Author: LoveyouHateyou
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: NC-15/M
Pairings: Heero and Duo
Warnings: References to male/male love.
Disclaimer:I do not own them although I would like that. It takes someone like Duo to hang on to someone like Heero. Oh, and vice versa. All rights with their original owners.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Heero in the afterglow.
Prequel: You might want to look back at Good Night as a precursor of this story.
Sequel: None
xxx
It always amazes me how quiet our place can be when Duo is asleep.
He has done me and rather predictably, dropped off almost straightaway. I like it, for now I can look at him without getting cross-eyed. He is still for once, curled up in a tight ball, his back to me, arms crossed over his belly, head down against his drawn-up knees. Hunched and bony, he looks very small right now. I can count his ribs and know exactly how many scars he had on his hide yesterday. Sometimes he adds a few more.
He smells spicy and strong, of sweat and what we have just done, and I can still sense the heat radiating from his body. His skin feels damp and hot to my touch, my kiss on his shoulder, my hand brushing over his cheek. I have messed up his precious hair that now splays around his face and neck like a crow's nest, hiding most of his features, but I know his face after sex anyway: open wide and say 'ah'.
Duo can look so stupid and he does not even have to try hard, especially when he is excited and happy about something, like those first tiny leaves that cover the winter-bare park in a thin veil of green. He tends to get all worked up about small things like this, stuff I usually overlook. He will tell me, prod me, nag until it becomes too much and I do him the favour to look, acknowledge, if only to have peace. After a while, he had sussed it out and it was not enough for him; now I also have to listen and really make an effort to talk. About little green leaves for example, although it feels ridiculous to waste time on this.
So yes, they feel like silk and velvet, and they are a little sticky at first when the bud bursts and they unfold in the pale sunlight, and they are wrinkled, fluffy underneath, a bit paler than on the upper side, and the empty shell of a bud is brown and shiny just like the bark of the twigs it sits on. No, I did not know these things before, and he was glowing with satisfaction when I told him. How can he still love life so much?
A small smile is passing over his face, a sigh floats from his lips, and I wonder what he is dreaming about. Sex? Duo sometimes has nothing else on his mind. At work, I have to keep him at arm's length, or the baka would do it in public. It annoys me, and it pisses him off big time; he just cannot separate one issue from another. He sulks and growls at me, but I know he will not see it through: one kiss, and he melts in my arms for Duo has no staying power and very little in the way of pride as I understand it.
But without him, I would never have discovered spring; it seemed so unimportant in our time of war. I would not have known the stillness of snow and the colour of the sea under a summer sky, or the scent of a pine forest after rain. He dragged me out into a chill autumn night to show me the moon, a silver giant low on the horizon, laying out a shimmering road on a sea of mist. I would like to walk there, he whispered, with you, you know. He pressed my arm and huddled close, and I could not help but hug him. I think he needed it.
Still, he does go on my nerves, what with his babbling and fussing, always on the move, always in a flurry – sometimes his shape blurs before my eyes. To define him as irritating is grossly underrating the whole thing called Duo.
I have all but given up to try and understand him, for I have come to believe that we are way too different. He is nuts. I need a beginning, middle, and end to whatever happens, a framework of order to structure our lives. Mine and his. He never takes the time to assess anything properly, let alone plan a course of action or follow it through. He begins with bouts of enthusiasm and ends in utter devastation, unable to finish whatever has taken his fancy. As though he was scared of completing anything, afraid of the end or what lies beyond. It worries me sometimes: what if he is afraid of staying with me? He gives me these strange, sad glances sometimes when he believes I am not looking, and quickly turns away or cracks his silly fake grin when I catch him out. No, I do not like this one bit, but I do not know how to tell him; I am no good with words.
He is tensing, his teeth begin to grind and a little whimper wrenches from his throat. Here we go again, like every night. I spoon around him and wrap one arm round his shoulders, so that my other hand can lace through his hair and stroke his face. He will not wake up, but it will soothe him somehow, and I am glad I found that out. He used to yell and scream in his nightmares, eyes wide, unseeing and bulging with terror, voice raw with pain, his body so rigid that it seemed to break any moment. Now I can at least help him through the worst bits, in every sense.
It is a damn difficult mission. He has no manners, not even a basic understanding of rules, and a paranoid fear of being pinned down. Here I caught him out big time for I know I have him just there, cornered and shocked, a deer in the headlights: he loves me, and he cannot help it. So he does what he can, tries to talk it away, runs away, hides out from me, only to come back time and again, bedraggled and a bit sheepish, and burning with renewed passion.
He is a damn good shag, even gets me going, and once he is inside me, all bets are off. Sometimes I hate it because he robs me of my control, my dignity, and my self, reducing me to yapping putty beneath him. More often though, I like losing myself to him – he is the only one, ever, who got me there. I trust him.
So he has me, too, though I got no clue why. Perhaps because he has no other agenda. Duo can only be himself, all bare passion and so much love it is consuming him; he even has enough for me, and that sure is not easy. He leaves me be. Behind his mad flurry, I can have silence, and nothing can go wrong with him shielding me, filtering life for me in doses I can just manage.
It shows in subtle ways: how he changes from nutter to lover, from aggressive to considerate as though at the flick of a switch. He refuses to do what I want because he believes it would hurt me; instead, he insists on doing things slowly and properly, for once. Spread, lube, kiss, enter. Nice and gently, hugging me close all the time, never breaking the kiss, the embrace, the warmth. He is not afraid of showing tenderness, and for this I admire him.
A painful groan shudders through him, fading as I quickly press him close and whisper his name. Duo, hear me, it's just a dream, I'm here. His jolly mask hides many things, but not from me. He knows he is naked to me, heart and soul, not to mention his body, and he does not mind. I could not bear feeling so exposed to anyone, not even to him. Leaving the equation rather uneven, with him giving and me taking, but I cannot balance it even though I know he suffers. He could do better if he only would realise, I am sorely aware of this and glad that he appears oblivious to anything more serious than his self-destructive flings.
How selfish of me. Duo has not a shred of selfishness; he will give and keep giving until he has nothing left for himself, unless someone stops him from burning out. I am trying to do just this, needing all my reserves in the process.
By my bedside stands an empty beercan with water in it and a twig with fresh leaves. He insisted on putting it there, to remind me of spring. Of life. Of his love for me that sometimes needs acknowledgement, which I tend to forget. I said it once, it still holds true, but Duo needs to hear it time and again. So here I have my reminder, placed squarely within my line of sight, and I bend over and touch my lips to his ear. Hey, baka. I love you.
He turns, and I will be blasted if I do not catch a glimpse of dusky eyes through his lashes, and a barely-there smile – I am not sure whether he is asleep or just using a little ruse to gain the touches he craves. It does not matter anyway, for the truth is that without him, I would plunge back into darkness, blind, deaf and dumb. A killing machine, dead inside and deadly without.
For without him, I have neither soul nor heart.
I am not cross when he dares to open one eye, gleaming worriedly from beneath messy bangs. It feels good to be able to hug someone. He was the only one brave enough to dare me, and I do not regret it. "You were dreaming."
"Hell, yeah," he mutters, a note of relief clearly in his tone, "now let me dream on."
"No, you gotta wake up and remember your promise."
His eyes go wide, his smile likewise – he has not forgotten, of course, and my teasing sets off the very predictable chain reaction of Duo Maxwell making love. Whatever. I like it. He is mine, madness and all; he frightens the hell out of me and he is a challenge that sometimes I find disheartening. But he loves me, and this is the long and the short of it.
Shinigami is mine.
And I will keep him.
xxx
The End
(though you if you liked this one, you might want to read on with 'Good Morning')