Disclaimer: I don't own the GW characters – am just borrowing to torment for my amusement

Warnings: yaoi, m/m sexual relations, angst, some bad language

Pairing: 1x2

A/N: This is a little piece of oddness that came from wanting to write an experimental POV fic and something about how depressing British seaside touristy towns are in winter…A big thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta Ellewrites whose encouragement got me to post this one... Inspired by Mallory Knox's song Lighthouse.

Lighthouse in the Dark

The sea and sky are the same grey. The dark waves crash on the rocks, the foam making white horses and the sky is dull and full of clouds. It will drizzle. There is a sea fret on its way. That's what they called it. A sea fret, that mist that covers the sea and the pier and the sea front.

You walk slowly and steadily and it's January and you are only wearing your usual black jeans and leather jacket. You're still such a colony boy – you forget about temperature changes and cold and packing appropriately. You're never prepared and you suppose you never will be. That's not you anyway, you reason, you've never been a planner. Always been a drifter and you never know where you'll be.

No one else is walking and you hear the mournful cry of seagulls above you. You glance upwards, cobalt blue eyes seeing them glide and you remember flying and you remember piloting and it doesn't help your mood. Nothing ever does. Nothing comes close to the wars and you realise you probably are the most fucked up of the five of you as you never got over blowing Deathscythe up and you never moved on. But you move and you move and you travel and you hope that one day your itchy feet will stop and you'll be content.

You see the abandoned ferris wheel and the sad sign of a closed seaside theme park – a pitiful thing even when open. The tilt-a-whirl abandoned, the slide with a creepy clown face smiling down at you. You reach for cigarettes and look up and that thing reminds you of Trowa and you think of how long it's been since you saw them. Any of them. Quatre and Trowa were a pair. Always. They had each other after the wars. Though you were always cynical. Quatre's feelings for Tro' were all bound in guilt and the feeling bad for the battle in space and Wing ZERO and amnesia. It wasn't the basis for a healthy relationship but you never said. You smiled and pretended you thought they were made for each and answered the questions like you should. You never lied. That was your thing – always your thing but you conceal and hide. The joker's mask became harder to upkeep and so you gave it up and went your own way.

The cigarette smoke swirls around your face and you think of Sally and the medicals and the Preventers. You remember your regular appearances in her ward and her long suffering smile. And then you remember her saying that you needed to stop smoking as your lung capacity would shrink… yadda yadda. It was the same thing with the occasional pick-me-ups and the booze. You were relieved the day you quit the Preventers – the slight limp in your left leg was the evidence of that career. You didn't miss the Preventers. You supposed you should but nothing, nothing ever compared to the wars and so you quit and you handed back your gun and your badge.

You only miss him. You guessed he still hated you. Still would look at you with the bluest of blue eyes and call you the jerk that you were. And are. You've always been the bastard. Always been the bad guy and you were quite happy in that role. You wore black, you had that killer smirk, you had the L2 colony drawl that never went away even though you barely went back and you had shot him. Twice. So it did make you the bad guy.

And so you started walking again and tried to forget. But images flood back. That leg injury – the intense pain in the thigh where you nearly bled out in that teeny tiny interrogation room – and being laid up and on medical leave. And he was there. You were laid on his couch and you had large headphones on and it didn't matter. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the couch and your hand is in his hair and you just feel how soft it is and you feel yourself smiling as you drift into painful sleep. You'd refused painkillers as you still think its pain that makes you real. He doesn't mind. Doesn't shirk from your touch – learnt not to break your wrist when you reach out. Learnt how to not break you when you fuck. Learnt how to touch without bruising force. He still wasn't damn gentle but you didn't want that. Never did. Never would.

Pretending – that was all it was. That's what you reason. It made it easy to leave, to walk, to run, to hide but you've never hidden. You walk to what the British call a greasy spoon and you drink builder's tea that's thick and sludgy and you know that Agent Squeaky and Agent Porky are not far behind.

They've been following you for years. Maybe it was easier being a Preventer as then you weren't watched as you were technically still a good guy. You never felt like the good guy. That was him all over. He never had that darkness – never saw what you'd seen. It was a blessing you guess. Not to have known and seen and done what you'd done…

Not to be death. Not to be born of blood and violence and pain. You were born from a boy coughing his lungs out and a church burning. You lived before that but Duo Maxwell was born then.

You see the agents. You lose them for days as you travel but then they always return. You know Une's more scared of you since you quit. You know that you were the one that concerned her the most. You were the most volatile of the five of you. Strange. Sometimes you wonder if she ever met Heero Yuy. Ever saw the despondency and loss behind those eyes. He was empty. You knew that but then so were you. Perfect fit. For a time anyway.

His eyes are what you remember. You remember them from when you were tied to that chair and the blade had punctured your thigh and you remember wondering if this was it. You always seemed to get yourself into these situations. Reckless. Impulsive. Stupid. You'd heard the accusations. You'd heard them screamed at you by superiors and by the others. You'd become fatalistic. You'd started to seem like you wanted to die. The smoking and the booze didn't help your image. The sunglasses and the black circles around your eyes. The occasional adventures to the bad side of town for the little pick-me-ups – those small white pills that kept you awake and jittery and alive at least for some time.

And you remember how he looked at you, bound and bleeding and ready for this to be the final rescue attempt. You were tired and he was tired. You seemed like you'd spent too many years saving each other.

"Please," you say but he saves you anyway.

Takes you back to his place after the hospital ward where you discharge yourself early and Wufei is there trying to stop you – back up for Sally but failing. They call you stubborn. You call yourself stubborn but he's there, ready to take you away from the sterile smell and knowing you hate hospitals and you want to feel the pain.

You think you're a masochist as you enjoy that interlude with him. You enjoy being in pain on his couch and then you progress to his bed as the leg recovers and you hurt as you touch each other. Its agony as his hands don't know gentle and you are too far gone to complain. You pant through parted lips, in pain and pleasure, those feelings entwined in everything you've ever done together, and you arch into him as he pounds you to the mattress and you close your eyes as you don't want to see, just feel and a part of you wants him to push you too far, to grip your wounds too tightly and hurt you. You realised long ago you were fucked up.

He finishes above you and then brings you off with his hand and you don't really feel much. You lie next to each other on your sides and he traces a finger over the black script in Latin over your chest and you only smirk as he asks you what it means.

Nascentes morimur

"You're a smart guy, babe, work it out for yourself."

You know he knows what it means. He's smart. He wants to know what it means to you. And you don't know what to say. You leave him the next day. Too much. You quit the Preventers and you're on a shuttle before the others know.

You didn't love him. You reason with yourself that you never did. Not on the docks, not in that school, not after Barge, not on the lunar base, not on Peacemillion and he's only a ghost to you – a brief thing you forget.

You move on. You always do. You leave the greasy spoon and pay and tip even though it's not a British custom but you don't give a damn. You're a colony boy. Agent Squeaky and Agent Porky follow you as you find that it is drizzling now. You pull up the hood of the black sweatshirt underneath your leather jacket and pull it tight. You shove your hands in your pockets and walk back near the sea.

They follow and you pity those agents. You get to know them and most of them don't seem too bad. They have families to feed. They have something. Squeaky's voice is irritating and Porky's nickname was easy. You smile, that killer smile, over your shoulder as they walk behind you and they look annoyed at the fact you're going to where there is no shelter. You know why you're out in the rain and you prefer it to being on some bed in some temporary place.

You walk and approach the lighthouse down from the ferris wheel. The fret has come in and you can see the haze in the air and the coldness around you is reassuring. The cold makes your leg hurt and you feel more comfortable in cold climates than warm. You stopped being comfortable about your body years ago… all those bullet wounds and scars and burns. You are quite the collection. You'd added to them with tattoos so that you had become a canvas of every painful memory. No one has seen you naked since Heero. And with him it was fine. He had quite the collection as well.

The lighthouse is white and you walk towards the pier, your hands shoved deep in the pockets of your jeans. And you don't know why you've come here. You know this is only another stop, a brief hangover in another town and you'll be gone soon and you'll not blink. You wonder why he chose the lighthouse.

You remember the message.

/Want you/

You never need to ask who the messages are from – no one else would say they want you damnit, and he doesn't really. Thinks he does. He's as fucked up as you are.

Though you respond. Give him co-ordinates. Tell him in brief clipped messages that he shouldn't – that he doesn't need to find you. Surely, if he just wants a quick fuck he could get that wherever. He's a good looking guy. Doesn't need to work for it. Sure he could find another willing warm body. But somehow, you couldn't help smiling when the last message came through.

/Lighthouse/

The building is white and you see where the metal has rusted and left those orangey brown stains running down the side. You walk towards it and you touch the white peeling paint and flick it off with your short nails. You lean against it and let the drizzle fall on you and glance out to that unsettled sea.

You always liked the sea. You were such a colony boy and you were amazed when you landed and spent your time aboard Howard's ship and felt the slow rocking of the hull moving over the waves. You loved the way the thermal beam scythe worked under the water and sliced through mobile suits until you felt the ringing in your ears of dead men's shouts. You liked the sea but this was so… grey and depressing. It fit with your current mood, you supposed, fit in with your current life.

You didn't think you'd make twenty five. Didn't think you'd be used up by then and you flick the flecks of white paint from your fingernails. You wonder if Agent Squeaky and Agent Porky know why you're here. You're leaning against the white paint, your black clad form contrasting and you wait. You wait and breathe in salt air and feel like your lungs are full of moisture and you feel cleaner, somehow. The toxic tar in your lungs clearing and you touch that large scar on your thigh and squeeze through sopping denim and you hiss and you feel.

And you wonder if he hates you still. If he'll even come and if he even cares beyond that wanting you. And you wonder, why the lighthouse and you wonder, why does it always have to be so goddamn poetic between you two? Why does it have to be about black and white? Angel and devil Gundams. 01 and 02. 1x2 equals two or something. You try not to be so cynical. You try to think that there's some reason that you find each other across the colonies and earth.

It's not love, you reason. As you can never love each other. He loves her. He always did. Loved her in that pure cute and puppyish way. She was the innocent he needed. And when she died you knew he'd never get over it and you could never replace her. You weren't innocent. Never allowed that luxury. From that moment you touched as teenage boys and you persuaded him in hushed tones that it was normal and meant nothing and you used him and you used that naiveté… from that moment you began to pervert him. And he got away from you and you were relieved as it meant that you could stop tearing that soul apart.

You wanted love, you supposed, once a long time ago before the cynicism. Before the tiredness. And you were so goddamn tired. You wanted to be rid of the agents watching you, expecting you to twitch and turn back to the terrorist and criminal you were at heart, and you wanted to be piloting again and free. You moved and you moved and you walked and you ran and you never got anywhere.

It's getting dark, you decide and you flick more white paint from your nails. You should go and give up and then you realise he's there and he's just watching. Your agents have disappeared and a part of you wants to smirk and congratulate him. You know he's better than you at so many things but not piloting. He acknowledged you were superior.

You don't know what to say. You'd disappeared again as soon as he walked out after the last fuck. You'd done it before and you'd do it again. You knew he wasn't the one, you knew you weren't meant to be together so you played and you returned to each other when the opportunity arose.

You don't say anything when he walks towards you in the drizzling, fine rain and pins you against the lighthouse with rough hands and you don't submit straight away. You move from his lips and push him away with the heels of your palms. You stare at him through rain soaked bangs and black hood and he glares back.

"My agents?"

"Busy."

"You should stop seeing me."

"I don't care what I should do."

"I have a room."

He nods and you let him kiss you then – let him push you against the lighthouse as it gets dark and the cold drizzle flicks over you and the sound of waves crashes around you and you wonder if anyone sees you and you don't care. You close your eyes and forget that you walked out first and forget the hearts you've broken over the years… all the bad things you've done.

You feel his body leave you and you incline your head in one direction and you walk to the bed and breakfast on the cliff tops with your heads bowed. You look like strangers and he is not dressed for the weather either. But you know he doesn't feel cold. You're just stupid but he just doesn't feel anything.

It's a ramshackle place with fading wallpaper and an old woman who owns it who you've avoided and you've not gone for the breakfast you paid for – you don't eat much anyway anymore. You feel sick a lot of the time.

You're relieved for the brief respite from the agents and Heero's by your side as you find the room and use an old fashioned key and the room is clean and small but it's fine. You're not Quatre. You're not used to luxury. Even when you had a home and a place it was small. Compact. You didn't know what to do with space. You lock the door and you walk over to the window and you see that the sea is still as grey but the light is fading and for a moment you just watch the waves and think about that lighthouse. And his arms slide around you from behind and you're both wet and you pull down your hood and your hair falls between you both. Not as long as your war time length. You don't want to stick out like you used to. Not as much anyway but you can't quite get the nerve to cut it off as you think that the ghosts will haunt you again. Haunt you more. Asking why you forgot – that outward symbol gone and only memories left.

His lips are on your neck and you roll back your head onto his shoulder to allow him access. There's leather and denim and sweatshirts and t-shirts and tank tops and boxers between you but you stay like that for a moment, letting him nip and kiss and use his tongue on sensitive flesh. You know he knows all your sensitive spots. Knows how you like things so you submit in his arms and then you close those curtains and turn to face him and you're removing those damp layers off your own skin and his layers and you're falling and you're flying and you're kissing and you're feeling.

You feel hot and you know there's only one thing that you want and you push him towards the bed and he smirks up at you. You're both not quite naked. You still have on your jeans though the fly is open, his skilled fingers already stroking, squeezing, torturing you and he's still got a stupid tank top on and his boxers. You straddle his lap and he moans appreciatively as you grind a little. You kiss his lips, nipping down on his bottom lip with your teeth, enough to draw blood. His hand digs into your thighs as you tease and he knows that's where you still hurt and you make a noise low in your throat and he then stills your hips. Holds you hard and tight and you decide its time you were rid of all clothes. He agrees.

You both fall to the bed. You don't speak. You barely speak to each other anymore. You sometimes think of the boy you used to be – all those silences to fill between the both of you and you filled them but now you don't speak. You kiss him hard and you taste blood and you feel your lips bruising. You're on top of him but you know you're not in control. Never have been and you like that unyielding man underneath you. You know he'll never let you have too much power over him and he wants what he wants. You want what you want. He sits up and you know that the position will be painful as you wrap yourself around him, as fingers probe and you bite down on his shoulder, hard, and you taste the coppery tang of blood.

He doesn't do careful. You don't want careful. Pain makes you real, remember? If you feel the pain, you feel something and something is what you need now. You're sick of grey and nothingness and drizzle and being followed and drifting.

He grips you hard as you thrust down, you try to feel all of him inside you and you hurt each time you rise and fall. You're panting now as he rolls his hips into you and you feel every inch of that hard cock. You grip his hair, your hands tight in it and you're close to pulling it out as teeth bite down on one of your nipples and you try not to shout out as you don't want to show any weakness to him and you don't want him to know how much you want the pain as you fuck each other hard and fast. You feel him move and he's standing, holding you and pushing you against a wall and you like the display of genetically modified strength when he's using it to do this to you.

You turn your head as you don't want to look into those blue eyes and you try to find something to hold onto that isn't him but there's nothing… you grip his shoulders and feel the blood from where you bit down and you realise that your both bleeding and you both can't do this without pain. He needs to hurt you… you need him to hurt you. You need to hurt him. He's as empty as you are since she died. And you can't be anything to him but second choice. He never fucked her – that you know – never even made love to her on a bed of roses. But he did love her entirely. Makes you feel sick.

You don't care right now as you both grit your teeth and pant and grunt. You scratch down his arms, your rough short fingernails creating scratch marks down his biceps and he responds by slamming harder, faster into your body and you try not to make any noises as he does even though you know you're losing it.

"Hee…ro," you pant his name and you hate yourself.

You sound like your pleading but you're not sure what you want. You know you want release but you're pleading from something else and you're not even sure what. Do you want this to mean something? Do you want this to be love? Are you too tired to fight anymore?

"Fuck," you hear yourself say as you come hard between your bodies.

You feel him stiffen and you feel a grunt against your shoulder signalling his end.

Never gentle. Over too quick – neither of you seemed to have stamina after the time apart – not like those days you spent in bed all day and fucked until you couldn't anymore. Those days were long gone.

You unlock your limbs from around his body and slide down the wall, he follows you, energy gone and you collapse together, you look up as his head is on your shoulder. The wallpaper is peeling. Water marks. Something else.

"Come back," he says, the words are gentle.

You don't meet his eye. Where were you meant to go back to? Back to a job that killed you? A relationship that was never going to work? You can never be her. He thinks he wants you… but you know you'll never be enough. Not now. Too far gone.

"I can't."

He grunts and decides you've had this conversation too many times and know it's not worth it anymore. He leaves you there and you draw your knees up to your chest, not bothering about the stickiness on your body or the cold of the room as you watch him find his clothing as though playing the same part of the same play or something again. You've watched him do this so many times and you don't even care. You know you don't deserve his perseverance. Don't deserve his attempts to persuade you to come back to reality or something. Stop your wanderings. Stop your constant movement.

"Duo," he says and you look up at the mention of your name.

You haven't heard someone say your name in months and you forget how it sounds. Fake names, credit cards, the whole nine yards, though your agents are never fooled – they always catch up with you.

"Please."

The word sounds wrong from those lips, bruised and bloody now from the force of your kisses.

"No."

He doesn't say anything else. Finishes dressing. Makes it seem like a transaction or something. You feel something sting deep down but you know you'll still do this again. And again. You'll keep repeating this until he gives up. You think he might one day.

You would.

He's dressed and you're still naked on the floor. All that efficiency. You think about moving but right now your limbs feel hollow and you feel a little too unreal to move. He'll just leave and now that he knows where you are you'll move on. You know you can travel south. Get on a ferry. Bruges or somewhere. You've never been there. You don't look up at him as you know he's standing, looking at you – thinking of what he can say to make you come back.

Heero doesn't have any long poetic speech and you only look up when the sound of the door opening alerts you to the fact he's leaving. You look up then. Try to find words. But you don't have any as you meet blue eyes.

He says it one more time.

"Come back."

And you shake your head, not able to find the words, and it's only when the door closes that you speak.

"One day."

And one day you will. Just not right now. Just not yet.

A/N: I wasn't going to translate the Latin of the tattoo but literally it means "die at birth" according to google translate but as a phrase is meant to mean "from the moment we are born, we begin to die".