trowa recognized immediately, knew it as the same bewilderment he had once felt. This, and the knowledge that this was where the anger and pain came from, almost made Trowa falter. Almost. With a breath and a swallow, the acrobat stood and walked to Hiiro, pressing the gun barrel deep into the boy's chest. They stared at each other, a showdown between two stoic people, only neither of them could truly be detached anymore. For different reasons, of course, but Trowa realized in that moment how alike they truly were and found enough pity to lower his weapon. Hiiro never blinked. Out of the corner of his eye Trowa could see Wufei glancing nervously between the two of them. What would they do? his expression clearly wondered. What on the Earthsphere would these two insane people do? And how many people were going to get hurt as a result?

With no word, and with no seeming caution concerning the gun, Hiiro turned at walked out. Trowa turned his gaze to Wufei.

"Will you help me?"

The Chinese boy hesitated, but only for a moment.

"Yes. I'll help."

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

He stared hard at himself in the mirror. Very hard. The face began to blur and fade, eyes turning into dark holes and mouth into a line of color only slightly darker than the rest of the peach plane that was his face. A mass of brown color sat atop the blob of his head. Odd thoughts passed through his mind. Could this illusion of tired and unfocused oculars be more than just that? Could it be a true Seeing, a symbolic manifestation of what his life had really become? A shapeless and meaningless hunk of . . . nothing?

Cold came crushing down over his body. No, more like crashing through. He'd gotten used to this sensation over the past months, at least enough to where he no longer collapsed every time it occurred. It happened much too often for him to allow it to incapacitate him.

The voice filled his head, different from all the ones before it and still the same. Each voice was an individual, a life once put to good use now wasted. And with it came the pictures, the mental images of that person's life and times, their joys, sorrows, pains, and finally their death. He closed his eyes against the form in the mirror, trying to close them against this new psychic barrage, though he knew it to be a useless endeavor.

Why?

He flinched. Something entirely different about this particular voice . . .

Why?

He rose, turning completely away from the fickle glass, as though it had some responsibility in the sudden forceful nature of some dead soul.

Why? Why did you do this to me? How could you?

He gripped the bed post tightly, leaning against it form help. The voice pounded at him, demanding to know why he'd done what he had when he wasn't even sure who this voice belonged to, let alone what atrocity he'd supposedly committed.

Who are you? He demanded of the forceful soul.

WHY?!? WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME HOW COULD YOU, DUO?!? I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS!!

Duo gave a short cry, mouth and eyes opened wide. His knees, the knees of an immortal god, buckled beneath him and he went crashing into the carpeted floor. He could feel his limbs shaking in wild convulsions. A seizure . . . by the gods, he was having a seizure. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard two voices. One belonged to the soul, that so familiar soul, that soul more powerful than he had thought, that had initiated his distress. The other was the indistinct scream of Dorothy Catalonia, who no doubt thought he was dying like the overly excited woman she was.

"Duo? Duo, oh God! God, please don't die!"

Scowling as he jerked, Duo nevertheless managed to congratulate himself on being able to read his poor lover so well. In the short time she'd been is servant, she'd degenerated quickly into less than a shadow of her former self, and he was immensely proud of himself.

"Oh God . . . Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name-"

She stopped when his trembling hand caught hers within its breaking grip. He managed to control his strength in order to keep from actually breaking her hand.

"Y-You know the rule," he stuttered out, allowing his fury at both being taken by surprise and in being so easily attacked flare through his eyes, "No p-praying to any god but me." Speaking to her, holding her pale hand in his, gave him something to concentrate on. Duo pushed himself up from the floor, willing his body to cease trembling. Glaring into her dark eyes, focusing on them, Duo growled inwardly.

You're a god. You can't let a fucking dead soul bring you down!

DUO!

"SHUT UP QUATRE!" So desperate to rid himself of Quatre's presence, powerful even in death, Duo forgot to control the volume of his voice. It boomed through his home, shaking the walls and chipping paint away, flakes falling from the ceiling in a false flurry of snow. Dorothy screamed again, this time in pain as blood began to trickle in slender rivers from her ears.

Quatre fell silent. The cold passed. Duo closed his mouth and ended the barrage.

He found himself cradling a whimpering Dorothy. He blinked, unsure as to how exactly he'd come to be there, with this woman. And why was she bleeding? He lifted her head gently, looking into the eyes that stared up at him. They were filled with pain and fear, and somewhere deep down burned a fiery anger. He wiped at a trail of blood from one of her ears and heard himself speak, so softly, so tenderly he only confused himself more.

"Why are you bleeding?" Duo didn't know why she was here, or why he held her so closely, or even why he suddenly felt a terrible, sickening revulsion of himself.

"D-Duo?" Dorothy blinked, the fear and anger fading to be replaced with pure adoration. He held her as she stood on wobbling legs, and his own felt weak beneath him. His mind swirled, confusing and conflicting images beating against his brain as he walked Dorothy to the bed, making sure she was steadied as she sat. His own jelly legs forced him to sit beside her, and he cupped his head in his hands, trying to make sense of things.

"What's happening? Dorothy, why am I here? What . . . what have I been doing?" Moments passed. She didn't answer. He didn't look up but could feel her eyes on his back. Then, ever so softly, he felt her hand tentatively touch the back of his head, stroke his hair.

"You don't know?" Her voice wavered, as though she expected him to laugh at her and say that he joked with her, "You really don't know?"

"I - I don't . . . Quatre . . . Quatre's dead. He . . . did something to me. My mind's all messed up."

"Oh, Duo . . ." The soft feel of her cheek against his alerted him to the fact of how close they really were. And she seemed to have no inhibitions about being so close or touching him so familiarly. Her hand stroked the length of his braid, a thing more intimate to him then other parts of his body. Her other hand rested now at his neck, not in such a way for him to feel physically threatened, but imperiled in another manner.

"Dorothy-"

"Shhh," she placed a finger over his lips. "Don't ruin this for me. I've waited for so long to see that kindness in your eyes again. Please, please Duo, just be yourself for me just this once."

He didn't understand her, of course. For all the Earthsphere he wished he could. But Dorothy's hands sought out new places to invade, more private places, and he became aware that some time in the recent past this had been a habit to her, for her fingers knew all the right areas to caress. Involuntary shudders ran the length of his young body. Again protests rose to his mind but through the screen of flaring passion they just didn't seem important. Duo lifted his hands to either side of her head, grasping her gently and pulling her to him. He barely knew this woman, yet this kiss felt familiar, even warm. No . . . his hands were warm.

"Duo . . ." she murmured his name, pulling away slightly, and he dropped his hands "Thank you." He knew, without knowing how, that she thanked him for the healing, something that had been automatic beneath his hands, a power he hadn't been controlling. What's happening?!? Even his thoughts sounded different to him, different in a way he couldn't express but that chilled him nonetheless. Dorothy must have seen his fear in his eyes, for she smiled and kissed him again briefly.

"Don't be afraid!" she uttered the words in a reverent whisper, as if she stood in awestruck devotion on the judgement day. "Don't be afraid, Duo! Your powers are a wonderful gift! You're a god, immortal and perfect!" Once more he saw that bare adoration in her gaze, and her small speech did not alleviate his fears, but bolstered them.

"What have I done to you, Dorothy?" he asked, voice cracking. He raised a hand again, placing it at her cheek, almost revolted at the way she tilted her face into the caress. "What have I done to you; this isn't you!"

"I'm your servant."

Duo moved to get up. He couldn't, wouldn't believe that he was such a . . . a thing as what she described. Choked sobs stuck in his throat as she leaned onto him, effectively pinning him down not only with her body, but also with her eyes. They shone with terror and tears, pleading with him not to get up, not to leave her. He put his hands on either of her sides, meaning to lift her up and off, but the instant he touched her, Dorothy gave a cry and a shudder. She thought he meant to pull her towards him, for she settled herself straddling his hips and murmured words of thanks behind fervent kisses. She found the buttons of his shirt more quickly than his own could have and in moments the shirt lay open, revealing his chest, heaving from confusion and a sudden, growing desire. Duo felt the slow trail of her hands again, and this time had not the strength or conviction to stop them, his soul so weakened by his discoveries. Her slender fingers brushed so lightly over his quivering stomach, touching only enough to be considered touching. A moan escaped his lips before he could stop it, before he had a chance.

Gritting his teeth together, Duo grasped at her wrists and tossed her from atop him, over to his right. Without thinking he shifted himself into a position mirroring hers of only a moment ago. Her skirts fluttered down over the bed, revealing her pale legs.

"Dorothy, we can't-I can't do this to you, not after what-"

Her legs bent on either side of him, their smooth skin brushing lightly past the exposed flesh of his sides. He felt the tingles race down his spine, feeding the burning inside. He tried to speak again, but all he could feel was her legs at his sides and, in his mind, her warmth beneath him. Then he felt her lift her hips ever so slightly, pressing close him and in the next moment he found himself grasping her to himself in tight arms. His lips claimed hers as his own, his tongue pushing through with a force that shocked and disturbed him . . . but what disturbed him more was the thought that this was the beginning because if he gave in now then he wouldn't be able to keep his new confusion . . . if he gave in then he would return to this monstrous god-thing that Dorothy described but oh God it felt so good to hold her this close and why, why did it feel so good when he barely knew her and why did he rip through her layers of clothing when before he'd always been a slow lover and why did the smell of her excite him all the more and . . .

. . . and what was this . . .

. . . what was this . . .

. . . this chill . . .

. . . chill passing . . .

Duo blinked and his mind cleared for moment. Only a moment, one in which he found not only Dorothy completely shed of clothing but himself as well. They both were upright, him sitting, her kneeling, hovering above him, her arms draped over each of his shoulders and in that moment of clarity she dropped herself down and down until he felt her walls pushing against him, pushing and sliding over and closing around him and why in the name of God and all gods did this time, with this woman, feel so damn good? His hands grasped her hips roughly as he felt a growl rising from the pit beneath his throat. Dorothy gave a moan that had no substance, an airy thing with no strength. With that he felt all the more powerful and . . .

. . . the chill . . .

. . . returned . . .

. . . passing through . . .

. . . his chest, ice, just ice . . .

. . . voices, so many voices, all screaming and crying . . .

. . . cold . . .

. . . so . . .

. . . cold . . .

Duo grunted and shuddered, jerking with a strange seizure of pleasure and pain, chill and burning heat. Below him- somehow they'd changed positions again- Dorothy strained against his body, her skin covered in a glistening sheen of sweat yet she too shivered, goosebumps broken over her flesh. Her fingers closed ungently over his shoulders, sharp nails gouging out lines of deep red blood. Then she began to blur in his vision and as the cold ebbed away blackness crept in.

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

"Where's Hiiro?" Trowa cast a green glance about the room, deep scowl darkening his angry features further. Wufei shook his head, finding himself for once in his life with his hands raised in the universal gesture of ignorance. The Chinese boy sighed, wondering why on the Earthsphere Trowa insisted that this meeting be in the study. He's masochistic, that's why. "We don't have time to wait for him." The tall boy turned, staring Wufei straight in his dark eyes, something Trowa never did. Wufei swallowed, stepping backwards without really knowing why except that there was a dark rage so closely parallel to Duo's insanity that it made the banged one seem as demonic as his braided enemy. "I want him on our side, Wufei. We can't afford for him to go running to Duo."

Running to Duo? Wufei stared at Trowa. What the hell went through this boy's head? "Why would Hiiro go running to Duo? You can't possibly believe that Hiiro is working for him, can you?" The dark one watched as his taller companion sighed and shook his head, looking away, off into the same distant place he'd been hovering near since Quatre's death. Trowa traveled a thin road between reality and what Wufei knew was a tempting haze of incoherence.

"Hiiro's not working for Duo," Trowa answered suddenly, still staring into his private fantasy. "It's hard to explain, Wufei. I know what he's going through, because I've been there. The confusion. It's hard. He's going to betray us, not because he condones what Duo does or because he's Duo's lackey . . . but because he can't stand the thought of killing Duo, no matter how demonic he's become." Silence, both without and within Wufei's mind. What Trowa said simply didn't make it in; it was too unbelievable. "If you don't believe me, check his room. He's gone, I know he is. He's gone to warn Duo that we're going to move against him. As if Duo doesn't already know."

Wufei gripped Trowa by the collar, felt the scowl stretching his lips. "Hiiro is part of our team, Trowa. Whatever this confusion is you're talking about, it's not enough to make him go warn a killer that we're coming for him. Hiiro's a Gundam pilot; he wouldn't do that."

Trowa looked down at him, so calm, serenity in his green eyes, and Wufei knew that Trowa had come to a decision and was settled into it. Jung would call it self-actualization . . . "In case you've forgotten, Wufei, the Gundams are gone. Destroyed a year ago. And Duo was one of our team, too. He was a Gundam pilot. Look what he became."

Wufei cursed and dropped the other boy, turning and stomping in fuming fury towards the room Hiiro had moved his uncharred things to. There, in accordance with Trowa's prophecy, the Chinese boy found an empty closet, empty drawers, and no Hiiro. Only a short note.

Trowa and Wufei,

I can't let this happen. You find him first, do what you want. I find him, and you never will.

H.Y.

"DAMN!"

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

Faint humming came from somewhere in the darkness. Dorothy rolled over, feeling the damp sheets underneath her naked body. She snuggled deeper into the warm blankets, satisfied with herself and the world. Eyes still closed, the woman smiled as she thought on why she'd been so exhausted. The humming drummed into her skull and she knew it was his voice, happy, so happy. His happiness filled every pore of her and multiplied into an almost tangible joy. Love . . . this is love.

"Dorothy," his voice meandered closer, and then she felt his hand close on her shoulder, "Dorothy-dear, sweetling, darling heart, it's time to get up." She felt the tender sweep of his finger across her cheek and smiled lazily. Her face leaned into his touch, which pulled away sooner than she liked. A whimper rose from her throat. "Dorothy, get up."

"I don't want to; it's so warm here-"

A tight iron hand dug relentlessly under the blanket, finding her throat and wrapping tightly about it. Her eyes opened wide just in time to see the other hand fly towards her. The resulting and resounding SMACK seemed to echo through her ears. Dorothy, shuddering beneath his grip, dared to look up through her eyelashes. The indigo eyes, before so wide and confused, so innocent . . . now they swam with crimson fury.

"I said it's time to get up," his growling left no room for thoughts of pleading, "We're going to have company soon, and I want my doll dressed up all nice and pretty." He pulled her up close to him, the scent of darkness wafting up through her nostril from his skin and clothing. Those arms wrapped around her again as they had before, only this time the soft tenderness held within them gave way to the true coldness. She shivered within that embrace. "Don't forget, Dorothy-dear, that I need you."

I need you. I need you.

Never, "I love you."

Dorothy closed her eyes, forcing back tears. Shinigami held her tightly.

End Chapter Seven.