Archivist's note: Companion to My Heart.

Why does he have to be so insensitive?

The roar of sound surrounding me doesn't silence the thoughts running through my head. Wish to God that it would, though, 'cause I'm gonna go insane if I don't stop listening. That's the problem here -- if I could only ignore what's going on up in here, I'd be just fine. But nooo, my thoughts are running five-hundred-miles-per-minute and of course I'm listening with no chance of ever having them stop and it's impossible to focus on what I'm doing and if I don't stop thinking soon I'm gonna end up dead but what am I talking about I might as well be dead already because I can't have what I want and dear God I want it so badly, want him so badly.

Damn it. Oh, you are going to pay for that, my friend. You are gonna lose your balls now. No one leaves scratches on Deathsycthe. I am gonna turn you into a little pile of scrap metal and dust, you son-of-a-bitch.

Hello, good ol' hangar. How are you? It's been -- what? -- three days now? Something like that. I lost count. And does it really matter? What was I thinking about the entire time I was away? Sure as hell not what I was supposed to be thinking about, that's for damn sure.

I don't wanna get out of Deathsycthe. I just want to sit here, and stew in my own juices (that, I might add, I've been stewing in for the past three days as it is. God, I smell), and think some more. Why not? I've been thinking about the same thing in loops ever since I left -- before that, actually. It won't hurt to think a little more, right? Right?

What time is it? It's gotta be at least midnight. Maybe a little later. I wonder if he's still awake? Or if he got called away on a mission while I was gone? That would make things easier. Well, no, actually it wouldn't, because then I'd have to wait even longer to see him again. God damn it, what the hell's the matter with me? Since when did I get so damn sappy?

Wow, my bangs are matted. Let's fix that up, shall we? Nothing like a good ol' finger comb. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Heero. The stupid bastard. I guess it is pretty damn funny that I managed to fall for him. That is what this is, right? That's why I've been thinking about him so much, right? Why I can't concentrate on anything I do, why I see his face everywhere I look and expect for him to walk through the hangar door any minute even though I know he should really be asleep.

I've always liked him. I know maybe sometimes, I don't act like I do. But I always got the feeling that he was listening to me when I ramble, even when I'm rambling about nothing. Even when the words weren't important, especially when the words weren't important, he was always listening. Like he knew what I was really saying, even if he didn't say anything back.

And he's not perfect. Which I think is what I like best. Oh, I know he likes to think that he's got us all fooled, but not me. No siree, he sure hasn't pulled the wool (black spandex? Damn him) over these purple eyes. Nope. His problem is that he thinks I'm deaf. His problem is that he thinks I'm a light sleeper. His problem is that he doesn't realize I can hear him crying sometimes, at night, after long, frustrating days or -- once -- after a mission. How weird is that? The Perfect Soldier, Mr. Heero Yuy himself, crying quietly in a dark room, all alone and without anyone to stop his tears. What a pity.

God, it's warm in here. I wish I had a blanket on me. I'd just as soon (yawn) sleep in here than in our room. I don't even know if (yawn) he's here. I don't even know anything. How's (yawn) that?

Whoops. Dozed off. I wonder what time it is now? It doesn't feel like I slept for too long. Amazing that my brain managed to shut itself down long enough for me to get a nap. And, all of a sudden -- there they are! The thoughts come whizzing back full force. I guess I can't be awake without thinking them. Oh, well. Too bad for me.

I wonder how the bastard would take it if I told him. Probably just punch me right in the face. Or maybe castrate me. Yeah, that'd be more his style. Root out the canker. Or maybe I'd just get a typical "omae o korosu" and have done with it. That would figure, too. Like he'd be too indifferent to give a shit what I felt or didn't feel. Like he'd be too engrossed in the mission -- "the" being in big, fat, capital letters -- to care about anything else. Something like that. I'd rather he just kill me, and get it over with. Save this poor soul the damn torment.

God -- God? Who is that? What does he have to do with any of it? Why do I keep calling on him if he doesn't ever answer? Shit.

Right. Total sap. Get your head together, Duo, before it just explodes all over the cockpit of your darling, beloved little gundam.

Speaking of which, I guess I'd better get out of here before I permanently stink it up. I'll air it out tomorrow. For now, a shower, and then bed. Good ol' R and R never hurt anyone.

It must be really late if no one's up and about. These hallways are so quiet. I'm so used to sound. It's such a welcome distraction. Why the hell else would I talk so much? I mean, sure, half the time I'm talking because I have something to say, but most of the time I'm just talking to talk. 'Cause I need the noise. 'Cause if I don't have it, then my brain really will explode. And these hallways are just too damned quiet. The problem is, I don't wanna wake anyone up. I may be obnoxious, but I'm not rude.

Ah, hello shared room-of-torture. Next time, I'm rooming with Wufei. Hell, I'd room with Trowa even before I do this to myself again. It just drives me insane, way beyond the innocent frustration phase. Like last week, when he came in out of the shower wearing a towel around his waist -- and it was a damn small towel -- that slipped down when he was fiddling with his laptop.

Urgh, that's another thing I wouldn't mind smashing to pieces (on top of this wretched door that I have to walk through in a minute). Like that one time, just out of the damned shower and he's right back on it -- no conversation, no food, no rest. Just the mission, the mission, the mission, and that damned laptop. Stupid piece of cheap plastic.

But what's really frustrating. what really gets me, are his tears. That he doesn't trust me -- or anyone else, for that matter -- enough to let us know that he's hurting. It doesn't have to be me, it really doesn't, he could tell anyone and I'd start singing, for chrissake, just so long as he tells someone, shows the world that he's a human being and not a scientist's play-toy.

And excuse me, but who the hell gave you permission to leak, you stupid tear-ducts? I hate crying. I absolutely detest it. But, unlike someone I know, if I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna do it, and that's that. If someone sees, too bad. If they want to know what's wrong, that's too bad too, 'cause I'm not gonna tell them. But at least I don't care if anyone notices.

This door is quiet, too. Everything's quiet tonight, 'cept for the raging rampant thoughts in my head. Even these tears are quiet, and the room is quiet, wait, no, what's that sound, what's that light, why is he awake?

Shit.

"Heero?"

Shit shit shit. Why did I have to say anything? My voice almost cracked. I didn't expect him to be sitting there -- it's gotta be at least three in the morning, maybe later. The word came out even before I registered the surprise.

"Hn."

Ah, wonderful. The traditional monosyllabic answer. Stupid bastard. Not even a "Gee, Duo, you're home awful late," or "Where the hell have you been, I was worried sick." I'm just gonna close this door before I scream. Throw my shit on the bed as hard as I can before I punch a hole through the cheap plaster of the wall. Sit down. Take a deep breath. Try to stop crying, just because right now, I don't need his glares or his questions.

His back is to me. Such a gorgeous back, too, all smooth and muscled and. God, there I go again! Stop it. Stop stop stop.

He's looking at me now. I can't really read the expression on his face because I'm still crying like a two-year-old. And I don't care. I don't care if he sees me like this. I don't care if he sees how badly I'm hurting, how much I want him. I don't care, because then maybe he will kill me, and things will be simple.

"Duo? What's wrong?"

I want to laugh. He actually sounded concerned there. There may have actually been emotion in those three words, but that's probably over-exhaustion, a good imagination, and the sound of my own sobs in my ears. I'm only hearing what I want to hear. Right?

Then why is he standing in front of me, looking down at me like that? He actually got up and moved away from the laptop. This is possibly a miracle.

Again, that soft inquisitive sound from him: "Duo?"

And suddenly he's on his knees in front of me, and his hand in on my face, and he's wiping at my tears like I've wanted to do for him so many times. And all I can do is lean into his hand, that hand that I've wanted to feel touching me, somewhere, anywhere, for such a long time. This is bliss. This is perfect.

I open my eyes slowly -- didn't even realize I'd closed them -- like they're heavy with lead. He's making me so happy right now, and he doesn't even know it. "I didn't think you'd still be awake," I whisper, just to make sound, to fill the silence that we're sharing.

"I'm always awake when you come in." He is? And suddenly I realize that yes, he is always awake when I come home, whether or not he says anything or just pretends to be asleep on the bed next to mine.

Looking at him now, I see apprehension, he's afraid -- what the hell could he possibly be afraid of? -- and I don't want him to be afraid. I want him to be happy, like I am.

I move closer, till our noses bump, and he tries to pull away but I won't let him; I wind my fingers into his surprisingly soft hair and pull him closer and smile at him (my heart is going to burst) and close my eyes and dear God please don't let him kill me for this. I kiss him.

And I pull away almost as quickly as I moved in. I stare at him, searching for some kind of response, because now I am certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's just gonna get his gun and paint my brains across the white wall. But. he's smiling at me. He looks. happy. I smile back. Maybe. maybe.

I touch my forehead to his, skin against burning skin, and close my eyes. I hope. oh, I hope.

"I love you." It's a whisper, even quieter than the ones I had whispered before.

And strong, skinny arms wrap around my waist -- he's still on the damned floor -- and words that I never thought I'd hear are whispered back. And then he's kissing me, and all those thoughts that were running around in my head just suddenly stopped, and stared, and got carried away on the breeze.