stay calm (if you want to live a little longer)

The sun said its goodbyes a quarter-hour ago, leaving the five of them at the mercy of the moon and her army of twinkling soldiers. Still, the sky isn’t completely dark; pink and purple streaks stretch from west to east. One of the benefits of being confined to a natural atmosphere, he’s noticed after making Earth his home—at least for the time being.

“With you around, I can only expect things to get less sensible,” Wufei remarks, picking up a single grape from the pack he brought and savoring it.

He’s recently become obsessed with eating grapes in the evening, something about melatonin and how it could greatly improve one’s sleep. It’s no secret he still has nightmares—all of them do, in their own way. Duo won’t be the one to judge his way of coping, even if it seems more like a placebo than anything else.

“I try my best,” he replies, letting his body fall to the picnic mat with a loud thump. He folds his arms behind his neck, stretches his legs flat on the ground, and closes his eyes.

The air is heavy. It clings to his skin. The ocean isn’t far away, and salt mist has reached them, leaving its scent as a souvenir. None of it feels comfortable or familiar. He’s heard of how people on this side of the solar system feel drawn to the sea, to its uncovered mysteries. But to him, the sea is where he met Heero for the first time—and shot him for good measure before the guy threw himself onto a missile and fell into open water. Not one of his best memories.

As if summoned by his recollections, Heero speaks next.

“Quatre, can you pass me a sandwich, please?” he says gently, measuring his words.

He’s been trying hard to blend in, a mission in its own right. Duo can tell he’s tired of sticking out like a sore thumb every time he tries to simply exist in the world he sacrificed himself for. He figures that’s why Heero always defaults to reaching out to them whenever he needs company, like this very afternoon. In a bag of misfits, he’s nothing more, nothing less, than himself.

Duo can’t help but empathize.

Quatre humors Heero, handing him not only what he asked for but also a glass of iced tea. “It’s one of my favorite blends. I brew it myself,” he’d said earlier, a blush of pride and satisfaction coloring his cheeks.

Duo feels bad for him. Quatre has devoted himself to making everyone else feel comfortable in their own skin without realizing he’s denied himself the time and the tools to heal. He’s growing thinner by the day, and his skin is breaking out—the adolescence he never had hitting him hard at nineteen. It’s probably stress. He looks stressed, and exhausted, even when he swears he isn’t. Duo doesn’t fight him on that, but he isn’t sure Quatre knows his own limits.

He ignores the shiver running down his spine.

Trowa hasn’t said anything in a while, which isn’t uncharacteristic of him, but it leaves room for thought. He might be struggling the most, though he won’t say it out loud either. The circus had given him a place to be and a reason to exist for some time, but a serious head injury left him unable to join their most recent tour, and melancholy made itself right at home.

Duo heard it from Wufei, who’d picked Trowa up on his Preventer ship on his way back to Earth. That day, the ex-pilot was barely recognizable—not because of the bandages that covered his face, or his recently buzzed hair, but because there was no light left in his eyes. And that’s saying a lot, considering how Trowa has never been known to be particularly lively. Duo never asked him directly what happened, but he sometimes wonders if the injury was less of an accident and more of an inevitable consequence.

Without something to fight for—to die for—they’ve all grown careless.

“Duo, I can hear you thinking from here,” Trowa says in his usual monotone.

Duo opens his eyes in surprise, then squints in the general direction where Trowa is sitting, ready to counter whatever is coming his way. What he finds there, however, is a cupcake being offered to him, along with an attempt at an understanding smile. Duo accepts both for what they are and bites into the cupcake right to its core, deciding it’s time to leave psychoanalysis to the professionals.

“Hair looks good, Tro’,” he comments. Maybe to distract the others, maybe because he really thinks Trowa can sport any hairstyle with that face of his. It’s infuriating sometimes.

“It will grow,” Trowa utters, absently running a hand over the fuzzy regrowth. As if saying, ‘I’ll go back to normal, just you wait.’ 

Duo fears there isn’t really a ‘normal’ they can go back to, but he doesn’t mention it. He allows the dread to consume him for a moment, and exhales to let it go.

“It doesn’t need to,” Wufei interjects. “Change can be good. For example, look at Duo and how he now thinks before he speaks,” he jabs, going straight for the jugular.

Duo chuckles in response, and the others follow in silence.

Yes, he has changed too.

His words, his emotions aren’t the same they used to be, and some days he can barely recognize himself in the mirror.

Maybe that’s why he spends so much time and energy noticing every detail about the other ex-pilots: because he doesn’t want to be the only one with issues yet to be addressed. He doesn’t want to be alone as he tries to figure out what is wrong with him—or why his wings were clipped before they could finally fly.

“Glad to be a source of entertainment,” he says, shoving the rest of the cupcake into his mouth and licking his fingers clean. “At least I get to feel useful again.”

Nails scratch the skin of his abdomen raw, aiming towards his chest, as another hand cups his face to leave him gasping, breathless. His hair is loosened from its ponytail and pulled back and away from his face, while fingers trail over the zipper of his slacks, coaxing them open.

His brain rots and spills out of his ears. He’s too sensitive, too aroused. He asked for this. For years he begged for this, and still—he never thought he’d actually have it, have them, both of them, teasing him. Touching him.

It was a decision born out of convenience rather than deliberate want. His lease was coming to its end, and Duo’s extra room was then empty since Heero had moved out. Duo was desperate for a new roommate, so much that he promised Wufei no loud music after ten and showers no longer than fifteen minutes. Wufei accepted the offer despite knowing none of these promises would last more than three months. Unlike what most would think, he does like the company of others sometimes, even if said others have extremely long hair that clogs the shower drain every other day.

Still, Duo sometimes tests his patience, and today is one of those days.

“So waddya think?” he asks, holding two life-sized skeletons that are too close for Wufei’s comfort.

“I think you should put these back where they belong,” Wufei says, pushing the cart further down the aisle.

“Come on,” Duo lets out an elongated whine. He dashes towards the cart with the skeletons in tow, limbs dangling in the air. “Don’t you think they would look great by our front door?”

“Duo, we live in an apartment complex,” Wufei reminds him, still refusing to acknowledge the decorations as he moves towards the bedding section. He could use a new blanket this fall. “Remind me what happened last time you tried to leave your dirty boots out.”

“Listen, Mrs. Whiteman might have something against my choice in footwear,” Duo retorts, “but I’m sure she will enjoy a lil’ bit of seasonal joy!”

There’s a nice plaid fleece on sale, and Wufei doesn’t mind the emerald green color at all. He lists it in his notes app for later, and checks if there are any coupons available online. “If by seasonal joy you mean giving the woman a heart attack,” he finally says, “by all means, be my guest. But I’d rather not have to go to the police for a crime you committed knowingly.”

“Zhang Wufei,” Duo nails the pronunciation just to work his nerves, “you’re a Preventer. You’re literally the police of police.”

“I am. And that,” Wufei points to the skeletons with his eyes before walking away again, “will make you my target.”

“Don’t flatter me like that,” Duo calls out, turning on his heel and heading back to the Halloween decorations. “Take me out to dinner first!”

The ferry has already left port, and seagulls dance for them on the top deck. As scenic as it looks, Duo knows he’s only here to keep Relena safe on her holiday. She doesn’t take many—perhaps because most people hired to escort her will follow her at all times. Duo doesn’t. He hates the idea of being closely tracked himself, and he doesn’t see why he should inflict that on someone else. So he accepted the job without asking for more details, and he lets her go away to buy ice cream at the convenience store when she mentions it. She returns safely with two cups in hand.

“For me, Your Majesty? I am not worth it,” he teases.

“Shut up and eat, Duo,” she says with a quiet snarl, but laughter almost escapes her.

Duo’s grin is wide and probably looks silly on his face, but he can’t hide he’s genuinely excited for the offer. He takes the cup, and it’s cookies and cream, one of his favorites. Relena seems to have strawberry-something herself, which makes him realize she actually put some thought into which flavors to pick. It’s sweet—the ice cream, of course, and the gesture.

They find seats in the shade, and despite the somewhat busy deck, most passengers don’t even seem to notice, or at least care about their presence. Duo has his braid in a bun to avoid curious eyes, and a floral bucket hat to hide most of his features, especially from the sun. Relena’s choice of holiday outfit is less ‘I just came back from a tropical island’ and more ‘May I have a glass of limoncello spritz?’ complete with a flowy white-and-navy striped dress and wide straw hat. They look like a couple that couldn’t decide where to go for the weekend, and Duo chuckles at the thought—at the idea of Relena finding anything in him that is worth taking a chance on when she has the world at her feet.

He swallows a spoonful of ice cream and the sudden brain freeze is a welcome pause to his overthinking.

“How do you like it?” Relena asks, not quite facing him, but not really looking away either. There’s a dash of anticipation in her voice, and Duo finds it adorable.

“‘Tis good,” he replies, and clearly he can’t stop his own mouth before he adds, “but the company makes it even better.”

He winces at himself, but Relena doesn’t seem to mind the uncalled-for comment. She bumps her elbow into his side, and there’s a faint smirk on her lips when she retorts, “You’ll pay for the next round.”

“Tea,” he announces as he enters the room, making his presence known. Trowa knows too well how dangerous it would be for him—for both of them—to startle the injured pilot, and he’d rather not risk it. Not with a pistol waiting, conveniently hidden beneath the pillow.

“Thank you,” the pilot replies without looking. He’s faring much better, though his mood remains suboptimal. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he stretches his limbs one at a time, testing his limits. Trowa notices how the bandages on his biceps are already stained crimson, despite the recent dressing. He wants to complain, but he knows how hypocritical that would be.

He sees too much of himself in the pilot who self-detonated his Gundam—so much that every mistake feels like his own.

And that does bother him.

“Drink before it gets cold,” he warns, placing the mug on the bedside table. His own still in hand, he takes a sip. The warmth soothes him from inside out, temporarily lifts an invisible weight from his shoulders.