"It breaks my heart that we live this way," Duo murmurs.
He circles the bed, trailing one hand across the sweat-dampened cotton of the sheets. He doesn't get an answer – he doesn't expect one. A response would indicate that the ear plugs are slipping, that the man bound spread-eagled on the bed can hear him. That isn't the game they play. Trowa sees him twice, and only twice. When Duo greets him at the door and hands him the blindfold, and when Duo slips the blindfold from his shuttered green eyes and walks soundlessly out of the room. That is the game they play. Bound, blind, and helpless.
A frustrated whine leaks from Trowa's lips as Duo's fingers tiptoe across the rungs of his ribs, stark against his scarred skin. Trowa twitches, but can't move away from the teasing touch - Duo is an expert at tying knots, particularly ones that are difficult to undo, and the rope he chooses has very little give. Duo should be pleased. This is one of his favorite views, his lover stretched out beneath him, a bandana tied tightly across his eyes, ear plugs ensuring that the only sense Trowa has is braided man's lips press together until the skin whitens. He doesn't know how much longer he can do this. It started out so carelessly.
Duo slipped into his assigned safehouse one night during the war. G hadn't notified him that he would have company, so the dark shape in the kitchen startled him. The surprise was mutual, and Duo dove to the side as a throwing knife sank half its length into the frame of the door. The braided man rolled behind the couch, slipping his knives from his boot, hearing the slow footsteps emerge from the tile onto the thin carpet of the den area.
"Identify yourself, or the next blade goes through your skull."
Duo rose to his feet, hands extended, knives dangling between the fingers of both. "02."
Trowa eyed him warily, a second paper-thin blade still balanced in preparation to throw. After a long moment, he lifted the bottle of whiskey to his lips and drank, the knife vanishing somewhere into his clothing. His throat moved as he swallowed, a grimace crossing his thin face at the burn. Duo raised an eyebrow, bending to let his knives slide back into their boot sheaths. Trowa peered into the mouth of the bottle, lips twisting in something like disgust.
"No one was supposed to be here," Trowa commented quietly, his voice admirably level for a man who had apparently downed half a bottle of alcohol.
Duo scuffed one boot against the floor, weighing his options. He was exhausted, weary down to his bones, but he damn well didn't want to be trapped in a safehouse with a potentially unstable Gundam pilot. Even if that Gundam pilot happened to do strange and interesting things to his libido. He had always been drawn to Trowa, to the challenge of his quiet strength, to the intriguing notion of that solemn face and what it might change into when unhinged with pleasure.
"I can go if you wanna be alone," Duo offered.
Trowa hesitated, a shuddering breath echoing through the room. He shook his head, violently, and it was then that Duo noticed the sheen of salt trails on his cheeks, the dampness of his spiked eyelashes. The braided man stepped forward involuntarily, drawn by the pain etching itself across Trowa's hollowed face. He reached for the bottle, managed to pry it from Trowa's long-fingered grip.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
Trowa's empty hands clenched around air, tightening until the knuckles whitened and blood leaked from his palms to redden his nailbeds. He dropped his eyes, unable to meet Duo's steady gaze. "There are… there are so many moments where I'm just overcome. How can I be a soldier if my past makes me so weak?"
Duo watched as he crumbled to the ground, the crack of his knees hitting bottom audible even through the muffle of the carpet. A small, calculating part of Duo's brain took the time to appreciate that Trowa looked damn good at his feet, even as broken as he was. Duo didn't do broken. But he did find himself doing an excessive amount of repair work. Fixing people wasn't so bad. Especially not if they let him fix them in the way he preferred. He could give people so much freedom when they let him tie them up.
The braided man dropped to one knee beside Trowa, his hand drifting casually to the acrobat's shoulder. The skin beneath his fingers twitched as his touch triggered a crack in the pilot's usually stoic façade. And suddenly, Trowa crumbled, curling into himself like an imploding building, a low keen growing in his chest and rising into a howl of pain. Duo heart ached as he gathered the other man into his arms, startled by how closely skin sheathed bone. Something must have been eating the man alive, for him to have been that thin. It was a wonder that he could pilot his Gundam at all.
"War breaks everyone. It doesn't make you weak, it makes you human. When will y'all just realize that having emotions is normal?"
The silence stretched, holes punched through the weight of it by Trowa's stifled sobs. He didn't lift his head, didn't unfold his collapsing frame. He didn't indicate that Duo's presence was making any difference at all.
Finally, he spoke, voice scraped raw over the gravel of breaking. "I just want the screaming in my head to stop."
Duo tucked a hand beneath Trowa's chin, lifted it until their eyes met. Desperation flickered madly in the depths of Trowa's tear-brightened orbs. His body twitched as if his muscles were beyond the feeble remnants of his control.
"I can stop it. But I can only replace the noise with silence. And you have to trust me."
It started with earplugs. With Trowa falling bonelessly into his hands as the rubber slipped into the shells of his ears, with a sort of divine peace dawning on his drawn and pale face. Duo recognized the expression – in his world, they called it submission. And he was willing to play these games with Trowa. Willing to dance the line between comrade and lover, willing to play the sadist in order to soothe the need for pain constantly lapping at Trowa's skin. He had played priest before, let people break themselves on the altar of his body in order to find some sort of catharsis.
But this isn't his past. And Trowa isn't just anyone. Their arrangement could only stay platonic for so long before Duo started to recognize the familiar signs of falling. Trowa enjoyed the game, threw himself more than willingly into Duo's hands. He agreed to every new suggestion that Duo offered, never turned down the opportunity to go deeper down the rabbit hole with him. And Duo… he manages a smile as he flicks his wrist, as the crop just barely kisses Trowa's thigh. Trowa jumps in surprise, body arcing as far as the rope will allow, and a shocked yelp bursts from his lips.
Duo loves watching Trowa's body move beneath him, adores how easily his skin marks. Even now, a red spot rises to the surface of his skin, even with such a light tap. Beautiful. The sunset paints the room gold, gilding the fine lines of Trowa's body, and Duo has to stop for a moment as his heart clenches. The man is so goddamn stunning. A work of art. And his poetic thoughts almost make him nauseous as much as they scare the shit out of him. This is romantic language. This isn't 'let me tie you up and fuck you,' this is 'let me make love to you on a sleepy Sunday morning and then cook you breakfast while you recover.' This is 'let me tie you up and fuck you, and then let me fall asleep in your arms as I rub the rope patterns from your wrists and whisper how perfect you are for trusting me.'
Jesus Christ. He could fling himself into a gorge for letting himself get this far into the danger zone. This wasn't part of the plan. He snarls to himself and snaps the crop again, this time leaving a harsh, livid welt across Trowa's hipbone. The bound man flinches, his mouth opening in a silent ring of surprise and bliss. The upper part of the blindfold wrinkles, Trowa's eyebrows drawing together underneath it in a silent plea for more.
The anger beats in his ears like steel wings, hazing his vision red. Stupid of him, to fall for someone who is just playing a game. Stupid of him, to dare to love someone who only wants him for the marks he can leave on skin, for the violence he can inflict on a willing victim. He barely registers the careless flicks of his wrist, the red patches rising livid across Trowa's body. He notes the heaving of Trowa's chest, pauses to ascertain that the racing of his pulse is from pleasure rather than fear or overstimulation. Trowa's thighs are checkered with welts, a line of red marching down his ribs and across his hipbones. Duo follows the trail of his handiwork, over the ripple of Trowa's abs, between the twin peaks of his hipbones, across the gleaming tip of his erection. He pauses there, running the crop through the rivulets of sweat on Trowa's torso. One finger grazes the tip of Trowa's cock, drifting down his length, following the vein to the base. A muted moan trickles from the acrobat's lips.
Duo lays the riding crop next to Trowa's bound body, his eyes narrowing. He can see the blood flickering in Trowa's throat, heartbeat fluttering against his skin. And yet… his hand splays across Trowa's chest, fingers crawling across the planes of his muscles. He tweaks a nipple, quickly, the dusky skin flushing with the pressure. Trowa's shudder of response is delayed, subdued, his whimper of conflicted protest and encouragement barely audible.
The braided man shakes his head slightly, disappointed with himself. He should have noticed the disconnect earlier. Tugging at the cord attaching them, he carefully removes one of the earplugs. "Status?"
There is no answer, and Duo lowers himself to the bed, peering into Trowa's face as he lifts the blindfold. A faint furrow appears between Trowa's eyebrows as the lamp hits his light-starved eyes, but he doesn't blink. His face is smooth with pleasure, corners of his lips tipped slightly upward. Duo ghosts a hand over his cheek, gazing into his partner's distant green eyes. So far away. He has to be careful not to let Trowa go too far, though the acrobat somehow trusts Duo to be able to bring him back.
"Tro," he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble in the silent room. "Come back with me. It's okay. Follow my voice."
He strokes Trowa's hair away from his face, leaning over to nip at the skin of his jawline. He presses open-mouthed kisses against Trowa's throat, catching the skin between his teeth and lapping at it, leaving tiny marks in his wake. Trowa comes back to him slowly, his breath becoming jagged as he registers Duo's attention, the teeth in his pulse and the hand slowly wrapping around his shaft.
"Fuck," he groans, his back arching as Duo's hand tightens in reward for his return.
"Kinda rude for the audience to leave in the middle of a show," Duo teases, letting his fingers fall open, running only his palm over the length of Trowa's cock.
"Sorry," Trowa gasps around a moan.
He arches off the bed as far as his spread limbs will allow, hips bucking in an attempt to find more sensation than the mere teasing of Duo's callused hand. Duo switches his tactics, dancing his fingers across the crown of Trowa's cock, watching the man writhe in frustration. Trowa's hands dig into the bedposts, grasping at the ties that bind his wrists. He tugs at them, tightening the knots until they press against his frantically beating pulse.
A needy whine paints the air with tension, and Duo can't help but encourage it, wrapping his hand firmly around Trowa's shaft. His calluses scrape at the sensitive skin, wrist twisting to add the hint of spice that drives Trowa's body into a frenzy of arousal. The man beneath him bucks and thrashes, limited motion still managing to tangle the sweat-dampened sheets. Sweat beads on his skin, trickling over his torso to glisten between his hipbones. Duo slows his hand, loosening his grip until his fingers barely graze the other man. He waits until Trowa relaxes in resignation, the bound man preparing for a long and tortuous session of almost-but-not-quite reaching orgasm.
He misses the wicked smile that leaps across Duo's lips instants before his mouth covers Trowa's cock, swallowing the acrobat's shaft in one mind-blowing motion. Trowa bows off the bed, a scream splitting the stillness of the room. Duo struggles to keep the smile from interrupting his suction as a stream of expletives flies from Trowa's usually civilized lips. He very rarely blows Trowa - it doesn't often fit into their dynamic, as much as he actually enjoys giving head. It's another part of their arrangement that he would change, given the chance. He wants Trowa unhinged with pleasure just as often as he is shuddering with pain.
He lightens the weight of his hands on Trowa's hips enough to allow the other man to buck up into his mouth, tightening his throat muscles in response. Trowa claws at the bed, nails scratching furiously at the wood, as his breath comes in pants and whines.
"Please…"
Duo lifts his lips from Trowa's cock, replacing them with his hand. A filthy leer of satisfaction crosses his face. "Please what?"
Trowa whimpers, eyes squeezed shut as the muscles in his body quickly wind tighter. His feet twitch against their bindings. "Please let me come, Sir. Please. I can't… I…"
"Come for me, Tro," Duo commands, sinking the wet heat of his mouth back onto Trowa's shaft.
His partner pulses, the hardness between his lips swelling in the instant before his climax. He peaks with a near shriek, bed creaking as his body convulses inward, limbs testing the limits of his bondage. Duo rides it out, swallowing neatly, gentling from down from his climax with easy caresses of his tongue and lips. He pulls away, a fond smile lighting his face as he caresses Trowa's hip.
And Trowa's head falls from the side, the lines of tension easing from his expression, a sweet, sleepy curve on his lips. "Thank you, Sir."
It's the title that rocks Duo from his haze of satisfaction. Always Sir. Never Duo. Never a pet name. Just Sir. Their dividing line, the one that he can never cross. Abruptly, he reaches up to the headboard, usually deft fingers fumbling at the knots. Snarling with irritation, he leans over the bed to fumble in his pile of discarded clothing, grabs one of his hidden knives. He slices the ropes free of the bed, yanking the fragments of nylon away from Trowa's skin and flinging them into a corner.
"I can't do this."
Trowa's eyes snap open, the post-orgasmic euphoria vanishing in a flare of panic. "What?"
"I want more. I want a pretty white fence an' a big backyard shed to hide 'Scythe. An' yeah, a dungeon in the basement, but I want all that other shit too, ya know?"
A flicker of hurt crosses Trowa's face, and his voice is very carefully neutral when he speaks. "And you can't have that with me."
"Never said that," Duo snaps. "Just not part of our deal, Tro. You need somethin' to focus on, I need somethin' to control. There's nowhere to go from here."
"I thought we were more than that." Trowa rises from the bed, beginning to slip back into his clothing. His movements are stilted, devoid of their usual grace. He keeps his head turned away from the braided man, letting his hair conceal his face. Lacing his boots, he ties them with short, sharp motions, slipping his knives back into their sheaths. "We were for me."
He slides the blindfold from his head, one of the tattered wartime bandanas still stained with traces of Duo's blood, and throws it on the bed. It lays between them like a gauntlet as Trowa straightens his body, managing to look dignified despite the rope marks cuffing his wrists. This time it is Trowa who walks out of the room, the door closing behind him with a deafening silence. This time it is Duo left alone, with screaming in his head, and the game is over.