Fathoms

Summary: Duo breaks away from the only family he’s known.

Author’s Note: I suck. The only excuse I have for letting this story go for so long, is, well, all of them. Hardly any feedback on my last chapter, which took forever to write, YouTube pulling all of the links to the episodes they had due to copyright infringement, real life, Nanowrimo, my X-Men fics, fan art, my daughter’s Halloween costume that I made, RoLo fic, changes in my work schedule, and having to share my PC with pretty much everyone in my house after my kids broke their Wii.

I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to do with you, Duo. Milliardo eyed his son levelly and gripped his throne’s armrest until his knuckles whitened. You’ve forced my hand. I’m giving you a choice. Duo didn’t speak. His brother was also silent and still glaring daggers at him, and his skin was mottled with red sores from the man o’ war’s attack. But Duo sensed his brother’s grudging pity, even if he wasn’t speaking to him.

He spent the morning mired in guilt, subjected to his father’s staff’s glares and whisperings. Milliardo allowed him to return to his own quarters instead of remanding him to Remus’ custody again. Milliardo’s technicians were inspecting the dome and the palace’s generators for flaws and damage, letting nothing escape their scrutiny.

You’re too wily to lock up. And you’re too stubborn to heed me when I tell you to stay away from the surface. You were nearly killed, and you almost took your brother with you.

I didn’t mean it! Zechs didn’t have to come after me!

The hell I didn’t, Zechs growled, narrowing his eyes. They emitted faint sparks of annoyance and resentment. As if I’d let you take off in the middle of an earthquake, alone, when something could happen to you. Duo spun on him, but Milliardo wouldn’t have it. He demanded his younger child’s attention swiftly, flicking out one long tentacle and whipping it around Duo’s wrist. He lassoed him and jerked him so close that Duo could count the flecks of green in his eyes. His father appeared larger than ever, even menacing, and it chilled him to see him looking at him so grimly.

You risked both of your lives. I gave you a punishment that I expected you to uphold, so you’d learn that I only mean the best for you. You disrespected me by leaving the dome and wandering out so close to the caverns. Look what almost happened.

I’m sorry, Father.

I almost wish… Milliardo stopped himself, and his eyes clouded over with regret. No, he murmured into Duo’s mind. He seemed to reassure himself that whatever he’d held back wouldn’t help the troubles floating between them. I’m at a loss. Hearing his father repeat made Duo feel worse. The young merman bristled and jerked back, trying to free himself from his foster father’s grip.

I would have ended up crushed if I’d stayed in my cell. Would that have made you happy?

I won’t tolerate your insolence! You’re in the wrong! That’s not the point!

You wouldn’t have to worry about me being such a burden, Duo suggested sourly. Fire sparked in his violet eyes, still so much like his mother’s, and Milliardo’s gut wrenched. He stiffened, and sparks of electricity danced dangerously in his hair, making it float up around him in a flurry.

You’re my burden to bear, Milliardo growled, not caring how callous the words sounded due to his rage.

Maybe I shouldn’t be. I wish you’d left me to the sharks when Mother died. You don’t care about me. You called yourself being kind, Father, taking me in. You have Zechs. You have your heir. You don’t need me. You’ve never truly wanted me. Duo could tell his words stung him. Cast me out. That’s the choice you’re giving me, isn’t it. Milliardo’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

You don’t know what you’re saying, Duo. You don’t know your place.

In the dungeon? Locked up there, or here?

No. Locking you up didn’t help. Milliardo lashed out with his tentacles again, and this time, they wrapped tightly around the child he’d hidden so many secrets from for so long, in an effort to protect him. Zechs. Give it to me. Duo’s violet eyes flitted from his father’s thunderous face just long enough to see Zechs darting toward them, and he wriggled and thrashed, suddenly panicking that his brother conspired with his father to carry out his punishment. Duo felt his brother jerk his arm back, and he wore a determined look on his face as he snapped something cold and metallic around his wrist. The band pulsed and constricted around his flesh, and Duo cried out in both men’s minds, shocked and outraged at their nerve.

Get it off!

It’s for your own good, Duo! Zechs insisted. His mouth was a grim line, and his eyes were sparking with irritation, like his father’s, but with less intensity. I can’t watch you get yourself killed!

I can take care of myself!

Not if you keep wandering off to the surface! Not if you go into those caverns again! Une nearly took you away from me! I won’t lose someone else who I- Milliardo cut himself off again.

Who you what, Majesty? Milliardo hadn’t quite turned him loose yet, only releasing his grip slightly to allow Duo to look up at him while he spoke. He winced at Duo’s barb; the squirt was taking away his status as his foster father.

If only he knew… Milliardo hated himself for having to continue the lie. He straightened and with a snap of his tentacle, he finally shoved Duo back, needing a moment to compose himself. The resentment in his son’s eyes, so much like his mother’s, stabbed him in the heart. The manacle around Duo’s wrist glowed briefly, and Duo clawed at it in irritation. Don’t try to tamper with it. It’s keyed into your biologic signature and nervous system. It’s a tracker.

So you truly don’t trust me anymore. Duo’s voice in Milliardo’s ears sounded flat and hard.

You won’t be able to stray far from the dome without an alarm going off in the security suite. Milliardo neglected to tell him about the bracelet’s other capabilities, specifically a hypnotic suggestion it automatically planted in Duo’s mind, programming him to report home when he ventured too far from the dome’s perimeter. It also contained a mechanism to shock him with a mild electric charge if he tried to remove it.

Without another word, Duo left his father’s chamber. Zechs tried to dart after him to clout him for his lack of respect, but Milliardo stopped him with a tug of his long, flaxen hair. No. Let him go. He needs to simmer for a while and think about the implications of what I had to do.

He’s wily, Father. He’s a tough-headed squirt. He’ll get loose.

I’m all out of ideas.

I wish there was another way, Father. He hates us both, now.

No. Let me bear this burden, Zechs. It’s the least that I deserve. Zechs scowled.

Father, what-

Go. Leave me. Zechs nodded briefly and exited the chamber, deciding that he needed a session with his father’s militia, and hopefully, some time with Noin to vent.

Milliardo settled back into his throne, restless and moody. Then, he began to remember, reopening the old wounds and miring himself in the pain he saw reflected in his son’s eyes.

His son. His second heir.

Duo was, truthfully, Milliardo’s blood by birth.

*


Quatre was drunk. One tap of his teeth told him as much; they were numb beneath the contact. He chuckled to himself, and he was glad that Rashid wasn’t there to chide him. Heero would no doubt be shaking his head at him if he’d joined him in slumming, but Quatre took the hint and continued to avoid calling his stoic friend. Being rebuffed once, albeit politely, was more than enough.

Quatre spent the first hour of his jaunt playing pool by himself, pleased that he’d lost none of his skills acquired during college. He sank the striped balls first, favoring the corner pockets. His aim faltered slightly after his third gin and tonic, but some of the onlookers were still impressed, both with his skill and his wholesome, boyish good looks.

Women and men gradually began to flirt with him, and he enjoyed the attention, but he didn’t turn on the charm. The thought of sex with a stranger didn’t appeal to him, even though a few faces and bodies tempted him. He’d always loved the tiny bar, “L2,” for its darkened interior and casual dress code. It was the perfect place to unwind. Once in a while, Quatre indulged and danced until the soles of his feet screamed and throbbed, but he wasn’t among friends. It just wasn’t the same.

It still felt good to blow off some steam.

L2 boasted live entertainment that night, specifically labeled “A Little Night Music” on the club’s posters out front. He didn’t glance closely at the name of the musician, but his curiosity was piqued when he saw the club’s staff wheeling out a baby grand piano. A smile toyed with the corners of his mouth as he switched to beer, tipping the waitress with a twenty, to her delight. The crowd grew, and he lost interest in the pool tables, instead wandering over to an empty table. A few people asked to join him, and he nodded that it was fine, but they took all of the spare chairs but one and migrated to a gaggle of sorority girls two tables away. Quatre shrugged to himself.

He didn’t regret being alone much longer as the club’s manager tapped the mic and did a brief sound check. “How we doin’?” The crowd clapped and whistled in anticipation of the act. “Show some love for tonight’s featured guest on the piano, Mr. Trowa Barton. Give him a hand!”

Quatre promptly choked on his Samuel Adams, and a young man paused by his table and whacked him on the back. “You okay, buddy?”

“I’m *kaff* fine,” he sputtered, nodding up at him with watery eyes. The man clapped him on the arm.

“Take it easy,” he suggested, glancing down at his beer. “Hope ya aren’t driving.”

“No,” Quatre assured him, but his attention was drawn back to the piano and the tall, chestnut-haired hunk who seated himself gracefully on the bench. He pulled out his sheet music and winked to the crowd, giving them the merest hint of a smile. Then his fingers stroked the keys, and Quatre sat, rapt, growing lost in the music.

He was even better than the day he heard him in the hospital lounge. Trowa’s fingers danced over the keys, and Quatre watched his body gently moving to the music, eyes closing in pleasure as the melody sang through him. His hair’s long, slightly messy bangs still fell into his eyes, and he impatiently tossed them back.

The first two songs were classical, a risk for this crowd that preferred speed punk music or hip-hop, but the crowd listened approvingly to Trowa’s rendition of Beethoven, before he segued into Tchaikovsky. He continued with a few show tunes, making Quatre’s smile spread widely. The club’s soft lightening caught the sweat building up on Trowa’s cheeks and neck, making it glisten, and Quatre watched him with a pang of longing. His long, slim fingers made him wonder how it would feel to be stroked by them, to feel those fingertips outline the crest of his cheek or comb through his hair…

Shit. He was back to fantasizing about him like a puppy. Quatre hated the flush that rose up in his cheeks and the way his skin tingled in response to the music and the man playing it as if it was second nature. His fingers tapped his knee to the melody, pausing when Trowa began graceful runs across the keys. Quatre shivered. He’s so good.

The last chord reverberated through him, and only then did Quatre remember to breathe. He broke out of his trance when the crowd broke out in applause, only realizing then that Trowa finished his songs. He rose to his feet and joined in the ovation, boldly whistling with his thumb and fingers tucked into the corners of his mouth. A few onlookers glanced at him with amusement, but he didn’t care. When he sat back down, he almost felt limp, exhilarated and satisfied with the experience.

The manager announced a drink special, and he added that Trowa would be on hand to take requests for the next half hour, before the DJ started his set. Several women hovered around the piano, taking their turns to approach him. They tucked dollar bills into a large beer mug atop the piano, and Trowa offered them mischievous smiles as he obliged them with the song of their choice. Some were unremarkable; Quatre recognized some Billy Joel and John Mayer, which was fine with him. He was thrilled when his next one was “Clocks” by Coldplay, one of his favorites, and Quatre was additionally surprised when Trowa accompanied his playing with his voice.

He was a decent singer, not remarkable, but what Quatre appreciated was the low, mellow timbre of his voice and the way he merely complemented the notes of his song, rather than letting his voice overpower them. An older man requested more Beethoven, and Trowa acquiesced with no less enthusiasm than he had the other contemporary songs. Quatre didn’t realize how closely he’d begun to hover to the piano until he was just a few feet away. The other half of his beer hovered forgotten in his hand, and he fished in his leather jacket pocket for his wallet.

Trowa felt eyes staring at him intently, and it was a familiar sensation. The crowd around his piano parted slightly, and his gaze zeroed in on the handsome blond in black leather and denim. The jeans were Calvin Klein, even though they’d been “distressed” to make them look well broken-in, and he wore a black Lycra North Face tee under his jacket. The severe black created a startling contrast to his fair, creamy skin and towhead locks. Trowa automatically held up a hand of apology to the brunette beside him holding up a dollar for a request, and he glanced past her to Quatre.

“Hey.”

“Hey…Trowa, wasn’t it?”

“Still is,” he shrugged, motioning for Quatre to come closer. “What’d you like to hear?”

“Whatever your favorite is,” he suggested. Trowa twisted his body around to peer up at him, and he sniffed the air, noticing the scent of gin and expensive cologne. He sighed, trying not to sound despondent.

He knew it. Just another rich boy, slumming in the wrong neighborhood. He’d guessed as much when he got a good look at him in the coffee shop, but there was something unaffected and disarming in Quatre’s manner, his shyness that seemed so genuine.

“Can I set this down?” Quatre asked.

“Not here,” Trowa told him, reaching for the beer. He took it from him, and Quatre’s body temperature shot up another five degrees when Trowa’s fingertips grazed his. It skyrocketed when he tipped back the mug and downed the rest of it in one swallow. He set the empty mug on the floor beside the bench. “I don’t have a coaster, and the piano’s not mine. I respect instruments, and I try to take care of them when people let me play.” His voice sounded proud. Quatre eyes reflected amusement, and he nodded.

“My bad. How about that song?” He unfolded his billfold, but he was surprised when Trowa’s hand reached out to stop him, not allowing him to pull the crisp notes from the pocket. He shivered at his touch and gentle but insistent grip.

“This one’s on the house.”

“Let me tip you,” Quatre argued.

“Let me treat you,” Trowa countered, and he made a dismissive gesture with his hand, removing their fleeting contact, and Quatre shook his head, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. He leaned the heel of his hand against the ledge, and Trowa poised his fingers over the keys. “Let me know if you remember this one. Or let me know if I’m slaughtering it.” Quatre grinned, and Trowa decided he liked his smile and the way it lit up his face.

He was stunning. Up close, his eyes were aquamarine and fringed with thick, sandy lashes. He had firm, slightly arched brows that always seemed to look amused, and his profile was classic and European, even though he spoke with a faint accent that almost sounded…Middle Eastern? It was a subtle burr, and his voice was a soft tenor. Quatre was medium height and slender as a reed, thanks to a fast metabolism and hours spent in the gym playing racquetball or basketball with Heero. Quatre’s smile drifted to a look of surprise when the opening bars of “Criminal” by Fiona Apple reached his ears. It was one of his favorites.

Trowa glanced up once in a while to see how Quatre was reacting to his choice of song, and he didn’t expect his look of awe. Trowa’s mouth went dry, and he swallowed, hoping Quatre didn’t notice the effect he was having on him, looking at him like that. He felt a little tingle run over his flesh.

He didn’t sing this time, not wanting to ruin it, particularly the opening “I’ve been a bad, bad girl” lyrics, knowing they’d sound comical coming from his mouth, but Quatre didn’t mind.

“You still won’t let me tip you?” he murmured as Trowa played the closing bars.

“No,” he insisted dryly. “Your money’s no good here.” Quatre arched one brow and shrugged.

“That’s fine.” He reached back in his pocket for his wallet.

“Stubborn, much?” Trowa asked, not knowing whether to be annoyed.

With a deft flick of his hand, Quatre whipped out a business card and tossed it into Trowa’s tip jar. “Then how about dinner?”

Quatre knew it was the gin and tonic talking. He was never that bold, but he didn’t want to rely on random chance to see Trowa again.

“Maybe.” Quatre licked his lips, suddenly dry, and he nodded.

“Maybe, then. Later, Trowa.”

As he watched the blond walk off, Trowa’s eyes darted to his ass, snuggled lovingly by those stupid jeans. Inwardly, he kicked himself.

*

Heero stared out across the harbor, listening to the bark of the sea lions as they feasted on the entrails and chum left behind by the fish trawlers once they’d cleaned their day’s catch. The scent of low tide was ripe, almost flatulent, but he didn’t mind; a strong breeze was blowing in, promising a good storm. He shrugged more deeply into his hooded windbreaker, shivering against the draft that crept down the back of his neck.

Q hadn’t called him for the past few days. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed. Heero knew it was probably time to crawl at this point. He shouldn’t have snapped at his best friend.

He’d made some progress in the meantime with his insurance company. They replaced his cameras, and he was glad he’d purchased a generous policy against loss or destruction of his property.

It was frustrating, being land-locked without his yacht. Heero craved the deep, wishing he could immerse himself in it and put the daily grind behind him for a while. He was tired of being cooped up in his house, an easy victim for telemarketers and fundraising calls, and being subjected to drop-in visits from Relena. He humored her, but he never encouraged her overtures, and his goodbyes were always perfunctory and brief.

*

Today was no different. She breezed inside as soon as he opened the door, hanging up her purse from the hook in his foyer. “…took you long enough to answer me. I knocked for a while. I need to use your bathroom.”

“Um…hi?” Heero’s nose wrinkled at the scent of her perfume, rich with jasmine. It smelled nice enough, but it teased his sinuses, promising him a migraine by the time she left.

“What are you doing today?” she demanded from the other side of the bathroom door. Heero found himself shouting over the sound of the fan inside, arms folded and feeling foolish; he could certainly wait for her to come out and be a less awkward audience for whatever plan she proposed. There was nothing worse than trying to hold up your end of the conversation and listening to someone taking a piss.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

“Hold on, I can’t hear you,” she scolded over the sound of the flush.

“Gads…”

“Let me just wash my hands, hold on.” He knew she was using his bath towel to dry her hands, instead of the roll of paper towels he kept in there, and it made him snort with disgust. It was one more pet peeve that he could add to the pile of why they broke up. His towel was his towel. You could keep your germs, and Heero could keep his. She came out and gave him a peck on his lean cheek. “Why aren’t you wearing a sweater? Put on that nice hoodie I gave you,” she suggested.

“I’m not cold.”

“Liar. Your hands feel like ice.” She took one of them and rubbed it briskly and breathed over his fingers, which gave him that little shiver that ran up his back that he actually liked, but she knew that. He politely freed himself and nodded for her to sit on his couch.

“I’m fine. I was just about to make lunch.”

“I was just about to see if you wanted to eat out. Come with me. I hate going alone.”

“Get take-out,” he shrugged casually.

“No. I want to go out to a restaurant, but I hate having to say ‘Table for one.’ It sucks.” Heero chuckled.

“Yeah.”

“Come out with me.”

“I was just going to fix some noodles.”

“Oh. That actually sounds good.” Heero sighed.

“Want to stay for some noodles?”

“I’ll help chop. And let me get these dishes out of the way.” There were hardly any in the sink, and his counters were spotless, but she made it sound like he hadn’t done the washing up in a week. Heero’s house was meticulously neat. Relena’s attempt at giving it some “homey” (feminine) touches failed miserably. The oven mitts and dish towels with little yellow geese on them were shoved into the kitchen drawer and seldom used. Multiple houseplants she’d forced on him died of neglect on his sill, except for a hearty little aloe plant and a tiny cactus. Both suited him well, but he’d never say it out loud. Heero just was who he was.

Lunch was actually pleasant. They chatted easily while she chopped the cabbage, sprouts, carrots, snow peas and scallions and while Heero prepared the marinade. They ate at the table with Heero’s music playing softly in the background.

“I wanted to kidnap you to go see a movie.”

“You said you didn’t want to eat lunch alone.”

“I don’t want to go to the movies by myself, either.”

“You could have called up Q.”

“I did. He was out. He’s been hard to reach. Even when I called him when I knew he’d be home from work last weekend, Rashid said he was out.”

“Hn.” Heero wasn’t expecting that.

“Yeah. I know. Heard anything back on the boat?”

“Still in the shop. But I got my cameras back.”

“They found them?”

“Nope. New ones. Same kind.” Heero ate quickly, keeping his mouth full enough to not have to say much.

“Oh, good.” She sounded relieved. “Now you won’t have to worry.”

“I’m going back to work once I get the Zero back.” Her smile fell.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No. It’s what I do. I need to finish my assignments.”

“You have other contracts and clients that don’t make you dive and risk your life.”

“It’s my life,” he shrugged. His dark blue eyes sparked with irritation and he sighed. “Don’t give me this shit again, Relena.”

“Sure. Why should I? You don’t listen.”

“It’s nothing you haven’t told me before.” He got up and cleared his plate, even though he wasn’t finished. Heero scraped his portion back into the pot and searched his cabinet for a Tupperware container. “If I want to dive, I’ll dive.”

“You were nearly killed.”

“While I was on my boat. Not while I was diving. It’s not the same thing.”

“Your equipment could fail.”

“I always check my equipment. Fei’s going with me.” And at great personal expense. His other former lover already read him the riot act for wanting to get back under so quickly after his injuries.

“Of course he is.” Now her tone sounded resentful. She followed him into the kitchen and set her plate on the counter. Relena automatically began scraping the contents of the skillet into the container, but Heero pried the handle from her grip and finished the chore. She tsked in disgust. “Be that way.”

“It’s my kitchen. I’ll clean up the mess. Go sit down.”

“I want to help you.”

“I don’t need any help.” He forced his voice to sound casual, but his jaw felt tense, and he made little eye contact as he moved about the kitchen, dusting past her and in effect, treating her like an obstacle.

“So that’s a no on the movie?” He expelled a breath.

“I’m just tired,” he offered, glad that she took the hint.

“I just thought you might like some time out of the house.”

“Maybe next time.”

His words hung in the air between them, buoyed by the thick tension that rose up as soon as he mentioned the words I’m going back to work.

“That’s fine. Call me.”

“Sure.”

It wasn’t really a lie. Sure, he could call her. She leaned up and kissed his cheek, flooding his personal space with her cloying cologne again.

“Put on a sweater.”

“Okay.” She didn’t wait for him to let her out, but he followed her to the door to be polite. “G’night.” She answered him her retreating back, waving over her shoulder at him. Heero shook his head and sighed.

*

His thoughts came back to his rescuer. He couldn’t get the soft voice and it’s odd, lilting accent out of his mind. What had happened to him? The Coast Guard had no clues for him; they were just as baffled by the mystery diver’s disappearance, and Heero feared that he drowned. Regret swamped him that his rescue could have cost another man his life. The sunset mocked him again with its deep, rich hues as fiery red melted into cobalt blue. No one has eyes that color. Heero stood out on the pier and skipped the handful of pebbles he’d collected from the beach. Some skimmed across the waves two, three, four times before sinking into the surf with a tiny plop.

It was a nuisance not having his wallet. He was still waiting for his replacement ID and Social Security card, insurance cards, credit and debit cards, but he was frustrated at the loss of his photographs. Heero had few tangible reminders of his father once he disowned him; he didn’t take much more than his clothing, his computer, and a few personal items and toiletries when he moved out of his father’s manor-style country home.

He loved his father, and it tore him apart when he told him he couldn’t tolerate his son’s preferences and his “lifestyle choice,” as if Heero could actually decide on something that was instinctive to him and a part of who he was. When Heero received the call that he had passed away, his appearance at the funeral was perfunctory, and he felt like a stranger among his family and his father’s acquaintances. The opulent surroundings of the formal living room weren’t natural or familiar to him anymore. He let his eyes roam over the framed family pictures like a visitor in a museum.

Heero bought himself a corn dog from a nearby vendor and sat on the dock with his MP3’s earbuds plugged in, watching the stars slowly stud the darkening sky.