"Sideshow"

Written By: Clara Barton

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. The following is an intellectual exercise with no intention of profit. That said, these characterizations, words, and situations are mine. Please ask before reprinting.

Rating: NC 17

Warnings: language, sex, violence, BDSM, angst

Pairings: 2x3

Summary: Duo visited Trowa a few times every year, catching up to the circus on one colony or another and showing up uninvited and unannounced in Trowa's trailer. But an unexpected confession from Duo leads to a change in the nature of their relationship.

"Sideshow"

Chapter Four

Karma's a bitch.

Duo had said that once, during the war, all of them stationed on Peacemillion and Wufei had called him an idiot and a jackass and tried to storm out of the room but Heero had stepped in, had opened the door and slammed it into Wufei's and Duo had cackled like a madman.

Karma's a bitch.

Trowa had never believed in karma, at least he'd never wanted to, because if karma was a bitch - he had too much in store for himself, too much to atone for and he didn't want to think it was possible, to think the universe existed on some kind of balance that would pay him back, yet would allow things to be as they were.

Still, Trowa found himself thinking the words as he trailed behind Sylvan in the department store, as she sorted through the bins of shirts and pants and sneered at dresses and Trowa knew.

Karma's a bitch.

The kind of bitch that saddled him with taking a thirteen year old girl shopping.

It was a torture he deserved, he knew that, after the way things had gone this morning with Cathy and Shandor, as they practiced the new routine that August wanted them to use at their next stand.

The routine was sure to be a hit with the crowds, and even though Trowa had pointed out that times were tough and using a giant tank of water for a trick again might not be the best statement to make he'd been overridden.

So he found himself wrapped in chains and locks, suspended twenty feet in the air over a eight foot deep glass tank, a tank that would, eventually, be filled with water, but for now was simply stuffed with pillows and mats to cushion his fall.

Eventually, Cathy would throw a dagger that would sever the rope suspending him and he would drop into the water, would have to free himself before he drowned and the crowd would think it was impressive, would think it was a miracle, but of course the chains were rigged, just waiting for Trowa to apply a little leverage and to search for the key at the bottom of the tank, even though he didn't need the key, could pretend to find it if he ran out of time and could just open the locks without it.

Still, it would be exciting, dramatic and death defying and all of the things Cathy liked about these kind of tricks, all of the things that made Trowa wonder if maybe she wasn't more of a sadist than he was.

Eventually. Eventually it would be exciting, dramatic and death defying.

For now, as they practiced under Shandor's watchful eye, it was just frustrating.

Frustrating because Cathy had missed the mark three times now, and chains were chafing a bit, tugging on his underarm uncomfortably and Trowa didn't, actually, enjoy being tied up and suspended twenty feet in the air while someone threw knives at him. Or at the rope above his head, which was near enough to him.

Cathy missed again, and Trowa groaned aloud in frustration.

"Oh calm down, you don't have anything better to do," Cathy muttered and she walked across the tent to pick up the dagger.

It was true, and that was yet another source of frustration.

Trowa was here, tied up and hanging in a damned circus tent, and outside the Earthsphere was falling apart. Ever since the X2913 riots, things had gone to shit.

He'd come up with a good lie to get the circus to move, had told them that the dock workers were planning a strike and that if they didn't leave the next day they were likely to be stuck there for weeks, and no one had wanted to stay. So the circus packed up and left, canceled the last two shows and the very next day, as their shuttle was still in transit, Trowa went up to the communications center and he saw the transmissions, watched the news scrolls, the footage of the riots on X2913, the dead in the thousands, and he searched for a familiar face, a familiar braid.

That had been weeks ago, weeks of no word, of not knowing if Duo was alive or dead of what and of course there were thousands dead now, of course the riots had spread - that entire side of L2, X2913 and five sister colonies, had erupted in riots and were under military occupation and it was just a breath away from what it had been before, just a step away from open rebellion and things were supposed to be like this.

Trowa wasn't supposed to be chained up and hanging, unable to do anything, wanting to do something, needing to do something. Needing to know if Duo was even alive.

He'd given in two days ago, when they set up their stand on X1256 and called first Quatre, because sometimes Quatre knew things, but Quatre hadn't heard from Duo in four months, not since his last get together, when they had last all been together. So then he tried Heero, tried to ease it into conversation and he knew he'd been too obvious, because when did Trowa ever ask if Heero had heard from Duo recently? But Heero hadn't, hadn't been in contact with him for six weeks, and the riots had started three weeks ago. Wufei was even less help, snapping at Trowa to stop thinking like a soldier and just be a civilian, insisting that if Duo wanted to communicate with any of them he would and maybe Trowa was reading too much into it but Wufei had seemed worried, and Trowa wasn't sure why Wufei would be worried, about Duo of all people.

Cathy missed again, this time knicking his left shoulder and Trowa swore at her.

"For fuck's sake, Cathy!"

She rolled her eyes.

"The blade isn't even sharp," she muttered, and it was true - the knife cutting the rope was just another part of the illusion after all, the signal for Shandor to release the link holding Trowa up, to drop him into the tank. But it had to look good, had to look real, and Cathy throwing a knife at him, even dull, with that much force was going to hurt, was going to make him bleed.

"It's sharp enough," he bitched. "Maybe you need to go back to target practice."

"And maybe you need to -"

"Children," Shandor interrupted, his voice patronizing and that upset Trowa too. Shandor's unflappable calm. His oblivion to the hell that was erupting. Cathy's inability to hit the damn mark, her insistence that they add this stupid trick. All of it was adding to his anger, his frustration and his tension and he didn't want to be part of it anymore, didn't want to feel this jumble of anxiety and fear and rage.

He wiggled around, felt for the trick locks and released himself, falling with an oomphf onto the mats in the tank and wishing there were more of them, but it was too late now, and his ankle wasn't broken, wasn't even sprained and he could just walk it off.

He had to jump up to catch the lip of the tank and pull himself out, Shandor and Cathy's eyes on him the entire time.

"We'll practice when you can hit the damn mark," Trowa muttered and walked past them, out of the tent, ignoring Cathy's outraged sounds and Shandor's look of mild disappointment.

He stormed across the circus grounds, back to his tent, not really knowing what the hell he would do when he got there - maybe email Wufei again? Just to make sure someone else was just as irritated as he was? - but he was stopped by Simza, poking her head out of the food cart.

"Trowa! Oh, are you done practicing already?"

Trowa frowned but he refused to feel guilty.

"For today."

"Oh, well, are you busy? Do you have time before the show to do me a favor?"

Simza was covered in flour. Everyone in the troupe had multiple jobs - performing and taking care of the troupe and the equipment and Trowa knew he had it pretty easy, easier than most because all he did was perform, make sure none of the equipment broke and prayed it held out until Duo could look at it and help out with the animals, clean their cages in the mornings and feed them with Pesha. Simza, though, had her chores, her performance, and her children to see to. She didn't have the luxury of sulking in her trailer.

Trowa sighed.

"Of course."

She smiled brightly and Trowa instantly regretted whatever he had just agreed to.

"Oh, thank you. Sylvan needs new clothes - she's outgrown everything and she's tired of Nicholae's old things and... and things have been okay recently. She could use a few new things."

Trowa arched an eyebrow.

"You want me to take her shopping."

Simza nodded.

"Yes. I had planned to do it today but things are busy here - you know how it goes - and she can't go on her own, not with things like they are and Nicholae is busy too and -"

Trowa held up a hand.

"It's not a problem," he assured her, even though it was, because how the hell was he in any way qualified to take a thirteen year old girl clothes shopping?

Simza smiled again, this time in relief.

"Thank you. She should be at our trailer. Hopefully finishing her chores."

Trowa nodded and turned back around, away from his trailer and his planned sulking and walked towards Simza's trailer.

He knocked and after a moment Sylvan answered. She opened the door wide and looked past him, clearly hoping that he had Duo in tow.

"He's not here," he sighed and she looked disappointed. "You know he never visits again so soon," he said, trying to comfort her, to remind himself that Duo was fine. Wasn't dead. Wasn't butchered like some of the bodies he had seen, didn't have Terran scum carved into his flesh.

"Yeah," she agreed and sighed.

"Your mom wants me to take you shopping."

She looked shocked by that, and then her lips twitched in amusement. Trowa rolled his eyes.

"Get your money - and don't make any bratty comments or I'll take you to a military surplus store and you can wear the same kit I used to."

Sylvan snorted, but obeyed him, and they set off for the commercial center of the colony.

It was a nicer colony, and even though the circus grounds weren't in the heart of the colony, not in the posh entertainment district, they had had fair crowds, had had no trouble, and it was almost easy to forget that it wasn't like this everywhere.

Almost, but not really possible, because the news scrolls were everyone, in all of the shops, all streaming details about the riots, speeches by politicians, fires and corpses one second and Relena and Quatre another, recommending negotiations and ceasefires and pacifism and Trowa tried not to look at them, tried to keep his focus on the ground and the chill of the colony climate settings. Most colonies ran colder these days, cutting back on heat and some utilities to save money, the recession affecting even the wealthy L1 sector and Trowa knew things were going to get worse, there were going to be more riots, and he didn't know what to do about it, what he even could do or even wanted to do.

Sylvan came to a stop outside of a cafe, the open door allowing the volume from the news scrolls to filter outside, and Trowa reluctantly stopped beside her, reluctantly watched the news feed.

It was the same thing every day, the same images, the same vids, the only thing changing was the rising body count, the growing number of colonies under martial law and Trowa wondered if someday soon there wouldn't be vids of mobile suits patrolling the streets.

But then it was different - then the vids cut away to a news caster, announcing the release of a vid from the rebels behind the riots, and Trowa inched closer, stepped inside the cafe and dragged Sylvan with him.

The vid was good quality, better quality than most of the live footage of the riots, and the man on the screen reminded Trowa of Duo, with his loose red bandana around his neck and his black, threadbare work shirt. But it wasn't Duo, and while the man dressed like Duo, that was where the resemblance ended - he had thick, short black hair and honest, soft brown eyes. He didn't look like a rebel, like a terrorist. He looked like the kind of man who helped old women with their groceries, and Trowa thought cynically that he had probably been picked to make this vid for that very reason.

"I speak for all of those who have no voice." He didn't sound like Duo either, and Trowa abandoned all comparisons. This man was cool, calculated, cultivated - he was more like Treize than Duo, Trowa thought.

"Eight years ago humanity entered a new golden age, and age of freedom and prosperity and equality. But where is that freedom? Where is that prosperity? Where is that equality? It is still in the hands of the few - the Terrans and their colonist collaborators, and the rest of us, the workers, the ones always without, remain under the heel of oppression. The only thing that has changed is the will to rebel. But that time has ended. The glory of pacifistic oppression is over. There is no uniform to this rebellion, no machines of death to rally behind - we have only each other, only our brothers and sisters and only together can we change this, can we break free of these chains. Only together can we stop the oppressors, only together can we destroy the masters."

The vid cut out and the news scroll switched back to the caster, who scrambled for a response, and Trowa led Sylvan away. He didn't care what the suit had to say, didn't want to hear the analysis and debate over the meaning of the vid.

The meaning was clear.

War was coming.

Sylvan was silent as they continued on to the commercial center, and Trowa followed her into a department store, let her look through bins of clothes and he wished he was better at this, wished he knew what it was like to be thirteen and look for clothes and try to rationalize that vid, the riots, the chaos of the world.

But when Trowa was thirteen he could disassemble and reassemble a gun in under a minute while blindfolded, he could pilot a mobile suit, he could kill with dispassion and he had learned to shove a fist in his own mouth so he didn't cry out when rough hands grabbed for him at night. At thirteen Trowa had stopped trying to rationalize anything, had been so focused on just surviving that he hadn't known what it meant, to rationalize. To care.

"There's going to be another war." Sylvan's voice was quiet, and even though it wasn't a question Trowa knew she wanted a response.

"Yes."

"Will you fight again?"

Trowa didn't know. Didn't know how to answer that. He sure as hell didn't want to - but he would, if he needed to, not like before, though. He wouldn't join a side, wouldn't defend the colonies or the Earthsphere or any of that. He'd protect the troupe, he'd stay with them and try to keep them safe and that was the only thing he could think of worth doing.

"Maybe," he allowed, because he wasn't going to explain that to Sylvan. He couldn't.

"Are you scared?"

"Only an idiot wouldn't be scared," he told her the truth. She nodded, accepting that.

"The troupe survived the last war," he reminded her, though she had been too young, only four or five, and she probably remembered waking up in the night to fire and explosions, but not much else.

"But it's going to be different this time, isn't it?" Sylvan persisted.

"Probably," Trowa allowed. He didn't want to have this conversation with her, because he only knew how to talk about war with fellow soldiers, only knew tactics and the cold, harsh reality that there was never a winning side in a war, and he didn't want to tell Sylvan that. Didn't want to tell her that it would be different, that it could be so much worse this time, because the enemy wasn't the same, the enemy wasn't Treize, wasn't OZ, wasn't an old guard Terran overlord but it was anyone who wasn't without.

He sighed.

"We came to shop. We'll have to get back to the circus soon for the show - try to find some clothes so your mother doesn't yell at me."

Sylvan regarded him with narrowed eyes, knowing he was forcing a change in subject, knowing he wanted her to drop this, but she let him, shrugging and turning away to keep looking through the clothes, to pick through them until she had a small armful and Trowa hoped they were what Simza wanted for her, hoped they were things that would last - but Sylvan wasn't frivolous, at least, he didn't think she was until she stopped by a row of dresses.

She ran her hands over them. They weren't fashionable, weren't the kinds of things Relena wore, but they were a popular style on the colonies, the longer skirt and the wide, square neck reminding Trowa of illustrations he had seen in a Terran fairy tale book once. The material was solid, at least, not flimsy but some kind of cotton blend that would hold up well, as far as Trowa knew about these things.

"Does Duo like dresses?"

Trowa stared.

"To wear?"

She glared at him.

"No. Does he like it when girls wear dresses?"

The question set Trowa aback. He thought about it, thought about the women Duo even knew - Hilde, who, as far as Trowa knew, had only ever worn a dress to Quatre and Relena's wedding. Relena, who practically lived in ball gowns and designer clothes. Cathy, who wore short, theatrical dresses at the circus but preferred jeans when she wasn't performing.

"I guess," he finally answered, because Duo had never expressed an opinion either way - he always told Relena she looked beautiful, so maybe he did?

It was only as Sylvan started to look for a dress in her size that Trowa started to put it together, realized why Sylvan would ask, would care about Duo's opinion.

And maybe Trowa was just cruel, to find it funny that Sylvan had a crush on Duo, or at least wanted to buy a dress if he liked them on girls, but it... it was the only thing this entire damn day that didn't leave him feeling uneasy.

She settled on a white one, and while Trowa knew it would be more practical if she went for something darker, the way she smiled slightly and held it up against her and gave a twirl convinced him to buy it for her himself if she couldn't afford it with her other things. There was a war coming, but if she could enjoy just this - if she could wear a white cotton dress and look like one of those characters in a fairy tale - wasn't that all Trowa really wanted anyway? For Sylvan to be able to do that? For Cathy to be able to yell at him and fight with him when he snapped at her for missing? Didn't he just want the troupe to be safe, to be happy?

-o-

When they got back to the grounds it was nearly time for the evening show, and Trowa had to rush through his chores to be ready in time, but he made it, barely, and Cathy bitched about that and he let her. The show was okay - not great, and the audience talked about the vid, the rebel vid that had been released and as Trowa wandered the grounds after the show, cleaning up and making sure everyone left and the troupe was secure, he felt some of his earlier tension return.

That vid.

The man wasn't really like Treize either. Treize, who was so cold and calculating - this man was different. He was so much more sincere than Treize ever had been, his eyes full of pain and sympathy and Trowa had heard the murmurs, had heard people talk about the collaborators already, and it worried him.

He finished his rounds, checked in on the animals, and was headed for his trailer when Shandor stopped him, calling out his name softly.

Trowa walked over to the open door of his trailer where Shandor leaned, his powerful body almost filling up the narrow opening.

"There is something you need, isn't there?" Shandor asked, his voice still soft, but there was an undercurrent of steel and Trowa shivered.

He swallowed, hesitated, but then he nodded.

"Go to your place."

Shandor stepped aside and Trowa entered the trailer, climbed up the stairs and started to strip even before Shandor closed the door. He folded his clothes neatly, placed them on the floor just as he always had, and then he braced himself against the wall, spreading his arms and legs wide and pressing his palms against the wall and looking down, waiting.

"How long has it been since you've been disciplined?" Shandor asked.

"Three years."

"Indeed?"

It had been six years since Trowa had been with Shandor, and he could hear the jealousy in that word, that question. It had only been once, well a handful of times, three years ago on X4561. Trowa had gone to a club, some well known den of vice but none of the subs had interested him, they'd been too eager for rough sex and he hadn't been in the mood and had been ready to leave when he'd seen a tall, thin man who made Trowa's pulse race and he'd gone to him, five nights in a row, submitting to him and experiencing some of the most thorough beatings he had ever had administered to him, and some of the most intense orgasms, drawn from his body with cries of anguish and pleasure.

"Yes," Trowa confirmed.

"Have you forgotten that it isn't only your submissive who must embrace discipline, moj cenny jeden?" Shandor's voice was a dangerous, velvet caress.

"No," Trowa said, but he suspected he had, suspected Shandor would refute his claim.

Shandor made a tsking sound.

"Oh, but you have. You forget that discipline is everything. You forget that there must be release. Tell me, moj cenny jeden, have you felt release?"

"No," Trowa admitted, because while he had allowed himself to orgasm once with Duo, had certainly masturbated since then, it hadn't felt like release, hadn't emptied him the way it could.

"What good are you to him if you cannot even control yourself?" Shandor sounded disappointed.

"I can control myself," Trowa argued.

Shandor laughed at him.

"Repressing yourself is not control, Trowa. We learned that lesson years ago, did we not?"

Shandor had worked hard to make him feel, to make him cry, to make him feel every moment of exquisite torture and release.

"Yes," he agreed.

"Your mind is so cluttered. Your feelings are everywhere, and you are no good to anyone like this. No good for him."

Trowa swallowed hard. It was true enough, but then - would he even see Duo again?

"You have gone easy on him, you have tried to ease him into this, haven't you?"

Trowa nodded.

"Yes," he said, speaking up when he felt the press of Shandor's palm against the base of his spine. Shandor always wanted a verbal acknowledgement from Trowa, never trusted his gestures to be honest.

"It will not work, Trowa. You cannot keep him beside you, you cannot lead him in deeper one step at a time. You must give him lessons that he will remember, that will show him what he needs. You must force him to submit, not to merely allow you to have your way with him. There is a difference, moj cenny jeden. You know this."

Trowa hung his head.

Perhaps that was part of it, perhaps Duo was simply allowing Trowa to control him, to dominate him, without really submitting to him. But he wasn't sure if Duo himself knew the difference.

"Have you punished him?"

"No."

Shandor made an exasperated sound.

"You spoil him already?"

"I -"

"Do not argue with me, Trowa," Shandor's voice could cut through flesh, it was so sharp and Trowa instantly fell silent. "He he disobeyed? Has he disappointed you?"

"Yes," Trowa admitted.

"The punishment must be harsh, Trowa, not because you enjoy his suffering then, but because it is the only way he will appreciate his discipline, the only way he will crave the pain you can give him, the pleasure he feels at your touch. But discipline is nothing without consequence. It is only routine."

"I know," Trowa said, and Shandor was right. He always was.

He heard Shandor step away, heard him leave the room, and when he came back a moment later Trowa knew what was coming, felt the thrill of fear and anticipation coil deep inside of him when Shandor rested the bamboo cane against his bare ass.

"Let me remind you what release is, Trowa," Shandor said, his only warning before he drew back the cane and brought it back with enough force to steal Trowa's breath.

He'd forgotten what it felt like, the biting pain, the burn, and he was having trouble breathing by the third blow, could feel tears running down his cheeks by the seventh, and by the eleventh he was trembling, barely standing. And Shandor caught him after the fifteenth blow, held him close and let his sob against his chest and he stroked his hair and Trowa felt empty for the first time in months, felt the swirl of rage and tension leave his body and all he felt was the pain, the abuse of his flesh and his gratitude to Shandor, for giving this to him, for letting him simply exist, simply feel and forget how to think, how to fear.

Shandor stroked his hair until his tears stopped, and then he urged Trowa to stand on his own again, to return to his place facing the wall.

"You must learn to experience this through him, Trowa. You must learn to taste his pain as your own."

It had been easier, with the subs Trowa had met over the years, men who meant nothing to him outside of a temporary partnership, who he viewed as part of a job more than anything else, whose needs he saw to because he could. But he needed Duo in a way he had never needed anyone and it had changed everything for him, had muddled things.

"You always did enjoy the pleasure of others above your own," Shandor continued, running one hand down Trowa's side and around to his cock, stroking the firm flesh. Trowa had been embarrassed at first, with Shandor, embarrassed at his arousal after such abuse but Shandor had praised him, had made him feel it was the most natural thing for Trowa's cock to ache from a beating. "I am sure you spoil him horribly with pleasure."

"I try not to," Trowa panted.

"Hm. But his face must be impossible to deny," Shandor murmured. "When he begs you for release - oh it must be so hard to deny him."

"I haven't," Trowa moaned, his hips bucking against Shandor's hand.

"You must, moj cenny jeden. He will never miss what he has always had."

Trowa whimpered when Shandor moved away.

And then Shandor was back, firm, slick fingers pressed against Trowa's anus and Trowa drew in a deep breath and held himself still.

Shandor was rarely gentle, rarely forgiving, and this time was the same as so many others, a firm, forceful intrusion that had Trowa sucking in a breath and then gasping when Shandor added a second finger and plunged in deeply.

"He already craves your touch, doesn't he?" Shandor asked.

"Yes," Trowa panted.

"But does he beg you for the pain, or just the pleasure?"

"Just the pleasure."

"And is that enough for you? Is that what you need?"

"No, no." Trowa had to close his eyes, had to concentrate on not coming yet.

"What do you need, Trowa? What do you need from your Duo?"

Trowa grit his teeth and tried to focus, tried to piece together coherent thought as Shandor ruthlessly continued to finger him.

"I need his submission. I need to hear him beg for the pain- the pain and the pleasure. I need him to beg for discipline."

"Yes," Shandor encouraged Trowa, his voice the only thing gentle.

"Do not forget that he needs you just as you need him, moj cenny jeden. Do not forget that the leash ties you together."

"Yes, oh, please, please can I come?"

"No," Shandor said, his voice lazy and cruel and Trowa shuddered and tried to fight his orgasm, tried to fight the build of pleasure.

He bit his lip hard, desperate, and he tasted the bitter iron tang of his own blood.

Trowa trembled, found himself crying again in frustration and he tried, tried so damn hard to fight it and it was a different kind of pain, an agony more subtle than the sting of the bamboo cane and it had always been Shandor's favorite abuse, denying Trowa orgasm until he was shaking and sobbing unable to do more than mumble.

And soon he was at that point again, saying please over and over again until the word lost meaning and he was choking on his own tears, drawing in shallow, ragged breaths.

"Come for me, Trowa," Shandor said, finally giving him permission, and it truly was a release, the orgasm and the stillness of Shandor's fingers inside his body. It was a release, just as the pain had been, and it made Trowa feel clean and whole.

"Thank you," he managed to say. "Thank you."

Shandor pressed a kiss to Trowa's back, between his shoulders.

"Get dressed. Go to your trailer. Sleep. Tomorrow you will practice and you will focus. You will become the man you need to be, Trowa. You will become the master he needs you to be."

~ * ~

Chapter 5

Back to Clara's Fics

Back to GW Authors Index.