This is going to roughly follow canon plot, including some dialogue drawn directly from the show. Primary pairing is 1x2, though there will be multiple secondary pairings later in the story.
WARNINGS: Occasional triggering, history/mentions of self-harm and suicide ideation. Angst. Dubious consent. Alcohol and drug usage. Gratuitous amounts of sex (some in graphic detail). Explicit language.
Heero Yuy sits silently in the bar, staring at the commotion littering the dark room. Smoke rises like a sullen haze around him, and his nose wrinkles imperceptibly. Nicotine is just another crutch for the weak. His deep blue eyes flicker over to the tumbler in his hand, the amber liquid inside barely touched. He knows better than to sit in a bar without the appearance of drinking, especially in wartimes. Yet the reason he is here goes far deeper than alcohol could reach. He can feel the itching beneath his skin, the slight twitch in his fingers. His eyes rove the room restlessly, scanning the occupants, and he barely muffles an agitated sigh. Nothing here would suit. A bevy of drunken men and women, far beyond the reaches of being interesting. Half would probably fall asleep before serving their purpose.
He spins the tumbler in his hand again, watching the liquor swirl slowly around the edges. He lifts it to his lips and takes a sip, enjoying the low burn in his belly, the fire that traces him in the wake of the alcohol. He won't drink too much. Would never drink enough to feel anything more than a hint of warmth. He is always so cold.
He can sense the madness edging his mind, a frame of barbed wire and twisted steel. He can feel himself spiraling out of control. J would be furious right now, would be demanding that he return to the torture referred to as "training." What Heero never told J was that the training only made things worse, only made him grasp more desperately at any illusion of control. Heero would kill a man for the knowledge that he was in control of his own destiny, and indeed had before. He bites down on a low snarl, aware that his self control is splintering beneath his rigid grip. He needs to find something, and soon. A willing body, pliant beneath him, begging to be taken. A compliant victim. A room where no one would hear the screams.
The door creaks open, and he turns slightly on the barstool, body tensing. A slight figure slips through the doorway, scans the room, and slides onto a stool. His body tenses all at once, a thrill of need rushing through his frame. There. Something about the newcomer snatches up his reasoning and throws it out the window, as desire hums through him like a current. His hand clenches on the glass, squeezing until he feels it creak beneath his fingers. A tiny crack appears on the side and he forces himself to put it down, trying to pull in a breath through his suddenly numbed lips. He absently licks the trickle of liquid off of his thumb and leaves his eyes pinned to his target, dreaming.
Peacetime is a bad time for Duo Maxwell. Professor G had been strangely silent, encouraging him to stay low and remain concealed. This was terrible news for Duo. Sick as it was, war was the only thing that kept him sane. He paces the small room that serves as his hideout, counting his steps across the worn carpet. One, two, three… he snorts to himself, tangling his fingers in the end of his tawny braid. Pacing would not fix the toxic desperation seeping through his veins. They might call this a 'safehouse', but there was more danger alone in this tiny room than in the soldiers sweeping the country to find him.
A low keening whimper runs through his mind, a burble of indistinguishable voices. They were all crying out, the howls and screams of his victims. The crackle of the church fire, the patter of children's feet, orphans running for their lives. Duo sinks to the floor, clutching his hands to his head. He couldn't survive in this emptiness, in a day devoid of mobile suit controls beneath his hands. He hated the death that his hands brought but he needed the pain, the crack of his body against the scorching metal walls of his suit, the bruises blossoming on his skin like orchids. He needed to wake up in the morning with the lingering torment of a body pushed past its limits. He needed the terrible blankness of the Angel of Death, his Shinigami, the sweet madness of Deathscythe's weaponry slicing through screeching metal like so much shredded paper.
The whimper in his mind erupts into a low, helpless moan, and he clamps his hands over his mouth, realizing that the pitiful sound is escaping from his lips. The moan quiets, muffled, but he can hear it echoing through his ravaged brain. The lull in fighting is tearing at his sanity, ripping through any sense of reality. He finds his hands inching toward the knives tucked into his combats boots, the gleam of their blades shining brilliantly in his mind's eye. He can already feel the sharp clarity of pain shredding the fog from his mind, the blood sweeping away the lethal guilt pressing down on his chest. His heartbeat speeds up, slamming into his ribcage like a prizefighter in a championship match. He stops his hands' slow creep and rubs at his chest, trying to slow the thrumming of his pulse beneath his skin. He knows he can't go on like this much longer.
His hands slide into his lap, helpless, and fingers trace the myriad of scars etching his pale skin. The ridges of tissue roll beneath his fingertips like the slow waves of memory, ebbing and flowing like the living nightmares of his past. A red haze is creeping over his vision as the chants in his mind grow louder, as the screams begin to reverberate with the old familiar demand: bleed for us. Pay for your sins. It is your fault, and you must suffer. A shudder wracks his slender frame and he throws himself to his feet. He shrugs into a dark, heavy coat and slams into the door, fingers trembling as they grasp at the doorknob. He has to get out, and now, before he makes a lethal mistake. He can't afford to be injured, when he needs the siren call of battle in his blood. He can't afford to have G thinking that he is unfit for battle, when the whine of his suit's engine is the only song that keeps him going. His violet eyes rapidly dart around the street, streetlights casting a feeble glow on the pavement. Finally his desolate gaze falls on the faint neon shimmer of a bar's sign, and he turns himself that direction with a frantic prayer.
Please let this work.
Duo throws open the door of the bar and heads straight for the battered wooden counter, taking only a second to ascertain that no danger lingers in the eyes of the building's drunken inhabitants. He slides onto a stool, carelessly throwing the coat's length out behind him. The bartender appears in front of him like an answered prayer and raises an eyebrow. Duo wonders what he looks like, and raises a hand to touch his hair. His hands are trembling like fallen leaves, and, as he guessed, his hair is wild and wind tossed from his anxious flight. A faint blush creeps across his high cheekbones, but he manages to mumble out an order for something strong. A glass slides across the bar to him, filled with a golden liquid. He tosses a money chip to the bartender and tilts the glass to his lips, downing half of the alcohol in that first gulp. Heat blazes down his throat, warming his belly. He drinks the rest and slides the glass back across the bar for a refill, chucking a second chip onto the wood.
He feels a little calmer as he sips the second glass, the edges of his desperation blunted by the fuzzy warmth of the whiskey. At least, he thinks it's whiskey. He wasn't paying much attention when he flung his hand out at the lines of bottles and begged for something cheap and fast. It's only as his tensed muscles relax that he notices the weight of eyes on him. His shoulders tighten, as if to ward off a blade aimed at his spine, and he casually rotates the barstool until he is facing the room. The pool tables are filled, but the players are far too occupied with placing bets, missing shots, and pawing at the adoring women to pay him any mind. He takes a long sip of his drink, clinging to the tingling in his fingertips, enjoying the numbness spreading over his mind. He turns his head a bit more and finds the glitter of eyes upon him.
His breath leaves him in a quiet whistle as he takes in his observer. A slender figure, a measured gaze, the aura of someone who is used to being obeyed. The barely caged violence of one who is forced to submit to his inferiors. Duo knows the struggle he sees banked in every tensed line of the other man's body, knows if he glanced in a mirror he would see the same strain in every inch of his own flesh. His eyes catch the white knuckled grip of the stranger's hand and a frown tilts his lips. The same quicksand emptiness that echoes in his skin is mirrored in every anguished second of their mated eyes.
Duo tears his eyes away, releasing a gasp that he wasn't aware of holding in. He drains the glass, beckons the bartender, and stares fixedly at the scratched wood grain beneath him. His empty hands curl into themselves, tendons straining as he clenches his fingers tight to his palms. Nails dig in, pain biting at the fuzziness of the alcohol, neither the liquor nor the pain enough to clear the neediness from his mind. The weight of the stranger's gaze rests heavy on his bowed head, the pressure like the touch of a hand on his hair. His glass reappears before him and he thoughtlessly flicks another chip toward the bartender. A hand snakes out and grabs the chip midair, placing it down in front of him.
Duo glances up, eyes half-lidded with the effort of holding the tattered edges of his control. The stranger stands beside him, passing his own chip to the man behind the bar. Duo rocks back on his stool, stunning by the danger that sweeps off of his companion. The darkness is nearly palpable, and Duo can feel something in his body come alive in response. A crimson fog sweeps across his eyes as the stranger extends a hand.
"Heero." He says, by way of greeting.
Duo has to swallow around the sudden whimper in his throat. This stranger, this Heero's voice, is ringed with shadow, a raspy echo of dark alleys and moonless nights. His body is responding against his will, alcohol soaked fibers of his brain aching to hear that voice again. Belatedly, Duo remembers Heero's hand, and he lifts his own to meet it. Heero's fingers wrap around his, strong and sure, with calluses born from what he knows to be a mobile suit's controls. The thought sends a jolt of arousal through him. Hands capable of commanding a suit are more than able to strip him bare and feed the frenzied screams for pain.
A small, deadly smile curls Heero's lips, and Duo has to close his eyes against a second surge of desire, barreling through him so close on the heels of the first.
"It's considered polite to respond, but I don't particularly care what your name is as long as you'll let me fuck you. Finish your drink."
Duo's eyes shoot open and he stares up at Heero. Heero's eyes are blue, he notices, but not the blue of a calm day. No, the eyes that capture him and demand his acquiescence are the midnight blue of an ocean's storm, the roiling waves and the snapping fury of a raging wind. And at this moment, those storm deep eyes are swept out, pupils devouring the iris like the gaping maw of a maelstrom. The intensity in the blackness of his gaze is shattering, and Duo is shocked to find himself quaking like a strung-out addict.
Heero's hand is still holding his, and it closes around his wrist like a vise. Duo finds himself pulled from his stool, finds the glass pressed into his other hand.
"Drink." Heero commands, and his voice offers no chance of argument.
The alcohol burns its way down his body, just as before, but Duo doesn't notice. Everything in him is focused on the iron shackle of fingers around his wrist, the frisson of abject need that rocks him with every second that Heero touches his skin. He barely registers dropping the glass, the bartender's startled shout, as Heero pulls him toward the door. He barely registers that perhaps he should be asking questions, should be figuring out whether Heero means to kill him, before he is pulled onto the back of a motorcycle. And then, as the rumble of the engine growls through him, as he is pressed against the warmth of a lethally muscled back, as his arms are clutching the heat of his destruction, he doesn't register anything at all.