[Fic] "A Purpose for Numbers" (1/?)
Title: A Purpose for Numbers (1/?)
Author: a_lifestyle
Fandom: Gundam Wing (3x6, a little 1x3, others))
Rating: R (Sexin’, Angstin’, Angsty Sexin’…)
Words: 4,316
Summary:
A/N: The majority of this is finished, and I had intended this to be in three parts, but maybe I can squish it into two. I’ve missed writing for this fandom so much. Much thanks to notraffic for giving this a look over in an earlier stage, and for overall being a very good friend. I hope you guys enjoy.
A Purpose for Numbers
Part One
At 4:24PM, there was a knock at his door.
Zechs looked up from his book. He had read the same paragraph for the past fourteen minutes, eyes rhythmically rocking to and fro in his sockets. He knew it was fourteen minutes, because he counted. No absorption.
Book on the side table, he rose and pulled on a stray t-shirt hanging on the back of the recliner. Even though it was the early afternoon, it was beginning to get dark, winter fast approaching and stealing the daylight hours.
He tugged at the hem of his shirt as he unlocked the three bolts that sealed his door. When he opened it, he regarded Trowa Barton with an air of calm. He had been expecting him.
Trowa met him with a hard stare, difficult to see through the bangs that hung in front of his face. But, Zechs peered through two strands and caught a ghost of moisture at the edge of one eye. He blinked, and it was gone.
“01 is dead,” Trowa said softly, but with firm reserve. He wore a white t-shirt with four tiny holes in the front (must’ve been from a belt buckle, Zechs mused), and two of the fingers of his left hand fiddled with a loose thread. In his right was a backpack slung over his shoulder, hanging by one strap, the other torn off.
Zechs nodded. “I know.” He opened the door fully, shifted out of his way. Trowa entered tentatively, stopping for a moment in front of him to make eye contact before walking slowly into the living room. The floor was hardwood and his steps were heavy. Filled the room.
Closing the door, Zechs spoke as he routinely locked up his door, metal sliding upon and across metal. One, two, three. “The couch pulls out into a bed. The clock is loud, but you’ll get used to it.” He assumed the boy’s stay would extend for weeks, if the volume of his backpack told the correct story.
“My room is over there.” He flicked his neck in its general direction. Trowa didn’t look up. “Bathroom is across the hall. Towels in the closet in there. Kitchen over there.”
Trowa stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, arms crossed and shoulders slumped. He was nervous, and attempting to hide the fact. The four fingers of his right hand clutched his arm. He had only taken eight steps into the room and stood still as a streetlamp; Zechs didn’t know if the boy could summon the strength to move.
“Your coat,” he said, extending his hand. Trowa jolted, like he had been startled, and stared at Zechs’s outstretched fingers for nearly ten whole seconds before silently slipping his thin jacket off his shoulders. When he handed it off, their fingers touched, and his arms quickly resumed a crossed position. Zechs hung the jacket on a hook next to where his own overcoat hung, just inside the hall closet door. That hook had been vacant for some time.
Zechs walked into the kitchen, letting out a breath. He opened the cabinet above the counter, reaching for a plate. “Are you a vegetarian?” he asked the dinnerware. Didn’t know if it was okay yet to look him in the eyes.
Trowa shook his head.
The second plate was taken out of the cupboard-Zechs only had two-and he made a note to rinse it as he boiled water for pasta. Hadn’t been used in awhile.
He set about making dinner, stealing glances at the boy who stood so still in his living room, knowing everything he was thinking and that time would be heavy and motionless for awhile. He vaguely realized that it had been nearly five years since he had seen Trowa in person, although he had felt the echoes of his presence and influence damn near everywhere he turned. The Preventers had made contact with him, 04 had scoured the colonies looking for him, his own sister had called upon him at one point or another.
Now, he stood taller, his hair had grown longer in the back, tied in a short ponytail. He looked older than his twenty-one years. Looked tired. His pants were too short for his long legs. He was too thin.
Zechs understood.
He was thrown from his thoughts by hot oil that spit from the pan cooking the chicken. He looked down at the two offending drops, wiped them off with a paper towel. He hadn’t made this much food in years.
In a canister on his kitchen counter, he pulled two forks, two knives. Divided the meal evenly between two plates.
He turned to his guest, who had fallen asleep on the couch, face pressed against the cool leather of the armrest. His bangs were pushed out of his face. His skin was pale and clammy, in spite of the cool weather. There was a good possibility he was making himself sick.
Zechs reached out, pads of his fingers grazing the side of Trowa’s cheek. The skin was cold.
He stood, covered him with a blanket that hung over the couch, and left a plate of food in the microwave. Zechs ate in silence, next to the sleeping boy. He knew that waking up alone from now on was not an option.
------------
It was 3:49AM when Zechs stirred.
He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in over five years, and his eyes adjusted naturally to the warm lamplight in the room.
Trowa stood in the doorway. His torso was bare, and he clutched his shirt in his hands. He took an experimental step into the room. Cold floor.
Zechs rubbed his face with one hand. He took a deep breath before speaking, the drowsiness working its way from his throat.
“Come here.”
Trowa started at the sound, and froze. Zechs was patient. He knew that the decision was already made, when it came down to a warm body or an empty bed.
Six minutes passed before Trowa approached the bed. His knees bumped into the side. Zechs turned off the light and shifted, turning the covers over in invitation. He felt his unstable weight against the mattress-his eyes were still getting used to the dark when he felt Trowa’s cold cheek against his back, his long, thin fingers wrapping around his stomach. He involuntarily shivered.
The boy was thin, but had caught up to his height. Zechs contemplated how well they fit. He had grown to be broad-shouldered. The muscles in Trowa’s legs flexed against the backs of his thighs.
He felt the ex-pilot’s nose against his shoulder, and his erection against the small of his back.
Trowa made a noise that sounded something between a cry and a whine.
No doubt he was desperate, and lonely, and afraid, and what should matter and should happen wasn’t happening, no matter his efforts. He was becoming something unfamiliar, and feeling emotions he had buried since the day he took a dead man’s name. Zechs could feel the boy’s heart beat irregularly against his back.
He took the shaky hand that was splayed across his chest and grasped it in his own. Their ten fingers together forged a silent contract, a fierce understanding.
Trowa pinned his shoulders to the bed with the force of a bomb. Zechs saw in his two eyes a hint of sadness clouded by an immediate need for belonging. They both breathed heavily, and when Trowa’s fingers failed him, Zechs pulled down his waistband for him. Skin on skin, they pressed their bodies together clumsily. Too hot. A gutteral noise escaped Trowa’s mouth.
Zechs choked on the air. Anticipation prickled his spine and down his legs, burning him. His mouth was warm, and they were fighting for control of their own bodies.
Trowa lifted his head, gasping for air, a thin string of saliva stretched between their bottom lips. He gripped the sides of Zechs’ face, thumbs pressing against high cheekbones, fingers raking through blonde locks. His eyes were cloudy, his pupils dilated. Breath was short.
He kissed the blonde again, tongue sliding across bruised lips, holding his head in place with intense pressure. Zechs lay still, ignoring the twinge of anxious, shaking fingers that dug into his hipbones. He would let the boy have sadness. He would show him safety. It was the one thing he needed most, at that time.
Weight on one forearm, Trowa reached between them and took Zechs’ cock in his hand, the rough pad of his thumb applying searing friction to the underside of the head. Zechs squeezed his eyes shut, spread his legs wider. Hips angled to the ceiling. Trowa was stroking him hard, stopping only to occasionally spit in his hand. Noises spilled from his mouth, like this was turning him on, too.
Before he thought his back would snap, Zechs felt Trowa’s weight shift, heat lifting away. He cracked open an eye, sweat on his brow and upper lip, saw the boy take two fingers in his mouth. The bones of his shoulders were prominent, the muscles somehow appearing, contained by skin too pale. His other hand held his cock, smearing precome along his shaft. He used his knees to push Zech’s legs apart. Stroked himself a dozen times before shuddering, squeezing the base. He was losing control.
Zechs sat up, grabbed Trowa’s forearm. Guided it to his entrance. They held their mouths open, inches apart, as Zechs felt his two fingers slide into him.
“You can’t hurt me,” he said, voice barely a whisper.
He forced himself to relax, gripped Trowa’s arm tightly still, focusing on the way the shadows of the boy’s neck formed geometric shapes. The moonlight from the window wasn’t bright, but gave off a dull haze. Edges were fuzzy.
A third finger was inserted, and he was being stretched. His cock was hard against his stomach, but he didn’t touch. Dug his fingers into the sheets, into Trowa’s arm.
“Fuck, yes,” he spit out, his voice acting on its own accord.
He was thrown back down onto the bed, his leg drawn up to his chest, Trowa’s hand gripping the back of his knee. Spreading him wider. Trowa spit into his hand. Zechs would tell him later about the lube in the top drawer of the nightstand. When they did this again.
Trowa entered him without hesitation, in one swift movement. Zechs grunted, strangling any noise that dared to stop what was taking place in his bed. Pain took over his body, but he would not protest. They both knew that violence was sometimes an appropriate substitute to thought or reason.
Once he could open his eyes without seeing white, his eyes fixed on a bead of sweat that ran down Trowa’s throat, leaving a trail of restraint. He felt the pressure between his legs decrease.
He wrapped his leg around Trowa’s back, pushing him forward so his cock was buried in tight heat. Trowa shouted something indescribable, hand pressed into the bed next to Zech’s head.
“You can’t hurt me,” Zechs repeated.
They paused, just breathing, their gaze locked. Tremors rocked both their bodies. Trowa began to move, angling his hips to go as deep as possible. It was so much. So fucking good. He shut his eyes tight as Zechs slammed himself onto his cock. Noises and murmurs fell from his lips that Zechs didn’t understand, couldn’t count. All ran into each other.
His back was hot; the bed was burning him. Sweat dripped from his forehead down his temples. Hair that was caught behind his shoulders was pulled tight with each powerful thrust.
Trowa’s breath was on his face. His lips were pressed together, holding back. He moved faster and harder. He was grasping air. Zechs pulled him down for a kiss, fingers fisting his brown ponytail.
Trowa cracked, cries muffled by Zech’s mouth. His hips moved frantically, slapping against the back of the man’s thighs with violent force. He grasped fistfuls of blonde hair, a shoulder, a thigh. He wheezed his breaths. The sounds were liquid and hot and wrapped around Zech’s cock like fire.
Trowa tensed, spider webs in his neck. Zechs grabbed his cock and began jerking off as Trowa came, slamming his hips forward a final time.
Zechs closed his eyes, and a memory of two blue eyes and hopeful youth lit his vision in a single moment. He came as Trowa collapsed on his chest, still embedded inside him.
They lay there for seven minutes in the suffocating air. Zechs didn’t move as Trowa lifted his head to stare at him, holding his face in his hands. His green eyes squinted, seemed to not focus. Hard to understand.
Trowa closed his eyes and rolled over onto his side. Guilt hung in the air.
Zechs pulled the blankets over them. Back to back, he closed his eyes. He felt the silent sobs that wracked Trowa’s body as he drifted off to sleep.
------------
Every morning, Zechs left the house at 7:00AM to run. He had realized how the people of earth take advantage of the air itself. The musty air of the colonies left something to be desired. The city was too crowded for the convenience of a park, so he ran through alleys, around the power plant, through the outdoor market, and through three different neighborhoods as part of his daily route.
He was never a man of routine, but now he understood it. It filled vacancies in the mind.
The morning after Trowa Barton arrived, he came back after his run, and found the boy back on the couch, blanket pulled down to reveal one smooth hip.
His eyes roamed over that hip, down to long thin fingers that lined up in a row like soldiers, down the plaid pattern of the blanket. He shook his head. Nothing was different.
He was cracking the second egg in a pan when he heard Trowa’s padded feet on the kitchen floor. They stopped just behind him.
“Eggs?” Zechs asked, watching two yolks slide from one side of the pan to the other.
“Sure. Yeah.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. He sounded so small. “Let me give you money-”
“That’s not necessary,” Zechs said quickly, grabbing a spatula from the canister on the counter.
He felt a hand on his back. The hand was cold and he fought the shiver that wanted to surface.
“There has to be something I can do. To repay you. I just didn’t-I didn’t-“
“Sit down.” The hand was gone. His voice was short, and he turned around in apology, his eye contact his forgiveness. War had taught him to mince words. Trowa’s face softened. “Have some eggs.”
He turned back to the pan, and felt the hand return on his back, warmer this time.
“Thanks,” Trowa said. As he turned, his palm lingered across his shoulder blades. He retreated to the living room.
Zechs let out the breath he was, for lack of reason, holding, and glanced at the clock. 9:35AM, four minutes behind schedule. He was meeting Relena at ten-thirty, couldn’t be late.
They ate in silence, but it was comfortable.
Zechs rose from his chair. “Shower,” he mumbled under his breath. He really had to meet Relena. He was late.
He closed the door to his bedroom, stripping out of sweats and grabbing a towel from the closet. From the kitchen, he heard the sink water turn on, silverware clanking against glass. He knew what it was like to make himself useful.
Five minutes to wash his hair, two to wash his face, another five to scrub down and two to brush his teeth (more efficient if done in the shower, he’d found out). Today was Thursday-he’d shave tomorrow.
He left the house without a word. He didn’t know what Trowa would do with his day. That was okay.
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“He’s at your house?”
Relena crossed her legs and pressed the pads of her fingers together under the desk. She regarded her brother with an air of concern. He leaned against the edge of her desk, met her hard stare with his own.
“Yes,” he said.
Her brow furrowed. “Right now, Trowa Barton is at your house.”
“Yes,” he repeated.
She looked at him for an entire thirty seconds. “What is he doing there?”
“Well, he did my dishes this morning,” Zechs added.
“Zechs,” she started.
Zechs sighed, loosened his tie. “He arrived last night. He’s angry. He’s confused. Leave it alone for awhile.”
“Yes, well.” She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’s not the only one. Some of us have to move on, though.”
He chuckled. “He doesn’t seem to have much to move on to.”
She scoffed, then quickly composed herself. She took a deep breath. Her eyes were moist, Zechs noticed, but he didn’t point out such things.
“What have you found out about 01’s recent activity?” he asked, tone neutral. Distract her.
She nodded, and motioned over to the monitor on the opposite side of her desk. Zechs stood upright and walked over. Several maps and documents in different windows were pulled up on-screen, and his eyes darted to and fro naturally. Sorting.
“Quatre was the last one to make contact,” Relena said, click-clicking away. “Four days ago, he said that Heero Yuy showed up at the Winner estate for a visit.”
“…and?”
Relena turned to him, making a face. “Heero Yuy doesn’t-didn’t go around making house calls.”
“Was he working for anyone?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Unlikely. He’s completed a couple commission jobs for the Preventers, but strictly as favors. Re-building, trashing, mechanical work. He wracked up some debt over the years, in that respect.” The screen created lighted patterns across her face. She had a deep crease in her forehead that had lived there since her 17th birthday. “Quatre said that Heero asked him about me, what I had been doing, where I was planning on traveling.”
“Why would he ask 04?”
She pivoted in her chair to face him. “Well, he is the only one who has kept up with me on a somewhat regular basis. We seem to run into each other. Charity events and such. Duo calls every now and again. Wu Fei would rather slit his throat than acknowledge I exist.”
“What about 03?”
Relena’s gaze adverted back to the screen. “I haven’t seen Trowa Barton in five years, since he moved to L1.” She chewed her bottom lip. “I actually hadn’t seen Heero in nearly two. I used to beg him to come see me here.” She closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean in a body bag.”
Zechs paused, cleared his throat. Chose his words carefully. “What do you think Heero was doing?”
Her shoulders sagged as she rubbed her eye with the palm of her hand. “I don’t know. Quatre told him that last he heard from me was that I was headed to L2 to make a speech at the memorial site there and overlook the reconstruction. But, no one on L2 has claimed to have seen Heero since he left L4. In all my life, maybe I’ve never known what Heero was doing, what he really thought, or what he really cared about. He’s always acted on his own.”
“He most likely didn’t want us to know what he was doing.”
She clenched her fist that lay on her lap. “I’m terrified that his death was somehow my fault.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions.” He knelt in front of her, put his hand over hers.
She pushed back in her chair, looked at him. She brushed two stray hairs from her face; Zechs was sorry to say that she far surpassed her twenty-two years. Zechs feared that when she got to be his age, she would look in the mirror and see only a soldier.
“I know you don’t care about Heero,” she began, voice already beginning to waver.
He stopped her quickly-it was hard for him to show gentleness in such large amounts. “I have Trowa Barton staying at my house. I’m sure he’d like to know what happened at some point, if you ever figure it out. Right now, he’s having trouble getting out of bed.”
He saw the wince that overtook her features for an instant before she was on her feet and opening the door. “I’ll do everything I can to find justice for Heero. I owe it to him. What I wonder, Zechs, is why are you sheltering and caring for a stranger?”
Zechs walked towards the exit, shrugging on his jacket. “Well, if you’d like the job, by all means.”
She grabbed him by the sleeve. He smiled to himself-he was assuredly the only one in the entire universe that could turn her eyes to daggers. “You know I can’t do that.”
Zechs took her hand and leaned over, kissing her twice, softly on each side of her face. “So, I will.”
----------
The boy was there when he returned home at 5:40pm sharp, staring out the window through the venetian blinds. He looked up when Zechs entered, face blank.
“Did you see Relena?” he asked, voice quiet, but with a hint of urgency.
Zechs’ eyes widened before he realized it, and he nodded once before hanging his jacket on the hook in the hall closet. “Yes. Did you want to talk to her?”
Trowa sat back, shoulders still tense. “She won’t talk to me.”
Zechs crossed his arms. It was all predictable. “Relena is, at her core, a compassionate being.”
“She should be. She was queen of the world.”
“The past five years have been hard on her. You’d be surprised.”
“What about you?” Trowa asked. “Where is your crown? Where are your attendants, and your palace?”
Zechs smiled. “I want to be ordinary.”
“That’s a bit rich, coming from you.”
“A lot changes in five years.”
“I see that.”
Zechs fell back onto the couch. “You find clarity when you’re alone.”
Trowa stared back out the window. The sun was almost over the horizon already. The sky was clear, three or four lingering clouds hovering over the vast spans of sky. Things were different on Earth. The air wasn’t stale.
Zechs closed his eyes. He’d start making dinner at 6:30. He’d have to get more groceries soon. His mind was at ease, but his temples throbbed. They all had headaches after the war.
He felt Trowa’s lips brush against his own. His eyes remained closed, but he pulled Trowa onto his lap, the heat of their contact a surprising comfort. A part of him was uneasy that dinner would, most likely, have to be pushed back.
The days stretched into weeks, and Zechs was unsure if Trowa was still seeking answers. He didn’t really mind; there would always be two hooks in the hall closet. His new system of routines and defaults replaced the old one, but it was just as reliable and steadfast as the last. He knew what to expect now.
Even when one night, when Trowa finally caught his breath and said softly into the pillow,
“What happened to you when you found out he was dead?”
Zechs blinked twice before fixing a hard stare on Pilot 03, searching frantically for signs of pity or ridicule or mocking. He was difficult to read, but Zechs found no malice. Still, these were dangerous waters that he was testing. If Zechs had learned one thing out of this-this thing-it was that one could never be too careful.
“I don’t remember much. But, I can tell you what other people said.”
He sat up, back to the headboard. He rested his elbows on his knees, and focused on everything that was far away. “They said I went crazy. That Treize Khushrenada was dead, and I had gone crazy.”
“Did you try to kill yourself?”
Zechs paused. “Yes.” He reached into the side drawer for a cigarette. “I imagine I was probably out of control. Couldn’t think straight. They said I was sick. Relena was there, sometimes.” The match took one lick at the air before Zechs flicked it out, setting it in the ashtray. He took two full drags before turning to face the boy, whose hair fell across his face in four sweat-laced stripes.
“You had someone else,” Trowa said quietly.
Zechs grimaced through a smile. “Like I’ve said, Relena is a compassionate being.” He sighed softly. “But, I didn’t say she knew everything.”
Trowa was silent, the light reflecting in his eyes through the slits of shadows created by his hair.
“She doesn’t understand someone who doesn’t want to live, now that all that he and I had fought for had come to fruition.” He exhaled, three smoke rings rising to the ceiling. “She obviously doesn’t know what we were fighting for. It’s been two thousand, forty-nine days. She still thinks we fought for a sense of justice or the well-being of the people.” A small smile tugged at his lip. “We were much more selfish than that.”
Trowa took the cigarette from Zechs’ hand, taking a drag. “You count the days,” he said upon exhale. “Why?”
He took back the cigarette. Another pull. He didn’t answer.
Trowa swallowed, looked up at Zechs, who had long ago adverted his eyes. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” he said slowly.
Zechs nodded. “That’s fine.”
He felt slender fingers wrap around his wrist. He took another pull at his cigarette, the smoke weaving through their entangled limbs.
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he heard Trowa say.
He didn’t look down, because there was a possibility that he might attempt to convince Trowa to stay. But there was no reason. He had zero answers, so, he kept his chin up and blew smoke up to the ceiling fan until only the filter was left, and Trowa was asleep.
-tbc-
Thank you for reading--please review if you have the time!
Author: a_lifestyle
Fandom: Gundam Wing (3x6, a little 1x3, others))
Rating: R (Sexin’, Angstin’, Angsty Sexin’…)
Words: 4,316
Summary:
A/N: The majority of this is finished, and I had intended this to be in three parts, but maybe I can squish it into two. I’ve missed writing for this fandom so much. Much thanks to notraffic for giving this a look over in an earlier stage, and for overall being a very good friend. I hope you guys enjoy.
A Purpose for Numbers
Part One
At 4:24PM, there was a knock at his door.
Zechs looked up from his book. He had read the same paragraph for the past fourteen minutes, eyes rhythmically rocking to and fro in his sockets. He knew it was fourteen minutes, because he counted. No absorption.
Book on the side table, he rose and pulled on a stray t-shirt hanging on the back of the recliner. Even though it was the early afternoon, it was beginning to get dark, winter fast approaching and stealing the daylight hours.
He tugged at the hem of his shirt as he unlocked the three bolts that sealed his door. When he opened it, he regarded Trowa Barton with an air of calm. He had been expecting him.
Trowa met him with a hard stare, difficult to see through the bangs that hung in front of his face. But, Zechs peered through two strands and caught a ghost of moisture at the edge of one eye. He blinked, and it was gone.
“01 is dead,” Trowa said softly, but with firm reserve. He wore a white t-shirt with four tiny holes in the front (must’ve been from a belt buckle, Zechs mused), and two of the fingers of his left hand fiddled with a loose thread. In his right was a backpack slung over his shoulder, hanging by one strap, the other torn off.
Zechs nodded. “I know.” He opened the door fully, shifted out of his way. Trowa entered tentatively, stopping for a moment in front of him to make eye contact before walking slowly into the living room. The floor was hardwood and his steps were heavy. Filled the room.
Closing the door, Zechs spoke as he routinely locked up his door, metal sliding upon and across metal. One, two, three. “The couch pulls out into a bed. The clock is loud, but you’ll get used to it.” He assumed the boy’s stay would extend for weeks, if the volume of his backpack told the correct story.
“My room is over there.” He flicked his neck in its general direction. Trowa didn’t look up. “Bathroom is across the hall. Towels in the closet in there. Kitchen over there.”
Trowa stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, arms crossed and shoulders slumped. He was nervous, and attempting to hide the fact. The four fingers of his right hand clutched his arm. He had only taken eight steps into the room and stood still as a streetlamp; Zechs didn’t know if the boy could summon the strength to move.
“Your coat,” he said, extending his hand. Trowa jolted, like he had been startled, and stared at Zechs’s outstretched fingers for nearly ten whole seconds before silently slipping his thin jacket off his shoulders. When he handed it off, their fingers touched, and his arms quickly resumed a crossed position. Zechs hung the jacket on a hook next to where his own overcoat hung, just inside the hall closet door. That hook had been vacant for some time.
Zechs walked into the kitchen, letting out a breath. He opened the cabinet above the counter, reaching for a plate. “Are you a vegetarian?” he asked the dinnerware. Didn’t know if it was okay yet to look him in the eyes.
Trowa shook his head.
The second plate was taken out of the cupboard-Zechs only had two-and he made a note to rinse it as he boiled water for pasta. Hadn’t been used in awhile.
He set about making dinner, stealing glances at the boy who stood so still in his living room, knowing everything he was thinking and that time would be heavy and motionless for awhile. He vaguely realized that it had been nearly five years since he had seen Trowa in person, although he had felt the echoes of his presence and influence damn near everywhere he turned. The Preventers had made contact with him, 04 had scoured the colonies looking for him, his own sister had called upon him at one point or another.
Now, he stood taller, his hair had grown longer in the back, tied in a short ponytail. He looked older than his twenty-one years. Looked tired. His pants were too short for his long legs. He was too thin.
Zechs understood.
He was thrown from his thoughts by hot oil that spit from the pan cooking the chicken. He looked down at the two offending drops, wiped them off with a paper towel. He hadn’t made this much food in years.
In a canister on his kitchen counter, he pulled two forks, two knives. Divided the meal evenly between two plates.
He turned to his guest, who had fallen asleep on the couch, face pressed against the cool leather of the armrest. His bangs were pushed out of his face. His skin was pale and clammy, in spite of the cool weather. There was a good possibility he was making himself sick.
Zechs reached out, pads of his fingers grazing the side of Trowa’s cheek. The skin was cold.
He stood, covered him with a blanket that hung over the couch, and left a plate of food in the microwave. Zechs ate in silence, next to the sleeping boy. He knew that waking up alone from now on was not an option.
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It was 3:49AM when Zechs stirred.
He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in over five years, and his eyes adjusted naturally to the warm lamplight in the room.
Trowa stood in the doorway. His torso was bare, and he clutched his shirt in his hands. He took an experimental step into the room. Cold floor.
Zechs rubbed his face with one hand. He took a deep breath before speaking, the drowsiness working its way from his throat.
“Come here.”
Trowa started at the sound, and froze. Zechs was patient. He knew that the decision was already made, when it came down to a warm body or an empty bed.
Six minutes passed before Trowa approached the bed. His knees bumped into the side. Zechs turned off the light and shifted, turning the covers over in invitation. He felt his unstable weight against the mattress-his eyes were still getting used to the dark when he felt Trowa’s cold cheek against his back, his long, thin fingers wrapping around his stomach. He involuntarily shivered.
The boy was thin, but had caught up to his height. Zechs contemplated how well they fit. He had grown to be broad-shouldered. The muscles in Trowa’s legs flexed against the backs of his thighs.
He felt the ex-pilot’s nose against his shoulder, and his erection against the small of his back.
Trowa made a noise that sounded something between a cry and a whine.
No doubt he was desperate, and lonely, and afraid, and what should matter and should happen wasn’t happening, no matter his efforts. He was becoming something unfamiliar, and feeling emotions he had buried since the day he took a dead man’s name. Zechs could feel the boy’s heart beat irregularly against his back.
He took the shaky hand that was splayed across his chest and grasped it in his own. Their ten fingers together forged a silent contract, a fierce understanding.
Trowa pinned his shoulders to the bed with the force of a bomb. Zechs saw in his two eyes a hint of sadness clouded by an immediate need for belonging. They both breathed heavily, and when Trowa’s fingers failed him, Zechs pulled down his waistband for him. Skin on skin, they pressed their bodies together clumsily. Too hot. A gutteral noise escaped Trowa’s mouth.
Zechs choked on the air. Anticipation prickled his spine and down his legs, burning him. His mouth was warm, and they were fighting for control of their own bodies.
Trowa lifted his head, gasping for air, a thin string of saliva stretched between their bottom lips. He gripped the sides of Zechs’ face, thumbs pressing against high cheekbones, fingers raking through blonde locks. His eyes were cloudy, his pupils dilated. Breath was short.
He kissed the blonde again, tongue sliding across bruised lips, holding his head in place with intense pressure. Zechs lay still, ignoring the twinge of anxious, shaking fingers that dug into his hipbones. He would let the boy have sadness. He would show him safety. It was the one thing he needed most, at that time.
Weight on one forearm, Trowa reached between them and took Zechs’ cock in his hand, the rough pad of his thumb applying searing friction to the underside of the head. Zechs squeezed his eyes shut, spread his legs wider. Hips angled to the ceiling. Trowa was stroking him hard, stopping only to occasionally spit in his hand. Noises spilled from his mouth, like this was turning him on, too.
Before he thought his back would snap, Zechs felt Trowa’s weight shift, heat lifting away. He cracked open an eye, sweat on his brow and upper lip, saw the boy take two fingers in his mouth. The bones of his shoulders were prominent, the muscles somehow appearing, contained by skin too pale. His other hand held his cock, smearing precome along his shaft. He used his knees to push Zech’s legs apart. Stroked himself a dozen times before shuddering, squeezing the base. He was losing control.
Zechs sat up, grabbed Trowa’s forearm. Guided it to his entrance. They held their mouths open, inches apart, as Zechs felt his two fingers slide into him.
“You can’t hurt me,” he said, voice barely a whisper.
He forced himself to relax, gripped Trowa’s arm tightly still, focusing on the way the shadows of the boy’s neck formed geometric shapes. The moonlight from the window wasn’t bright, but gave off a dull haze. Edges were fuzzy.
A third finger was inserted, and he was being stretched. His cock was hard against his stomach, but he didn’t touch. Dug his fingers into the sheets, into Trowa’s arm.
“Fuck, yes,” he spit out, his voice acting on its own accord.
He was thrown back down onto the bed, his leg drawn up to his chest, Trowa’s hand gripping the back of his knee. Spreading him wider. Trowa spit into his hand. Zechs would tell him later about the lube in the top drawer of the nightstand. When they did this again.
Trowa entered him without hesitation, in one swift movement. Zechs grunted, strangling any noise that dared to stop what was taking place in his bed. Pain took over his body, but he would not protest. They both knew that violence was sometimes an appropriate substitute to thought or reason.
Once he could open his eyes without seeing white, his eyes fixed on a bead of sweat that ran down Trowa’s throat, leaving a trail of restraint. He felt the pressure between his legs decrease.
He wrapped his leg around Trowa’s back, pushing him forward so his cock was buried in tight heat. Trowa shouted something indescribable, hand pressed into the bed next to Zech’s head.
“You can’t hurt me,” Zechs repeated.
They paused, just breathing, their gaze locked. Tremors rocked both their bodies. Trowa began to move, angling his hips to go as deep as possible. It was so much. So fucking good. He shut his eyes tight as Zechs slammed himself onto his cock. Noises and murmurs fell from his lips that Zechs didn’t understand, couldn’t count. All ran into each other.
His back was hot; the bed was burning him. Sweat dripped from his forehead down his temples. Hair that was caught behind his shoulders was pulled tight with each powerful thrust.
Trowa’s breath was on his face. His lips were pressed together, holding back. He moved faster and harder. He was grasping air. Zechs pulled him down for a kiss, fingers fisting his brown ponytail.
Trowa cracked, cries muffled by Zech’s mouth. His hips moved frantically, slapping against the back of the man’s thighs with violent force. He grasped fistfuls of blonde hair, a shoulder, a thigh. He wheezed his breaths. The sounds were liquid and hot and wrapped around Zech’s cock like fire.
Trowa tensed, spider webs in his neck. Zechs grabbed his cock and began jerking off as Trowa came, slamming his hips forward a final time.
Zechs closed his eyes, and a memory of two blue eyes and hopeful youth lit his vision in a single moment. He came as Trowa collapsed on his chest, still embedded inside him.
They lay there for seven minutes in the suffocating air. Zechs didn’t move as Trowa lifted his head to stare at him, holding his face in his hands. His green eyes squinted, seemed to not focus. Hard to understand.
Trowa closed his eyes and rolled over onto his side. Guilt hung in the air.
Zechs pulled the blankets over them. Back to back, he closed his eyes. He felt the silent sobs that wracked Trowa’s body as he drifted off to sleep.
------------
Every morning, Zechs left the house at 7:00AM to run. He had realized how the people of earth take advantage of the air itself. The musty air of the colonies left something to be desired. The city was too crowded for the convenience of a park, so he ran through alleys, around the power plant, through the outdoor market, and through three different neighborhoods as part of his daily route.
He was never a man of routine, but now he understood it. It filled vacancies in the mind.
The morning after Trowa Barton arrived, he came back after his run, and found the boy back on the couch, blanket pulled down to reveal one smooth hip.
His eyes roamed over that hip, down to long thin fingers that lined up in a row like soldiers, down the plaid pattern of the blanket. He shook his head. Nothing was different.
He was cracking the second egg in a pan when he heard Trowa’s padded feet on the kitchen floor. They stopped just behind him.
“Eggs?” Zechs asked, watching two yolks slide from one side of the pan to the other.
“Sure. Yeah.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. He sounded so small. “Let me give you money-”
“That’s not necessary,” Zechs said quickly, grabbing a spatula from the canister on the counter.
He felt a hand on his back. The hand was cold and he fought the shiver that wanted to surface.
“There has to be something I can do. To repay you. I just didn’t-I didn’t-“
“Sit down.” The hand was gone. His voice was short, and he turned around in apology, his eye contact his forgiveness. War had taught him to mince words. Trowa’s face softened. “Have some eggs.”
He turned back to the pan, and felt the hand return on his back, warmer this time.
“Thanks,” Trowa said. As he turned, his palm lingered across his shoulder blades. He retreated to the living room.
Zechs let out the breath he was, for lack of reason, holding, and glanced at the clock. 9:35AM, four minutes behind schedule. He was meeting Relena at ten-thirty, couldn’t be late.
They ate in silence, but it was comfortable.
Zechs rose from his chair. “Shower,” he mumbled under his breath. He really had to meet Relena. He was late.
He closed the door to his bedroom, stripping out of sweats and grabbing a towel from the closet. From the kitchen, he heard the sink water turn on, silverware clanking against glass. He knew what it was like to make himself useful.
Five minutes to wash his hair, two to wash his face, another five to scrub down and two to brush his teeth (more efficient if done in the shower, he’d found out). Today was Thursday-he’d shave tomorrow.
He left the house without a word. He didn’t know what Trowa would do with his day. That was okay.
------------
“He’s at your house?”
Relena crossed her legs and pressed the pads of her fingers together under the desk. She regarded her brother with an air of concern. He leaned against the edge of her desk, met her hard stare with his own.
“Yes,” he said.
Her brow furrowed. “Right now, Trowa Barton is at your house.”
“Yes,” he repeated.
She looked at him for an entire thirty seconds. “What is he doing there?”
“Well, he did my dishes this morning,” Zechs added.
“Zechs,” she started.
Zechs sighed, loosened his tie. “He arrived last night. He’s angry. He’s confused. Leave it alone for awhile.”
“Yes, well.” She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’s not the only one. Some of us have to move on, though.”
He chuckled. “He doesn’t seem to have much to move on to.”
She scoffed, then quickly composed herself. She took a deep breath. Her eyes were moist, Zechs noticed, but he didn’t point out such things.
“What have you found out about 01’s recent activity?” he asked, tone neutral. Distract her.
She nodded, and motioned over to the monitor on the opposite side of her desk. Zechs stood upright and walked over. Several maps and documents in different windows were pulled up on-screen, and his eyes darted to and fro naturally. Sorting.
“Quatre was the last one to make contact,” Relena said, click-clicking away. “Four days ago, he said that Heero Yuy showed up at the Winner estate for a visit.”
“…and?”
Relena turned to him, making a face. “Heero Yuy doesn’t-didn’t go around making house calls.”
“Was he working for anyone?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Unlikely. He’s completed a couple commission jobs for the Preventers, but strictly as favors. Re-building, trashing, mechanical work. He wracked up some debt over the years, in that respect.” The screen created lighted patterns across her face. She had a deep crease in her forehead that had lived there since her 17th birthday. “Quatre said that Heero asked him about me, what I had been doing, where I was planning on traveling.”
“Why would he ask 04?”
She pivoted in her chair to face him. “Well, he is the only one who has kept up with me on a somewhat regular basis. We seem to run into each other. Charity events and such. Duo calls every now and again. Wu Fei would rather slit his throat than acknowledge I exist.”
“What about 03?”
Relena’s gaze adverted back to the screen. “I haven’t seen Trowa Barton in five years, since he moved to L1.” She chewed her bottom lip. “I actually hadn’t seen Heero in nearly two. I used to beg him to come see me here.” She closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean in a body bag.”
Zechs paused, cleared his throat. Chose his words carefully. “What do you think Heero was doing?”
Her shoulders sagged as she rubbed her eye with the palm of her hand. “I don’t know. Quatre told him that last he heard from me was that I was headed to L2 to make a speech at the memorial site there and overlook the reconstruction. But, no one on L2 has claimed to have seen Heero since he left L4. In all my life, maybe I’ve never known what Heero was doing, what he really thought, or what he really cared about. He’s always acted on his own.”
“He most likely didn’t want us to know what he was doing.”
She clenched her fist that lay on her lap. “I’m terrified that his death was somehow my fault.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions.” He knelt in front of her, put his hand over hers.
She pushed back in her chair, looked at him. She brushed two stray hairs from her face; Zechs was sorry to say that she far surpassed her twenty-two years. Zechs feared that when she got to be his age, she would look in the mirror and see only a soldier.
“I know you don’t care about Heero,” she began, voice already beginning to waver.
He stopped her quickly-it was hard for him to show gentleness in such large amounts. “I have Trowa Barton staying at my house. I’m sure he’d like to know what happened at some point, if you ever figure it out. Right now, he’s having trouble getting out of bed.”
He saw the wince that overtook her features for an instant before she was on her feet and opening the door. “I’ll do everything I can to find justice for Heero. I owe it to him. What I wonder, Zechs, is why are you sheltering and caring for a stranger?”
Zechs walked towards the exit, shrugging on his jacket. “Well, if you’d like the job, by all means.”
She grabbed him by the sleeve. He smiled to himself-he was assuredly the only one in the entire universe that could turn her eyes to daggers. “You know I can’t do that.”
Zechs took her hand and leaned over, kissing her twice, softly on each side of her face. “So, I will.”
----------
The boy was there when he returned home at 5:40pm sharp, staring out the window through the venetian blinds. He looked up when Zechs entered, face blank.
“Did you see Relena?” he asked, voice quiet, but with a hint of urgency.
Zechs’ eyes widened before he realized it, and he nodded once before hanging his jacket on the hook in the hall closet. “Yes. Did you want to talk to her?”
Trowa sat back, shoulders still tense. “She won’t talk to me.”
Zechs crossed his arms. It was all predictable. “Relena is, at her core, a compassionate being.”
“She should be. She was queen of the world.”
“The past five years have been hard on her. You’d be surprised.”
“What about you?” Trowa asked. “Where is your crown? Where are your attendants, and your palace?”
Zechs smiled. “I want to be ordinary.”
“That’s a bit rich, coming from you.”
“A lot changes in five years.”
“I see that.”
Zechs fell back onto the couch. “You find clarity when you’re alone.”
Trowa stared back out the window. The sun was almost over the horizon already. The sky was clear, three or four lingering clouds hovering over the vast spans of sky. Things were different on Earth. The air wasn’t stale.
Zechs closed his eyes. He’d start making dinner at 6:30. He’d have to get more groceries soon. His mind was at ease, but his temples throbbed. They all had headaches after the war.
He felt Trowa’s lips brush against his own. His eyes remained closed, but he pulled Trowa onto his lap, the heat of their contact a surprising comfort. A part of him was uneasy that dinner would, most likely, have to be pushed back.
The days stretched into weeks, and Zechs was unsure if Trowa was still seeking answers. He didn’t really mind; there would always be two hooks in the hall closet. His new system of routines and defaults replaced the old one, but it was just as reliable and steadfast as the last. He knew what to expect now.
Even when one night, when Trowa finally caught his breath and said softly into the pillow,
“What happened to you when you found out he was dead?”
Zechs blinked twice before fixing a hard stare on Pilot 03, searching frantically for signs of pity or ridicule or mocking. He was difficult to read, but Zechs found no malice. Still, these were dangerous waters that he was testing. If Zechs had learned one thing out of this-this thing-it was that one could never be too careful.
“I don’t remember much. But, I can tell you what other people said.”
He sat up, back to the headboard. He rested his elbows on his knees, and focused on everything that was far away. “They said I went crazy. That Treize Khushrenada was dead, and I had gone crazy.”
“Did you try to kill yourself?”
Zechs paused. “Yes.” He reached into the side drawer for a cigarette. “I imagine I was probably out of control. Couldn’t think straight. They said I was sick. Relena was there, sometimes.” The match took one lick at the air before Zechs flicked it out, setting it in the ashtray. He took two full drags before turning to face the boy, whose hair fell across his face in four sweat-laced stripes.
“You had someone else,” Trowa said quietly.
Zechs grimaced through a smile. “Like I’ve said, Relena is a compassionate being.” He sighed softly. “But, I didn’t say she knew everything.”
Trowa was silent, the light reflecting in his eyes through the slits of shadows created by his hair.
“She doesn’t understand someone who doesn’t want to live, now that all that he and I had fought for had come to fruition.” He exhaled, three smoke rings rising to the ceiling. “She obviously doesn’t know what we were fighting for. It’s been two thousand, forty-nine days. She still thinks we fought for a sense of justice or the well-being of the people.” A small smile tugged at his lip. “We were much more selfish than that.”
Trowa took the cigarette from Zechs’ hand, taking a drag. “You count the days,” he said upon exhale. “Why?”
He took back the cigarette. Another pull. He didn’t answer.
Trowa swallowed, looked up at Zechs, who had long ago adverted his eyes. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” he said slowly.
Zechs nodded. “That’s fine.”
He felt slender fingers wrap around his wrist. He took another pull at his cigarette, the smoke weaving through their entangled limbs.
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he heard Trowa say.
He didn’t look down, because there was a possibility that he might attempt to convince Trowa to stay. But there was no reason. He had zero answers, so, he kept his chin up and blew smoke up to the ceiling fan until only the filter was left, and Trowa was asleep.
-tbc-
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