∞

[Echoes]

A Gundam Wing Fan Fiction by The Manwell

The soft sound of a breath passing through pale lips hesitantly fills the silence surrounding him. Slowly, a pair of green eyes open but only one is visible in the bathroom mirror. There are no thoughts reflected in their depths. No emotions. No fear. Only acceptance.

A steady hand slides away from the edge of the porcelain sink and reaches for the dark weapon waiting in prefect silence atop the back of the commode.

Warm flesh meets cold steel.

Familiarity.

Eyelids drift shut.

Lips part.

Lungs fill with a single breath.

A name is murmured into the darkness.

And then:

A single gunshot precedes the rolling thunder of a heavy body falling bonelessly to the floor.

“He’s dead.”

The silence following those two words pulls Duo’s heart to a stop, his pulse to a standstill, his breath to a halt. Somehow he finds the means to utter, “What?”

Quatre clears his throat and fights to keep his voice modulated. “Trowa. He killed himself sometime this morning.”

Duo’s fingers tighten around the telephone receiver until the plastic casing creaks in his grasp. “No...”

“I... I’m so sorry, Duo.”

The young man turns away, as if he could run from the truth of it. But he can feel it, dear God, he can feel it in his very soul. Trowa’s dead. “Have...” His voice is so coated with anguish it’s barely audible. He swallows deliberately and tries again. “Have you called the others yet?”

“No. You’re the first.”

Duo nods. “Meet...” Another deep breath. “Meet me at Heero’s in an hour. Then we’ll all go to tell Wufei... together.”

“I’ll be there.”

The dial tone purrs softly in Duo’s ear. Reluctantly, as it becomes obvious no comfort will be forthcoming from the mindless white noise, Duo lowers the receiver. He watches as the telephone cord curls around itself where it dangles over the edge of the counter.

Duo Maxwell stares blankly at the contraption and finally identifies the aching emptiness in his chest.

Trowa Barton – his best friend – is dead.

He is unsure of how long he remains perched on a stool in the breakfast nook. It is only the high-pitched whistle of the automated phone service which jolts him from his shock: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up –”

Duo hangs up. He’d like to make a call. He’d like to fucking call his best friend!

He forces himself to take a deep breath. He checks the clock and notes the time. He has to leave now if he’s going to make it over to Heero’s within the hour.

Thinking no further than the appointed meeting time and the location, he manages to pull himself out of his slumped position against the counter. Wasting not a single moment more, Duo scoops up his car keys and jams his feet into his shoes.

Still dressed in his morning workout sweats, Duo slams out the front door and a scant few seconds later the sound of his car engine roaring to life can be heard up and down the quiet street of his neighborhood.

Quatre, eyes red-rimmed and darkly shadowed by signs of exhaustion, knocks on Duo’s door. It has been ten days since Trowa had shot himself. Ten days since the neighbor getting ready for work in the adjoining apartment had called the police. Ten days since the pain had begun. And only now has his stepbrother’s personal effects been released by the police. In ten days, a life has ended and the investigation has been closed:

Suicide.

He closes his eyes and hugs the cardboard box to his chest. All that remains of Trowa’s thoughts and hopes and dreams resides here. In this cheap paper container.

Quatre feels the tears press against his eyelids once more.

The door opens. Without greeting or hesitation, he’s pulled inside and a warm arm is draped over his shoulders.

Duo.

He doesn’t say anything. Quatre simply leans his head on the other man’s shoulder and tries to set his pain aside. It’s been ten days, but perhaps now the healing may begin.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Duo asks softly.

Quatre draws a deep, steadying breath. The air around Duo is warmed from his body heat and scented with his shampoo. He whispers, “Are the others here?”

“Yeah. They’re in the den.”

Quatre nods and greedily takes one more breath. “Then I’m ready.”

A warm hand slides up and down Quatre’s arm, warming him through the layers of fabric. “Okay.”

They wander further into the house, Quatre following Duo’s guiding hands until a door is both revealed and opened before him. In the quiet of the room beyond, he observes Heero Yuy curled up in the recliner, his arms wrapped around his torso for warmth as he stares into the small fire conversing in the hearth. He also sees Chang Wufei sitting on the floor with his back to the couch, his legs folded in front of him and his hands in his hair.

There are no words as Duo and Quatre join them. There are no words when Quatre places the box on the rug before the fire. No one moves. Perhaps no one even breathes.

But then Quatre reaches forward and removes the first item in the box. A journal. His eyes tear over as it falls open to a random page in his hand, teasing him with his stepbrother’s slanted, precise handwriting.

He has to use his sleeve to banish the moisture blurring his sight. And when he does, the first words he reads on the page are these:

“There is nothing I can do. I am only a man. I am in love. I am a man in love with another man.”

∞

The soft sounds of his near-silent breaths almost echo off the cold tiles of the bathroom walls and floor. His lashes stir, and he meets his gaze in the mirror before him. He studies what he can of his face, trusting a second green eye to exist behind the soft fall of hair covering so much of his expression. He thinks. He aches. He wants.

It is not possible. He has accepted this.

He hurts.

And there is only one way to stop it.

His shoulders ache. Having braced his arms against the counter and having leaned over the sink for some time has left them protesting the strain.

He doesn’t mind.

The stiffness is sweet as it will be one of the last things he will ever feel.

He shifts, his hand reaching for the gun resting just beside his shaving kit.

It is a shame he will probably ruin that kit. It is nearly new. But who wants to clean a dead man’s blood off of it in order to use it again?

Soon, it will become just another thing that has been cast aside.

His fingers curl around the handgrip. Calluses press gently against the trigger.

The steel warms in his hand.

It feels... familiar.

Green eyes close.

Pale lips part.

Lungs fill with a single breath.

A man’s name is murmured into the darkness behind closed eyelids.

And then:

A single gunshot reverberates through the room. The echo is so loud the sound of a young man’s body striking the floor is nearly hidden.

“Duo, it’s... I’m calling about Trowa...”

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, before he knows what the voice echoing in his ear is trying to tell him, he mouths the words. In perfect unison with the familiar voice.

“He’s dead.”

Still, he feels a shiver ripple through his body at the words. He is silent. Perhaps he is even in shock. But where disbelief would logically follow, there is nothing.

“Duo?”

In a defeated whisper, the young man replies, “I’m still here, Heero.”

A soft exhalation echoes through the airwaves.

“When?” he asks sadly, an ache emanating from beneath his sternum, throbbing in time with his labored heartbeat.

A slight pause precedes a reply. “This morning... Duo?”

“Hm?” Duo walks over to the entryway of his apartment and steps into his tennis shoes, taking the cordless phone with him.

“Why aren’t you... surprised?”

The question is unexpected. He blinks. A moment passes before Heero demands, “Did you know? Did Trowa tell you he was going to–”

“No, Heero,” Duo replies, tired and aching down to his very soul. “He never said a thing. Never acted strange at all.”

“Then why aren’t you more upset?”

Duo aches at the confusion in his business partner’s voice. “I... don’t know,” he admits, feeling a tremor of that same confusion begin to worm its way through the haze of anguish. “It just...” Duo pauses and takes a deep breath. He is standing, staring at the front door of his apartment, shoes on, phone cradled to his ear. He is lost. “It just all seems so familiar...”

“Duo? What–”

“Have you called the others yet?”

“No. Meet me at Quatre’s in a half an hour?”

“And then we’ll go to Wufei’s... together,” Duo agrees, feeling an icy chill scatter down his spine at the words.

“Yeah,” Heero agrees and disconnects the call.

For a moment, Duo doesn’t realize the conversation is over. He lowers the phone from his ear and absently returns it to its cradle.

Trowa Barton – one of his closest friends – is dead.

Mechanically, Duo reaches for his windbreaker and pulls it on. He shoves his keys into one of the pockets and checks for his commuter pass. Still in a daze, he steps out into the stairwell and locks the flimsy door behind him. There are no sounds as the young man treads quickly down the winding concrete steps in a pair of old sneakers.

Heero Yuy leans his forehead against the cold metal of Duo’s apartment door and drags a deep breath into his lungs. It has been six days. Six days since he’d come home from working out at the gym to find Trowa in a landscape of deep, pooling red in the cramped bathroom. Six days since life had begun to unravel around him. And now, after six days, the police have finally released his roommate’s things. It seems so strange that in six days a man can die, be investigated, and become old news. Just another suicide in the metropolis.

A sound on the other side of the door startles open eyes he hadn’t even been aware of closing. He hadn’t knocked. He knows he hadn’t yet knocked on Duo’s door. And yet it opens nonetheless.

Duo says nothing. He simply opens his arms wide for Heero who collapses against him. Heero soaks up the warmth his business partner silently offers. If either of them notice that the plastic bag clutched in Heero’s fist is softly bumping against Duo’s knee, they do not mention it.

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” Duo asks softly.

Heero draws a deep breath. The air is warmer here, near Duo’s neck. Scented by his soft, long hair. After the briefest hesitation, Heero nods.

Two hands rise to his shoulders and rub soothing circles through his sweater. Heero sighs. He inhales once more and feels the jagged edges of his nerves being soothed into a formation less... draining.

“Yeah,” he tells Duo, “I’m ready.”

“Then come on,” he invites quietly but doesn’t move away. “Everyone’s already here.”

Heero allows himself a moment more before he pulls away and toes off his shoes. Duo leads him further into the apartment and pulls back the sliding door to the living area. On the threshold, Heero takes note of Quatre sitting with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around his shins. He also sees Wufei leaning against the glass doors leading out to the balcony, his stare unblinking and his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach.

The bag crinkles as Heero places it in the center of the room atop the pale yellow tatami mat. No one speaks of the bag or its contents. No one has the strength. Heero sits beside Duo and leans on his shoulder for warmth and support. Thus they remain for long, aching minutes.

And then Duo reaches for the bag. The first item he removes is a day planner. Innocuous though it seems, the notes in the margins attest to the item’s more personal nature. Heero turns his gaze downward as Duo flips through the pages. His gaze skims the notes written in his friend’s precise yet slanting script. No cause of Trowa’s suicide is apparent until Duo approaches the current date.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

And:

“I see him every day and it only hurts more.”

And:

“I know that we cannot be together.”

Finally:

“I never want him to know this pain. It’s love. And it’s impossible.”

∞

Another breath. Another echo. Another reflection in the mirror above the sink.

He stares back, studying the one visible green eye. His expression is perfectly relaxed. Perfectly calm. Perfectly empty.

As is the rest of him.

He shifts his grip from the edge of the sink and raises one hand to the glassy surface suspended on the wall opposite him. His fingertips hover over his own image. Hesitate.

He imagines that if he were to allow his fingers to touch the glass he would discover it to be warm. Liquid. A gateway to another existence.

That is what he wants.

No, not what he wants. He cannot have what he wants.

This is what he can have.

But he has learned to want it, regardless.

The gun is lying in the metal sink. Waiting. Patient. He does not have to look to know it is there. Its presence is a comfort.

His fingertips remain poised above the mirror. Such a short distance. Such an easy journey. But, alas, there is only one way to find that place of non-existence. There is only one way to end the tumultuous emotions that stretch him on a rack of his own desires.

His hand falls away from the still untouched mirror and settles on the firearm in the sink.

So cold. But it warms.

So... familiar. The gun feels like it had been designed for this moment, for his hand, for such a purpose...

He has to close his eyes. This is his last chance to imagine the face of the one he loves before he returns to the nothingness that is death.

His whisper is hardly more than a breath as he utters a name. A single name. A man’s name.

No one hears the gunshot. No one hears the fall. A room away, an abandoned cell phone rings.

He’s dead.

Duo Maxwell sits up in bed, shivering with the power of the nightmare. He doesn’t bother to try to coax himself back to sleep. He grabs for his digital phone and dials his partner’s number.

It rings.

He continues to shiver, bare-chested in the dark room.

Rings again.

His other hand grabs at the shiny, thermal-insulating comforter.

Rings for a third time.

Fingers twist and knuckles become a bloodless white in the soft landscape of satiny microfiber.

Rings a final time.

The voice mail invites him to leave a message.

Duo snaps his phone closed and reaches for the shirt he’d discarded last night. In less than five minutes he’s dressed and checking his pockets for his keys. He slides on his boots, barely bothering to zip them even partway before he’s out the door.

He slides behind the wheel of his car, thankful for the late hour and nearly deserted streets. He makes the forty-minute commute via shuttle rail in less than half that time in his sporty vehicle.

As he dives out of his car, he dials the familiar number again. And, again, receives the same results.

Duo knows there is no logical reason for his panic. He is aware that were he to be stopped and asked to explain his need to see his coworker he would be unable to articulate himself. He does not care.

He sorts through the keys on the chain for the spare Trowa had given him. A moment later, the sound of the lock disengaging barely registers before Duo has the door open and is surveying the interior of the small house.

When he sees his partner’s cell phone lying on the kitchen table, he is worried. When he sees his partner lying on the bathroom floor, he is heartbroken.

Duo leans against the doorway. There is no disbelief. There is no shock. There is only the silence and the pain. He’d known. He’d known what to expect when he got here. He’d known the moment he’d woken up with those words hovering at the edge of his awareness.

He’d known. But he hadn’t gotten here in time.

Voice thick and heavy with pain, Duo demands softly, “Why’d you do it, Tro?”

There is no point in checking for a pulse. The blood is no longer pooling. Besides, it’s hard to resuscitate someone without a good portion of their brain... or their skull.

Despite the fact that he’s been a cop for almost ten years, Duo has to turn away. He has to hide the tears from Trowa’s corpse. From his ghost even, if it still lingers.

“You bastard,” he chokes out, his voice cracking in the wake of his rage and pain. “Why?”

It’s a good question. Perhaps the only question that’s really important here.

Duo doesn’t know the answer to it. But he will.

It takes two days for Duo to crack the encryption on Detective Trowa Barton’s electronic personal logs. It takes another two days for him to read through each and every entry. It takes an additional two days for him to finally get his eyes to stop leaking.

“I love you.”

Damn allergies.

“We were mated through our souls the moment the universe was created... Hm. I bet you didn’t know I was a poet.”

Must be pollen season again.

“I have shared your hopes and dreams as best I could from outside your window, looking in.”

Maybe Wufei had brought his cat over when Duo’d asked him to watch his place during that last undercover op.

“I can only hope you’ll read this someday. That you’ll understand.”

Maybe it’s not the cat hair. Maybe he’s allergic to his own hair. Isn’t that a depressing thought?

“I want you to be happy. And, I think you’d want me to be happy. This is the only way I know how to do that.”

Fucking hell. Where are those damn scissors?

“To write your name here would be... crass. Your name should not be encoded in digital files but murmured in reverence like the prayer it truly is.”

Fuck the scissors. Isn’t there a nail file in this God forsaken place?

“Your name shall be the last sounds to fall from my lips. Its echo will guide me into paradise.”

Duo slams the kitchen drawer shut without bothering to fetch the knife he’d come in here for. Somehow, he suspects it’s not the hair he’s allergic to, but the broken heart.

∞

He doesn’t bother with the lights. Really, what is the point? He already knows what the mirror will show him. And the expressionless face of a soldier is not what he wants his last vision on Earth and the colonies to be.

The room around him is not his own. But it is familiar in its strangeness. How many bathrooms such as this one has he drifted through a transient, silent killer?

He doesn’t bother to count. That would only be delaying the main event. And he had promised himself one last grandstand show...

Had it really been all those years ago?

He frowns, knowing that sometimes time seems to warp around him. This is why he keeps a calendar on the wall beside his bed, regardless of where that bed might be.

Tonight it is in Duo’s house.

In silence, Trowa considers shaking his head in amazement. The two of them had never been close. Had barely seen each other since Dekim Barton’s attempt on the United Earth Sphere. But then Duo hadn’t invited just Trowa into his home for the fifth anniversary of true peace. All the other former pilots are here as well. Perhaps Trowa had simply been part of the package deal.

He almost sighs. It’s the first time he has seen all of them together since... since Peace Million.

It is a shame he’ll be utilizing one of Duo’s guest bathrooms for... well, for what he intends.

His thumb caresses the smooth metal of the gun in his grasp and Trowa almost feels a moment of remorse. He doesn’t want to desecrate this room. Doesn’t want to leave a mess behind. It’s an ingrained tendency. From his mercenary-hood.

But he doesn’t have the strength to seek another bolthole. Doesn’t have the presence of mind to secure another location. He just wants to get on with it. He’s earned this, after all: freedom.

He’d never expected his life to end up the way it has. He’d never anticipated surviving the war. Having friends who don’t give a damn if you haven’t spoken to them of your own volition in years; they care about you anyway.

And they do care. In their own ways.

In every way but the one he desperately needs.

He draws in a deep, settling breath.

He raises the gun and readies it.

His lips part and he whispers to the darkness reflected before him that is his reflection.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The whisper is barely discernable from the other night noises in the old house. There are no words to describe how relieved he is to finally be doing this. No words to describe the emotions that have brought him to this moment of darkness. Just a name. One name.

He draws one more breath in order to utter it.

“What can’t you do anymore?”

Startled, Trowa’s eyelids flutter. His body tenses. He hadn’t heard anyone enter the room. But then, in a house full of former Gundam pilots, he should have known better. And, for one crazy moment, he almost believes that voice belongs to the one whose name he had intended to speak. Almost imagines that his thoughts have summoned him.

“Trowa?”

But no, that is not his voice. The disappointment is so intense he doesn’t trust himself to move without crumbling to dust where he stands.

“Trowa? Put the gun down and talk to me.”

The gun? Trowa blinks, recalling the fact that his fingers are currently wrapped snuggly around the deadly weapon.

Put it down? Talk? How will this fix his life? Right his universe? Trowa’s universe has never been “right.” Why should words make it so now? Lips moving without his conscious intent, Trowa hears himself beseech in a barely-there whisper, “Just let me...”

His visitor loses patience: “Trowa, put the God damn motherfucking gun down right this minute or I swear on all things holy I’ll be using it immediately after you get through with it.”

That stops him. Startles him. Snaps him out of his lethargy. Slowly, he lowers the weapon and turns his unfocused gaze toward the open doorway and the black form braced on the threshold.

Voice clearer than before, Trowa mutters in slight confusion, “Duo?”

A soft sigh spills past the young man’s lips. The pitch black of his shoulders shifts as a micron of tension is expelled. “Yeah, man. It’s me.” Duo cocks his head to one side. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he inquires curiously. As if he’d caught Trowa sitting up on the roof contemplating the communications satellites in orbit.

Automatically, Trowa replies. “I want to be free.” He can’t see Duo’s expression but the young man’s voice remains casual.

“Free from what?”

Trowa shakes his head minutely. “Who,” he corrects.

There is a slight pause as data is shifted, reevaluated, and synthesized. “I see,” Duo replies, and Trowa thinks that – perhaps – he really does.

He experiences a moment during which he thinks that Duo might actually allow him to go through with this.

“You have to tell him, you know,” Duo replies quietly. The casual tone is gone.

Trowa tenses, resistant to the very idea.

“He deserves to know how you feel.”

Perhaps that is true.

“Besides, you can always kill yourself later.”

And that is true.

Still, he hesitates. “How do I know...? How do I explain...?”

Duo shifts in the doorway, leaning back to allow Trowa enough room to pass him into the other room. Trowa doesn’t move. In a calm, soothing voice, Duo replies, “One thing at a time, man. First you drop the mask, then you say the words that come as close as possible to describing how you feel.” There is a slight pause and Trowa can almost feel Duo’s eyes narrow in suspicious disbelief. “Don’t tell me you haven’t rehearsed it ten thousand times already in your head. Don’t tell me you don’t lull yourself to sleep with those words every night. Don’t even think about trying to feed me a line like that because it would be absolute, pure, unadulterated bullshit.”

One corner of Trowa’s mouth twitches at Duo’s arrogance. He is almost amused... because this is also true. Slowly and deliberately, he disables the gun but leaves the chambered bullet be. He can feel Duo watching him as he tucks the familiar weight into his jeans. Task finished, he says simply, “Okay.”

Duo nods once. “Okay. C’mon, then. I’ll walk you to his door.”

Duo tries to keep an eye on Trowa as they step into the hallway. Even though the old house isn’t that big, Duo can’t help the twitchy uncertainty that, somehow, Trowa will use that gun before they arrive at their destination.

A brief ghost of smile lights upon Trowa’s lips at one of Duo’s many sidelong glances. “Relax,” he says, “I won’t...” kill myself “... until I’ve told him.”

Duo opens his mouth to argue that there’s a possibility that Trowa won’t want to kill himself after this upcoming chat, but in the end simply nods. He doesn’t have the heart to give his old comrade potentially false hope. If anything, it would only aggravate the situation.

And then they’re there. At his door. Duo lifts his hand to knock but pauses at the unvoiced questions mirrored in Trowa’s almost hidden expression.

“I saw him come up after dinner,” Duo explains, trying to respond to that look.

Slowly, Trowa shakes his head. “No, I...” Green eyes focus their attention on the door. His tone is almost disbelieving. “How did you know?” Trowa finally whispers.

Duo frowns, opens his mouth, then closes it again. How had he known Trowa would try to kill himself tonight? How had he guessed the identity of the one person he needs more than his own life? There had been no clues. Nothing he can point to as evidence. And yet he somehow knows these things anyway. And that knowledge had not surprised him. It had bubbled gently to the surface. Like a forgotten dream.

Returning Trowa’s solemn gaze, Duo tells him, “Maybe I’ve always known.”

For a moment, no one says anything at all. And then Trowa, apparently having decided to be satisfied with the reply, raises his own hand and raps his knuckles on the door.

There is no immediate response.

Duo clears his throat. “Yo! You still awake in there, man?”

No reply.

Duo knocks on the door, louder this time. “Hey, look, dude. I know it’s late and everything but just open the door, all right?”

Nothing.

He doesn’t hesitate to try the door knob. It is unlocked. Duo pushes the door open, taking in the faint candlelight-tinted room. The bed that has not yet been slept in. The dresser that remains empty where it occupies that space against the wall. The full length mirror braced on the closet door. The kneeling figure before it, hunched over and weary.

“Hey, buddy,” Duo says quietly. “I’m sorry to barge in like this but there’s something–”

“Go away.” The familiar voice is almost alien the man who utters it is so weak.

Duo steps closer. “Are you feeling okay? Was it something you ate?”

“I am fine” is the terse reply.

Duo snorts. “Yeah, you sure sound it.”

The replying words are lost in a sound that is caught somewhere between a moan of pain and a sigh of relief.

Suddenly very concerned, Duo eliminates the distance between and places a hand on the young man’s shoulder. He draws in a breath to ask what is troubling his friend when he smells it. He glances down and that is when he sees it. The blood.

“Fuck!” Duo’s next shout he had intended to use calling Trowa, but the man is already there, his hands helping Duo to gently lay the man between them on the damp carpet. Duo stares at the wound in his friend’s abdomen. At the dark blood seeping out of it at an alarming rate. He watches as Trowa lays a hand over the wound, trying to minimize the bleeding. Neither of them reach for the knife.

“I’m going to get help,” Duo tells his two friends, noting that they are probably too busy looking at each other in shock to really hear what he is saying. “I’ll be right back,” he says, his voice sharpening. “Trowa, talk to him. No one is dying in my house tonight, God damn it.”

And with that, he sprints from the room.

Trowa studies the pale face of the man in his arms and says simply, “I enjoyed our chess game tonight.”

A slight smirk is his reward. The youth blinks slowly as he struggles with the words. “You are... a worthy... opponent.”

“As are you.” Trowa pauses, ignoring the feel of warm blood squeezing out from between his fingers. “I want more evenings like that with you.”

A small but sincere beauteous smile creases the other man’s lips. “That... is also... my wish.”

“But it’s not possible,” Trowa whispers back, “is it, Wufei?”

Near-black eyes reflect his profound sadness and regret. Deliberately, he lifts his own blood-smeared fingers and brushes them across the graceful lines of Trowa’s face. He sighs when Trowa’s fingers gently curl around his wrist to maintain the contact.

“Not... not this time,” Wufei manages to say.

A soft pause precedes Trowa’s words. “Will we have another chance?”

Wufei nods. “I believe...”

Listening to each weakening breath, Trowa abandons his efforts to stop the blood flow and settles his palm against Wufei’s jaw. Offering warmth. Offering what he can.

“Then I will be with you again.”

Wufei’s eyes finally drift shut. His body finally gives in with a shuddering breath.

All is silent.

Trowa remains right where he is. Crouched over the still body of a proud colony-born youth. The silence is a presence in itself. A companion Trowa knows well. It subtly reminds him of the gun still tucked in his waistband.

Still holding Wufei’s hand to his jaw, Trowa reaches for the warmed metal. He carefully releases the safety. He will have only once chance; he’d left the clip in the bathroom and there is only one bullet in the chamber.

In a whisper, Trowa addresses the one he loves. “I believe...” in a second chance for us, “Wufei...”

The sound of the gunshot echoes through the house, startling the three figures rushing up the stairs. Stunned, they almost pause in their flight. But the sound of a body slumping heavily into the soft carpeting pulls them the remaining distance to Wufei’s room.

∞

It’s dark. But he likes it. Prefers it.

There is a reflection. He averts his eyes. His is not the face he wants to see right now.

The soft, white sound of running water steadies him.

The unyielding, cool metal in his hands soothes him.

The insistent, brown strands of hair attempt to conceal his expression. But there is no reason to hide what he feels.

He releases the safety on the gun.

No reason to hide. Not anymore.

He walks past the bathroom door and pauses at what he sees. He remains in the hall, head tilted to one side, thoughtfully considering the picture before him. His lover stands before the mirror, combing out his long hair, damp and darkened from the shower.

He changes his destination but almost hesitates on the threshold before wrapping his arms around his lover’s waist. His lover makes a somewhat disgruntled noise at having his routine interrupted, but the instant of irritation is hardly sincere.

Turning toward the warmth of the other man’s body, he nuzzles the cooling strands of hair aside and touches his lips to the smooth skin underneath. He inhales greedily, loving the familiar body-heat-warmed scent of shampoo and soap.

The comb is abandoned. Two bodies lean into each other. Two souls reach out for each other. A moment of reconnection occurs in perfect silence.

And then the soft chime of an incoming call drifts into their affirmation.

The moment is over, but neither one pulls away.

“Yes?” The question is asked as he takes another breath in an attempt to skim the scent off of his lover’s skin and hold it in his lungs.

“You have an incoming call from Heero Yuy,” the electronic voice says pleasantly.

“Put him through.”

A second – perhaps less – later, the familiar voice is heard through the apartment’s communication system. “I’m looking for Duo. Have either of you seen or spoken to him?”

Dark eyes glittering with amusement are reflected in the bathroom mirror. “Hello to you, too, Yuy,” Wufei replies drolly. “Trowa and I are fine, thanks for asking.”

Trowa snorts against his lover’s neck and hides a smile. Not that Heero can see them anyway...

“Damn it, this is important! Where is Duo?”

Wufei frowns. “I don’t understand what you’re so worked up about–”

“He left a voice mail message while I was in the middle of bringing my ship through re-entry this evening.” Heero doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. Duo’s prerecorded voice echoes softly in the apartment.

“I... I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I... I can’t do this anymore. I just want to be happy. To be free. I think you’d want that for me. So, please... try to understand.”

Wufei shivers. On his shoulders, Trowa’s fingers tighten.

Heero barks, “Now, have you or have you not seen Duo?”

In a shaky voice, Wufei replies, “No. Not since he and Trowa went to visit their parents last weekend.”

“Trowa?” Heero inquires.

An uncomfortable pause vibrates in the air. Wufei frowns and glances at his lover’s reflection in the mirror. Trowa does not notice. He is busy staring into the single, visible green eye as impressions – perhaps from a forgotten dream – assail him.

“Trowa, talk to me, God damn it!”

Trowa’s entire body jerks as... something shifts inside of him. He wraps his arms around Wufei’s chest and says in a firm voice, “Heero, come by and pick up Wufei. I’ll call you when I find him.”

“Heero Yuy has disconnected,” the message service informs them.

“Trowa?” Wufei wonders aloud.

“Get dressed,” he advises.

Knowing that there will be a time for questions later, Wufei nods and tries not to let the sound of the front door slamming shut in his lover’s wake seem so final.

Trowa shuts off the car and regards the single figure seated on the railing. From this distance, he can see the long braid marching down the young man’s back, too heavy for the wind to toy with satisfactorily.

Gingerly, he gets out and regards the bridge arcing over one of the city’s smaller but more volatile rivers. Quietly, he begins walking. As the distance lessens, he tries to think of what he will say. Tries to find the words that will pull Duo back from the dark abyss he is contemplating.

Duo shifts and Trowa notices that he has something in his hands. He decides not to startle him anymore than he can help. Still several paces away, he calls Duo’s name softly. The wind picks up the entreaty, carries it, and delivers it to the man perched on the railing.

Briefly, as Duo’s body becomes rigid, Trowa wonders if he’d made a mistake. He can easily picture Duo losing his balance and falling into the icy water below. Too easily.

But he doesn’t. He blinks. He says, “Trowa? What the hell are you doing here?”

There is pain in that voice. So much pain. For an instant, Trowa is irritated that Duo has never revealed this to him before. After all, they are family.

Trowa replies calmly, “Heero called looking for you.”

Duo turns back to staring at the dark of night stretched out infinitely before him.

“He got your message,” Trowa continues unnecessarily.

Duo nods.

Trowa rests a hand on the railing and leans against it. He’s so close to Duo his sweater nearly brushes against Duo’s jean shirt. Duo notices this.

“Wufei let you come out here without a coat? He’s not taking very good care of my big brother.”

Trowa interprets this to mean Duo is feeling the chill. “Where is your coat, Duo?”

Duo sighs. “Didn’t bring it.”

“Why not?”

A moment of aching silence follows that question before Duo whispers, “Because I don’t have anyone to tell me to.”

Trowa opens his mouth to reply to this when Duo turns over the object in his hands. That’s when Trowa finally identifies it.

“Duo...”

“Hm?”

Trowa draws in a deep, steadying breath. “It’s cold. Let’s talk in my car.”

“I’m fine. If you wanna go get your jacket, I’ll wait.”

“What I want,” Trowa says, giving into a flare of temper, “is for you to not be such a chickenshit anymore. I am tired of this melodrama from you!”

Stunned, Duo returns his attention to Trowa and blinks. “... what ...?”

“You heard me,” Trowa continues. “It’s always about you, isn’t it?”

“You bastard,” Duo breathes. “I bent over backwards to get you and Wufei to admit how you felt about each other. I spent three years of my life playing therapist to the both of you until you guys finally got your shit together!” Duo swivels on the railing, swinging his legs around so he can properly lean into Trowa’s face. “It was never about me, you emotionally constipated gorilla!”

Trowa doesn’t really know what to say to that. His goal had been to get Duo mad enough to come off of the railing and take a swing at him but every reply he considers has the potential to depress Duo further. So they end up staring at each other for a long moment before Trowa hears himself say in an incredulous tone, “Gorilla?”

The corners of Duo’s mouth twitches. “I wasn’t referring to your appearance. Just your methods of communication.”

“I beat on my chest and chew on trees?”

“Well, you are older than me and a vegetarian.” Then Duo chortles.

Trowa smirks back. “What’s so funny?”

Duo grins widely. “That you only objected to the ‘gorilla’ part of all that.”

Trowa snorts. “I know the truth when I hear it.”

And then Duo does come off the rail. But not to slug him.

Trowa lets out a long breath in relief as Duo’s arms come around his shoulders and pull him close. He, in turn, embraces Duo. Tightly.

“Don’t give up yet,” Trowa finds himself saying. “You have to tell him. He deserves that, don’t you think?”

“It’ll never work, Tro,” Duo replies, his words muffled by the combination of wind and bulky sweater. “He... he doesn’t want...”

“All I’m saying is that you need to try. Worry about what he wants after.”

Duo releases a long, quiet sigh and Trowa knows he’s won this round. No more words are spoken before the sounds of two car doors slamming shut in the distance reach them.

Duo groans. “You shithead. You called them, didn’t you?”

“As soon as I saw you out here,” Trowa replies unrepentantly.

Trowa senses Duo closing his eyes. “I don’t want to face this right now.”

“It’ll only get harder if you wait.”

“Fucking hell. Shoulda jumped when I had the damn chance.”

Trowa carefully neglects to mention the gun still clutched in Duo’s right hand.

Reluctantly, Duo draws back as the sounds of approaching footsteps grow louder.

Trowa stands to the side, ready to intervene if necessary, but knowing this has to happen. He sees Duo flinch after glancing in the direction of the interloper. Trowa spares a moment to turn his attention back over his shoulder and nearly flinches himself at the murderous expression on Heero’s face.

Heero says nothing. He marches right up to Duo but, rather than introducing his best friend to his fist, he snatches the gun away and blindly shoves it in Trowa’s direction. Trowa accepts the offering and hears: “God damn you, Duo!”

Duo takes a step back as Heero reaches out and grasps both of the young man’s shoulders and shakes him.

“Don’t you ever do this to me again, do you hear me? Ever!”

          </