There are a million trivial things for me to do everyday. Get the food. Check the mail. Watch the news. A permanent list in my head.

I move down the alleyway and across the street to enter the door to a neon lit lobby. There sits a familiar sight; she continues to paint her electric pink talons, not bothering to look up, but she knows I'm there before I have to say anything as her chair scrapes along the floor.

"Got the rent?" she says, shifting her skirt down thin thighs in the process, her fingers groping the fabric to try and make her miniskirt fit the same set of dimensions as it would had it been a size smaller.

She thumbs through the credits, smacking an overused piece of chewing gum as she inspects my rent with a trained eye, keen to pick out shortages. Her top's strap slides over one shoulder as she counts, painting her as innocence might have looked had time been more forgiving.

I cough and look down. It hangs there, that piece of red silk caught on a shoulder made pallid from the neon light of a sign that promises something sinful. She nudges it further down her arm with the suggestion of a shrug as she realizes I'm studying her. The credits flip faster in surprisingly nimble fingers.

Finally she folds them in half, stepping back as her shoes click against the floor and smiles at me ferally. She is standing in front of me, the credits having disappeared, and suddenly her hand rests on my shoulder, the touch feeling oddly displaced against my skin.

Her fingers play a rhythm, pit pat, pit pat, only explicit with the suggestion of where they could go. They don't move, yet I can feel the way she claims me with her eyes. In her mind, I am hers. I am naked, I am conquered, I am broken.

The click of her glass bracelets is a tiny sound as I step away without thought. Her questing fingers fall away from my shoulder, and yet they don't really fall so much as draw away. She simply removes them before I am out of reach.

She studies me for a few moments of contemplative silence and then smiles, amused.

"Hey," she intones throatily, almost apologetic yet tinged with the flavor of a calculating smile, "loosen up. Who knows? You just might get lucky."

Her hips move before she does and lead her back to her seat. The silk strap is pulled back up to where it should be, and she crosses her legs as my credits are filed away.

Is it daytime? Night time? What time is it? I spend most of my time wandering the streets, barren and damp. It's been raining, and the scent of wet pavement and sulky, damp city rises into my nostrils. Hands shoved into pockets, I navigate through the darkness of back alleys.

My head doesn't know where I'm going. It never does, and it never has. My feet are the ones who carry me down the familiar route that they've traveled for the past year or so, narrowly missing a puddle that has collected. The eaves of buildings around me drip with the dew of the colony's recent rainstorm and a few drops hit my head, baptizing me with the remnant of synthetic weather patterns.

The alley ends and I find myself at the edge of a road, no cars impeding my path. The tail light of some car shines its fading red hue as it makes its way down the street. In the dim streetlight that flickers to some random pattern, the grays and browns of the neighborhood meet my vision as I approach my apartment building, an age old sign proclaiming, "Investing in the Future of L1!" with a few pictures of miscellaneous children to support the claim.

Next to it is a more recent picture of a half-naked girl with a phone number; these flyers extend in explicit lines of photographed flesh and phone sex stapled to the buildings that line the street. She yawns open her lip-sticked mouth with her tongue hanging out as if she has asphyxiated, her eyes half closed in faked rapture. She tells me to call her. She tells me to listen to her fuck herself.

My feet ignore the observation and lead me to the elevator, guiding me as kind people guide blind beggars. My fingers press the button; it's greasy, as if some diseased sweaty hand has been holding it for a long time.

The creaks of the aged contraption as I ride up to the second floor makes me uneasy; next time I will take the stairs. Riding with me is a figure I don't recognize, turned round and hugging herself. High waisted beige trousers betray her frame as fragile and the navy shirt she wears balloons slightly at the waist, hiding her upper body. Is she hiding strength or hiding weakness? That is the first question that pops into my mind, pulling me out of my numb routine.

Then I realize how foolish I am being; this isn't war. Why would she be hiding anything? The dull metal interior offers me no hints about her face as she is turned away from me and I notice the number two button with its yellow back light shining out at us. So, she's destined for my floor.

With a shrill 'ping', the door slides open at its own leisurely pace. She steps out daintily with I behind her, slowly picking her way past doors and examining numbers.

Turning, she finally sees me and looks straight at me. She doesn't belong here wearing a color so vivid that it's accosting my eyes. I haven't seen anything this bright since the war.

"Excuse me," her voice has the pleasant lilt of Earth, "could you tell me where 2B is?"

My index (and trigger) finger, always more obliging than my mouth, points down the hallway to the end. Across the expanse of moss green carpet that is actually more of an aged olive now, '2B' is scrawled across the door.

She smiles, as if we both know how scatterbrained she can be, and for a moment I am part of her world outside of L1. Her nude lips are soft and plump, her face a pleasant shade of tan with blue eyes, and I can see that her hands are uncallused as she reaches up to knock at 2B.

A few moments later she disappears into the waiting arms of some man behind the door, smiling all the way. I wonder what kind of bruises she'll leave with tomorrow.

 

---

 

"Heero," a soft feminine voice tinkles into my ear, "what are you doing?"

I look up and Relena is there. She is wearing her diplomatic uniform and she grabs my hand, daintily hauling me along with her. The hand clasping mine is smooth, with small fine boned fingers, and it feels strange against my own.

Her smile is bursting radiance as we come upon some unfamiliar field, and I'm starting to wonder where my Gundam is, where the others are. There are flowers all around us, as if they have been here longer than I've been alive and are surprised at my presence. Daisies, all around, swallowing us in a sea of white and gold.

"Do you like it, Heero?" her voice is slow and hopeful.

She still doesn't look at me and then turns her face completely away. Her hand lets go of mine.

Little patches of shadow begin to find their way across the field as the wind picks up, barely noticeable like little drops of water, then changes into a darkness that descends upon us like a sudden steady stream of shadow. For me, it is a welcome relief from the scalding sun that Relena and her earthbound kind are so fond of.

As everything progressively seems more and more real, it suddenly occurs to me that I'm not wearing any clothes. I turn to gape at Relena and the fact that she hasn't said anything, but she can't quite return the look.

Relena has no face. In its place are the remains of a head and the entire face is one gnarled sear framed by singed blond hair. The eye sockets are nothing but black hollows and the rest is mangled scarred flesh colored in varying shades of pink. Where her mouth used to be is half-sneering smile as she tilts her head. It's as if she's asked me a question and I've ignored her.

The flowers are burning, and we with them lost in a sea of orange and black. I can feel flames lick up my body as I am engulfed, and as I turn to search wildly for Relena...

My eyes flutter open. I am on my back, hands folded over my chest as my eyes re-focus on the ceiling of my room, my hair plastered to my face with sweat.

It was a dream. This one seems shorter than the others, but I could never really tell. Lucidity reclaims my mind as I come back to reality, beginning to reflect on the dream's events. Only I realize suddenly that I can't remember any of it.

My body pulls itself out of bed, convincing me to get a drink of water as my mouth realizes I can barely swallow. The walls thump every now and again as I walk down my hallway to the kitchen. Whether the female earthling and her L1 boyfriend are having sex or fighting however is indiscernible.

No water. The tap emits a dry gurgling sound for all of its efforts, ignoring the hand I have poised underneath of it.

The colonies are constantly suffering from lack of water, so unsurprisingly my building has shut the water off for its tenants' dawning hours.

With a glance outside, I estimate it's about three a.m. The outside is coated in artificial darkness, all shapes gray and black and blue. I can see the head office down the distant end of an alley where I had to pay my rent to the woman in the red silk trying to come onto me.

I sit down with a bottle of water, the bottles that Quatre sends to any of us who live in the colonies. I suppose that would include Duo and I, perhaps Trowa although he moves around so much, it's difficult to tell.

I've never had someone treat me as that woman did, with her ill fitting skirt and crooked lip-liner. I take a mouthful of water. Ironic, really. L1 allows rain and then turns its citizens' water off.

My thoughts return to the woman. The only female who's ever smiled that way at me before was Relena, and that was chaste. She didn't harbor the thoughts that my landlord did.

I study my reflection in the dark window pane. Am I...attractive? My eyes stare back at me, unimpressed at the suggestion. I've never been able to figure out why my eyes are blue, being of Japanese descent. But on the whole they are unremarkable eyes. My mouth is just like any other mouth with thin lips. My face, I decide, is unremarkable in itself. Attractive equals unusual, or so I've come to understand by observing how the two genders behave around each other.

Trowa always had unusual features. Green eyes, a long diplomatic looking nose, and down turned lips that somehow always projected an image of pathos. But Trowa's appearance spoke nothing of his fighting skills or his intelligence. It was a useful diversion to have in war, although the moment I saw him for the first time and was able to study him, I knew he was dangerous. People who don't have much to say are always hiding something, and Trowa didn't say anything unless he wanted to. So, I suppose that members of the opposite sex would find him attractive.

What do I find attractive? It is a novelty to consider such a question, and I allow myself the indulgence. The landlord's reaction to me warrants some thought on the matter. Or have I ever been attracted to anyone? Her reaction to me intrigued me more than anything else, but she didn't make me feel anything.

I try to think of other females I've known. Relena...yes, she's attractive. Would I...

The thought of associating Relena with the actions of my landlord suddenly occurs to me as being sordid. My respect for her wouldn't allow it, and I banish any thoughts so tawdry from my mind.

My lids find themselves heavy as I finish the last sip of water. The plastic bottle is light as I set it on the counter and turn off the lights, finding my way back to my room to lie in bed, my head suddenly filled with strange, alien thoughts of sexual intrigue.

And wonderment as to how I can still be so robotic, even after this long.

 

---

 

A fifteen year old terrorist in spandex shorts is practicality. An eighteen year old soldier cum civilian in spandex shorts is asking for trouble.

As I walk into the stark sunlight from the shadows of the alley, one hand hooks in the back pocket of my jeans as I survey the busy street.

L1 is bustling this morning, humming with the vigor of a million separate lives. I stand unnoticed, the string of tattered automated-sex posters flapping in a sudden breeze. The wind carries the smell of rain and fried food.

My feet walk their familiar path down the open sidewalk next to a road filled with rumbling cars and flashing lights. This is a chaotic nightmare of utopian suburbia where people rebuild beautiful houses to try and over up the killing fields of war.

The fruit vendor doesn't offer me a second glance as my hands pick through the only thing I can stand to eat on this colony, divesting themselves of bruised and ruined pieces.

"Those are fresh," he assures me. Now it occurs to me that maybe the apples I'm clawing through are anything but. No matter.

I hand over the credits and take my rustling bag of goods, the smell of overripe and rotting bananas assaulting my nose as I walk away.

"Come again," he calls after me, his voice strangely jovial at his sale, his brain secure in the knowledge that I will. I come here every day.

The day is young. It stretches out in front of me like an infinite road with no end and no beginning. The war's end signaled the start of one long day, a collection of dreams and waking moments caught in routine.

Someone shoves me and mumbles an expletive. I ignore it. I am shoulder to shoulder with busy, rushing people now, all fighting to get past each other and to their singular destination.

Mine is none. I am a city nomad, earning my existence as people need it. To them, I'm just a quiet, harmless kid in the same pair of faded jeans I wear every day. They never recognize me as the Gundam pilot from a year ago, approaching two, approaching three, approaching a century, approaching an eon...

 

---

 

"We are approaching L1's number three stop," an automated female voice intones over a tinny speaker system, "please collect your belongings and proceed to your destination..."

I wake with a start. The track click-clacks beneath me as I sit up and blink a few times, bleary eyed. The train's armrest digs into my spine at the most uncomfortable angle possible, causing me to shift. My eyes fall upon bland metallic scenery as we whiz through train tunnels, and I settle back.

It's not like me to fall asleep, especially on L1 public transport. My stop...it's not three. Where is it?

Before my brain can pursue the question, the palm of my hand sticks in something soft and mushy. It feels like...

Rotten apples. I just got rotten fruit all over myself out of my bag from the market. Leaning over the empty seat next to me, I turn to address the closest passenger who is across the aisle.

"Trowa!" I practically sputter as Trowa's impassive green gaze melts my own, and I am flooded by memories. My senses awaken.

"Trowa," I begin, my voice sounding sleep choked and unintelligible to my own ears. He doesn't seem to see me.

I am on the Express to God knows where, and my eyes leave Trowa to study the digital timetable scrolling across an automated bar. It gives no hint as to why I'm on this train to no where.

My mouth opens to try and get his attention and then snaps shut abruptly. Trowa has no mouth now, only a black hole. No teeth, no tongue and barely any lips to speak of. He looks like an old man who's lost his dentures, or like he's swallowed his tongue.

And then he forms some suggestion of a smile, the corners of the gaping chasm turning up as he holds out a rotting apple to me.

He offers it, thrusting it at me more and more aggressively until he's standing, the shapeless bottom half of his face opening and shutting like a suffocating fish.

It's invading my senses as he shoves it under my nose without hesitation, all the while his skin peels away from the tears that leave fleshy tracks down his face. It's as if he's crying hydrochloric acid, as if he's torturing himself.

And then I realize I'm naked. The fabric of the seat is rough against my unprotected skin and burns as I shimmy away.

The only sounds Trowa can make are "ah, ah, ah" over and over again, the same tone, the same level of volume. It's almost as if he's trying to laugh, or even trying to speak.

The rotting apple, potent with scent, is dropped and hits my skin, leaving a slimy trail of residue and landing on the floor of the train. It bounces out of sight...click-clack, over and over. He collapses in a mass of seizuring flesh. This isn't Trowa, this isn't real...

A shrill noise cuts through the subdued quiet of my bedroom, forcing me to roll over and extract myself from the sheets. The doorbell is buzzing.

Thudding as my feet hit the floor, I realize it's only about eight p.m. I got home hours ago...I must have fallen asleep. I suddenly am forlorn; sometimes I regret the fact that drugs have little or no affect on me. Sleeping pills may do me some good...

The insistent bell shrills again, and I shrug on a convenient T-shirt sitting at the end of my bed and make my way to the front door.

The bell screams for the third time. The bag of apples I brought back suddenly makes my stomach turn for some reason as they catch my peripheral vision, the red the only vibrancy in the apartment.

My fingers flex instinctively, searching for my gun. Totally impractical, but old habits die hard.

I swing it open, agitation making my eyes darken as I stand at my full height, flaunting it over whoever has decided to try and enter the wrong apartment.

I don't receive guests, although my neighbors tend to associate with what could potentially be the most ignorant people to have ever existed. In the last month alone, the knocks on the door have ranged from someone's stately grandmother to a prostitute, all claiming that their host resided at my address.

But now my landlord stands in front of me. She smiles beatifically at me, miniskirt in tact with a slip top. Today it's maroon, one silk strap slipping over her shoulder. Her bare feet look gnarled, one tapping against the floor slightly as she meets my gaze. She's more uneasy around me than I had first interpreted.

"There's someone looking for you," she smirks, tapping a pen against the clip board that is perched in her hands. Flipping through it after taking a moment to leer at me, her eyes scan slowly over a list. The peroxide blond hair is betrayed by the dirty brown roots sprouting at the follicles.

"Heero Yuy," she finally read slowly, speaking my name for the first time since I've lived here. She looks up again, twirling the pen in nimble fingers and then biting the end, as if she is suddenly immersed in deep contemplation.

"Hey, isn't that the name of that dead pacifist guy?" She is triumphant with her own wisdom, but doesn't wait for an answer.

"I'll send him up," and she turns, her hips leading her down the hall as she sways away.

Someone is here to see me?

 

---

 

Trowa stands in my living room, his eyes discretely darting around as he examines unfamiliar surroundings, then stares down dubiously at the stained carpet.

I speak first, "I wasn't expecting you."

I suddenly feel strange, after not seeing any of the other pilots for a year or more, and now I'm standing in boxers, a wrinkled excuse for a T-shirt and mussed hair. For the first time I can remember, I am all too painfully aware of my own bedraggled appearance.

Trowa's managed to get taller, his shoulders broader, but his face is still the same. The five o'clock shadow is a change, but his eyes are how I remember them.

He doesn't quite know how to respond, and slightly shrugs through the heavy coat he's wearing. It's spotted with dark splotches of rain and pulls it more snugly around him. The never ceasing drizzling pats against the window.

"I was on L1," he finally says.

I take his coat, which he grudgingly surrenders and hang it on the back of the door next to my own.

He stares at my back and I can feel his eyes study the changes he finds. I still don't know why he's here, but it's a surprising relief to see a familiar face. I won't ask him any more questions. He won't divulge any information until he's ready, if there's any to speak of.

"Where are you staying?"

He shrugs, "I don't know yet," his attention is preoccupied with the view out of my window, which is a brick wall.

"You can stay here," I say with an indifferent shrug.

He looks at me for a moment, almost surprised at my unexpected hospitality. "Okay."

It's settled within five words. This could only be done by Trowa and I, master conversationalists of the universe.

I suddenly realize that I probably look like hell, just woken up.

"Let me get dressed," I finally say, "and then we can get something to eat if you're hungry."

Trowa nods. I think he's surprised that I'm not a gourmet chef by now. After not being able to shake the habit of cooking for five after the first four months of living alone, I gave up.

When I re-emerge, he's reclaimed his beat up coat.

On our way out, the landlord grins flirtatiously at me and waves goodbye. Trowa doesn't say anything, just raises an eyebrow at me.

I find myself sitting in the same rundown cafe I always frequent, and suddenly Trowa's presence makes me feel more alive. It's ironic really. In the war I thought I'd survive by the end of it. Survive I did, and here I am in all my conceptual idealistic glory. Me, a chipped coffee cup and a plate of overcooked rice.

Trowa pokes at his own noodles, almost looking at them sideways as he bends his head down to sniff almost suspiciously and he's still wearing his coat. Has he gotten eccentric at the ripe old age of 18?

We chat about nothing, most of the time eating in silence. But it's a comfortable silence I've missed.

"How's Duo?" Trowa asks suddenly.

I give him an odd look, "Good... I think?"

Trowa raises an eyebrow, "I thought you were...," he says, letting his voice trail off and raising his eyebrows at me.

I look at him blankly, searching for the word, "...friends?"

He just looks at me for a moment, then nods and continues to chew on the rubbery food.

"I talked to him about three months ago. He's with Hilde. What about Quatre?"

I've always suspected Trowa and Quatre of being together, and I don't mean as friends. But he doesn't look particularly intrigued, replying, "He's running the Winner business. Doing well, I think."

A year. An entire year has passed and this is all we have to say to each other. I suddenly am curious about what Trowa has been doing. More so than Quatre, Duo or Wufei who all have places and life, and why of all people he stopped to see me.

Regardless of my curiosity, neither one of us speaks again and we're soon en route back to my apartment. Even as I walk in comfortable silence next to him, my hands casually shoved into my pockets, questions are poised on my tongue just dying to spill out. I manage to keep them at bay for now.

 

---

 

He sleeps on the couch, and he must have assumed I am some sort of skirt chaser the way he eyed the double bed warily. The mattress was here when I moved in. I needed a bed. Problem solved.

I am laying upon that very mattress now, my mind amused at the suggestion of me being a skirt chaser. I always wondered about the mysteries of the female species, the way they acted around my sex. Relena and my relationship wasn't exactly the most average in the universe, and to be honest, she was the only female I've ever had any real interaction with. Duo could tell me; I'm just about positive that he and Hilde share a bed at this point. I wonder suddenly if Trowa has a girlfriend.

Without letting myself think too much, I pick up the phone, cradle and all, and place it on the bed in front of me as I sit up.

I dial quickly before I change my mind and listen to the asphyxiation poster girl fuck herself for thirty seconds before hanging up rather abruptly. Shouldn't this make me feel something...or do something? Sighing, now I know that I won't be able to sleep.

I walk quietly towards the kitchen, knowing it's late and Trowa will be asleep. This water has become a routine at three am, a habit that I can't break out of for some reason. Opening the refrigerator door, I don't bother turning the kitchen light on. I don't even try the tap; it'll definitely be off.

Settling down to the table, I take a sip and ask, "You can't sleep either?"

Trowa emerges from the shadows of the doorway leading to the living room and he sits down in front of me. He's wearing nothing but boxer shorts, and a ridiculous looking moth eaten sweater. A ghost of a grin flickers over his face.

"Quatre?" he asks, pointing to the bottled water.

I nod and sip, "You can have my bed if you want. I won't be in it for another five hours."

Trowa doesn't accept or decline, but stares at the hand I am holding the bottle in. It's shaking uncontrollably, my hands barely able to grip the bottle. I shrug.

"It acts up sometimes."

This is my injury from three years ago when I tried to self-destruct. It only started giving me trouble after I moved to L1. The artificial weather patterns and pressure affect it.

Trowa knows which injury it is without even asking. He comes to stand behind me, his hands sure and firm on my own arm and shoulder. I know the pressure points, therapeutic massage, acupuncture...I find it's easiest to just let it pass.

A familiar sensation overwhelms me as Trowa presses a finger into the joint next the ball of my shoulder, probing around until he finds what he's looking for. His other free hand works my shoulder and down my arm until the shaking stops.

"Thanks," I say, slightly embarrassed. He just nods, his nimble fingers still working the muscle in my arm and then moves up to my neck and shoulders, gently massaging.

"What are you--," I feel stupid before the question even leaves my mouth. But I haven't been touched by another human being to this extent since the last time Trowa did this, and that was at least a year ago. He knows that too.

"Help you sleep," he explains. I yawn in response.

When I next wake up, I realize I must have fallen asleep on the table. Trowa is draped over a kitchen chair, his head lazily resting on one arm clothed in that hideous green sweater.

Stretching, and noticing my arm feels about ten times better, I tap Trowa on the shoulder. No response. He needs to sleep if he took a shuttle here from God only knows where.

Hoisting him to his feet and draping one of his arms bonelessly over my shoulder, his heavy lidded eyes flutter, exposing a nanosecond of green and then close again.

He mumbles something and I don't catch it, leading him to my bed instead of my couch, which is cursed with about five broken springs.

He lays down without too much instruction, curling up on top of the sheets instead of under them.

As I try to extract myself from him, he suddenly tightens his grip on me and smiles.

Now, Trowa doesn't smile. Ever. His lips might quirk, he might even laugh...but he doesn't smile like every one else out of some form of sheer contentment.

He's smiling that way now and it's directed at me in his sleep.

He pulls me down with him so that my body is crushed next to his and he wraps his arms around me.

"Quatre...," he says softly, and then his face is cloudy again, releasing me as he falls into the dead of sleep.

I stare at him in disbelief. Then again, he never denied that Quatre and himself were involved, and I never asked.

I suddenly know whose old army sweater that is...I knew I recognized it. It used to be Quatre's, he used to it wear it every other century, but Trowa had taken a liking to it because it was green and warm. And probably smelt like Quatre.

 

---

 

"Hello," I'm doing my best to be pleasant.

"Hi," my landlord flashes me a smile, not quite as seedy as usual.

"You know my visitor?" I ask.

She nods, filing her nails with an atrocious scratching sound.

"Did he leave anything down here?"

"Nope," she replies automatically, wholly disinterested.

I can feel my patience wearing thin.

"Are you sure?"

She meets my glare eye for eye, "Yeah." The nail file is discarded as her temper flares, "I know what's what around here."

I just glower, "Fine. Did he say anything of importance?"

She looks at me like I'm insane, "All he did was ask for your name."

I can feel my trigger finger twitching, "Thank you," I reply tightly. Even I know it's never a wise choice for your landlord to have it in for you.

"Hey."

I turn before leaving to look at her.

"You're kinda cute when you're angry," she says coolly, smirking.

I resist the urge to scowl.

When I get back I find Trowa desperately searching for food. Throwing him an apple, I study him for a moment. He just looks straight back at me and begins munching. He's still wearing Quatre's sweater, but with jeans and he must have taken a shower. He looks worlds better than when he got here. The fact that he meets me stare for stare surprises me; he would have never done that a few years ago.

"Why are you on L1?"

He looks startled, but faintly amused as my interrogation begins. I don't know why I feel angry at him but I do.

"It was the first stop."

"Off of what?" my tone isn't accusatory so much as curious.

"The shuttle."

"You came from Earth?"

He just nods, and I glare at him. I want to know the real reason he's here.

"Trowa, what's going on?" I know I'm being cruel, but I can't help it. That earns the hint of a sigh as he swallows his last bite of apple.

"I know about Quatre," I finally say.

If Trowa's eyes could bug any further out of his head, they would. Then he looks melancholy and furious all at the same time.

"Why didn't you say anything?" his voice is dangerously soft.

"I didn't know until today."

"Who told you?" Trowa suddenly looks deathly pale.

"You blurted it out in your sleep." I can't believe this is such a big deal to him.

"How?"

"What?" I grimace at him slightly in frustration.

"How did I blurt it out?" he seems totally bewildered. I look at him like he's told he want to revive Dekim Barton.

We stare at each other for a few moments, and then Trowa goes into ultra defensive mode, folding his arms across his chest and burrowing deep into Quatre's sweater.

Then, finally, he speaks quietly, "He said I was too caught up in the war, in the past. It was so hard for him, with me around," he pauses to take a deep breath, "so I left."

No more of an explanation, and he stands, looking more lost and small than he ever looked when we fought together.

"I just found out you were," I stop in mid-sentence, searching for a word, "together," although I leave out the part where he hugged me and smiled.

 

---

 

Trowa's been here for a month. No one's called, no one's written and now I know why he came to me. No one knows exactly where I am.

I have had occasional work, but have spent most days getting used to Trowa all over again. He's still quiet, he still eats barely anything and sleeps the same irregular hours that I do. He takes care of my arm for me when it acts up, although I'm never sure whether he's going to be here tomorrow.

Tonight, after a particularly trying day, I walk in to find Trowa sprawled across the couch which is really his bed now, half asleep. He hears the door slam and automatically knows to avoid me for at least an hour.

"What?" he finally asks.

I grit my teeth, "I've got a date."

Trowa gapes at me as if I've just declared my life computer free.

"How...?"

"It's for this 'business' thing," I fight not to roll my eyes. I still work mostly in the body guard business and tonight I happen to have been hired to guard a wealthy socialite. It's Relena all over again.

Trowa actually looks like he's about to burst out laughing, quite a feat for his normally expressionless face. I growl, glare at him and stalk into the kitchen.

After my telephone experience, I have firmly decided that unless I want to pass down the Yuy family name, I'm avoiding the opposite sex, and considering it's not even really my name and I have no parents, this doesn't seem highly likely.

Trowa follows me into the kitchen, interested.

"When was the last time you went on a date?"

I look at him dumbly, "Never."

I did dance with Relena once or twice, and I got stuck doing the same type of socialite guard duty at some of her political parties.

Trowa's looking highly amused, asking, "Can you waltz?"

"Yes," is all I reply. He raises an eyebrow skeptically, and suddenly I notice how much less sad his eyes look.

Trowa leans in towards me conspiratorially, "Me too. I had to learn for Quatre's functions."

The tone of his voice gives me an idea how much he enjoyed that; I cannot picture Trowa dancing. To me, he'll always be in HeavyArms.

I pretend to hold a partner and dance around the kitchen in a tight box, seeing how much I can remember.

"Want a reminder?"

I nod grudgingly.

Trowa loops his arms around me and lets me lead, showing me and re-teaching me. We don't really dance, just go through the motions. When we stop, he doesn't let go nor do I.

I don't dare meet his gaze, his breathing so close to my own right then, his heart thumping in his chest. We stand like that for all of thirty seconds before parting without a word.

 

---

 

I have managed to escape dancing most of the night, although not completely. Trying to make myself scarce, I hide in the shadows.

"Heero!" a familiar voice greets me by name enthusiastically.

"Hello Relena," as monotonous as my voice sounds, I'm glad to see her.

"It's been too long," she says, smiling. Her child-like grace has grown into womanhood well; she carries herself with an air of authority now. She knows the extent of my conversational party skills, but better yet, she knows my past. Half the people in this room don't even remember my face, even if they remember my Gundam, and for some reason I find her presence oddly comforting.

"Will you dance?" She looks hopeful as she asks, her eyebrows raising slightly, and just for a split second she looks like the girl I met on the beach what seems like ten years ago now rather than three.

I nod obligingly. We waltz around the room and people stare. A princess dancing with the lowly body guard of one insignificant socialite?

"You dance well, still," she whispers and laughs, a laugh that is only for me and for her.

I afford her a smile and she is overwhelmingly pleased. After a moment, she asks if I've seen Trowa lately. Puzzled, and a little taken aback, I tell her he's been staying with me.

Her eyes widen, "Quatre has been trying to get in contact with him."

"I'll tell him," I return, feeling ice suddenly rush through me.

"Heero," she begins tactfully, almost strategically, "...come and be my body guard permanently," then she pleads with me quietly, "they don't understand."

I look at her and feel sympathy.

"I'll think about it."

This seems to satisfy her, and I might accept this time. She writes down Quatre's contact number for me to give to Trowa, and I spend the rest of the evening watching socialites make themselves sick off champagne.

 

---

 

"How was it?" Trowa sits up, looking at me and yawns. He's wearing the moth eaten jumper that once belonged a certain blond haired ex-pilot for the first time in a long time.

I shut the door softly behind me, "Relena was there."

Trowa looks surprised, "What did she say?"

"She offered me a permanent body guard position in the Sanq Kingdom." Trowa doesn't say anything. As I draw nearer, Quatre's scent meets my nose, mixing with Trowa's. I suddenly feel like being cruel.

"Quatre's been trying to reach you," I inform him indifferently, "Relena told me. Here's his number." I set the piece of paper down on the table in front of Trowa. He just looks at me and then at the paper.

"I told Relena you were staying with me," I say the last part casually, my voice neither icy nor warm.

Trowa regards me silence. Now Quatre knows exactly where to find him.

"Aren't you going to call?" Now I'm pushing it.

He stands up and doesn't look at me, takes the piece of paper to fold neatly. I don't look back and walk into the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of water; Quatre's damn water.

My arm starts acting up until I can't hold the bottle any longer. It seems to be affecting me these days whenever I get angry.

Trowa's hands are there before I realize. I wrench away, digging up one of my buried fifteen-year-old terrorist death glares and use it on him.

He looks relatively unimpressed and as impassive as ever.

"Don't," is all I say, my voice tight, my arm shaking more severely by the minute. He ignores me, and as I sit back down, his hands are there again.

Quatre's smell on Trowa makes me feel sick, so I breathe through my mouth. His fingers knead, prod and poke until the shaking subsides. Then he stops and just stands there behind me.

I want to touch him.

I stand up and go to my bedroom, leaving him staring at my back and slam a door for the first time in my life.

 

---

 

The dream is simple, after many hours of sleeplessness, when I have finally been able to nod off.

Trowa is dead; he died of asphyxiation. I am standing at his grave, naked. I can't weep. I can't laugh. I can't do anything but stand there, wishing for horrific burning daisy fields and rotting fruit, anything but this. I call his name, then again. All I can do is say his name over and over. Not screaming, not whispering, just proclaiming.

And then I hear someone calling my name from somewhere urgently. It's so far away, so distant, yet it's there.

I wake up, and Trowa is standing at my bedside looking at me blankly. He's not wearing anything at all, just standing there, his green eyes wide and practically unseeing. I have a feeling I look the same way.

He stands there for what could be a minute or an hour, and finally slides into bed next to me.

We don't touch and my breathing is quick, nervous. For a small eternity we lay together, sensing the other's body heat. Hesitantly, I reach out and touch his shoulder and then caress it, stroking lightly.

He lets out a small sound, then looks me straight in the eyes. Just as soon as our gazes meet, he looks away. He snuggles into the blankets to sleep, but we don't touch.

The next morning however, I wake up with Trowa's long limbs twisted with my own, his body curled up against me with his back to my chest. Not really knowing why, acting on impulse, I press a kiss to the nape of his neck and go back to sleep.

 

---

 

He sleeps in my bed every night for a week. Each night we go to bed separately, he wanders in and we start out two feet apart. By the time morning arrives, one of us is holding the other. I stopped sleeping in boxers days ago, although there's still something chaste about the whole thing. We both wake up separately, usually I first. When he does however, he shimmies out from under me and retreats to the couch. We never wake up together and we never go to bed together.

Today he's calling Quatre. What will he say? How does he feel? Just thinking about it makes me angry. Yes, for the first time, "pissed off" is the only way to describe how I feel.

"Heero," Trowa still acts like nothing is going on, "can I use your vid-phone?"

He says it so casually, I just nod. Then I stalk out of my own apartment and try hard not to slam the door. I've been doing that a lot lately.

On my way out, I pass the landlord and I realize that I've never found women attractive. I walk the streets, get my fruit, pay the rent and go home to a quiet apartment. Trowa is sitting on the couch, staring at the blackened screen of the vid-phone. I ignore it.

"Hi," I say, tossing him an apple, which he catches half heartedly. At least he's not wearing that damn sweater.

I don't ask what was said because I don't want to know. When I'm finally tired enough to go to bed, I start down the hallway.

"Are you coming?"

He looks up at me in surprise and then just stares indifferently.

I retort, "Fine," and slam the door.

He doesn't come that night, and I don't come out until mid-afternoon.

His coat is hanging over the back of the couch; he's leaving. I want to hurt him the way he hurts me, I want to hate him, but I can't.

"Shikkei," I say emotionlessly in my native tongue, and before he can respond or ask what that means, I walk out the front door and slam it. That's four times now.

I don't go back for days which turns into weeks, and when I finally do return, the landlord has subleased it and has all my things in storage. She's no longer charming to me, she barely remembers me when I go and retrieve my clothing and suitcase. Trowa left Quatre's sweater behind, but it no longer smells like Quatre; it smells like Trowa. I want to throw it away, but it ends up at the bottom of my suitcase. I try to forget it's there and berate myself for becoming weak.

 

---

 

After a pathetic month of wandering, I take Relena's offer up. I'm on Earth, a change from L1. It's not a bad job. I do it on auto pilot though, something a pilot just doesn't do normally.

Relena attends so many functions, it's hard to keep track. But there was one, two months in, when an unmistakable blond head popped out of the crowd.

Quatre Raberba Winner, I have a three year old sweater that once belonged to you.

He greets me warmly, and I realize after all this time he's still the same in his nature. And he's my friend, so I don't resent him. We talk and it's like old times although I'm not really listening all that intently. I'm too preoccupied searching an elusive pair of green eyes; they don't show.

"Where's Trowa?" I hate myself for asking, but I have to.

Quatre's eyes flash with what looks like an old pain; he's still in love with him. But what happened?

"I haven't seen Trowa in a year."

I gape at him stupidly.

"What?" I have his undivided attention now; he's never seen me dumbfounded.

He repeats himself, and I ask him about Relena, "She said you were looking for him..."

Quatre nodded, "I have been. But he doesn't want to be found."

"So, he hasn't contacted you...?"

"In a year, no," Quatre shakes his head. I spare him from the knowledge that Trowa had the chance to call him and didn't.

Why then, Trowa Barton, did you leave?

 

---

 

I search for him after that. He's running away, I can feel it. A hotel room, a derelict building...at first, it was whatever was between Trowa and I that spurred the search on. Now, some of what drives me is sheer curiosity. Why did he lie? I assumed too much.

The last person I was expecting to be at the end of this strange path was Duo, at least at first. After practically throttling people for information, as I was always a breath away from Trowa, on his heels, I was led to a scrap heap of all things. Duo Maxwell's scrap heap complete with Hilde and his own crew.

I walked up a dirt path to an old door made out of scrap metal, parts of old mecha and machinery rising up in mountains all around me. There was a clatter from within the house I now stood in front of, although calling it a house would really just be done out of courtesy. In all fairness, it was more a ramshackle hovel rising out of the ground and so easily blended in with its surroundings that for a few moments I was sure that I had taken a wrong turn and stumbled upon another part of the scrap heap.

The look on Duo's face went from complete and utter blank shock to a brightly lit grin that reminded me of his old piloting days, and I felt a pang deep in my gut. I miss those days more than I had first admitted.

"Heero!" he cried, throwing open the door and bounding out onto the step in a tumble of braid and limbs; Duo had grown. He was taller but still on the clumsy side when he wasn't actually thinking about it, and he crossed his arms, looking me up and down, still grinning like a madman.

"What brings you here to my humble kingdom?" he asked, motioning grandly with his hand as if he was living in a palace, and suddenly his face darkened a shadow, "Everything is okay, right?"

I nodded, "Everything is fine."

The grin returned in full force.

"Well, come on, come inside and tell me all about yourself and what's been going on!" he said, and before I could protest I found myself sitting at his beat up kitchen table with Hilde staring at me and then grinning slightly. She had changed more than anyone else I had seen yet; her face was more angular and defined with her hair still cropped closely to her head, but now she looked happier than anything else.

"How ya doin'?" she asked me in a tone a little less enthusiastic than Duo's but no less friendly.

"I'm fine," I said flatly, although she was used to how I am around people.

Duo flopped into the seat opposite mine as if he had just run a marathon, twiddling his braid in his fingers absentmindedly; it was still prevalent if not longer. His limbs were sprawled everywhere, one leg straight out and the other tucked up underneath of him, his elbow resting on the table in addition to a variety of parts that littered it.

Hilde just leaned against the refrigerator, waiting for me to speak.

After Duo had managed to torture any details about my life out of me with his diligent jabbering, and had thoroughly updated me on his, I finally remembered why I was there. As distant as I always acted around Duo, around everyone for that matter, I know that I cared about them in my own way. I don't know when I started realizing that I actually cared about people, maybe the first time I saved Relena. I'm not sure, but I found myself actually listening to Duo, even if I didn't act like it. He knew it too; Duo, as much as he talks, has always had an uncanny ability to understand exactly what's going on around him even if it's not obvious.

"So, what brings you to my neck of woods?" He asked finally, pillowing his hands behind his head in the air as if he was going to lie down. Hilde had left to go and see to some business concerning the scrap yard, so I took the chance to ask him what I had come to ask.

"Have you seen Trowa?" There's no point in being subtle; I never had any desire to cover up my intentions, but I don't want people knowing my emotions before I can even start to understand them.

I had expected him to look at me strangely, but he didn't, just shrugging and said, "Yeah, he passed through a couple of days ago. Actually, that's why I was so surprised to see you! I mean, why is everyone suddenly getting all uprooted and going everywhere, and as much as I love you guys, why me?"

"Hn," I replied thoughtfully, "I don't really know."

"Well," he continued without cue, "he seemed sorta...I dunno, contemplative, if that's the right word. You know? Like there was a lot on his mind."

I blinked, "What did he say?"

Duo shook his head, "Naw, it wasn't what he said. It was what he didn't say if you catch my drift," he said, trailing off. Then, as if remembering something in particular, he frowned thoughtfully, "Actually, it was kinda weird, but he was really interested in me, and Hilde, and the scrap yard and just...well, everything really."

I sat for a moment, digesting this information, knowing it was only a matter of time before Duo just came out and asked why I was so interested.

"Why are you so interested anyway, if you don't mind me asking?"

I shrugged, "Good question."

He knew not to push it; I didn't want to talk about it.

I stayed for longer than I thought I would, and when we did say goodbye I felt almost...empty. Duo's happiness was what I had been fighting for in a way. So that everyone on the Earth and in the colonies could have what he had, could be peaceful. At least that's what the scientists said, that's why I was trained, and given a Gundam and sent to Earth. I knew that from the moment Dr. J had approached me that day, that nasty rainy day, after Odin had been killed and I was just aimlessly walking around like a blind man. From that moment on, my life wasn't my life so much as a device, and a faceless device at that, to bring about peace.

But seeing Duo made me realize that I didn't want what he had; I didn't want happiness, or a huge life filled with smiling and laughter and peace. I didn't know what I wanted at all, and for the first time I realized the truth when someone had said, maybe even me, long ago that the only home for the Gundam pilots was the battlefield. Little did I know how many boundaries that truth would transcend.

 

---

 

Duo doesn't know where Trowa is going, and from here on neither do I. I find myself wasting time, tracking leads of information that end up being dead ends and trying to find out where he has vanished to. I walk days and nights along the dirt roads in these rural areas. The stars in the blackness of country skies has never seemed so far away as they do on those nights where the only the sound is of the dirt crunching under my shoes and the whisper of cloth as I walk.

It's when I hear on the news that there has been an incident in the Sanq Kingdom that I momentarily forget my search and am seized with panic; the news report that I viewed in a television shop's window refused to disclose further information to the public, only that there had been trouble and it had been quelled.

I stepped foot into the nearest vid-phone as quickly as I could find one, dialing the Preventers since it was the only number I could remember off the top of my head. Composing myself and wiping the smears of dirt off of my face that I knew had collected from traveling, I waited on the other end until a secretary or some such picked up with a nasal voice and no visual support.

"I need to speak to Lady Une, please," I said into the phone, trying to mask my impatience.

"Sorry," she squeaked, and I swore I could hear a nail file scratching somewhere at her end of the line, "I can't do that."

"Tell her it's Heero Yuy," I growled down the line in a tone so venomous and dark that the girl eeped and did as instructed, and finally put me through.

Lady Une's face appeared as the screen suddenly as it lit to life, looking drawn and tired. I braced myself for the worst.

"Lady Une," my voice was tight but polite.

"Heero," she said with familiarity, and I relaxed slightly. I hadn't actually spoken to her for a good number of months, although I saw her fairly regularly from when I was Relena's body guard and I had even helped the Preventers on a few isolated occasions, "I assume you're calling about what happened?"

"What did happen?" I asked impatiently. Wondering whether or not the world is going to lapse into another war will do that to you.

"Relena is fine," she sighed slightly, although her eyes still held that steely glint they had since the beginning of war, "everything is fine. We had the makings of a minor rebellion but it was put down with our help."

I breathed a silent sigh of relief, replying, "Aa, fine," my pulse was slowly going back to its normal rate.

"If you like," she said, straightening her uniform slightly as she spoke though still staring straight at me, "I can put you through to Wufei and he can update you on the situation. We may need your help if anything else arises, in fact."

I just nodded, said goodbye and waited until the screen went dark for a few moments.

I hadn't seen Wufei's face for a good year or maybe even longer, and if anything he looked even prouder than before although his eyes had become even more self-deprecating than I remembered. His jet black hair was still pulled back severely into a tail and his eyes were still the same dark intense color that they were since I had met him. He looked as if he had aged ten years instead of three however, with slight circles under his eyes amidst the bronze skin, although he simply looked a little less scholarly and a little more rugged. There was an intelligence that still sparkled behind all the other things though, an easy thing to miss if you weren't watching for it. I had seen it when I had first met him, and I had known that he could be very dangerous with that kind of spark.

His expression didn't change, but he did offer me up a curt nod, which I returned. The shoulders of his Preventers uniform were sharply angled and straight, and he began to update me, "A small group of terrorists sought to assassinate Relena since they suspected her of secretly keeping a large number of mobile suits around at her own personal disposal. Of course, this was ridiculous," he paused, straightening as if personally offended at the suggestion, "and we quelled it quickly enough. There are still one or two of them scattered, but they shouldn't be a problem once properly tracked down, captured and tried."

I nodded, and then asked him if the Preventers were a successful endeavor. He was enthusiastic, and then suddenly he looked straight at me seriously as if remembering something, "Do you know where Trowa is?"

I blinked, and then blinked again at the unexpected question, "No," I replied carefully, "have you been in contact with him?"

Wufei nodded feverently as if I was asking an idiot's question.

"Of course. He helped us with this problem," he raised an eyebrow elegantly, "actually, I was rather surprised that he showed up when he did, because it was primarily to ask me about the Preventers. Then his fiasco struck at the same time."

"What did he ask you?"

Wufei looked at me strangely for a moment but answered none the less, "How I felt...about the Preventers. If I had found justice...," he cleared his throat and stopped talking, obviously not wanting to discuss with me what he had discussed with Trowa. Mostly because it was personal, and probably had to do with his emotions.

"Is he still there?" I asked, ignoring the silence as he stopped in mid-sentence.

"No, he left a day ago," he replied with a slight shrug, and then, "he said little. I was surprised to see him here at all," he faltered for a moment, "and I believe he was headed back to the Colonies."

I bid Wufei farewell, and shut the vid-phone off in the box I was standing in. I sat there for a long time, watching all the people pass as they went about their business, not really thinking about anything, just observing. I supposed this was what life was.

Finally, I opened the door, and I felt like God for a moment standing in the middle of a cracked bleached sidewalk, being pushed out of the way as people passed in their hurry because I knew exactly what was happening, where Trowa was going, and where I was going. I felt strangely careless, suddenly knowing all the things that I hadn't known before, suddenly knowing as realisation hits me and it all falls into place so perfectly. But no matter how perfectly the logic fits or how much I understand of Trowa's thoughts and situation, I am still utterly helpless to stop myself from chasing after him. That is my weakness.

Me, then Duo, then Wufei, and of course, now Trowa was going to Quatre. Quatre was the last of us, the missing fifth that he hadn't seen yet. He was piecing together a puzzle that he thought he had the pieces to, and when it was finished, he could understand what I've been trying to understand since the end of the war.

But he doesn't have all the pieces; he's only fit four of us together, and he can never have the fifth, because the fifth is himself. He, and I, cannot understand anything until we first begin to understand ourselves.

 

---

 

The shuttle to the space resource satellite felt like crossing the River of Styx in the grim reaper's boat. I didn't eat, the smell of food only serving to make me feel sick.

My seat was next to the window far in the back, away from many of the other passengers, and when I looked out the window, those stars that I had seen from earth seemed so much closer. And up close, beautiful things are much more frightening than when you're just looking at them from afar.

They kept announcing as we grew closer and closer to our destination, and the pounding in my body of my pulse and my heart and my blood became more and more pronounced until all I could hear was the roar of my own fear and nothing else above the din.

The resource satellite where Quatre was currently working was all efficiency, with metal everywhere and it seemed to radiate a sort of cold, the same sort of cold the Peacemillion always did. Buildings, and neatly arranged square areas of fields growing natural resources, and making a whole new ecosystem synthetically.

I walked through the symmetrical blocks of what could be called a sort of city, made up primarily of small office buildings and official looking halls designed for political discussions. It was new, slightly tarnished, but new and it would always look exactly the same no matter how many people walked on the metallic pathways because there would be no scuff marks, no indentations to prove how old it was.

I didn't notice this too much, because I was so intent on my destination.

Quatre's building looked like any other except for the fact that it had the Winner name emblazoned onto the front of it, and I knew he'd be inside, probably diligently working the way he always has and probably always will. He's always been one of the most resilient out of the five of us without a lot of the normal hang-ups you get after being a teenage terrorist.

I stood in front of that building, the proportions of what I was doing seeming even bigger than the huge letters that spelt "Winner" directly above my head when I had a little cold water splashed into my system.

Quatre saw me before I saw him, and he just stood there, looking at me. He was leaning against the side of the building, his arms crossed, breathing the air in deeply and looking even paler than normal. His hair hung in his eyes, but they were boring into me, partially in shock but another element of his gaze told me that he knew I was coming.

I walked up to him, waiting for an onslaught of quiet reprimands, maybe even anger, but there was just silence. It was a forever extending silence until he finally broke it by saying, "Hello Heero. How are you?"

His voice was quiet, but it was the voice of a broken man, or boy, or terrorist, or soldier, or pilot, or whatever we all were. I finally just leaned against the wall next to him, staring straight ahead.

"Fine," I said, my voice carefully neutral.

"I wanted to get a little air," he explained, fanning his hand in a little circle near his face to circulate the air, "it's so stuffy inside today."

He still looked almost the same apart from the expensive suit that adorned his slightly broader frame. His eyes were the same too, apart from being a little more guarded and a little less expressive than how I remember them. I recall the openness of those clear blue eyes the most distinctly after Quatre had show down Trowa and we had landed at some beach on Earth. I would always remember that moment, those series of moments, staring out over the ocean with him talking about kindness, a sad tilt to his tone that he didn't intend for anyone to hear. Only, the fact that he didn't want anyone to hear it or intend for anyone to recognize his sadness made it even more pitiable.

Standing in front of me now was the same person who blew up a resource satellite, who I vowed heatedly that I would stop, who I had accused of forcing Trowa's death to have no meaning. Now, we were just two people leaning against a building on a resource satellite, and right then I think I felt even more faceless than when I was a pilot.

Quatre turned to look at me finally, his eyes the stormiest I'd ever seen them, his face looking pale and pasty and wholly unappealing, and he stared at me as if I was a ghost. His hair stuck to his face, he suddenly seemed too thin and he just looked more fragile than anything I could ever really remember.

"He left," he said simply, his voice wilted and strained.

I just stayed silent; old strategies work the best.

"He asked me if I was happy," Quatre shook his head slightly as if he didn't even know the definition of that word anymore, "and I said I didn't know."

He didn't say anything else; he didn't need to. I turned to look at him, really look at him, and I just opened my mouth and said, "I've got your sweater."

For a moment, he looked at me like I was insane, and then he laughed, and his laugh was Duo's laugh, bright, in the pursuit of happiness.

"Well," he replied, "next time you're around, you'll have to give it to me."

I nodded silently, gave him my own version of a smile and he walked back into the building to his business, his family, his expensive suit and his bright smiles.

 

---

 

Regardless of the fact that resource satellites are relatively large places, I didn't have too much trouble finding Trowa. My various sources of information were helpful and even friendly, something I wasn't quite used to after living on L1 for so long.

By the time I found him, it was getting dark and dusk was just settling itself into the darkest shade of sapphire night. His silhouette was there, black against the railing where he stood in front of the small ocean that managed to exist on this satellite. It roared slightly as the tide began to come in, what little imitation of a real tide there was.

He was looking downwards into the huge drop, the massive gap of air between his body and the tiny expanse of beach, which tapered off into the water. And then I wasn't any God, or even anyone who knew a single thing about why I had come here, just a person who didn't know anything.

But it made me feel better, because the one thing I did know is that he felt the same way.

His shoulders were slightly hunched over as he stared down, letting his head hang slightly so that his hair obscured his face, but he didn't bother looking behind him. I know that he wasn't expecting me by a long shot, that my presence was the element that changed this puzzle.

When I put my arms around him from behind and touched his hips lightly with my fingertips, he nearly hit me, and then he knew who it was and he drew in a shallow, staggered breath that was more of a shudder than an inhalation.

I didn't say anything; I didn't know what to say. And neither did he. So I just stood there with him, my body the closest to his it had ever been and the warmth of him seeping into me.

"Thinking of jumping?" I said quietly into his ear after a long time, my breath flickering against it. He couldn't answer, so he just bit his lip. I kissed his ear lightly after I spoke the words, trailing down his neck and then stopped.

I think we must have stood there for ten minutes, neither one of us moving and barely even breathing. The ocean roared beneath of us, but suddenly everything seemed in a state of unearthly calm to me. Probably because the thunder that was previously coursing through my body is now silent.

Finally, he speaks, quietly and just as he always has, nothing different, "How did you find me?"

I am not playing this game any longer; I am not going to edge around our emotions, or at least not my emotions, as if they're jagged pieces of broken glass that will hurt too much to be stepped on.

So I don't say a single word, just standing there, and he goes rigid in my embrace because he knows that I've never shown this side of myself to anyone. Partly because I haven't wanted to, and partly because I've just recently realized it exists. But regardless, I still don't know what I want. I don't know why I'm holding him this way, why I spent all this time tracking him and following him and being dragged through his muddy path that he didn't even intend for anyone to tread except himself.

Odin was the one who taught me to follow my emotions. He was also the one who taught me to shoot a gun, and for a long time, I primarily used the latter skill. But now...now, I'm trying.

"I don't want happiness," I say to him, and then ask, "what did you find?"

He refuses to answer, and tries to break out of my arms. I let him, allowing them to slacken so he can have his own space back only to pin him against the railing so that now he's facing me and I'm eye to eye with him.

I'm angry, God, I'm angry. That's the first damn emotion that floats the surface, and I want him to know it. I want him to know what I felt when he left, what I felt when I thought he was in love with Quatre, how asinine I felt slamming doors. I don't slam doors; Duo slams doors.

"What were you looking for?" I finally growl at him, my eyes mere slits as I glare at him. He just looks at me, and his eyes flash with something I don't recognize, but then he does something I don't expect. He answers.

"I don't know," he closes his mouth and I know it won't open again unless I ask him another question, and he hides behind the curtain of his hair, his face expressionless and his eyes blank. But I can see what's brewing behind there, and he knows it.

So I kiss him, not tenderly, not lovingly, but brutally. He lets me, not resisting, not responding, just standing there and letting me kiss him hard on the mouth and then nip aggressively at his bottom lip with my teeth. I hate him, I hate him so much that it hurts, it feels like there's a tear in my side or in my heart. It feels like there's something in my throat, squeezing, choking me. I feel blinded by darkness, and I hate him so much my heart is swelling like a balloon about to burst.

I hate him as I kiss him. I hate him as my hands bury themselves in his hair. I hate him as he sighs and then I hate him even more when he makes me sigh in return.

And I love him too much.

"Trowa," my voice is a pale representation of how I normally speak, and his name is a sound that is ground out of my vocal chords and ripped from my mouth.

"Heero," but his isn't. Suddenly his is quiet and pleading, and I can feel all the hot steam I have been riding on suddenly turn cold until I totally deflate and crumble.

Suddenly I don't need answers and I don't want them, and I realize that there is no great conspiracy of why he left, that there is no great mystery. There is nothing he could say to solve the puzzle, there is nothing I could ever ask to understand what it is exactly that I'm trying to get out of him or trying to say.

The touch is enough. The touch of my arms around him, of him gently kissing my lips over and over now, lightly and carefully is enough for me to understand. I don't need any reasons.

Everything is gone, and it's just the two of us. Without happiness, without smiles, without any of those other complications that you're supposed to want.

No, it's just us now and nothing else, just him and I not caring what the reasons are. And I lose myself in him, wholly free, knowing I will never solve the puzzle but knowing that we will be lost in this mess together, whatever the reasons.