She came in when he was packing his bags, and he didn't even turn around to look at her.

"Are you leaving?"

"Yes."

"Where are you going?"

"To find him."

"Will you come back?"

"I'm not sure."

He turned and hefted a small duffel bag, eyes fixed on something at a great distance. She walked forward and kissed his cheek. "Visit us."

Us-- there was an agreeable inflection to it.

His eyes softened. "I will."

"Bring him."

"Okay."

Trowa walked out of the trailer without a backwards glance. His throat felt a little tight, but he ignored it and began walking to the nearest transport station. He had a shuttle to catch. He checked his watch, counting down the minutes.

 

---

 

He had a therapist named Aileen Kensington, who was plump and forty-four, with red glasses. Heero Yuy was twenty; she thought he was twenty-four because he had lied to her when she asked how old he had been when he was in the wars. She had written it now as a fact of great import on a yellow legal pad.

He said that he had dreams about dying in space, sometimes, and the explosions were crisp and loud, and he would wake up, on the edge of vertigo because there was so much static between his ears.

She said that this was good, really, this subconscious reflux, so he didn't mention his other dreams, about other people dying.

He tapped his foot impatiently and watched the clock and talked about how he had seen a commercial for war memorial plates, pieces of china that you could display in your home, with the Gundams designed on them. To remember, he said. Not that he wanted to remember, really, it was just...

Just?

He smiled and clasped his minds. It was just that he was going to remember no matter what, and the plates had been pretty and cheap.

She told him that he should order them.

He said he already did.

She wrote that down.

 

---

 

Heero was dusting his china when the doorbell rang, so he answered the door with the Deathscythe plate in his hand, blinking owlishly behind his glasses as he stared at who it was.

Trowa set down a duffel bag. It was blue, striped with white. He was wearing a worn coat, and he tried to smile as he shuffled his feet. "I'm sorry to intrude," he began, but Heero had already stepped back, motioning for the green-eyed boy to enter.

"You can use the blue slippers," he said, nodding towards a pair in the corner. "The bedroom is at the end of the hall, and the bathroom is on the right. Put away your bags and wash out. Dinner's almost ready-- I was just cleaning up."

Trowa looked surprise, but he walked in, and this time his smile was easy and wide. The blue slippers fit him perfectly, and he set his bag at the end of the bed, and as he rinsed the soap from his eyes, Heero put away his plates, set the table, and checked on his rice. As an afterthought, he brought out the candles and the blue-checkered cloth napkins.

There was a bemused chuckle behind him, and he turned around, studying for the first time the features before him. The hair was the same, thick, brown, flipped over one eye, and the one visible eye glittered the same green. Trowa's skin was a little darker, and he was much taller, and he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal leanly muscled arms. He leaned against the wall, still smiling. "I had such a hard time thinking that you actually settled down, and I come, and you're domestic. I had no idea." Trowa shook his head. "Can you cook?"

"A little," Heero said. "Well, just rice, and a little tofu stir fry. Onions, mushrooms, snow peas." He looked away for a moment. "I'm a vegetarian now," he added. "I can't cook very much or very well."

But Trowa had already sat down, so Heero sat down as well, and they had a glass of wine as the candles burned down, and Trowa thought it much, and he thought it well.

 

---

 

He explained to Aileen that Trowa was a friend of his in the war.

She asked if they were close, and Heero thought about the time that Trowa had taken care of him after he had destructed Wing, and the taste of his sister's soup when he woke up, thick tomato soup, and how he had had four bowls, and how he would have had more, except Cathrine had laughed and said that he'd be sick the next morning if he ate too much.

He said yes, yes, they were.

She seemed pleased. She wrote it down.

Heero stopped to pick up tomato juice on his way home, and Trowa was on the couch when he walked in the door, reading the newspaper. They searched through Heero's refrigerator and found the butter they needed, and half an onion, and Heero sent Trowa next door to borrow some flour. When Trowa came back, he had a cup of flour and a loaf of French bread. As Heero stirred the soup and searched for his good bowls, Trowa cut the bread. In the end, they dipped the bread straight into the pot on the stove.

"How's Cathrine doing?" Heero asked. His eyes were still watering from chopping the onion.

"Good. She's engaged to be married to a lion tamer. Gregory." Trowa flashed a smile. "They have a son together. Thomas." His green eyes were distant. "He proposed to her on the trapeze. He almost killed himself doing it, if Franco hadn't saved his neck... She said yes, and I was afraid she was going to cry-- for the wrong reasons, I mean. You should have seen the ring. It must have been half a year's pay. Cathrine wants him to return it, and Greg wants her to wear it, show it off."

"Do you think that they might come visit us sometime?"

Trowa felt his pulse rise at the mention of the word 'us.' "I certainly hope so," he agreed softly, and looked out the window. "The flowers are beautiful in spring."

 

---

 

He called in to cancel his appointment with Aileen, and her receptionist forwarded him to her office, where she picked up and said, "How have your dreams been?"

It was then that Heero realized that his nightmares had stopped. He answered, "I had a dream that I could fly, and Trowa and I flew across the ocean, towards the sun, but it wasn't like Icarus. Our wings didn't melt."

Aileen laughed. She asked what he was doing right now, and Heero wondered if she was writing everything down.

"Making gazpacho. Trowa's getting me my basil."

But then she had another call, so she said goodbye.

"I'll send you some when it's done," he promised, and hung up.

 

---

 

They had been taking turns alternating between the bed and the futon, but Trowa came home to the apartment building one day and saw the black futon sitting on the curb. He raced upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, and burst through the door. Heero was polishing his plates.

"Why'd you get rid of the couch?"

"Because," Heero said pragmatically, "we spend a ridiculous amount of credits getting everything laundered all the time, and the bed's big enough for two, so we might as well save the money." He squinted at the bedroom. "Unless you have a problem with that. Then, we can go down and get the futon again because trash pickup isn't until five."

"It's okay," Trowa said. "As long as you don't hog the covers and keep your feet to yourself."

Heero threw his polishing rag at him.

 

---

 

They drank their coffee in silence, in that grace period in the morning between sleep and consciousness.

"I got a letter from Cathrine," Trowa finally said, setting down his mug. "She wants to know if we can visit. Thomas is turning three."

"That would be nice," Heero replied. "She's a better cook than the both of us."

They waited for the toast to pop up, and Trowa folded his hands. "Did you know that you talk in you sleep?"

"I do?"

"You do." His lips quirked upwards. "You talk about flying."

 

---

 

Cathrine was fastening the last buttons of a small boy's jacket, and she beamed at him as she finished, smoothing his hair. "You're terribly handsome, Thomas." She reached to straighten his collar.

Thomas grinned winsomely back at her, and she laughed. He had Gregory's smile, and that was by no means a bad thing. Her husband entered their trailer, black hair still wet from the shower. "Are they here yet?"

His son shook his head.

"I hope they come soon," Cathrine fretted. "Or the soup will be cold."

 

---

 

On the way to the circus camp, Trowa pulled their rental car over.

"What?" Heero asked. "Are we out of gas? Something wrong with the road?"

Trowa turned to face him, cheeks burning. "Can you love me?"

The silence stretched for several minutes, and then snapped. "Can I?" Heero repeated slowly. "Can I love you?" The other man felt his heart sink. "Can I?"

He turned away from Heero, swallowing the lump in his throat. He was about to apologize when a pair of hands seized his face and pulled him towards a supple mouth, soft, yielding, and warm, a mouth that parted to two lips and clashing teeth. It took him a moment to realize that he was being-- *being*-- kissed, and when they drew apart for air, Trowa almost laughed. Instead, he said, "Is that yes?"

Heero kissed him again, lightly. "Yes, I can. Yes, I will. Yes, I have." He laughed. "Yes."

"Good," Trowa said, his eyes dancing. He looked at the clock. "We have to hurry, or we'll be late." He shifted the car from park to drive, and then a hand over his shifted it back to park.

"We'll be late," Heero said firmly, leaning in for another kiss.

And they were.