Author: LoveyouHateyou
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: NC-15/M
Pairings: Duo + Heero (1+2+1)
Warnings: Occasional profanity - Duo can be so damn foul mouthed.
Disclaimer:I do not own them although I would like that. Especially Duo who is so wild and sweet, and Heero because he is such an awkward crank. All rights with their original owners.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: What happens when the shields come down. When the Perfect Soldier cracks, and messed-up Shinigami is caught out cold... Bittersweet. No fluff. The boys are surprised at what can be hidden behind skilfully built facades.
xxx
Usually the hangar is empty at this time of the day – late afternoon, the sun slanting golden beams through the large windows, myriads of glittering specks of dust dancing in the light. I go here for the stillness, to get away from the hassle of the training centre, and with Duo as my room mate there is not the remotest chance to get some rest at our quarters.
He never shuts up. How does he do it, talking without even stopping for breath or thinking? He always has something to natter about, but that has something to do with him finding the most stupid things interesting. He has no compunction to interrupt a training exercise to plonk himself into the grass by the roadside and admire some tiny bug walking up a stalk of grass. What a nutcase. And he keeps picking on me. I hate that.
We had rows. We had tussles, but though he is tough like old leather, he is not too strong, and I do not like hurting him. He can look so wounded, and it annoys me because I know he is using this to get off the hook. He can be surprisingly sly, but then, the way he grew up would have made him streetwise, like it or not.
He has scraped through the last examn – ballistics is not his forte, but then what is? I cannot count the times I told him to focus, sit down and stick his nose into the books, but the baka prefers to run off who knows where, even skips entire days, and if I let him have his way, he would hardly ever turn up in class. How embarrassing; he is in my team after all. But I will have to work with him, so here we go – our squad can only be as strong as the weakest member. He mocked me when I tried to explain yet again this morning; it annoyed me enough to call him names, he was trying to beat me up, so I walked away.
What else should I do? He is utterly incapable to restrain his temper. How could anyone be blind enough to pick him for a pilot? Because I held back, he got through my guard and landed a punch on my face, right cheekbone, very neat for someone who has neither brawns nor brains. It is throbbing and I bet it will turn black – I could have killed him. Fine, so I only walked away after he did a runner, braid whipping wildly about his back. I might have the room to myself tonight, but as yet, I do not want to find out. I will sit here for a while, run a few checks on Wing Zero, and go back when I can stomach facing him again.
xxx
Today I realised that I hate him. Such an arrogant asshole, who does he think he is? Not enough that he thinks he should be bossing me around all the fuckin' time, he does it in front of everyone and finds nothing wrong with it, like this mornin' in the cafeteria. I'm no kid, and I've seen my share of shit already. So here we go, I punched him, and now my knuckles hurt like hell and I can't hold the damn tools properly. Tools, yeah, to dig around in Deathscythe's innards. The hydraulics of its left foot were leaking, and I heard a little crunching noise in the gearbox that I'd like to check out.
I bet I know the thing inside out, and his damn machine, and all the others too. I can list every fuckin' part in my sleep, why else would the mechanics come to me when they can't find some fault or another? Paper exams aren't everyone's cuppa tea. I know my co-ordinates, I can handle the stupid guns alright, don't need to read tomes of print for this. My memory's good; I can learn by listening and watching and getting my hands dirty, like now, buried to the armpits in Deathscythe's gearbox. I like that, I don't have to sit my ass sore, I can use my hands and soak up the smell of oil and dust, the feel of smooth, cool metal against my skin, and it does get me off to know what makes the suits tick.
Man, figure that, Duo the street rat flying a Gundam – not in my wildest dreams… Sure there's some agenda behind all this, and one day I'll find out, but right now I'm glad to be here. And he? Mr Yuy Superman? So stuck up his neat little ass. He thinks he knows it all, but some day he'll choke on his own bloody silence. What haven't I tried to get him to string more than two grunts together? Perhaps even form a sentence that doesn't end in 'hn' or a sneer? I admit defeat, and I refuse to feel ashamed for he's plain hopeless. Tonight I'll be in for a thrashing for that welt I printed onto his pretty face – he looked so stunned, it was quite funny. Even worth it; I'll consider that later when I'm not busy. Well, perhaps he won't kill me, and everything else I can cope with. I'm tough.
It would be nice though if he'd not put me down all the time. Hell, yeah, he is good, so damn thorough with everything he does, really reliable, and if he weren't such an asshole, I'd enjoy bein' in his team. As it is now, it can only mean trouble. I like watchin' him working out, all muscle and power, and so damn cool about himself. Well, he can be, but I try not to hang around in the gym when he is there: it would not be a nice contrast with me all pale 'n bony and always in a mess, and he smart 'n tidy, with his mop of glossy black hair and this great bod. Hey, I might not look that wonderful, but I got an eye for nice things – I've seen too many ugly ones already.
Here, I found it: a loose screw, a faulty washer and some leaked oil. Easy to mend, and Deathscythe will be as new. It makes my day, at least until he gives me the usual bawling out before goin' to bed, the swearing is my own, the rest is his: put your stuff away, baka, looks like a tip in here, do your fuckin' homework, have you eaten, and for heaven's sake, can't you shut up for five damn minutes?
I can't. Silence kills me; it scares me witless just as darkness does. And because he doesn't talk to me other than that, I annoy him. Anything's better than a dark, still room around me. He doesn't understand why I'm shivering under my sheets and insists on having the lights out and the shutters down. Then it is so black around me, a canvas for my nightmares, and I spend most of those hours trying to stay awake and not clatter my teeth. That's why I'm always tired, why sometimes I doze in class or don't bother going there in the first place. I catch up on sleep in Deathscythe's cabin, or in some corner in the locker room at the hangar, and sometimes in the meadows of the park that surrounds the centre. That is nice because I feel like melting away.
No point telling him, he wouldn't wanna hear it, and if he'd listen, he'd not grasp it. Right, that's it, I gotta go back for some food and hope he won't be around, or perhaps that he will be, I dunno what, and lately that's itched the hell outta me.
xxx
Now I will be blasted – Duo Maxwell working overtime. I know him by his stupid braid that is bouncing about his ass while he has his arms dug into the gearbox of Deathscythe, his skinny body a sliver of nothing in his oily overall. He should wash the thing, he is always filthy and does not even notice. I think his hair is the only thing he bothers to keep tidy. It has a nice shine and a pretty colour that reminds me of maple leaves in autumn.
He reminds me of… no, he just plain irritates me. Perhaps I should go now, he's blown it just by being here, and no, it is too late because he has heard my steps, he must have eyes at the back of his head and the senses of a fox, and he is wearing this silly grin. He cannot fool me though – I can see very well that his eyes stay dark, wary; he is probably worried about our little spat earlier on. As if I would bother hitting him back now; it is simply not worth it.
"Hey," he says uneasily, rubbing his hands on some rag. There's oil all over his arms; he keeps scrubbing as I walk towards him, and he steps back unthinkingly until he hits Deathscythe and trips on a crowbar he has dropped on the floor. He is a messy worker. He slips and is on his bum and up again in a flash, rubbing his hip.
"You hurt?" Did I say this? He is gaping at me as though he has seen a ghost. "Close your mouth, Maxwell, and answer me."
"What?" His grows still, well for a second at least, before he carries on scrubbing at his hands. He would need soap and hot water. The scouring to which he treats his skin leaves red streaks on the inside of his lower arms, he really should stop this now.
"Give me that." I only grab the rag, but he jerks aside as if I had stung him, and his fist flies towards me before I know why, and then I catch his wrist and bring him to his knees with a hard twist. Winded with pain, he says nothing but struggles madly. "Stop it! What is it with you, gone completely nuts now or what?" I toss the rag into his lap, and then I see the dark marks my fingers are making already on his white skin, and cannot help glancing over those streaks.
Scars.
He tugs. I let go. He is up and away flying, a scared rabbit could not run faster, seeking refuge behind the foot of Deathscythe he has been busy mending, and he grabs the crowbar for good measure. What has he planned, hit me over the head with the thing? Those scars look a good deal like cuts, all the way from his wrists to the crook of his elbows. "Maxwell?"
"Piss off," he snarls softly, eyes narrow and hard, all childishness suddenly gone from his features.
"I wanted a break."
"I'll give you one if you touch me again." He taps the tool into the palm of his thin hand.
"You were skinning yourself with that rag. Try washing."
He does not take it well, but I did not expect his eyes to fill up one of a sudden. And for once, he says nothing but begins to gather his tools into the box he keeps in Deathscythe's cabin. What have I done? I shut him up. He is quiet, he is closed-up, and I will be damned but it feels…
Wrong.
xxx
I do hate him. I hate his guts, his face, his fuckin' bloody know-it-all attitude. My scars are none of his business. My life isn't. And those eyes he gives me make me feel all naked. I hate it, hate him, to hell with him. Why doesn't he fuckin' go away now?
"Duo?"
Ouch. We do not use given names, we are on formal terms, he and I. Why does he stare at me like that, have I grown a second head or what? I can feel my stupid eyes water and he keeps staring, his face going all… soft. Hell, yeah, so I'm a crybaby, so piss off, Yuy, I don't need your pity.
"Don't jump at me now, hear me?"
He comes closer, a bit reluctant. He has this rattled expression in his face, so what is it now?
"Whatcha want? I'll be gone in a sec, then you can have your peace 'n quiet." He is now so close that I can smell him, a fresh earthy scent, with a hint of soap. He makes me feel filthy because he is always so clean. Perhaps I should ask to move rooms; we just don't work out together and we have to keep it reasonable for the sake of the squad.
"Have you finished already?" He is looking on as I light a cigarette. I'm waiting for a nasty comment, and nothing happens, he doesn't even grace me with his death glare. Now I got it: he is ill. "Perhaps I could help?" he offers.
The cigarette drops from my mouth to the ground, and for a heartbeat or two, I'm too boggled to pick it up, but then I do and scramble back to form. He's seen enough of me, time to get back to the game; him prying is the last thing I need. "I'm done, and thanks."
"I didn't mean to startle you."
"You didn't." No, I won't admit that he scared me shitless with that single touch to my arm.
"Then," he closes in and his eyes turn all steely again as he stretches out his arm, palm turned up, "let me see your arm."
Damn.
His fingers clasp round my wrist, no point struggling for he can easily hold me up dangling. He lifts my arm and shoves up the sleeve of the overall, his touch gliding roughly over my skin. Now where is his comment, something either scathing or woolly? I'm waiting, bracin' myself while I manage to glare at his face that has darkened like it does when he's really cross, and he bites his lip so much it'll bleed in a moment.
xxx
Cuts. Someone has sliced Duo's arms open. He is staring at me wide-eyed, his face hard and suddenly so much older than his years. I have never seen him like this before; it does not suit him, it is not him at all. The baka is quiet, the flurry gone, the grin wiped off, all this is fine. But his eyes have gone sullen, too. I never realised how much light they hold when he is his usual silly self. Now they are full of shadows that I cannot read, and I know pity is the last thing he wants.
"Have you eaten anything?" is all I can think of. I have not seen him since this morning when he ran off without breakfast, after he punched me and before I could drag him off to class.
"Don't mother me, Yuy," he says, surprisingly softly. "I'm fine."
Grown up Duo Maxwell? He tugs at his arm, and I let him withdraw from my grip. His wrist felt so small in my hand that I was afraid for a moment to crush it, but I have seen him really battered and know he is tough. He does not look it though, with his narrow frame and lanky limbs.
"And stop staring," he snaps.
I am sure I did not stare. He turns his back and carries on rummaging through his toolbox until he is content that he has sorted it well enough, bangs it shut and shoves it along to the lift up to the entry hatch of the great machine.
Well. Perhaps a head-on is the best approach here. "Who did this to you?" He pretends not to hear, heaves the box onto the metal platform – what on earth does he keep in there that makes it so heavy? But then he likes to hoard things: food under his bed, for example, and bits and pieces he picks up outside, such as feathers, some dried stalks of grass, and so on. Childish things, toys. Maybe he has some of them in the toolbox too. "Duo? Who did it?"
"I did." He tosses his braid, for which he will endure any amount of teasing, back over his shoulder and climbs onto the platform. I know a run when I see one, and follow him before he can press the up-button. "Look, Yuy," he says, slightly unnerved and hiding behind his bangs, "I'm sorry for hittin' you. You can batter me later if you must, just let me finish here and gimme a break, yeah?"
"Why?"
He crosses his arms and stares down at my feet. The platform rises swiftly, swaying on its framework of steel girders. It always makes me a bit giddy, and I grab the handrail. That gets him to look at me, questioningly, a tiny smile on his lips. He never stays serious for long, thank goodness, and this is much more like him. Is he relieved that I am afraid of heights? I have to control this better.
"You really wanna know?" The platform thumps to a bumpy halt at the hatch, and he uses both hands to haul up his box. I can see his arms strain and the veins at his neck bulge, but he makes it all up with energy as he puffs and manhandles the thing over the knee-high threshold and dumps it on the floor inside.
"Yeah," I say to his back. For a moment, his bottom sticks up in the air as he bends over to latch the box in place just beyond the door, next to the fire extinguisher. He may be thin, but he has shape – damn, I am not thinking this rubbish now.
"What's it to you?" he shoots over his shoulder.
He has me baffled. I am not used to being answered back, let alone with another question. What can I say? The truth is that I do not know, but I am aching to find out, to do something, perhaps to soften what I said to him this morning and that suddenly begins to weigh me down. I realise with a start that my idea of Duo Maxwell has taken quite a knock, and I like things to be right, controllable, clear. So maybe that is it, but I cannot tell him this. "We're team mates, aren't we?"
"And?" He straightens, expertly battens down the hatch – much quicker than I could do it – and turns to meet my eyes. He is smiling, not his usual inane grin, but a real smile, even though it is cautious and perhaps a bit cool. "You see," he says quietly, "you're right with a lot of the stuff you're yellin' at me all the time."
The height is making me dizzy; I cling to the railing a bit harder.
He does not smile this time but adds, "And I'm just some fool who's had some pot luck to be here."
He is no fool. He hates lessons because he has to sit still and listen, because he drops off sometimes and tends to miss deadlines, but he is no fool, I know that because he has backed me up during a few missions. He knows perfectly well what he is doing once he is harnessed to his Gundam; he would rather die than let off, and the first time I saw him change into battle mode he truly shocked me. For I discovered that in battle, he is cruel. He takes pleasure in killing.
"So here goes," he holds my gaze, his eyes strange, wide and still, "I meant to apologise and tell you that I'm goin' to ask to change rooms so I'm outta your hair."
xxx
Now I don't understand him at all anymore. The Perfect Soldier insisted I stay – how's that for luck? He didn't ask again about the cuts, but his entire attitude towards me has changed. I could get used to this. Still, what he did before does hurt for I'm no different now, so why wasn't I worth his while before he saw my arms? I suspect it's pity and I hate that. Like, hate, want – what do I want? Hell, yeah, I'm bein' my usual messed-up self.
He got me dinner from the cafeteria and I ate it to stop him pestering me. Predictably, I brought it all up again with my head over the toilet bowl, the shower running so he didn't hear me. I had a fag after that, and now I'm sittin' here on the loo and wait until the stink of tobacco smoke goes away. It sucks 'cos I'm bushed.
Sure as hell, he has to knock the damn door. "Duo? Are you in there?" I wish he'd go back to using my surname. It makes me fuzzy and uneasy if he talks so familiar to me, but it also warms me inside. "Hey, Maxwell! You alright?" Bingo, back to formal, but he sounds… concerned. I'll be blasted. He can be nice?
"Hell, yeah."
"Come out. I know you're smoking, so don't bother hanging around. I need the bathroom."
Flat impatience. He manages to convey both with his tone, and I picture his stance now, arms crossed over his chest, legs braced, head thrust forward and his eyes gleaming up from behind raven bangs. He has blue eyes. Dark blue, like a midnight sky, without stars or expression, and his hair is thick and shiny. Sometimes I wonder how it would feel, cool or warm, soft or wiry. I like nice things, and his hair looks nice. Maybe he is nice.
"Man, Duo, come out of there already!"
Right, here we go. I wash my hands and open the door, ducking my head against the barrage he will have ready for me, but he just lays his hand on my shoulder and seeks my glance. "You 'kay?"
Silence can hurt my ears. I know that now. It hurt my brain too, so much it drained away and left me speechless. Me! And then his touch on my skin registers with my senses and sends them racing, pulse, breathing, sweating all in overdrive. I'm ready to faint.
He grabs both my upper arms and gives me a little shake. "Duo?"
I have an echo in my head that sings my name in his voice, and I wanna laugh and hop around; instead I just slip down against the wall.
"Damn," he gasps, his eyes going wide.
And then he scoops me up and carries me to my bed where he sets me down as though I could break. For a moment, he seems lost, staring down at me with unconcealed worry. "I'm going to call the medical unit," he then says firmly and turns towards the intercom console by the door, but I catch his arm.
"No! I'm just tired, if they think I don't make it they'll throw me outta here, please don't ring anyone, it'll pass, please!" One long, breathless string of words is about all I can manage, I feel like jelly, now pull yourself together, baka, and stop this act.
He bites his lip, his eyes lingering on my hand on his arm, a chalky contrast to the pale gold of his perfect hide. I let my arm drop and hide it under my sheets. "Please, don't call," I say, unable to sound anything but exhausted. I'm so bloody knackered, perhaps I really shouldn't be here; I could be like that on a mission, and then what, a danger to the others who rely on me… but back to the streets of L2?
I'd rather die.
xxx
Duo has gone all small and quiet, shrunk like a mouse, and utterly dejected behind his broad, pleading grin. I think I begin to figure him out, now that he is probably too weak to cling to his usual silly act. It is an act. Great conclusion, Yuy, and about time, it took a lot to get that into your hard head. You even remember to leave the emergency light on that you had fused so you could sleep in total darkness. He complained a few times back then and gave up when you brushed him off, calling him ridiculous for being afraid of the dark. The others picked on him for a while after that. He gets picked on quite a lot, for his braid, for my teasing, for whatever comes in handy. He always seemed to just shrug it off with a laugh, and sometimes with a fight. He can be vicious when the street kid comes through. Now I begin to wonder.
Now, sitting here by his bedside, I wonder what else I might find behind the scars, his fear of darkness and his obsessive hoarding of food. Should have given it some thought sooner, after all we have been room mates and a team for some time now, ne? A good leader has an eye for detail, that includes the people he wants to lead, and I have not only been blind and hardnosed, worse than that, I deliberately closed my eyes. I am at fault, and I dislike it.
He just passed out on me after stumbling out of the bathroom, and when I carried him to his bed, he was as light as a feather, as though he had starved for weeks. His braid has unravelled, and his hair splays around his head and shoulders in a copper halo. He looks strange like this, with a frailty about him that I find disturbing to say the least. His skin is pale, almost transparent, he has freckles on his nose and cheeks, and his features are rather sharp and pinched. To judge from his breathing, he is asleep, and I make a point of catching up, studying every detail of him and burn it to memory. I will never again miss the signs, that I have sworn to myself, because I owe it to my team mate, to my colleague, the one who I expect to die for me if need must be, and for whom I would do the same.
He rarely sleeps quietly, and he is whimpering now, his hands groping restlessly over the sheets, while he keeps turning his head in the pillows. He is back to talking, but it does not sound funny what he has to say in his dreams; it drives icy shudders down my back. How could I miss all this? Why did I not know? What can I do now without alarming everyone else and get him thrown out?
Unthinkingly, I reach out to seize one of his spiderthin hands and enfold it in my grip.
He stills. Instantly.
He has oil under his fingernails and embedded in the fine creases of his skin; Duo Maxwell in a hurry includes him skimping on cleanliness. There are things he will have to learn, like it or not, but right now, I am relieved that I can feel his pulse against my thumb. How strange, but I feel calmer too for holding his hand.
His hair is incredibly smooth to the touch. I could not resist weaving my fingers through the copper flood, so impossibly long and wavy for a boy. He has nothing girlish about him though, his body is all sinewy and angular and his face almost harsh when it is not lit by a smile or a grin. So I am sitting here, the textbook I was trying to read idly in my lap, and cannot stop sliding my fingers through the shiny locks he is so proud of. If he were awake, he would fight me off tooth and nail, like anyone who tries to touch his precious braid. But now he cannot fight, he is out cold, helpless, silent, and I take pleasure in touching his hair. It is warm and strong, but soft too, and somehow this is soothing me in a way that is very strange.
xxx
Heero's hand in my hair. Keep your breathing down, baka, don't let him realise you've woken up a while ago – no one touches me without me knowing, sensing it; call it instinct if you like. It has helped me to survive in the streets of L2, and perhaps I sleep while waking. What a load of bollocks…
Oh, it feels so good. Heero Yuy the Professional Ice-lump slowly raking through my hair, over and again; he doesn't seem to tire of it. I'm starved for touch, but why his? Hilde is nice 'n warm, too. She gave me comfort and compassion without pity the first bit of warmth in my life after the Church massacre. But it was always stolen moments for we never had time for anything but war, we still don't.
With him I've been living for what seems a lifetime, through thick and thin, training and battle, missions and school, and yet I know nothing about him, and the other way round. Still, he feels familiar even though he keeps pissing me off and putting me down all the fuckin' time.
What has gotten into him now? My head's spinning, I'm gonna be sick, and then he's gonna stop-
xxx
The ba… Duo insisted on getting up by himself and promptly would have fallen over had I not caught him, his hair cascading over my shoulders – he is a bit taller than me – and my arms as I helped him to the bathroom. He was convulsing already by the time we got there, and I was quick enough to gather his hair before he knelt down, head over the loo, to spit bile and blood, clasping the rim with whiteknuckled hands.
I left him alone, sitting on my heels by his side, holding his hair in my hands while he was puking his guts out. He brought up nothing in the way of food, and I have an idea or two why he had fainted earlier tonight. This is no good. He is damaged, I knew that much because no one normal behaves like Duo Maxwell, but this is worse than I realised. He is truly good at hiding, I will give him that, and I dread what else he is trying to bury where no one can find it.
He has stopped retching, though he is still down and heaving, elbows sticking up to either side of his back. I can count his ribs, the knuckles of his spine, and his hip bones are sharp arches under taut skin. His shorts are riding low but there is hardly a rounding of flesh; he has no reserves at all. Right, Yuy, here is your mission to make up for stupidity and hype – getting your team mate into shape so he will be capable to back you up when you are fighting. It feels good to have him guarding you, you do not really want anyone else, and this is a professional opinion no less, no more.
xxx
Hell, why does Heero make such a face now? I said thank you for dinner he insisted on getting for me from the cafeteria, and told him that I'd move rooms. "Wu's happy enough," I said lightly, "so I'll move my stuff tomorrow mornin'."
He has been sitting on the sofa in silence, his beloved laptop by his side, his hands dangling between his knees as he stares at the television screen. I bet he sees nothing. He is thinking. I am lounging on the floor, with a textbook I find too boring to read. So I watch him and can tell from his face, don't ask how, it somehow shows. Like the cogs in a Gundam; you know they're whirring madly when the whole thing is on even if you can't see them under the smooth metal plating. That, for me, sums him up.
"I'll be nice 'n quiet in your room," I try to make light.
"Our room. Too quiet perhaps," he says flatly, not stirring, not taking his eyes off the stupid screen. I sure start hearing things now, something's fucked with my head. So I light a cigarette, fumble to squeeze it out again as I remember where I am, and am gobsmacked when he leans over, picks the thing from my hand and lights it, then shoves it between my lips. He looks cool with a cigarette.
He should scold me for smoking. I have a job not to choke on a mouthful of smoke.
"So what about those scars?" he asks, leaning back, his eyes fixing on me. I like their colour and wonder what they hide behind their still surface. "Those cuts on your arms?"
Sod those, why can't he let off? "Whatcha mean?"
"Why did you do it?"
xxx
Duo does not like this one bit. He is fidgeting with the packet of cigarettes, the lighter, a stray strand of his hair, finally finds nothing else to fiddle with and looks up at me. Big, curious eyes the colour of dusk, somewhere between grey and a purplish blue. "What?"
Patience is probably the hardest virtue of all. "Why did you cut yourself?"
"You really wanna know?"
Watch out, he is about to get spooked the way he tries to squirm out of this, or is he? Scrutinising, for once weighing every word, though a smile settles on his face. "Yes."
"Why's that?"
This time, he does not catch me out. "Because I'm supposed to lead our team. I need to understand what's going on."
A spark of irony gleams in his eyes. "Is that it?"
What can I say? It is part of whatever is bugging me, and I have not figured out the other part yet. He does not expect an answer but rolls the cigarette between his bony fingers, smoke escaping lazily from his nose and mouth. "Then I suggest a deal," he says, still smiling, but his eyes darken a little. I cannot read them.
"Go on." Sometimes people's ideas say more about them than their words.
"You'll stick by it if you agree?"
How would I know unless he gets on with it and explains what the stakes are. "Hn." Not quite an answer, not quite fair because it is non-committal, keeping my options open, but he makes me wary.
"Then… um… I dunno…" He shifts and curls up into a crouch, arms round his knees, head ducked as he locks gaze with me.
"C'mon now," I urge him, patience wearing thin. Perhaps I am not so virtous after all.
He draws a deep breath and gives me a doubtful glance before spluttering, "If I tell you, I get to touch your hair." He turns splashing red the instant he says it, but stands his ground and keeps staring his small challenge at me.
Hair. I remember the feel of his locks sliding through my fingers and say, "My hair? Why?"
He shrugs, a strange mix of mistrust and resignation shading his gaze. "'Cos you touched mine? I always wake when someone touches me. So?"
Damn him. "No."
"No you won't let me? No you don't wanna know anymore?" He sounds unsurprised, gets up and disappears into the kitchen to make coffee. He needs his fix of caffeine if nothing else is at hand.
He does not understand. Yes, I would let him; yes, I want to know. Everything. And no, I do not want to trade like this.
xxx
Heero is a bad liar. I could see in his eyes that he wanted it. To hell with him.
xxx
Duo's things fit into one holdall and a large box that used to house wing spares no less. He must have swiped box and contents from the store; it is a skill he has tuned to perfection, as well as getting packed up and leaving within minutes like any good soldier. Wufei picks him up, and I hear them talk as they march down the hallway, Duo laughing freely at some of Wu's dry remarks.
It feels strange to have the room all to myself, sparse and clean, his corner tidy, his bed made for once. I should feel glad, relieved, and for a while it is just that. When he does not turn up for afternoon class, I think I am annoyed, but it is something else too. I am worried, right, can hardly wait for the end of the lecture before bursting out of the seminar room and heading for the hangar, his first place of choice to spend time when he skips school. I think he keeps getting away with it because the mechanics let him do their job, and he does it with glee.
Certain aspects of Duo Maxwell are conveniently predictable. He is pressurewashing Deathscythe, boy with toy. Small boy with giant toy, it's all the same. The nozzle on full makes a nice rainbow in the late sun, and as sure as I watch him, he is dreaming away time trying to give the band of colours a different angle and shape. He likes pretty things, anything colourful and shiny, and he soaks up impressions with a hunger that sometimes is overwhelming. He is hungry in many ways, for touch, for warmth, for respect. For beauty and for affection, well, and for food that he collects but does not eat and ends up storing where he forgets it.
"Duo?"
He nearly drops the hose, but then he just waves and smiles. "Hey, soldier. Whatcha want?"
I am not willing to tell him until he scrambles off the platform, rolls up the hose and lights a cigarette. "Does your deal still stand?" I ask, perhaps a bit gruffer than intended.
He stares at me through a puff of smoke to find out whether I am mocking him, then tries to wipe his hands dry on his soaking overall. His gaze is way too guarded for Duo, his smile cooling into something vague, calculating. Watch out. "The stakes have upped," he finally murmurs around his fag.
I do need to know more about him, understand him better, after all, it is my duty to take care of my team. "Upped how?"
He steps closer until he intrudes squarely into my space, and looks down at me nervously as he lets out a long, tense breath. "I get to hug you."
Absolutely not, what does the baka think? I hate being touched, people pressing close, it gives me the creeps, and what he wants... he has weird ideas and needs to be put into his place, not indulged. And I hear myself say, "Whatever."
He freezes, stares, and suddenly explodes into motion, throws his arms round my shoulders and clings to me, his chin digging into my shoulder, his entire being heaving, trembling, moulding against me like a drowning man to a log. I do not know what to do; pry him off, shake him off, nudge him back to reality? In the end, I lay my hands on his waist. "Your half of the bargain now," I remind him, and he slackens.
He has blushed a fiery tomato red, and it suits him because it makes him look fresh and easy. "I slashed my arms 'cos I wanted to die," he says dryly.
I gathered that much. "When was that?"
"After the massacre at Maxwell Church."
Ah. I should have figured this; now who is the baka…
"Everyone I loved was gone. So I wanted to be dead as well." He pauses, flicking some ash onto the concrete floor of the hangar. "But then I decided I'd rather not snuff it, tied some rags round my arms and got picked up by the nice people here. That's how I ended up a wing pilot." His smile does not waver, therefore I know it is false. What does it cost him to keep up appearances? "Seemed a better deal to kill instead of conking out. So that's what I do now. I kill." He pauses, flashing me a uneasy glance. "You're right," he says, "I'm a baka."
xxx
Heero blows me clean outta the water.
"I had to re-evaluate that," he tells me in this sober, level way of his, his eyes guarded, expression carefully blank. Nothing unusual here then, and yet... he let me hug him. Damn, and did he feel just great; he made me all warm and fuzzy inside, well, and without until I got worried he might notice. I don't care 'bout where warmth comes from, and right now it happens to radiate from a guy, from stuck-up-his-ass Heero Yuy, Perfect Soldier and drool of the school. I've learned early in life not to be picky and keep my options as wide open as possible, so whether gal or guy doesn't really matter to me. Problem is, you just never know whether whoever takes your fancy does appreciate this. Most folk don't. But he didn't struggle, he didn't look disgusted, he just...
He keeps looking at me. "Our room's too quiet. I'd like you to move back in."
Our room. It's his damn room, and this is a bit fast - why should I? "I'm fine where I am, and it's better for everyone. Wufei's got no problem, we get along fine."
"I have spoken with him. He has shifted your things already."
"Shifted my… I didn't say yes!"
"I didn't ask."
Great. He gave an order, that means he considers this his mission, and now he's glaring at me, trying to face me down. He felt so damn good in my arms, and he did not struggle one bit. Instead, he simply decided for me that my place is in his damn room, and he'll probably try to educate me into an example for all future Gundam pilots – look what can be done with a bit of work, even Duo Maxwell made it. Fuck that. But the way he is staring, if I go off ranting now, that'll be it.
Whatever is behind all this, I know that's not what I want.
What is it I want? What does he want? Guess we'll have to figure this out.
xxx END Chapter 1 xxx