01-Oct-2000
Title: Twenty Years After 9/?
Author: TB
Archive: yes please GW Addiction
Category: AU
Pairing: 4x13, 2+M
Rating: R
Warnings: language
Spoilers: none
Notes: extremely AU; assumes that OZ won the war.
Feedback: only if by some odd miracle you have read and still remember this fic! lol ^_^
Disclaimers: We all know that I don't own Gundam Wing. I mean, come on. So, yadda yadda, legal talk here--please to not sue me for borrowing GW and the boys for a piece of unpublished fiction. I'll give it back, relatively unharmed, I swear! Asides, the boys come to me of their own free will, I'm tellin' ya man! Why just the other day Duo came up to me and goes, TB, I would really be jazzed if you could just put me in a fanfic where I got tortured and had to go through all this emotional angst, and on top of that, got stuck in some kind of weird love triangle that is destined for unhappy ending! So, out of the kindness of my heart, and to no monetary advantage of my own, of that I assure you, I oblige him thusly.
Thanks for reading.
"Duo?"
He jumped, and stumbled slightly. "Who-"
"It's me. Quatre." Warm hands steadied him, and settled on his waist with a kind of guilty pleasure even after Duo no longer needed assistance. "Did you enjoy dinner?"
"Uh-yeah."
"You were gone for a long time."
"Yeah. Nice place. Took a walk." It was disconcerting to lie to Quatre, and Duo had a sort of fuzzy awareness that he was retreating back into the shyness that he always seemed to feel around his one-time companion now. "Uh... "
"Come to my study. I want to pick up some papers, and then we can talk, okay?" Quatre took his hand, and lifted it to his lightly stubbled cheek so that Duo could feel his smile.
*God, I could still love him,* Duo thought dimly, smiling back hesitantly. Not even Mariemaia thought to let him feel her expressions as much as he wanted; but Quatre seemed to love the action of communicating through touch, loved the feel of Duo's fingers on his skin. And Duo didn't exactly dislike it, either. That was the distracting part.
Quatre drew him gently down the hallway, slipping his arm around Duo's hips loosely. The taller Arabian asked him a few questions about his dinner, and Duo answered as best as he could, having only the slightest recollection of the actual meal, considering the enormity of what had followed with Zechs Merquise.
He sat on a couch in the study while Quatre hunted down the documents he was looking for, picking at the worn leather armrest and following the sounds of his host's quiet movements around the room. The soft 'snick' of a radio being turned on excited him; the Ozzies at Rudee had had a radio, but he'd only rarely been close enough to hear it. Unconsciously he leaned forward to catch the tinkling notes of music that poured forth. He didn't know that his face had transformed, his blank eyes lit up in anticipation.
Quatre knew-he was staring at Duo. "Beautiful," he whispered.
Duo nodded, misunderstanding. "It is. Please turn it up?"
He obeyed, and as he thumbed the dial, the song ended and a new one started. Duo was standing now, cane abandoned and one hand cautiously held out before him as he came to the desk, pulled as if by a magnet-he stopped bare inches from Quatre, his head tilted eagerly to catch every nuance, his lips moving slightly to words that he only barely remembered.
Quatre swallowed hard. More than anything, he wanted to kiss the hurt away from this lovely angel that had somehow fallen into his care-a angel with a broken wing, his Duo. All the experiences that he would never share with his friend, with his once- upon-a-time lover, all the unknown pains. Had there even been any joys? He could only imagine, only speculate about the way Mariemaia looked at the braided ex-pilot. He wanted erase the wounds, heal the mourning soul... He lifted his hand and reached for the other man, and leaned toward him, desperately wanting to taste him.
The latch clicked.
Quatre turned. Treize stood in the doorway, looking at him in hurt disbelief. He flushed, and his hand fell back to his side. He tried to speak-failed-face flaming, eyes full of frustrated tears, he fled through the open door, unable to look at Treize as he ran past.
The General said nothing as his lover flew by. It was no secret to him, though Quatre had tried hard to hide it, that the Arabian was falling for Duo Maxwell all over again. Treize was bitterly aware that he was no match for the romance of the situation-a dead love back from the grave, with fathomless amethyst eyes begging to be healed.
Duo still stood unmoving, an expression of uncertainty on his pale face: he had sensed Quatre's movement, but couldn't tell if he was still in the room. One of his long-boned hands searched the air. "Quatre?"
Treize moved slowly toward him. Light danced in the dark silky braid, flattered the gaunt cheeks that were slowly filling out. Long lashes fluttered as Duo strained to find his friend, and sudden fear tensed his lean body.
Treize threaded his fingers though the smooth hair at Duo's nape, and held his head as he kissed the man, pressing his mouth with gentle force over the pliant lips. For a brief moment their tongues met and wetness slid along wetness-then Treize released him and stepped back, and wiped his mouth.
Without a word, he turned and left.
Mariemaia brushed out the thick plait with slow, inexperienced strokes. "I don't know. It sounds so risky."
"Not as risky as just following Merquise wherever the hell he cares to lead us," Duo replied. He fiddled absently with a button on his shirt, agitated once again. He wasn't sure entirely what had happened in the study, and he didn't want to talk about Zechs and his crazy plan. He caught himself on the verge of a wistful thought about the simpler days of his imprisonment-stopped that dead. The moment he started wishing for a life without freedom, he would be the spineless, heartless dog he'd been at Rudee. He'd let them break him once, but he was rebuilding, however slowly and painfully. If he backed down and let them walk all over him now...
"You're walking a line, Duo, and it's damned thin." Marie was his faithful disciple, but the boldness that had always marked her character had flowered in the open environment of Quatre's home; or maybe she was just growing up, realising that Duo didn't always have the right answers.
"You said it yourself. We've been in a prison all our damn lives. Everything I knew about the political scene of the planet has been completely destroyed! There aren't any Gundams anymore, no pilots who're young enough and stupid enough to throw themselves away on a pointless war."
"There's us, '02."
Duo's silence was cold.
Mariemaia sighed, and squeezed his shoulder. "Look. I just think-what if this Zechs has a point? What if it isn't a stupid war, an unattainable ideal?"
He was quiet for a long time, and eventually Mariemaia released him, a little hurt.
She stood and walked to the window, noting without really caring that kind Mr Winner was standing all alone in the gardens below, fingering a rose on its branch and looking lost.
Behind her, Duo finally spoke. "The last war. It killed one of us, and I didn't even know that, until Quatre told me. It killed me, in another way, and the person I am now-blind and bitter, maybe. I don't know, Marie. And the rest of us. Trowa and Quatre, they weathered the storm, but they had to compromise themselves, their principles, their hearts-they had to give up. And I don't even know where the hell Heero Yuy is. Maybe he's dead too. And all the others-Relena Peacecraft, Noin, Dr. G and even Zechs. We lost so badly, '38. Marie. Maybe fighting is the only way we have of standing up for ourselves and screaming 'I AM!' just once before the light goes out... maybe that's not a good enough reason to start a revolution that will get a lot of people killed and ruin a lot of lives."
"Are you backing out?"
"I promised on your life. I won't."
"Would you have promised if it had just been you?" Mariemaia shook her head, red locks framing paled skin. "If Zechs wasn't holding my life over your head, would you still have agreed to fight with him?"
Duo sighed, and let his hands fall into his lap. Slowly, he clenched his fists, until his fingernails dug into his palms and drew blood.
"I think-" He hesitated. Then, with a heavy sigh, he relaxed his fists, and buried his blood in the silk of the bedsheets. "Yeah. I think I would have."
End Part 9
(:./erin/20years9)
