Beach
The beach is a strip of sea washed sand, white like salt under certain lights until it's touched by water. Just one drop is enough to dye it gray. There are broken fragments of shells littered along the shore, whorls and scalloped ridges beautiful if one can forget that these are skeletons, relics, the only surviving remnants of creatures who once roamed the oceans as mobile suits now roam the featureless expanse of space.
Sand is sand is sand, but this is not the desert, and Quatre feels out of place, out of his depth. He isn't used to the rushing swell of the waves, the hunger lapping the shores like a greedy child. The wind is briny, knife-sharp, and cuts along his cheeks with no more mercy than the desert sun at noon.
Life is a ruthless little thing.
He's alone out here with nary a guard or soldier standing by, which is ridiculous, really, because he's still a dangerous outlaw who ought to be shackled in some dungeon and interrogated with a whip. That's the general consensus among the colonies, at least, and isn't it ironic that they've been shown more mercy by these allies of OZ that clothe and feed them than poor Duo, whose capture was cheered by the people he'd been risking his neck to protect.
Irony galore. But ire has faded into a dull ache that disappears in a greater wash of pain, like a teardrop plunging into an impatient sea reaching out until it touches sky; for once the trembling huddle of other people's sensations has given way to his own. He hunches his knees closer together, closer to his chest, so close that maybe if he presses hard enough he'll just fold in on himself and disappear, like the ache.
What an absolutely attractive notion.
But the raw barking of hounds scatters that possibility to the winds, as the soft pitter-pat of their paws on sand grows louder and nearer, and they throw themselves at him to slobber on his newly washed shirt and vest. Their affection draws a smile from him, some small measure of comfort gained from the warmth that comes of coffee colored fur and hot, pink tongues. For some reason, he's always had a way with animals.
Unlike the dogs, no sound precedes the arrival of a battered pair of tennis shoes that move into his range of sight with an assassin's graceful tread. He follows the shoes to the ridiculous looking ankle socks, the skinned and knobby knees, the shorts that hug the thighs closer than skin, the thin chest and loose shirt, and finally, above the neck, to those eyes that are flat and quiet and do not judge.
"Good afternoon," he says, though there's no more need for speech with Heero than there is with the dogs. It gives their situation at least some semblance of normality, and he tries on a smile, finds that it fits, and lets it stay. Heero looks down on him, silent, the wind tearing his already unruly hair this way and that till he looks almost like a madman, if madmen were ever this cool and this calm. Perhaps they are.
He should know.
"Has something come up?"
Heero's cold-eyed gaze should be enough to unnerve anyone, but Quatre isn't just anyone; he's the member of a very select group, all of whom seem to be immune. Duo, he thinks, would let it glide off his jester's mask smooth as lathered soap, while the Chinese boy they met briefly in St. Edward's has a burning flame in his own eyes equal to any chill, and Trowa...
As for him, he doesn't really care anymore.
"Have a seat," he says when no answer seems forthcoming, and to his surprise, Heero does, sliding down into a cross-legged position while his eyes turn toward the sea. One of the dogs slinks over to nuzzle him, and he pats it absently on the head without looking down. Another surprise, that he doesn't just push it irritably away; which, from Quatre's conversations with Duo, is more courtesy than any human should hope to receive. There are hidden reserves of emotion under that bland soldier's mask, and he can feel them running like veins of water beneath the earth's surface, able to be tapped if one only knew where to look.
That's not his job, though, so he just follows Heero's gaze over to the horizon, and they sit there, side by side, while the sun inches across the sky.
The dogs embark on a merry chase through the water, barking and yipping in puppyish glee, while above them seagulls dip into the water in search of a tasty meal. Sea foam froths and bubbles as the waves dash themselves against the shore, over and over in a futile war.
He feels the urge to speak. "You could, you know. Kill me. It shouldn't be a difficult job at the moment."
The scrape of soles on sand, and Heero turns a few degrees, so that one blue eye is visible under his mop of hair, reminiscent of -- "Do you want to die?"
"Not particularly." He's kept himself away from blades and guns, anything that might turn out to be a source of temptation. Belatedly, it occurs to him that Heero, too, should fit into that category. "Atonement can't be paid by death. But you announced your intentions quite plainly back in space, and you don't seem the sort to renege on promises."
"Hn." A long pause ensues as Heero turns back to face the ocean once more. The Perfect Soldier has a surprisingly frail-looking neck, slender and tanned, not at all like the tendon-corded columns of his tougher Maganacs; Rashid, for one, could snap it with one casual flex of his fingers -- if he ever managed to get a good grip. Somehow, that scenario doesn't seem likely to occur. "He wanted you to live. I owed him a favor," is finally offered by way of explanation.
That bites, a puncture wound aimed straight for the soul. "You're crueler than I thought, Heero." But he's sensed it, the bond between those two boys that are so similar, and he wonders, briefly, if Heero plays an instrument.
They settle into another strangely companionable silence as the phantom strains of a duet weave dexterously through Heero's mussed brown hair, past the seagulls' beating wings, into the heart of the universe where a missing space capsule might, /must/ be floating.
The sun is warm, but the wind is cold, sweeping along the shore with the taste of salt and sea.
"Don't do that," says Heero suddenly, so out of the blue that he jerks back a bit in disorientation, earning him a frown and one of those oxygen-draining glares.
"Do what?"
He flinches again when Heero stretches out a hand towards him with another matching set of frown-and-glare, one of those calloused pilot's fingers touching his cheek, lighting there for a brief second before it comes away glistening. "That."
"I -- " How amazing. He hadn't felt the dampness until Heero showed him. Doesn't feel pain, even, which makes it questionable why his eyes are streaming tears like a broken faucet, since there's just this very flat and empty place inside his chest that conjures up memories of the Zero System. Like space without the comforting knowledge of the colonies close by, without the glittering stars as roadsigns, a pure vacuum that's eating up the pain and the guilt and everything else along with them, and that should be a good thing, is, except that he's leaking tears, not crying, but obviously enough to stir Heero's hackles up.
"I'm sorry," he says honestly, and his voice sounds very normal. Would you like one cube of sugar, or two? Some cream, perhaps?
That gains him a sound of exasperation, and Quatre laughs out loud, stark and joyless. "If you don't want to see me cry, Heero, then why don't you comfort me?" He pronounces the name in English rather than the usual Japanese, He~ro, who kills fire-breathing mobile suits and wins the hearts of princesses and debauched priests. There's a streak of perversity that runs deep beneath his lily-white facade, like damp sand under dry, rarely unearthed, but vicious once it is.
"Will it end this self-pity marathon you've been going on?"
"Huh?" is his intelligent reply, but even that faint syllable fades from his brain as Heero turns with the familiar 'Ninmu Ryoukai' glint in his eyes, eyes that rapidly zoom in to ten times their previous size before disappearing completely when he shuts his own, not quite able to believe that this is happening.
He doesn't open them even when he feels hard lips on his lips, hot breath mingling with his breath, calloused palms on either side of his face
or when his hands reach up like he's been drowning to wrap around that deceptively fragile neck, feeling the power there, the muscles tensed, and realizing that it would take a great deal more than a Maganac's strength to snap it
or when the warmth on his cheeks leaves to fumble awkwardly with the buttons on his shirt,
or when the wind slices across his bare skin without mercy
or when the cold is eclipsed by the heat emanating from the wiry body pushing him down into the sand, not a single spare ounce of fat, which is right,
or when an irritated voice orders him to "Lift up, a second," which is wrong,
or when he touches his tongue tentatively to the skin above that tastes like gunpowder and steel, salt and blood, which is right.
The fire spreads through them both, and he can feel two pulses beating in tandem, faster and faster, a staccato rhythm that melts in with the crashing of the waves and the mournful avian cries. "I'm sorry," he says as he is divested of his belt, digging his hands under the green tank-top (no, turtleneck) to touch the slabs of hard muscle beneath. "I'm sorry," as a tongue circles his left nipple, lazily, ignoring his short gasp and unconscious arch, and his hands in the messy brown hair. "I'm sorry," as it traces his abdomen, navel, then dips lower to another part of him that jumps eagerly at the enclosing warmth, and he bites down fiercely on his arm to keep from screaming.
The Perfect Soldier is perfect in more arenas than previously imagined, for sketched behind his eyelids he sees flame, ecstasy, a field of shimmering stars that burst into white light.
And then there is pain, and his cheeks are wet.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, before he blanks out.
There's a coolness between his temples when consciousness returns, and he opens his eyes to the plain tan canvas of the tent, a flickering old-fashioned lamp. His skin feels fairly gritty with its covering of sand, but he is fully dressed under the cheap army-issue blanket tossed casually across the bedding. The irregular clicking sound that drew him out of slumber is Heero cleaning out his gun, which, Quatre recalls, had been ridiculously easy to appropriate from one of the other tents; their imprisonment here has been nothing more than formality.
As he pushes himself up into sitting position, something drops into his lap, and he gazes with faint surprise at the water-soaked towel that accounts for the moisture on his forehead. Glancing up again, he meets directly with Heero's dark blue eyes, unfathomable as ever.
"Duo will be so jealous," are the first words that pop unthinkingly from his lips, and earn him nothing more than a raised eyebrow, an ambiguous shrug. The thought brings with it some slight nudging of guilt, however, and he grasps around aimlessly for another subject.
"The dogs?"
"Got an eyeful," says Heero, returning his attention to the weapon. Wipe, turn, click. "They're outside, guarding the tent."
Something occurs to him, then.
"You didn't -- "
"I took care of it myself."
"Aa." Heero Yuy the Self-Sufficient, they should call him in history books to come. Quatre tries unsuccessfully to stem the blush flooding his cheeks.
Or maybe it should be Heero Yuy the Incomprehensible, because he cannot for the life of him figure out the motives for their recent, rapid increase in intimacy. From 'omae o korosu' to a blowjob in two days; Duo will either kill him outright or plague him to death for tips.
But then, he has a feeling that what he's been given isn't what Duo wants -- for one, Duo would have opened his eyes. For another, Duo would be bouncing on the bed now for the chance to reciprocate. ('Hey, it's only fair, right? C'mon, Hee-chan, I promise I'll make you feel good.")
"Thank you," he says instead, sliding his hands along the damp roughness of the towel that leaves a glistening track on his palms. Water, the desert's most priceless gift. "I wasn't expecting that, but it -- helped."
He expects no reply and receives none. Lamplight plays along the severe lines of Heero's face, brows constricted in a scowl, the sand-speckled mess of hair that glints with soft and hidden threads of gold, the sensual and unforgiving lips turned chronically down at the corners.
Leaning back, he closes his eyes once more, wishing vaguely for a pillow, a bath, and other things less easily named.
Outside, the dogs howl at the autumn moon.
The beach is a strip of sea washed sand, white like salt under certain lights until it's touched by water. Just one drop is enough to dye it gray. There are broken fragments of shells littered along the shore, whorls and scalloped ridges beautiful if one can forget that these are skeletons, relics, the only surviving remnants of creatures who once roamed the oceans as mobile suits now roam the featureless expanse of space.
Sand is sand is sand, but this is not the desert, and Quatre feels out of place, out of his depth. He isn't used to the rushing swell of the waves, the hunger lapping the shores like a greedy child. The wind is briny, knife-sharp, and cuts along his cheeks with no more mercy than the desert sun at noon.
Life is a ruthless little thing.
He's alone out here with nary a guard or soldier standing by, which is ridiculous, really, because he's still a dangerous outlaw who ought to be shackled in some dungeon and interrogated with a whip. That's the general consensus among the colonies, at least, and isn't it ironic that they've been shown more mercy by these allies of OZ that clothe and feed them than poor Duo, whose capture was cheered by the people he'd been risking his neck to protect.
Irony galore. But ire has faded into a dull ache that disappears in a greater wash of pain, like a teardrop plunging into an impatient sea reaching out until it touches sky; for once the trembling huddle of other people's sensations has given way to his own. He hunches his knees closer together, closer to his chest, so close that maybe if he presses hard enough he'll just fold in on himself and disappear, like the ache.
What an absolutely attractive notion.
But the raw barking of hounds scatters that possibility to the winds, as the soft pitter-pat of their paws on sand grows louder and nearer, and they throw themselves at him to slobber on his newly washed shirt and vest. Their affection draws a smile from him, some small measure of comfort gained from the warmth that comes of coffee colored fur and hot, pink tongues. For some reason, he's always had a way with animals.
Unlike the dogs, no sound precedes the arrival of a battered pair of tennis shoes that move into his range of sight with an assassin's graceful tread. He follows the shoes to the ridiculous looking ankle socks, the skinned and knobby knees, the shorts that hug the thighs closer than skin, the thin chest and loose shirt, and finally, above the neck, to those eyes that are flat and quiet and do not judge.
"Good afternoon," he says, though there's no more need for speech with Heero than there is with the dogs. It gives their situation at least some semblance of normality, and he tries on a smile, finds that it fits, and lets it stay. Heero looks down on him, silent, the wind tearing his already unruly hair this way and that till he looks almost like a madman, if madmen were ever this cool and this calm. Perhaps they are.
He should know.
"Has something come up?"
Heero's cold-eyed gaze should be enough to unnerve anyone, but Quatre isn't just anyone; he's the member of a very select group, all of whom seem to be immune. Duo, he thinks, would let it glide off his jester's mask smooth as lathered soap, while the Chinese boy they met briefly in St. Edward's has a burning flame in his own eyes equal to any chill, and Trowa...
As for him, he doesn't really care anymore.
"Have a seat," he says when no answer seems forthcoming, and to his surprise, Heero does, sliding down into a cross-legged position while his eyes turn toward the sea. One of the dogs slinks over to nuzzle him, and he pats it absently on the head without looking down. Another surprise, that he doesn't just push it irritably away; which, from Quatre's conversations with Duo, is more courtesy than any human should hope to receive. There are hidden reserves of emotion under that bland soldier's mask, and he can feel them running like veins of water beneath the earth's surface, able to be tapped if one only knew where to look.
That's not his job, though, so he just follows Heero's gaze over to the horizon, and they sit there, side by side, while the sun inches across the sky.
The dogs embark on a merry chase through the water, barking and yipping in puppyish glee, while above them seagulls dip into the water in search of a tasty meal. Sea foam froths and bubbles as the waves dash themselves against the shore, over and over in a futile war.
He feels the urge to speak. "You could, you know. Kill me. It shouldn't be a difficult job at the moment."
The scrape of soles on sand, and Heero turns a few degrees, so that one blue eye is visible under his mop of hair, reminiscent of -- "Do you want to die?"
"Not particularly." He's kept himself away from blades and guns, anything that might turn out to be a source of temptation. Belatedly, it occurs to him that Heero, too, should fit into that category. "Atonement can't be paid by death. But you announced your intentions quite plainly back in space, and you don't seem the sort to renege on promises."
"Hn." A long pause ensues as Heero turns back to face the ocean once more. The Perfect Soldier has a surprisingly frail-looking neck, slender and tanned, not at all like the tendon-corded columns of his tougher Maganacs; Rashid, for one, could snap it with one casual flex of his fingers -- if he ever managed to get a good grip. Somehow, that scenario doesn't seem likely to occur. "He wanted you to live. I owed him a favor," is finally offered by way of explanation.
That bites, a puncture wound aimed straight for the soul. "You're crueler than I thought, Heero." But he's sensed it, the bond between those two boys that are so similar, and he wonders, briefly, if Heero plays an instrument.
They settle into another strangely companionable silence as the phantom strains of a duet weave dexterously through Heero's mussed brown hair, past the seagulls' beating wings, into the heart of the universe where a missing space capsule might, /must/ be floating.
The sun is warm, but the wind is cold, sweeping along the shore with the taste of salt and sea.
"Don't do that," says Heero suddenly, so out of the blue that he jerks back a bit in disorientation, earning him a frown and one of those oxygen-draining glares.
"Do what?"
He flinches again when Heero stretches out a hand towards him with another matching set of frown-and-glare, one of those calloused pilot's fingers touching his cheek, lighting there for a brief second before it comes away glistening. "That."
"I -- " How amazing. He hadn't felt the dampness until Heero showed him. Doesn't feel pain, even, which makes it questionable why his eyes are streaming tears like a broken faucet, since there's just this very flat and empty place inside his chest that conjures up memories of the Zero System. Like space without the comforting knowledge of the colonies close by, without the glittering stars as roadsigns, a pure vacuum that's eating up the pain and the guilt and everything else along with them, and that should be a good thing, is, except that he's leaking tears, not crying, but obviously enough to stir Heero's hackles up.
"I'm sorry," he says honestly, and his voice sounds very normal. Would you like one cube of sugar, or two? Some cream, perhaps?
That gains him a sound of exasperation, and Quatre laughs out loud, stark and joyless. "If you don't want to see me cry, Heero, then why don't you comfort me?" He pronounces the name in English rather than the usual Japanese, He~ro, who kills fire-breathing mobile suits and wins the hearts of princesses and debauched priests. There's a streak of perversity that runs deep beneath his lily-white facade, like damp sand under dry, rarely unearthed, but vicious once it is.
"Will it end this self-pity marathon you've been going on?"
"Huh?" is his intelligent reply, but even that faint syllable fades from his brain as Heero turns with the familiar 'Ninmu Ryoukai' glint in his eyes, eyes that rapidly zoom in to ten times their previous size before disappearing completely when he shuts his own, not quite able to believe that this is happening.
He doesn't open them even when he feels hard lips on his lips, hot breath mingling with his breath, calloused palms on either side of his face
or when his hands reach up like he's been drowning to wrap around that deceptively fragile neck, feeling the power there, the muscles tensed, and realizing that it would take a great deal more than a Maganac's strength to snap it
or when the warmth on his cheeks leaves to fumble awkwardly with the buttons on his shirt,
or when the wind slices across his bare skin without mercy
or when the cold is eclipsed by the heat emanating from the wiry body pushing him down into the sand, not a single spare ounce of fat, which is right,
or when an irritated voice orders him to "Lift up, a second," which is wrong,
or when he touches his tongue tentatively to the skin above that tastes like gunpowder and steel, salt and blood, which is right.
The fire spreads through them both, and he can feel two pulses beating in tandem, faster and faster, a staccato rhythm that melts in with the crashing of the waves and the mournful avian cries. "I'm sorry," he says as he is divested of his belt, digging his hands under the green tank-top (no, turtleneck) to touch the slabs of hard muscle beneath. "I'm sorry," as a tongue circles his left nipple, lazily, ignoring his short gasp and unconscious arch, and his hands in the messy brown hair. "I'm sorry," as it traces his abdomen, navel, then dips lower to another part of him that jumps eagerly at the enclosing warmth, and he bites down fiercely on his arm to keep from screaming.
The Perfect Soldier is perfect in more arenas than previously imagined, for sketched behind his eyelids he sees flame, ecstasy, a field of shimmering stars that burst into white light.
And then there is pain, and his cheeks are wet.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, before he blanks out.
There's a coolness between his temples when consciousness returns, and he opens his eyes to the plain tan canvas of the tent, a flickering old-fashioned lamp. His skin feels fairly gritty with its covering of sand, but he is fully dressed under the cheap army-issue blanket tossed casually across the bedding. The irregular clicking sound that drew him out of slumber is Heero cleaning out his gun, which, Quatre recalls, had been ridiculously easy to appropriate from one of the other tents; their imprisonment here has been nothing more than formality.
As he pushes himself up into sitting position, something drops into his lap, and he gazes with faint surprise at the water-soaked towel that accounts for the moisture on his forehead. Glancing up again, he meets directly with Heero's dark blue eyes, unfathomable as ever.
"Duo will be so jealous," are the first words that pop unthinkingly from his lips, and earn him nothing more than a raised eyebrow, an ambiguous shrug. The thought brings with it some slight nudging of guilt, however, and he grasps around aimlessly for another subject.
"The dogs?"
"Got an eyeful," says Heero, returning his attention to the weapon. Wipe, turn, click. "They're outside, guarding the tent."
Something occurs to him, then.
"You didn't -- "
"I took care of it myself."
"Aa." Heero Yuy the Self-Sufficient, they should call him in history books to come. Quatre tries unsuccessfully to stem the blush flooding his cheeks.
Or maybe it should be Heero Yuy the Incomprehensible, because he cannot for the life of him figure out the motives for their recent, rapid increase in intimacy. From 'omae o korosu' to a blowjob in two days; Duo will either kill him outright or plague him to death for tips.
But then, he has a feeling that what he's been given isn't what Duo wants -- for one, Duo would have opened his eyes. For another, Duo would be bouncing on the bed now for the chance to reciprocate. ('Hey, it's only fair, right? C'mon, Hee-chan, I promise I'll make you feel good.")
"Thank you," he says instead, sliding his hands along the damp roughness of the towel that leaves a glistening track on his palms. Water, the desert's most priceless gift. "I wasn't expecting that, but it -- helped."
He expects no reply and receives none. Lamplight plays along the severe lines of Heero's face, brows constricted in a scowl, the sand-speckled mess of hair that glints with soft and hidden threads of gold, the sensual and unforgiving lips turned chronically down at the corners.
Leaning back, he closes his eyes once more, wishing vaguely for a pillow, a bath, and other things less easily named.
Outside, the dogs howl at the autumn moon.