Wrong

Disclaimers: Don’t own ‘em…man, I wish I did.

 

Pairings: 3x2, 1+2 (it’s complicated)

 

Warnings: Duo’s POV, sad, depressing, angsty, dark, death…must I go on?  A little lime that amounts to absolutely nothing.

 

AN:  This is not my normal kind of fic, so you’ve been warned.  No fluff anywhere to be found.

 

 

 

This is just wrong; I don’t have to open my eyes to know that, so I clench them shut in the hopes that the world around me will just fade away.  I don’t just want this single moment to disappear, but the entire last six months of my life.  I could happily let go of everything that’s happened in these six months if I could just change one small detail that seemed insignificant at the time, although I don’t have a damn clue what that one detail was.

 

Maybe wishes can come true if I wish hard enough.  Maybe-

 

“Duo, are you okay?”

 

Maybe somebody’s full of shit.  Wishes are worthless.  I’m still here and everything is still so fucking wrong.  “I can’t do this.”

 

Keeping my eyes closed I can easily imagine the room around me.  There are clothes everywhere, thrown haphazardly in an attempt to hurry before I began to think about what I was doing.  Liquor bottles are scattered around, ones I’ve been using to sleep at night, hoping to fill a void nothing else can touch.  The liquor didn’t help, but I was able to sleep occasionally while my life fell apart.

 

I don’t have to open my eyes to know that I’m being watched very closely.  I can almost see the worry in deep blue eyes, but that’s wrong, too.  Everything is just…wrong.

 

Admitting this to myself, I finally open my eyes.  Sure enough, Heero is studying me, his concern obvious.  “I can’t do this,” I repeat, although he’s bound to have heard me the first time; Heero is an excellent listener.

 

“I didn’t think you’d be able to go through with it,” he offers after a minute, giving me a small smile that carries sympathy.

 

Who ever thought I’d be getting sympathy from Heero Yuy?  God, I really must be a mess, but I have a damn good reason.  I should be happy he’s not mad at me.  I’m sure he didn’t expect me to practically attack him once he got here and try to rip his clothes off.  He didn’t argue, so he didn’t mind too much, but I’m disgusted with myself.  This was just another attempt to fill the hole inside me, a hole that seems to get larger every day.

 

Damnit, I’m too sober to deal with this, but there isn’t any alcohol left.  “I’m sorry,” there’s more than resignation or apology in my tone; the defeat is so easy to hear now and getting stronger with each passing day.

 

Heero either acts like he doesn’t hear the resignation or doesn’t notice it; I don’t really care which.  Completely naked and lying beside me, he props up on one elbow so he can shake his head at me, “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Duo.  Nothing happened that can’t be explained away.  I’m sure Trowa will understand when he comes home.”

 

The name hits me like a physical blow, my entire body jerking in pain.  “He’s not coming home,” I sit up, pulling the thin sheet over me like that would make this less awkward…yeah, right.

 

“You don’t know that.  You can’t give up hope.  He will come back.”

 

Heero’s fervent assurance should make me feel better, but things aren’t that simple.  If Trowa had been unhappy when he left I might be able to convince myself that he’ll come back, but Trowa had been as happy as I.  That level of emotion is impossible to fake; I saw the truth each time I had looked into his eyes.  “He isn’t coming back, Heero.  It’s been six months.  If he had been coming back, it would have been a long time ago.  Something happened to him.”  I can feel it and know this to be true.  Trowa is gone from the world, gone from my world, taking the light inside me with him.  “He isn’t coming back.”

 

“You know the Preventers are looking for him.  He’ll be found eventually and brought home,” Heero seems to really believe this even though he’s never been an optimist before.

 

“If they bring him home, it’ll be in a body bag.”  God, that’s a hard thing to say.  “What could have possibly happened to him, Heero?”  It’s not a question I need an answer for; I already know what’s happened.  In my mind, the search being conducted by the Preventers is a formality, nothing more.  Someone, I don’t know who, has taken Trowa from me, likely leaving him alone somewhere so the scavengers can get to him.

 

My friend is obviously agitated by my attitude, but who gives a rat’s ass?  The best thing in my life walked out the door, both of us expecting him to return in a day or two, no longer.  Heero leaps from the bed and pulls on his underwear, a pair of plain white briefs.  Trowa always wore boxer briefs in various colors and designs that always got my attention.  “You really don’t think he’s coming back?”

 

My laugh is as dead and empty as I feel, “Do you really think he is?  You know he’s gone, just like I know it.  If you hadn’t been sure, you never would have ended up in here with me,” I let my eyes roam the bedroom I used to share with Trowa.

 

I see the flinch, telling me I hit too close to the truth for Heero to take.  His face is red and he refuses to meet my eyes, averting his face as he speaks with less conviction than before, “You can’t know he’s gone, Duo.  You don’t know anything for certain.  You have to hold onto some hope.”

 

Good God, he sounds like some kind of self-help guru, spouting how positive thinking will help you get what you desire the most.  Bad news…I had what I wanted the most and now he’s gone, regardless of what Heero is trying to convince both of us.  “Any hope I had faded months ago.  All of my hope faded in a single instant when I felt everything was wrong…that was before I ever got the phone call saying he hadn’t reported in.”  It hadn’t taken a month or a week or even a few days; I had known something was missing in my life the day after Trowa had left.

 

Sitting on the bed, Heero takes one of my hands in his to stare at it for a long time.  I wait to hear what he’s going to say because there’s nothing else for me to do.  “Trowa is okay, Duo.  Something stopped him from coming home, that’s all.  He wasn’t doing anything dangerous.”

 

“He was going to talk to an informant.”  Heero’s eyes jerk to mine; he’s clearly surprised I was aware of what Trowa was doing.  “Trowa didn’t keep secrets from me.  I knew where he was going.  He said the same thing, you know…that it wasn’t dangerous.  He was so positive that he left his weapons here and went unarmed.  I should have made sure he had a weapon,” I mutter, voicing one of my regrets.  If I had insisted he take some protection, would Trowa have come back as he was supposed to?  If I had asked him to stay with me, would I have stopped him from leaving, keeping him out of harm’s way?  If I had asked to go with him, would I have been able to protect him from whatever bastard took him away?  God, I don’t know anymore.

 

“Trowa’s never needed a weapon to get out of a bad situation.”

 

Heero’s continuous insistence doesn’t help me feel better.  As a matter of fact, it just makes me feel worse, but I have no damn clue why.  Trowa would say it’s because of my contrary nature, but he isn’t here to tell me anymore.  Is there any point in telling Heero, yet again, that his hopes are useless?  Doubt it; he’s as stubborn as they come.  If he wants to hold onto the foolish belief that Trowa is coming back, ignoring all reason and common sense, who am I to stop him?  Clearly, he’s trying to convince himself that Trowa is fine and all is well.  Whatever…hope that works for you, Heero, but I’m grounded in reality, even though reality is a total bitch.  “You could be right,” I tell him, trying not to choke on the words I don’t believe at all.  “Maybe he’ll walk in the door any second now with an explanation about where he’s been for the last six months.  Stranger things have happened, I suppose.”  I’d sooner believe someone that said they’d been abducted by aliens, but I’ll tell Heero what he wants to hear.  “You should probably go, Heero.  You have work in the morning.”

 

He hesitates long enough for me to know he’s debating if it’s safe to leave me alone or not, like I haven’t been alone most of the time for the last six months.  What the hell does he think I’m going to do, up and disappear the way everyone seems to think Trowa did?  Not likely.  I’ll stay right here, where Trowa and I spent most of our time, in the tiny house we rented after dating for a year.  It’s all I have left of him now; the memories that reside within the walls the only thing that offers any comfort as I wait.

 

Thank God Heero’s finally leaving, getting dressed on the way out of the room without saying anything else to me.  I lay back down, my arms curling around the pillow my head was resting on before, burying my nose in it and inhaling deeply, looking for any leftover scent Trowa left behind.  Of course, there’s nothing there, no lingering smell of the best thing in my life.

 

Crying doesn’t do any good; it won’t bring Trowa back to me.  It won’t help me relive the mornings of waking to watch him sleep or sitting on the kitchen counter while he cooks.  I never could get the hang of cooking, but that was likely because I was always so intrigued by his hands.

 

Trowa’s hands were one of my favorite things about him, not only for the obvious reasons, but because they were so skilled at almost everything he did.  Those hands were as talented at playing music as they were at cracking eggs or repairing electronics.  Trowa’s hands were able to kill just as well as they had been able to touch me so gently the rest of the world would disappear to me.

 

The idea of living without ever feeling those long, slender hands on me again is just…wrong.

 

Damnit, I’ve lost time again.  When Heero left it was barely past nine pm, but now it’s nearly four in the morning.  Time gets away from me a lot lately, too preoccupied in the life I had that ended without warning six months ago.  Strangely, I’m happier while daydreaming, possibly because there are times when I can so easily believe Trowa is with me inside the house, the memories so damn clear.

 

I should go shower.  I should go wash my hair and dress before trying for some semblance of a normal life, but I’m reluctant to move from the bed.  It isn’t just depression that keeps me from moving or making an effort, nor is it the fact that any chance of a normal life disappeared when Trowa did.  Mainly, I don’t want to leave the bedroom because there is less of Trowa here than anywhere else in the house.

 

That sounds nuts, but it’s true.  Then again, I’ve considered the possibility that I am nuts and need to be locked up in a padded room.  Why else would I want to remain in the one room where Trowa spent the least amount of time?  We slept here, our clothes are here, and we occasionally managed to make it to the bed to make love, but Trowa didn’t leave his mark here the way he did in the rest of the house.

 

There are photos in the hallway, with him featuring prominently in a lot of them.  His shampoo and cologne are still in the bathroom, proof of the life we shared for four years, the happiest time of my life.  I know if I walk into the living room his shoes will be sitting beside the couch, the book he was reading the day before he left laid face down on the coffee table, as if waiting for him to come back and pick it up.  The set of knives I got him for his birthday last year is on the counter in the kitchen, holding memories of the cooking lessons he tried to give me.

 

Should I want to be surrounded by Trowa’s belongings, some of which made our house a home?  Should I want to avoid the couch we spent long, lazy afternoons on, often followed by a bout of lovemaking that was just as slow and exploring?  Am I pathetic for avoiding the kitchen as much as I can, where he prepared most of our meals?  Probably, but being in those places where we shared so much feels wrong.

 

Reluctant as I am to spend time anywhere else in the house, I have no desire to leave it.  In this house, Trowa told me for the first time he loved me, weeks after we had moved in together; I had already admitted how I felt before that.  We were in the kitchen when he asked me to marry him several months later, sharing dinner like we had every other evening before.

 

We were never married, of course.  Such a union is still frowned upon by assholes and prejudiced jerks, but we did have a small ceremony in our back yard, all of our closest friends jammed together as we exchanged rings and words of love and forever.

 

The weight of the silver band Trowa gave me mocks me.  We weren’t able to have the forever we promised each other, were we, Trowa?  Isn’t it strange how we survived our rough childhoods, a difficult war, and our everyday jobs with the Preventers only to be separated by something as seemingly harmless as a meeting with an informant?

 

Damn, the phone’s ringing.  It never rings anymore unless it’s someone to call and check on me; I took a leave of absence from the agency months ago, unable to stand being in the office I had once worked in, too often recalling breaks where Trowa would sit in the office with me and talk about whatever came to mind.  Sitting up, I grab the receiver, not wanting to see anyone, and hold it to my ear while clutching Trowa’s pillow to my chest, “Hello?”

 

“Duo, it’s Sally.”

 

As if I wouldn’t recognize her voice, although there is a thickness of unshed tears and sadness that tells me this is the call I’ve been waiting for, the one I’ve been resigned to getting.  I know what she’s going to say, but push ahead like I don’t hear the desolation, “Did you find him?”

 

A choked back sob is answer enough; there’s no happiness to be found here.  “I’m so sorry, Duo.  There’s nothing we can do.”

 

With all of my fears confirmed finally, I’m oddly at peace as I let the phone slip from my hand, landing on the floor with a soft thud.  I never really thought about what I would do after getting that call; I never bothered to make any plans for a new life that didn’t have Trowa as a part of it.  Now I understand why as I stand, retrieving my service pistol from the closet and sitting on the edge of the bed.

 

I don’t know what pushed me to clean it less than two weeks ago, oiling it well and making sure it was ready to be discharged, but I suppose I was waiting, preparing for this moment.  The gun is already loaded, one round in the chamber and the safety off…waiting for me to use it one last time.

 

I can hear Sally’s voice from the phone on the floor, panicked as she pleas for me to say something.  The muzzle is cold against my temple, the sensation of steel chill against my skin.  Sally won’t understand this decision any more than anyone else will, but I know what I’m doing is the only thing left for me to do.  This is the only thing that’s felt real in the last six long, lonely months.

 

Everything feels wrong to me now.  Without Trowa, nothing will ever be right again.

End

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