“You’re in love with her.” Familiar words, familiar conversation. I wonder if they’ll ever stop assuming that sex equals love, when it obviously doesn’t. “No, I want to corrupt her.” I give him the same response that I gave Milliardo years before. It’s just as true now as it was then. Isn’t it? “You already have.” This startles me and I whip my head around to glare at him in shock. “Excuse me?” I think for a moment that I imagined his words, that he never spoke. But Duo continues to smile at me, almost mockingly, and I realize that he did speak. “You’ve already corrupted her. She is as corrupt as she is going to get. You’ve taken nearly everything that she has to offer and a few things that she doesn’t. So you must still be with her for a reason. You must want something else. Her heart, maybe?” He cocks his head, and his eyes twinkle with the reflection of the chandelier. “Although I think you already have that as well.” I decide that I despise his smile even more than I do Relena’s. He has a jester’s smile, and it doesn’t look at all fake. It looks real and truthful, like he truly is just a happy-go-lucky boy with no worries. But I know better than that. I know that he isn’t a natural comedian; that fun and jokes don’t come easily. It’s all a mask. He’s hiding things behind that smile. I positively hate not being able to see what it is. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him, trying to look nonchalant. But inside my head is spinning at what he’s implying. “Of course you don’t,” he says, his voice resembling one of a man speaking to a small child. I feel more than insulted but bite my tongue anyways. “When are you leaving?” I ask instead, figuring it to be a safe question, although I know the answer already. “Tomorrow.” “And Heero is going with you?” “Yes.” His voice is soft, distant. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he sounds so wistful every time he thinks of Heero. And then I wonder what it feels like to be in love and why two people - two ex-Gundam pilots - allow themselves to fall to such an emotion. “You know, Dorothy, I think that you and I are more alike than you probably realize,” he murmurs, letting himself look away from me. “We are?” I ask, not allowing my disbelief to show. I can’t possibly imagine what the two of us could have in common, me and this braided American fool. I repress the urge to scoff at him. “Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate, and I’m sure that I don’t want him to. I don’t want to hear why he thinks we are alike; I don’t want to hear what he has to say. We are silent for the next few minutes, which really seem like hours. I can’t remember a time when I was so ill at ease. I consider leaving the room if he has nothing more to articulate. I have much more substantial things to do than sit and stare impatiently at Duo Maxwell. He speaks again just as I stand, his voice devoid of any emotion. “You’re fooling yourself. You know that, don’t you?” “What do you mean?” “I thought for a while that you knew what you were doing, that you had this big plan in mind, because it seems like something that you’d do. Because sometimes you’re like that. But now I see that you’ve blinded yourself. You can’t see what’s staring you straight in the face.” He’s getting agitated, and I’m confused. He’s speaking as though this is the most important affair in the world, but to me all it is is a jumble of irrational thoughts. “I thought it was entertaining at first,” he continues, still seething over something that I don’t understand. “But now it’s just so damn annoying. This…this whole situation is one big failure of vision on your part.” He storms out of the room, and I hear his footsteps echoing through the house. I listen to them until they disappear and I’m left standing alone in one of the many dining rooms, listening to the ticking of an old grandfather clock. And I begin to wonder if maybe my whole life hasn’t been one big failure of vision.
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