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" Black Cross "Written By: Emerald Pillow Disclaimer: I don't own GW or their boys, wish
I did. Warnings: Language; and Angst Pairings: 1+3 Summary: After losing Heero on a mission, Trowa begins a downward spiral in what's left of his life. Rating: PG 13
"Black Cross " Chapter 2 Screeching tore through the flashback. Trowa lifted his soaking gaze to find the 250 westbound slowing to a halt; breaks squealing as the only indication that it was coming. He pushed to his feet and walked over to the sliding glass door. An elderly woman, holding a bulging bag of groceries shakily step from the dry bus. Trowa stepped to the side to allow her off, silently thanking her for needing to stop. Otherwise, he would have been lost in the past and could have sat on that bench, in the rain, for far longer. The old lady stumbled on the last step, nearly tobbling over, but Trowa quickly reached to steady her. A smile crinkled her already wrinkled face and in a bleated tone, thanked him for his kindness. Trowa nodded his welcome, then climbed the stairs. He dropped the few coins into the slot that would pay his toll, and made his way to the back of the bus. Thankfully, it was a school day, so no teenagers were on the bus heading toward their usual hangouts. This left it much more quiet and personal. In fact, there were only ten people riding at the time. Most of them were older; there was a young pregnant mother, and two young children, but all of them sat from the middle of the bus and further up. This left Trowa the entire back of the bus to himself. Sighing, he rested his temple against the cool window and allowed the scenes to pass by, much like everything and everyone in his life. Not really realizing it, his left hand found the necklace around his neck. At first, he just held it tightly in his hand before he began twisting it around its rope. It was a simple, clear tube, holding the shape of a cross. Inside was a dark, sandy substance. Many had asked Trowa what it was, but he never really answered. His eyes would take a reminisce tone and his thin lips would pronounce a single word: reminders. It was all the answer he ever gave anyone. It was a thirty-five minute ride from downtown to where Trowa lived. He stood before the house at two thirty. It was still dark, indicating that no one was home yet. The lack of the red Duster in the drive way proved his theory. Either that, or the car was conveniently hidden in the collapsing garage. Attempting to peer into the windows was useless, since they were painted black to keep both sun light, and unwanted eyes from seeing inside. Taking his chances, Trowa headed straight for the back door. It was a rundown neighborhood. One where everyone watched, and listened, but never spoke of what they witnessed. Hookers stood the corners at night, being picked up by drug dealers and white collared married men that didn't want anyone to know of affairs. Gang logos decorated every store wall, and abandoned residential home. Shoot outs were as frequent as nightfall and daybreak. If anyone did call out for help on an emergency, the police would take long enough that the dispute would blow over, or a victim would die. It was one of the worst parts of the city, but somehow, Trowa felt in place here. He headed for the back entrance of the house. Entering through the front would be futile. Not only were the cement stairs leading to the porch missing, but the front door was actually barricaded by a 2X4 and a couch to prevent unwanted visitors. He easily hopped the chain link fence surrounding the back yard of the house. Apparently when the installers first set up the fence, they forgot to add a swinging gate for entrance purposes. "Hey sexy." Trowa didn't bother to acknowledge the call. He already knew that it was the man that lived next door. Ever since Trowa moved in, he had tried every way he could to sleep with the Latin. The first couple of times, Trowa gave in to him, not caring one way or the other, but that soon changed. Now the older man was still trying out of wishful thinking. To this day, he didn't know the man's name. When referring to him, he would call him 'limpo'; referring to personal sexual experience; a side effect of too much drug usage. Just the same, Trowa glanced in his direction. Limpo
wasn't a bad looking man, which was why Trowa allowed their first
few sessions. He was six foot, blonde hair and blue eyes. Maybe that
was another reason Trowa agreed; for as far as he could remember,
he had been a sucker for pretty blondes. Currently, he was lounging
in a lawn chair, completely naked and stroking his hard member. A
joint dangled from his smiling lips; much like always. If Limpo didn't
have a joint, he would have a needle patruding from his "Wanna come help me with something?" Trowa smirked at Limpo's words for as he spoke, the erection was slowly deflating without release. Trowa turned from the view and stepped into the house. He didn't bother to turn on the light. There was no sense in seeing the mess he had been living in the pass year. As he walked in the near darkness, he could hear the cracking sound of the cockroaches unfortunate enough to be caught under his foot. He stopped half way through the room to open the fridge. No light spilled from within for it hadn't worked since before Trowa arrived here. It no longer served as a fridge to store and keep food cold. Now it was just another cupboard to house temperature warm beer and liquor. Without needing to see, Trowa seized his bottle of ten high and slammed the door shut. He shook the bottle, attempting to re-mix the soda that he had poured in it last night, as he headed into the living room. His destination was the bedroom, where he could go to sleep after finishing his bottle. It seemed that's all he's been doing lately; sleeping, as if trying to remember his dreams and the war that he fought in nearly ten years ago. Maybe what he really wanted to remember, was him. Suddenly, Trowa stopped in his tracks and a chill ran down his spine. It was a sensation that he was use too having. It usually meant that he wasn't alone. Once in the living room, he turned to his left to find a silhouette against the windows. Trowa gripped the neck of his bottle, wishing for once he wouldn't have to go through this. Everything else in his life now, he could handle, but this was getting bothersome. "Where have you been?" It was close to a snake's hiss; and just as venomous. Trowa didn't answer, he only stood in the man's gaze in sheer silence. "I asked you a question." "Go fuck yourself." Trowa snapped, and headed up stairs. "What the fuck did you just say?" "You heard me." "You're getting a little mouthy today." Trowa stopped on the third step and turned to face the silhouette again. The figure advanced, coming more into the struggling light through a few spots of clear glass that was purposely overlooked when painted. He was a largely built man. Many mistook him as a member of a biker gang, but in truth, he didn't have the guts of a motorcycle member. He only looked the part. His greasy black hair was pulled under his signature blue bandana, and he wore a sleeveless leather jacket that exposed his bulging arms. His brown eyes weren't completely visible, but one could safely assume that they were narrowed at Trowa. His name was Griff; Griff Derwin. "Let's try this again." Griff stated angrily as he stood at the foot of the stairs, and placed one strong hand against the wall, with the other on what was left of the bannister. "I asked you, where the fuck you were." "And I told you to go fuck yourself." Trowa seen it coming, the harsh backhand that snapped his face to the right. His first instinct was to smash his bottle against the offender's head, but forced himself against such actions. Mainly, because it would be his last bottle for a while, plus he would probably end up killing the man before him. The thought had crossed his mind. Several times. He could easily take the life of this man, as he had so many soldiers before him. What was one more blood stain on an already dyed red hand? But he forced himself not to go that far. The beatings this man had given Trowa the pass year was justifiable. Trowa deserved every last one of them; and now was no different. He never blocked, evaded, or defended himself. He allowed the well built man to pummel him as much as he could. Before the assault was to begin, Trowa reached to his necklace. In one swift motion, he ripped it from his neck, and allowed it to rest on the broken banister; away from the threat of being broken. As usual, the action had gone unnoticed by anyone other than Trowa. It was clock work. Trowa would upset him to the point of anger blinding him. He then proceeded to beat Trowa until either his anger waived, or he became too tired. If he wasn't too tired, he would strip Trowa and have sex with the battered man, conscious or not. Trowa had grown numb to the routine. The blows no longer brought pain; the raping no longer phased him. It was all part of forgetting him. Re-shutting off his emotions was the first step. If he couldn't feel him anymore, then he wouldn't think about him. Not thinking about him will most definitely lead to forgetting; the flashbacks would soon follow. Trowa collapsed to the stairs, his green eyes staring
at the past through the strands of his hair. The cross had fallen
from its original spot, and caught onto a jagged piece of the bannister.
It swung before Trowa's eyes, as if hypnotizing him from knowing the
pain being caused. He closed his eyes, aware of the man's foot against
his rib cage; aware of the cracking sound; but still not caring. Closing
his eyes gave memories. Memories of the tingling sensation everytime
his flesh brushed against Trowa's. His smile; his beautiful smile
that could easily retrieve Trowa's to the surface. The stern look
in his eyes every time he disagreed with what Trowa said or did. It
was his own fault that he couldn't see or feel those things anymore.
. .his fault that he had gone away. . .it was his fault that he couldn't
escape.
Chapter
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