(Trowa looks on as Heero and Quatre get married (and he loves both), then Duo takes pity on him and they have a relationship until Endless Waltz breaks out and Trowa finds himself not only opposing Duo, but having no choice but to kill him.)

Ok, call me sadistic, but I just got the urge for some real hard-core Trowa- (and Duo!) torture! ::evil laugh:: So enjoy this, everyone: I worked hard enough on it!

Fate’s Laughter by Shinigami’s Demon

That hurt, you know. More than it did each time I forced myself to respond to "No-Name," more than it did when I realized I responded to it with no hesitation or even having to force myself. It hurt more than each death, and it hurt more than having to leave your home and the only place of kindness to a complete stranger and unconditional acceptance I had ever known. It was worse than trying to reconcile my feelings and loyalties as a Gundam pilot with my orders and cover inside OZ, and harder on me than bringing myself to capture you, Heero, and hand you over to Colonel Une. That wedding invitation, so elegantly done… I thought nothing could be worse than that was. Kuso, was I wrong.

Those times I spent with the two of you… They were paradise for me, and nothing less. I give a small chuckle inside, not letting my face show anything even though all of my instincts tell me I am alone as I write these words. Especially with you, Heero, since for approximately nine-tenths of the time you were with me and Catherine at the circus you were unconscious and I had one of the most beautiful sights of my life each time I could sit and watch you sleep. When you woke up, you proved what I had always felt about you: you were, and still are, the most courageous person I have ever met. And as much as I know you would deny it if I ever found the courage to tell you, you are also one of the kindest. I cannot say I was at all unhappy to throw myself in front of the shot intended for you… Mercurius was already heavily damaged and might not have survived that. A flaw in the doctors’ design: if the shield ever failed, Mercurius was too light to handle a lot after. Killing you would have destroyed Quatre, I think, and I could not allow that to happen: ironically, the Zero System buffered him from the effects of hitting me.

Quatre. There is not enough I can say about you in all of eternity, nor the words to say it. You have always been kind, even when the Zero System had warped your mind and was playing merry hell with you. Even then, you thought of others and gave Heero and myself the chance to leave unharmed. I could not bear to see you that distraught again. And even earlier, when we ran into one another on the way to what turned out to be the debacle at the New Edwards base… I’m not certain how you discovered I was staying in a roach-infested warehouse that had an upstairs room, but you immediately invited me to stay with you at that beautiful five-star hotel in Los Angeles and upgraded the place to a two-bedroom suite. What was that which you said when I mentioned the cost? A tiny smile shows itself now: I feel it, recalling your sky-blue eyes crinkle at the corners with a rather rude Arabic invective in referring to the price. I still think that one was great. And earlier still: the day we met. I was actually considering the self-destruct button inside my Heavyarms when you showed up and saved the day. Naturally the appearance of another mobile suit put me on my guard, and the other ones with you, the Maganacs, made me more than a touch uneasy. I admit it now; I probably overdid it on attacking you. When you refused to fight any more, I decided that I would not try to fight someone who was extending the olive branch and outnumbered me: my surrender was something of a token and we both know the pair of us had enough enemies to deal with at the time. I will say that I was quite surprised to find out that you are such a talented violinist: you seemed a little surprised to find out that I enjoy the flute. Well, Doktor S always said that music might help to relieve high stress, and flute seems to do it for me.

I’ve always admired the pair of you from afar, always unsure if I should tell you just how I feel or if you would be willing to accept me for who and what I appear to be. Who I am, I have never been certain. Even if it is simply to myself, I am always Nanashi. It is too late now, though. You seem to be more than content with one another, and I love the both of you enough to let it stay that way. I pause my ceaselessly-scratching pen in surprise, looking at the tiny damp spot on my journal page. Another joins it: is there a leak in the roof? I look up to see how bad the leak is, and a drop of water trails down my cheek. It hits me now. My tears. Strange, I have only done this crying once before, when I had to destroy the Gundam I later found out was Duo’s own… A touch out of character for me, and I am not yet willing to remove the mask. I will bear my own punishment as well as I can, as I always have: the tears forcibly disappear.

I will do nothing to break the two of you up: I saw how happy you both were this morning at the wedding and later at the reception. Yes, even you, Heero Yuy: do not forget, I speak silence even more fluently than you do yourself and have since I was five. I saw the deep-down glow that could only mean you were happy and trying hard not to show it too obviously, which for you means not at all. Truthfully, that cut even more deeply than the invitation to the wedding and reception. I hope you did not see it: I am not certain I managed to hold it in when I came up like a good, perfectly happy guest and wished you the best of luck. I did mean it, though, when I hugged you both lightly and whispered to you "good luck," and I am happy for you, for both of you… just not perfectly happy. And the tears break the dam once more: this time I merely fold my journal closed, lay the pen across it and curl up on the bed with no attempt to stop the clear, salty droplets that wet the pillow and feel like my own lifeblood leaving me.

I saw Trowa at the wedding today and later again at the reception. Those single tears that held in his eyes as he turned away from wishing the best of luck to the newlyweds… that is the most emotion I have ever seen from him. It was difficult for me, seeing the boy whom I have always had a crush on get married to another, but I am hardly stupid (that’s just the image I like to project, since people will underestimate you that way). No, I know when not to get involved. I also recognized the look on Trowa’s face as he climbed onto his motorcycle when the reception ended. That was that almost-nonexistent look of determination, like he was in a battle, coupled with a sense of… loss. I understand, Trowa. I think I know what you are thinking now, as well: you will completely remove yourself from their lives and internalize your pain. Trowa, Trowa… do you not realize that you have too much stored up inside you already? You will end up killing yourself one of these days, storing it all up like that. Or is that your intent? What are you saving it for, anyway, redecorating your apartment?

It is a few days until I next see you, my old friend, sitting by yourself, head down and staring into your coffee. It could be worse: it could be alcohol and I would have a hell of a time pulling you out of that if it was. But it is not, so I count myself fortunate as I walk in and approach you.

Trowa looked up slightly as a figure entered the edge of his peripheral vision just enough to distinguish the figure as Duo Maxwell. Defenses went down as much as he ever allowed them to: Catherine and the other four Gundam pilots were the only ones he trusted enough to be this relaxed around.

"Hey, Trowa." Duo’s voice was subdued and quiet: was he actually going to be serious for once? "You look like hell… mind if I sit down?"

Trowa gave a small nod of assent and Duo sat down across from the pilot with the cinnamon-colored bangs, leaning on the elbows he placed on the tabletop. "Something’s bugging you," the braided boy said. It was not a question, so there was no need to respond. "Want to talk about it?" That was a question, but Trowa ignored it, lost in his own thoughts. Duo sighed. "I understand. I’ve never really opened up to anyone before, except Sister Helen."

Duo had never mentioned his past before meeting Professor G in previous conversations, had never even hinted at it, and this small admission caught Trowa’s attention. He had the feeling that that was exactly what it was supposed to do, but looked up from his coffee to regard the other boy with a single green eye. Duo had leaned back against the slippery, patent leather seat, his violet-blue eyes looking at the hands folded in his lap. "It’s difficult. When you open your heart to someone like that, you basically give everything to them to hold in their hands and do with as they please. I never did feel quite that comfortable around Father Maxwell, even: only three people ever would get my complete trust. Solo, Sister Helen and…" Duo hesitated, taking a deep breath. "You, believe it or not. You are always so quiet, it’s like I could trust you with the secret to eternal life if I knew it and you’d never breathe it under torture if I asked you not to," he said, meeting Trowa’s openly surprised glance squarely. "I’m not kidding. I run, I hide, but I never lie. And that, perhaps, is more than I meant to say…but if it makes you feel any better then it is more than worth it," he added, rising gracefully. Duo extended a warm, small hand that was hesitantly grasped by Trowa’s cooler, slender one. "You need to chat, you contact me, ‘k?" Trowa nodded quietly, and Duo left with a warm, gentle glance back at him.

Duo’s friendly, flippant "Hey-a there, Shinigami’s out striking somewhere else right now but leave a message and he’ll be more than happy to come getcha" greeting on the answering machine ended and the first message started playing. "Hey, Duo," came the quiet voice over the message machine. "Thanks. For stopping by and talking with me. I- I’ll see you around." The screen went blank and Trowa’s voice ended. Duo grinned, falling backwards onto the bed. Trowa, at a loss for words? That was what it sounded like: had hell frozen over or something? Trowa always knew what to say…when he chose to speak, anyway. He sounded better, that was for certain. Duo listened to the rest of the six total messages, then flipped the videophone to "call" and dialed Trowa.

"Hello, you have reached Trowa Barton’s answering machine: please leave a message and I will get back to you. Thank you," came Trowa’s crisp, impersonal voice and then the annoying beep that signaled that the machine was ready to record a message. Damn. Oh, well. He left his message.

"Hey, Tro. You sound better than you did last time I saw you: sorry, it has been absolutely forever since I could get home and sleep in my own bed and check my messages! That inter-colony supply shuttle piloting thing most certainly does not have the easiest of schedules! Anyway, if you and the circus are going to be anywhere around town I can drop by for a show sometime and we can go for coffee after. See ya ’round!" Duo seemed pretty chipper, and it brought a smile to Trowa’s stolid face. Not a large smile, but a smile all the same. Duo, and caffeine? An alarming notion. Not to mention the fact that unless it was already laced thoroughly with chocolate he was guaranteed to put more in it and Shinigami was hyperactive to begin with… A tiny chuckle, swiftly stifled, broke from him. /I think I can handle a challenge, / he thought.

He called Duo back, saving the minute smile he got from Duo’s recorded answering machine for after he left the days, locations and times of the next three performances.

Two hours later he got a call back from the braided boy, who was busy grinning like the maniac he was.

"Hello, Trowa Barton speaking."

"Hey, Trowa!"

"Hello, Duo. Nice to finally stop this game of telephone tag."

"Hell, I’d rather talk to the real person than a recording, no matter how quiet he is!" Trowa held in the smile. Why was it that that braided psychopath always managed to pull a laugh out of nowhere like the circus magician did with the old rabbit-in-the-top-hat trick? A matter for another time. "So, when’s the performance out?"

"Which one?"

"Tomorrow’s, no da."

"Twenty-two hundred hours," Trowa said, catching himself too late. Military time again: would that never leave him? Duo did not seem to mind, though.

"Ten p.m.? Got it! I will be there, count on it- ah…don’t tell Cathy, ‘k?"

"I’m not suicidal." Trowa was the only one of the Gundam pilots Catherine would tolerate, since she considered him her brother. The DNA testing she had insisted on confirmed it: they were related by blood, and she was absolutely furious with all of the other pilots. Quatre for nearly killing him and wiping out his memory, Heero for doing nothing to stop it and then not interfering when he started fighting again, Wufei for not trying to protect Trowa. And she was really and truly steamed at Duo for initially showing up and trying to drag Trowa back into the fighting, then pointing out his whereabouts to Quatre. No… Trowa suspected that, if Duo ever ended up having to take his own place in the knife-throwing act, Catherine Bloom might not be nearly so accurate with the knives. And somehow managing to accidentally, of course, lodge one of those blades right in between the loon’s ribs.

Duo laughed; it was a bright sound that seemed to be real instead of contrived by his mask this time. "Yeah, and I would really rather not come for either one of us, you know… Sorry, Tro, but I kind of have to go here. Reentry is going to totally screw the signal in a few minutes, anyway, you know." Seeing Trowa’s slightly confused non-expression he laughed again and clarified. "I got a little tired of playing telephone tag, so I just rigged the answering machine at home to pass on any messages to my wristcom." The faintest of rumblings began, accompanied by a touch of static in both audio and video pickup. Duo looked away, presumably out of the shuttle’s several layers of tempered carbon glass. "And there it goes: see you tomorrow, Trowa."

"See you then. Barton out." It would probably be around eleven-thirty by the time he got done with the animals and changed into something more suitable for public than his baggy green pants and clown’s half-mask… /Why is it I seem to be looking forward to time with Duo on a caffeine-and-sugar high? /he wondered to himself, somewhat amused.

"Trowa?"

"Yes, Catherine?"

Cathy popped out of nowhere with an outfit in her hands. Trowa straightened from his crouch where he was stroking the lion and regarded the thing skeptically. Definitely a change from the baggy green-and-yellow pants held up by yellow suspenders over a blue-and-white shirt and yellow neck ruffle that was the outfit he was used to wearing… this was probably not what a clown, supposed to make people laugh, would wear. The top consisted of a pair of wide leather straps and the pants were not quite as tight as his jeans, but nowhere near as roomy as the green ones. "I want to see if this will work any better than the old one…"

"Catherine…"

"I’m sure it will," she said, not even noticing his reluctance to even touch the thing. /This should teach you not to ask for a new performance outfit, No-Name. / "You’ve got just the form for it, you know, all those muscles and not hidden like with that other one… That was such a good idea, Trowa, putting in a request for a new performance outfit… maybe there will be something in there that I can wear… Oh, quit being such a baby, Trowa-kun! I just want to see you in it and if it works you can wear it for tonight’s show, maybe for a while…" Trowa sighed and resigned himself to the fact that, at least in a circus, nobody really minded if you went around only half-dressed. Catherine walked with him to the changing room and left him to get into the so-called clothes: the boy with the cinnamon-colored hair wondered if there was any way he could possibly burn the garb without her noticing. Still, he changed into it: he had been forced to wear worse, less and/or nothing at all before and if he treated it like a mission disguise it might not be so bad…

An hour later saw the beginning of the show: Trowa spotted Duo in a ringside seat of the crowded bleachers, apparently without any of the munchies that usually accompanied any dealings with the longhaired maniac. Hmm. Maybe there was hope that he would not have to deal with an overly-hyperactive Shinigami after all…except that caffeine and sugar on an empty stomach would send the kid rocketing sky-high almost immediately. He sighed inwardly.

"Mr. Barton? Mr. Barton, there’s someone backstage for you," one of the stagehands said, shattering the calm he had almost achieved.

"Thank you," he murmured to the young woman with the short pink hair and went back, wondering who it could be if Duo was out in the stands. The person who waited for him was one of the last people Trowa Barton expected to see.

"Quatre? May I help you?" he said, recovering his calm almost immediately although it seemed as though a fresh razor had been laid to his soul. Quatre looked up from the ground he was studying and at Trowa’s one visible eye, his own crystal-blue eyes darkening with concern.

"I wanted to see how you were doing, Trowa," he said gently in the tone that so clearly expressed care. How would he- Trowa remembered about Quatre’s ESP. The little blond could sense emotions, and if they were of someone close to him he could even tell who. He must have picked up Trowa’s distress, and his next words confirmed the taller boy’s guess.

"I just…felt there was something wrong, that’s all," he said in response to Trowa’s silent query.

"I’m fine, thank you," he said quietly, emotions straining on their tight leash. "Is Heero with you?" /Don’t give yourself away, Trowa…/

"No, he isn’t." Seeing Catherine Bloom coming outside he smiled and gave a little squeak. "Sorry, Trowa, but I’m hardly someone’s favorite person around here so I really think I should be going…"

"Hello, Mr. Winner." Catherine made the words, normally pleasant enough, sound as though she was getting ready to kill him on the spot. Trowa could almost see the gears inside Quatre’s diplomatic mind whirl furiously as he greeted the green-eyed girl with every bit as much grace as the world’s best diplomat.

"Hello, Miss Bloom. How are you today?"

"I’m fine, thank you. So is Trowa, if that’s what you’ve come to ask about."

"I was just leaving, actually, but I did come to ask."

"Will you be needing assistance in finding your car?"

"No, thank you, ma’am. I can find it quite easily myself."

"See that you do," and Catherine put an icy bite into these words. "Also see that you and your other friends misplace how they are supposed to contact Trowa, understand?"

"Yes, ma’am." Smooth as ever, Quatre’s mind was at it again: what they did not need to know he did not pass on. Trowa could not laugh, though, at his friend’s devious turn of mind even if he wanted to. This was simply too much: he might very well do as Catherine insisted and simply sever all communication with anyone connected to the Gundam pilots. Quatre walked off, any kind of parting word strictly prohibited by the presence of the girl at his side. Resolutely he put it aside: there was a performance to do, animals to feed after, and a certain hyperactive- Gundam pilot, his mind supplied all too eagerly- to keep a watchful eye on.

"Trowa, are you O.K.?"

Trowa simply nodded briefly.

"Bullshit," the violet-eyed boy beside him declared.

Trowa’s eyebrows rose a touch.

"Something’s up. Something’s been up for a while now."

Duo easily kept pace with Trowa’s comparatively long strides, arms swinging casually by his side. The long braid swung behind him slightly from side to side with each of the shorter boy’s quicker steps as they headed to a small, all-night diner. "God only knows I told enough lies, I ought to be able to tell when someone is waving the bullshit in my face. That would be one reason why I don’t lie anymore, actually. It’s actually an amazing tactical advantage that leaves you enough room to twist truth upside down and inside out if you have to, as well, and it doesn’t leave you feeling like shit like a fib does." Never one to mince words like diplomatic Quatre, Duo was as blunt as ever. "Tell the truth, they’ll wonder if you just told a lie and read all kinds of things into that were never there to begin with and end up with exactly the opposite of what they were looking for. Not to mention the fact that it‘s much stronger and your reputation doesn’t suffer the way it does with a lie. So that is your first lesson in telling a lie: the best one is never told." He smiled softly. "So I know something’s not O.K., the game is most certainly afoot…" The smile stretched to the darkened purple orbs that gazed at Trowa’s profile. "I won’t ask, though. Not unless you really want to tell me."

A matching smile just barely touched Trowa’s lips. "Thank you, Duo…" They entered the small diner and were shown to a booth in the corner of the all-but-deserted establishment. Considering that it was eleven-forty-five on a Sunday night, the desertion of the place was not all that surprising. A group of teenage boys and girls, apparently ranging in age from sixteen to nineteen years old, were kicking up a ruckus in the opposite corner. There were a few slightly older patrons around, most of whom had a beer, a tobacco product or a newspaper in front of them if not any combination of the three, but there was nobody in their section. Duo ordered a salad and a caffeine-free soda, much to Trowa’s surprise, while he himself got the featured item on the menu: a teriyaki bowl and minestrone soup. Why, he reflected in silence, should he be surprised? They hadn’t known each other until Duo was captured at the lunar base and under Trowa’s guard, and the prisoner Gundams had basically gotten just enough to survive on. Then, on Peacemillion, Duo had pretty much made himself scarce, popping up right around a mission. They had not really known one another well then, and it had not until recently gotten any closer.

Duo spoke as soon as the server arrived with their food, thanking her quietly. "I’m not really sure you want to hear me tell my life story…I’ll tell it if you want to hear it, though. I’d like to tell someone, and you’re the only person who’s survived long enough to relate. In all honesty, I’d consider the biggest favor anyone could do for me."

Trowa’s eyes slipped out of his lap and to the face of the boy at his side, who sat there sort of toying with his food. "I admit, I am curious. Not all of that cheer can be natural: I wonder what happened to you that put a shadow in your eyes."

Duo’s eyes dropped from Trowa’s, and he gave a tiny nod as though to himself. "So…you do actually want to hear the story of someone who was a whore, pickpocket, and murderer before he was ten years old, long before he’d ever heard of Gundams." That last description got Trowa’s full attention: he laid down his utensils and steepled his hands, listening to the dark-haired boy’s past.

"Ever heard about Colony V08744? Yeah? Good. Been there? No? What colony did you come from?" Trowa named the place: Duo nodded. "Then you might have some idea, if you imagine that about three times worse. Just to give you a setting. I’m an orphan. I don’t remember what I went by in those days, I just know that it wasn’t Duo Maxwell. To make things worse, I don’t know if I’m a war orphan or if my parents just out-and-out abandoned me or if I’m a test-tube brat gone wrong. All I know is, by five years old I was running the streets of V08744 with a street gang led by a kid named Solo. Solo, well, he sort of took pity on me. I was the youngest one in the gang, so he was hardest on me. I know it sounds odd, but looking back, he was doing the best he could for me. If I didn’t have enough to eat, though, he’d give some of his own small dinner to me. If I was cold, he’d curl up next to me. Solo taught me to survive.

"And then the plague struck. Struck and took away my greatest ally…he died in my arms, you know. And my name became Duo then, just plain Duo, to honor him: he told me he’d never abandon me. I never did catch the plague: maybe he kept his word and watched over me, I don’t know. Control of the gang passed to me, but even though the colony had been decimated times were still getting a lot harder. So I turned tricks for a living: it was that or else watch the little ones do it and I couldn’t do that. But when you’re nine years old and you have long hair and what most sick old men would call a pretty face and those are your only source of income besides picking pockets, you learn to defend yourself damn quick. About three-quarters of the men I was with tried to pull something on me after: most of those died immediately, a few took a while." Trowa had closed his eyes, trying to imagine the kind of hell that had been Duo’s life. The appalling part of it was, he could: his own childhood had not been that different, except that nowhere near as many people had died by his hand even with the mercenaries. Duo continued, speaking low and rapid, yet with no tears: there was simply a cold, detached quality to him that not even the "Shinigami" side of his personality had ever managed to bring out. It was a measure, Trowa realized, of just how badly this disturbed him.

"Things were getting tougher: the damn Federation was beginning to crack down on the street gangs. Then I made the mistake of picking the wrong pocket: it turned out to be the biggest mistake of the gang’s lives. Because it was a priest’s pocket, and he caught me in the act: told me that he would forgive me but that I really should come stay him at the church and orphanage he ran. I told him no: I couldn’t, without the others. ‘Bring them with you,’ he told me. So I did: I checked the place out, made sure I wouldn’t be endangering the gang by bringing them to live there with Father Maxwell and Sister Helen, and then took them to live at Maxwell Church Orphanage.

"Some of the others, especially the youngest ones, were snapped up and taken to good homes pretty quickly. Nobody wanted me, though… I caused too much trouble. So Sister Helen and Father Maxwell, they adopted me themselves. I became Duo of Maxwell Church Orphanage: at the school they tried to send me to I was just Duo. Again. Last names were strange then, still are, actually. I ended up getting expelled: Fed kids were being sent there and tried to run roughshod over a kid who’d never had a real home, any parents, a lot of money or any kind of height. I was still picking pockets now and then, just enough to anger the Feds. So to get rid of me they firebombed the church and attached orphanage- yeah. You can imagine the kind of damage that caused." Duo glanced up in time to catch Trowa’s involuntary wince. A cold smile, reminiscent of Shinigami but infinitely colder, crossed Duo’s paled lips and held there. He was sweating, breathing a little harder, and hardened heliotrope eyes glistened with the tears their owner refused to shed. "The irony of it all was, I came back from stealing a mobile suit for some resistance group or other to use against those same assholes to find myself the only survivor of a burned-out relic of a church that came to be known as…"

"The Maxwell Church Massacre." The silent boy found the name upon his lips and breathed it with Duo, whose smile grew all the more colder. "I heard about it…it was rumored that there was one survivor of the whole thing, but…"

"You’re looking at him, buddy. The sole survivor, and all because I was too busy trying to get back at those filthy rat-bastards." Duo’s eyes still shone, but the coldness and suppressed anger with which he had spoken disappeared as a single crystal droplet rolled down each cheek. Trowa silently wiped them away with one finger, earning a grateful smile as the braided boy fought to bring himself back under control. When he finally did he continued.

"After the Massacre I went back to my old habits, but I finally picked the wrong pocket once again. Except this time there was no forgiving Father Maxwell to take me to another place besides the alleyways I could call home. I had to leave, and the quickest way off was the Sweepers’ barge. You know them: they don’t take passengers, so I stowed away. Easy enough for a champion sneak like me. Except Howard was there, and Professor G, I got caught again, and Professor decided he had his Gundam pilot. The rest I think you pretty much know." He began picking at his food: the noise from the teenagers in the other corner had abated and a glance over told the pair that they were all passed out. One exiting patron gave the group a disgusted snort as he walked out.

"So, now that you know exactly who and what hides behind the mask, your thoughts?" Duo asked, after finally taking a bite of salad. Trowa returned to his dinner, not really minding the fact that it was barely warm: he’d eaten worse. Finally he spoke.

"I can’t say who’s to blame, Duo. The fact that you even survived that as you have speaks of a strength of personality that, to be completely honest, I am more than a little jealous of. I wish I had that kind of drive, to do well at whatever it is that I do, whether I’m proud of it or not, because my doing it could help someone else. I feel that it was definitely a good deal harder on you than it was for me, but time… There’s a very old saying that says ‘time heals all wounds.’ Maybe it’s true, I don’t know. I’m not sure if that helps, or if it’s what you’re looking for…"

The answer seemed to help. "Similar to what Father Maxwell would say," Duo murmured, staring at the plate of food that had very swiftly vanished. "Don’t tell me what I want to hear, or what you think I want to hear. Tell me the straight, honest truth, no sugarcoating."

Trowa was silent for a moment. "You carry around too much guilt. You feel responsible for the deaths at the Maxwell Church Massacre: that may be due to you, or it may not. How do you know it wasn’t a rival gang who’d gotten a few explosives and decided to wreak hell with their old nemesis at the orphanage? You might be giving yourself a little too much credit there."

Duo beamed, a warm smile from his heart shining through the tears that his eyes still held. "I didn’t think of it that way… Thank you, Trowa." Trowa was surprised to find Duo’s arms suddenly thrown around him and stiffened for a moment, but slowly held the longhaired boy in a way that always seemed to comfort Catherine when she was upset. It took a few minutes, but Duo calmed down fully, and insisted on paying the bill for the *very* late dinner. Fortunately the waitress knew well enough not to ask any questions and the boy with the extra-long bangs slipped her a little extra in the tip for it. The walk back to Trowa’s apartment was completed with no accidents, and Duo was graciously allowed the use of the bed while Trowa grabbed a blanket from the linen closet and curled up on the couch.

Duo woke, feeling about as exhausted as he ever had in his life, in what he knew before even opening his eyes to be a strange bed. He turned over on the comfortable mattress and his nose took a deep whiff of the pillow it found itself imbedded in: it smelled like…Trowa. He smiled to himself. Maybe if Tro-man wasn’t busy today, he’d call in sick for work.

In the living room, Trowa had already been up for two hours and it was only eight in the morning. He’d managed to slip into his room and snatch a pair of clothes and found a shirt and pants that he thought might fit Duo: those were laid out on the dresser with a hairbrush and spare toothbrush. As for underwear, Trowa could only hope the ones Duo was wearing were still somewhat clean. No matter how much Duo decided he was going to trust Trowa with, the quieter boy had a distinct feeling that there was no way they were going to be sharing underwear any time soon. Besides, Duo seemed to like boxers better, and with the extra-tight blue jeans Trowa always wore he’d developed something of a liking for briefs. The knitting that Catherine was teaching him was over in the corner, but he really didn’t feel like falling asleep again now that he was awake and showered. His eye fell on his journal: blinking against the bright sunlight as he opened a window in the small room he used as a study he sat down, lifted the pen from its position, lying neatly across the book, and began once more to write.

Duo. You surprised the hell out of me last night, to take after you and (for once) be blunt. I can’t believe the trust you showed me. The other day in the coffee shop, you started to pull me out of my own personal hell. Now that I’ve made the connection with someone who has already pulled themselves out of that same kind of hell, I realize that it can be done. As big a stupefaction as this, though, maybe more so, is the sheer fact that you were willing to stick your neck out there and take the risk to form the bridge. Knowing what I know now about you, I’m amazed that you were willing to take that risk. I have always held a great deal of respect for you deep inside: perhaps now I can find in myself the courage to let this go where it goes. I am fairly certain that you would not be able to take much more emotional pain like that, however, even though last night seems to have begun a healing trend: this and my own ingrained caution are what hold me back. Excuse me, did I say "ingrained caution?" Indecision, or cowardice, timidity, poltroonery, dastardliness, cravenness, weakness, fear: perhaps those would be better adjectives for my actions lately.

Out of all the people in the world who might have become a Gundam pilot, I find it both wondrous and fitting that it should be you. Wondrous, because at any given moment in you past fifteen years of life you might have died and we would be short a Gundam, who was critical in stopping Libra and winning the Eve Wars. Fitting that you should be a Gundam, as well: I suspect you came into this job with the full intention of helping as many people as you possibly could. A laudable idea, that. I wish we knew beforehand what the full human cost would be… But we never know, do we? That was the idea behind those cursed mobile dolls that gave us such a difficult time. There were so many humans in there, as well, though… It gets to anyone, eventually. Even Heero might end up breaking under that same stress if he doesn’t learn to talk about it soon. As for myself, I plan on returning the trust you have shown me, today if I can. I smile a little more than usual: an ear-to-ear grin for me and you’d know it for what it is…if you ever get your derriere out of bed, you lazy bum! A small chuckle is once more wrenched from nowhere to accompany another one of my increasingly-more-frequent grins. Nah, stay there as long as you need to or want to, I won’t hold it against you.

Duo finally rousted himself out of bed to find some clothes and a hairbrush and toothbrush all laid out for him. He checked the clock: nearly ten in the morning. A full eight hours for once: not bad at all. And he could not seem to remember having even one nightmare for the whole night. A huge grin cracked his face and he walked out into the living room paying no-never-mind to the fact that all he wore was a pair of white boxers with lots of little yellow happy faces on them.

Trowa seemed to be in a miniature office: Duo waited silently at the door for Trowa to finish writing in that little book. A diary? Trowa Barton kept a diary? The cinnamon-haired boy even seemed to have a smile on his face, or was that just a trick of the light? No, that laugh was real, all right. So he wasn’t dreaming.

/Baka yaroo, if you were dreaming you wouldn’t have woken up alone, you’d have woken up with Trowa! Bad hentai mind…/ he thought as Trowa locked the little book up in the desk, then jumped as he saw Duo standing in the doorway.

"Good morning, Duo. I didn’t hear you get up…"

Duo flashed the dazzling grin that Trowa was starting to find himself disturbingly addicted to.