Archivist's note: Companion to Enough.

I guess I'm asking because I've gone insane -- I'm feeling a strong attachment to someone, and I'm not supposed to. Not just because I'm the Perfect Soldier. Not just because I'm not supposed to feel any emotion, feel anything. It's because this someone -- well, they're. they're.

God, I can't even say it to myself. I can't admit that I'm in lo. that I like a g. another g. guy. There. I said it. Or at least, half of it. I don't know what to do anymore. I really think that this war has gone to my head. It's made me crazy. This wasn't supposed to happen, least of all to me. Why him? Why now? Why ever?

And then of course, there's the question of, why in hell am I talking to myself like this? All that fighting must have short-circuited a fuse somewhere in here. Well, it's not just the fighting, not really. It's the more. personal stuff, too. I guess I shouldn't be shy telling you -- hell, you are my own head, after all, ne?

Those dreams. dear God, how can it be possible not to go insane after dreaming in such vivid clarity all the things you'd never even come close to experiencing in life? The heat, the pain, the sounds and scents and colors -- I can hear it, feel it, taste and smell it all in those excruciating dreams. And what's worse is, the cold shower trick never seems to work after I wake up from those visions -- I had to find a sounder method, one that would completely dispel the ache between my legs, at least for a little while. Unfortunately, it does nothing for the ache in my heart.

It's funny. I never thought that I could feel anything. I never thought that this funny clenching in my heart every time I think of how he smiles, or walks or talks or even breathes, would be real. How did he do it? How did he manage to break through the walls that science and tampering had put up? How did he break through the walls that I had put up?

I didn't do it on purpose. Not really. But I was always expected to be numb, and I always thought that that's how people acted, anyway. So that's what I did -- I behaved the way everyone expected me to. I was numb, I was cold, I was indifferent. Call it what you like. To me, maybe even to him, I was dead. But there's my little ray of sunshine -- even when he's shooting his mouth off like there won't be another chance to talk again, ever; even when he's driving me insane with banter or stupidity or that incredibly sexy walk of his -- he's always the highlight of my day. I mean that. If you think that the highlight of my day is killing people and getting away with it, think again. It's not that I feel guilt for it. okay, maybe I feel a little guilt, but only a little, and not so often. But when I do, I feel like it's his fault. That he's making me feel these emotions, making me hurt a little inside every time I take a life. Making me a little more human. It's something I think I can forgive.

So what's my problem? Why am I sitting here in front of this goddamned laptop, staring at the screen like it'll offer eternal salvation (something I could use, I'm sure, according to his religion)? Why aren't I down in the damned hangar, storming up to him and throwing him up against a wall, kissing him passionately, intimately, begging him to teach me what to do before I scream?

It's pretty simple, really: I don't know how to do all that. I mean, physically, sure, I could toss him into a wall, and I'm pretty sure I could kiss him without messing that up too badly, but to make it last -- to make it more meaningful, something that will develop and not die on the concrete floor like some bleeding, wounded soldier -- that's a bit harder. It's something that I have no idea how to do. I can observe people all I'd like, but when it comes down to it, living is a hands-on experience. And I haven't had much.

My life would be so much easier if I had never met him. Things would have been simple; I would have gone on doing my job without a damned thought in my head. Ignorance is bliss, right?

God, who am I kidding.

I love it. It doesn't matter how much I deny it out loud, but I love feeling that I'm alive, that I'm not just some puppet with no feelings, with no capability to harbor emotions, with the ability to deny these feelings I have aloud. I have a choice. Somehow, before I met him, I didn't feel like I had much of anything, least of all a choice.

Maybe I should tell him. Out of all the others, he's certainly my best friend -- another concept I never would have understood without him -- so that makes it hard. How could I tell him without pushing him away? Men don't like other men. That just isn't how it's done. I know. I see. People don't like it. Which brings me back to the start of this wonderful internal monologue. I'm totally nuts.

Well, maybe I should just. I don't know what to do. A snack, maybe? That sounds like a good idea. Wow, I've been so engrossed in this one-sided conversation I hadn't even realized that my stomach was collapsing in on itself. So let's just shuffle on down to the kitchen. I'm sure no one will mind that I'm wandering the halls at three a.m.

I guess he's still in the hangar. The kitchen was empty, too, and those are the only two places I could think of that he'd be. I mean, aside from the room we're sharing. Which is another of my many woes. But he hadn't come home yet. or at least, hadn't dumped his things on his bed as he always does when he gets home after a long day out.

And. back to the laptop. What a glorious little contraption, or at least right now it is. Right now I want to stop thinking. finally, an end to this damn speech I'm giving myself. Just cyberspace, numbers, familiarity. The sound of my fingers striking the keys. Just a few more minutes and I think I might be completely zoned out. Almost there.

"Heero?"

Damn it. Why now? I was almost there. Now I actually have to answer him.

"Hn."

The door's closing. He's dropping his stuff down on his bed in that messy pile that he loves. He's settling on his mattress, but not lying down, not getting ready to sleep yet. He wants to talk, maybe?

I'm not going to look away from this laptop. Not for anything. I don't trust myself.

The silence is stretching out. I'm not going to look, I won't, I can't, I'm not going to.

I look.

He's crying.

"Duo?" I say softly. I can't believe the sound that just came out of my mouth. It wasn't monotone, for once -- wasn't flat and dead. It. it had emotion, feeling. concern. Oh God, why did I have to look? Why did I have to talk? Why did I have to clue him in?

"What's wrong?"

That's it. I just dug myself a nice, deep, six-foot hole. But I just absolutely cannot bear the sight of those tears, big, fat, crystalline drops of shimmering pain. Or at least, I think it's pain. What else would that look on his face be? What else would those beautiful amaryllis eyes be feeling if not joy?

He still hasn't answered me. He's just staring at me, tears coursing down his cheeks, making shiny wet tracks on his face. Why is he looking at me like that? My heart hurts. did he find out? Did something I say or do give me away? Does he know how I feel, is he angry?

Oh, night of nights, this is ridiculous -- I actually just got up and walked over to him, stopped in front of him, looked down at him. He looks up at me with that expression on his face, and if he doesn't stop soon I'm going to cry, too. That would be the icing on the cake.

"Duo?" I ask again, even softer this time, even more concerned. Suddenly, I don't care if he knows, and hates me for it. I don't care if he thinks I'm insane (which I obviously am) or that I'm a freak or whatever. I just want those tears to stop. I want that expression to go away.

Now I'm kneeling in front of him, looking up. What am I doing? Dear, sweet God, what is wrong with me? Is that really my hand on his face, is that really my thumb brushing at his tears, trying to wipe them away, to ebb the flow? Is he really leaning into the touch, his eyes closed, his lips parted?

His hand is covering mine, holding my cold palm against his warm cheek. Slowly, he opens his eyes, looks down at me -- and that look is mercifully gone. It's been replaced by another, one that looks more. content? Satisfied? Happy? I can't tell.

"I didn't think you'd still be awake," he says so quietly I have to strain to hear his voice.

"I'm always awake when you come in," I say, wishing as soon as the words were out that I hadn't. I'm revealing too much, giving too much here. I'm afraid to feel pain, emotional pain, and I have the feeling that maybe that's where this strange conversation is headed.

But then he bends down, until our noses are touching, and he slides a hand into my hair when I try to pull back. I'm not used to having someone so close. What's with that smile on his face? Why does he suddenly look so happy? Who knows, who cares -- because right now his lips are on mine, he's actually kissing me, and I'd love to think that he's drunk, because that would be rational and would explain what's going on but I know in my heart that he's not and. and my heart.

He pulls away, looks at me. I can see apprehension in his eyes. I think I'm actually smiling at him, and after a moment, he smiles, too. He leans his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, and whispers into the darkened room, "I love you."

Funny.

That ache in my heart. it's gone.