Summary so far, because it's been a long long time. Quatre cuts himself, so does duo. Quatre is very sick, and his actions are based on how I was for a few days around the time I started writing this, which just so happens to have been 2 years or more ago. Duo and Quatre both live on earth, and fairly near eachother, though they didn't know that, and duo went to a store, and so did Quatre (same store, Quatre drove about two hours though) duo thought Quatre was too sick, Quatre came home with him. First night, duo was in his room cutting himself, and delirious Quatre knocked on the door. I'm playing on the 'god of death' thing with duo, as some do, but slightly differently then most. Quatre came in, duo got odd, duo ended up planning on hurting Quatre in a rather sadistic way (It hink this was chapter 8-ish) Duo found cuts on Quatre, and quite plainly it shocked him, and he didn't hurt Quatre that night (or he did, but not as severly as he would have) Duo freaks, Quatre ends up back in 'his' room, duo hacked his arm more. Fuzzy memory, something happens, I think mainly insight chapters, Quatre and duo talk briefly about the old pilots, Quatre saying that heero and Trowa are a couple. Duo had been mildly hitting on Quatre, and questioning himself rather seriously, and in that familiar denial-ish way. Quatre is gay, and knows this. Yap yap, next day I think, Quatre's sleeve falls slightly and duo makes a comment towards Quatre about the cuts and Quatre –freaks-, duo then admits to cutting as well, in a fairly harsh way, and Quatre takes the news quite badly, and duo's slips from himself, basically, and kisses Quatre. Quatre hated this at first, insight babble, they break apart, duo seems REALLY shocked at himself, Quatre eventually calms him down, and kisses him again. (though it's not love it means something) insight, Quatre coughs the kiss over, and duo basically reacts to the whole situation (and past few day's actions) and runs, to the bathroom, and takes a shower, hot/cold real fast, and mentions that he writes stories, and then sticks his current actions into a different character in a story. That's called escapism. That's where I left off.

Disclaimers: Didn't Iused to talk about a camel? Fuck, it's been a long time. Trust me, Ihave NOTHING anyone could gain, and I don't own these characters.

A/n: I've changed a fuckload since I last wrote a chapter, things have change, my writing style probably has changed, and I've forgotten a lot of the small details of what happened, so if something doesn't quite connect with something in a previous chapter, note that to me and I'll consider it, but this is me saying I have no idea what the hell I'm doing and why I'm doing it. .. well, here goes something or nothing.


Yes, I was scared, there's no denying that. Duo's probably having a tremendous mental breakdown, he's locked himself in the bathroom, and he's either in the shower or he just has the water running.

Drowning, perhaps he's drowning himself. Maybe he's cutting himself; maybe he slit his wrist in the shower and is now bleeding to death.

I did knock at first, trying, in vain, to help, or calm him down. I stood there for a few minutes, more or less, not really sure what to do or how to feel, then I went to sit on the couch.

So here I am. Sitting on the couch, no sound but the running water. And I can't help but stare at my hands. My skin seems paler, looser even, wrinkled around the knuckles. Seems like I've lost weight, or I could just be really dehydrated, I cant remember what I've eaten lately, or if I have. And should I care?

I don't like my hands, I never have, I hate my body entirely, but I hate my hands the most I would have to say, they're the hardest part of me to hide, my fingers don't look even, they don't look significantly abnormal, and I'd be stupid to think that anyone has actually stared at my hands and criticized them. I know they're too tied up in themselves to analyze my hands as harshly as I have.

But I still hate them.

Duo kissed me first. And yet he's the one who locked himself in the bathroom, walking out the front door would have been manlier I suppose. He pulled on my sleeve, he shoved his mutilated arm in my face, he kissed me first, now he goes and steals the bathroom. What if I have to piss?

I'd put my head in my hands at this point, I feel like I should sigh heavily, slump over, put my face in my hands and sigh a lot or cry. Or maybe I should be shaking. I could go cut myself, loose control. Maybe I should sigh, and then suddenly scream in utter rage and rip out my hair and punch my legs and throw myself to the floor and rip at my wounds and cry and scream and hyperventilate. He kissed me, he yelled at me, he knows he fucking KNOWS, and he does it too, and I'm gay and he's so fucked up over himself and freaking out because of it and he is too, or who the fuck cares if he isn't, and I feel like shit, my throat is raw, I'm not where I want to be, I should be home, I should be alone, I should be taking pills or ripping my arms apart or starving myself for a week and depriving myself of sleep, I'm sick, I should be alone, exhausting myself to the point of death.

But he had to bring me here, I had to come. I have to sleep and he has to feed me and he has to have obvious feelings for me and he has to care and he has to be fucked up too.

And what would my suicide now do to him. That is considering he isn't in there killing himself.

And I should be screaming, I should be breaking down, I should be an irrational, unreasonable little fuck like I always am and I should be trying to portray what's going on inside my head right now with physically acting like a loon.

And I sit here, and I stare at my hands, and I hate them, and I hate myself, and I hate this whole situation, and I hate that skinny boy in the shower, and I hate the taste in my mouth, and I hate the burning of my back, and I hate the color of my hair.

And I hate my house, I hate being alone. I hate starving myself for a week and sleeping once every four days just to see how exhausted I can get.

And I want Duo to get out of the shower, and I want him to come out here, and I want him to sit next to me. And I want him to laugh, and smile, and make some stupid comment about something stupid. I want to erase this day. I want Duo to laugh and elbow me, entirely oblivious to the gashes on my back. And I want to chuckle softly, slightly reserved, as the joke wouldn't be as funny as he's making it out to be, and I want to play-punch his arm when he says something vulgar, oblivious to his cuts.

And I want to be back in the war, I want to be sitting in a room with four other boys and I want the conversation to be lighthearted, and I want to feel like I used to, I want to be the little boy who was so innocent, and I want them to think I was too weak to fight even if I was or wasn't, and I want to be looked down upon for my physical weakness and looked up for my strength of heart I've long seemed forgotten. I want to be there again, where impersonal was the name of our lives, and where everything was seriously light. Where the real problem was the war, the cause.

I want to worry about the world, I want to worry about the stars, I want to worry about if a comrade is dead or not.

I want to forget myself. I want the world to need me to save it, even if I hate it. I need something to distract me from myself. I need something that will overpower my mind more then the repulsive contours of my hand, more then the sick lust for a razor, more then myself.

And I don't want it to be Duo. I don't want to worry about if he's dead or alive, if he's cutting or not, if he's suffering or not. If he loves me or not, if he hates himself or not.

And right now he's in the shower, or perhaps on the floor. And right now he's hating himself or breaking down, or calming down, or dead. And right now he's not here. And right now I'm sitting on his couch, perfect posture, hands on my knees, back straight, throat dry, back burning, lips tingling, mouth distasteful, my eyes have lost their focus.

And I hate the contours of my hands but I never cut my hands because someone might see, and who do I visit, where do I go? What do I have in my life. What did I have in my life, why hadn't I cut my hands before when I would be in my house alone for so long, and why would I care about the short impersonal trips to a store, I could wear gloves in the winter.

And my hands are for the most part, unscarred, and I hate them, and I can never hide them enough.

And Duo's in hell right now.

And I'm sitting on his couch.

I don't want him to love me when I know I could never love him more then I hate myself.


A/n: Hope I didn't fuck this up.