Chapter Four
The market was busy, the streets thin and the buildings seemed taller, larger, casting shadows over the ground below. Heero was running, trying his best not to crash into people, trying his damn best to get away from his pursuers as he looked back once to see them still on his tail, growling in frustration.
His turn back, even though it was brief, made him lose some momentum, some focus and he bumped into a woman, her dropping some of her shopping from the market, he muttered an apology but didn't do anything else to help. Maybe in the past Heero Yuy wouldn't have even given the apology but now at least he did that as he jumped over the items on the floor and continued.
There were three men following him, two had slowed down as expected as Heero could run forever, could maybe not run as fast as Trowa due to those long legs but Heero could run without exhaustion, without pain in his muscles so he just needed to keep going. Fuck, he would get out of the city if he needed to, keep going and loop back to get to the room they'd rented and return to Trowa whenever he damn well could.
Heero had not expected the resistance. It was a tiny police station, one where they had been told there was some information regarding a Preventer agent who had been arrested that needed to be retrieved and all traces of that arrest gone. Heero had snickered when they had received the mission brief. As Zechs Merquise should've learnt by now to keep a low profile, not get drunk and act disorderly on vacation, and so they'd gone in to make sure there was never any record of it having happened.
The technology in the station had been so fucking antiquated that it had taken more time than Heero anticipated. As just turning the thing on, loading on a virus had taken time Heero was not used to needing. And of course, they'd come back, the officers who'd realised he was doing something he shouldn't with the computer. And while they were probably naïve, Heero knocked them out, slicing his hand against the back of one of the men's head and the other he'd viscously choked. Finally, the two men down, the programme had done its work, the traces gone and Heero had made his exit. Into a group of police officers. He'd kicked out at a few, dodged bullets and run out of the station, pursued by men shouting angrily at him to stop in Arabic.
And now there was only one and Heero glanced back once before he turned a corner, sticking to the wall in an alleyway and watching as the officer passed it by, not noticing his stealthy slip into the darkness. He took a few deep breaths, not that he was out of breath but to calm some of the adrenalin and he checked his watch, giving the man five minutes before he walked back out into the main street.
He felt in the pocket of his cargo shorts, bringing out some money, bartering for a baseball cap and an obnoxious orange shirt, slipping out of his khaki one and putting the offensive colour on, the black baseball cap secured on his head. It was a Duo trick, the baseball cap, and while Heero didn't think it was all that effective when Duo had a damn three foot braid peeking out of the back, he used his method, walking now in different coloured clothing, walking slowly, looking at stalls of spices and clothes and ceramics as though he was interested, picking up some fruit, haggling the price down and carrying it in a paper bag.
He saw the authorities, more men around and he continued his walk, none of them looking his way as the description had obviously been passed around with him in the khaki shirt – not some orange thing. Heero smirked as he walked right past a group of men and he looked back, dipping his cap a little to obscure his distinctive eyes and going on his way, them not giving the tourist another glance.
They were staying in some rental apartment but it was generous to call it an apartment and Heero could hear the sound of loud TV's as he walked to their temporary place, knocking on the door in a pattern to alert Trowa it was him before he opened the door with the key. They'd developed the system back in the war, the rapping of knuckles on the trailer door as Heero had been so damn paranoid then, only trusting Trowa and Cathy and they still used it today. It meant instead of a gun in his face, Trowa only looked over from the laptop and gave Heero a searching glance, his eyes settling on the garish orange of his shirt.
"Trouble?" he asked, a slight smirk on his lips and Heero went to the kitchen area, placing down the fruit before he walked over to Trowa.
"Nothing I couldn't handle."
As Heero stepped towards him, he challenged Trowa with his eyes to comment on the clothes, the hat but Trowa only watched, amusement showing in his green eyes.
"No comment, Barton?"
Heero stopped in front of Trowa and moved the laptop to the floor, noticing that Trowa was checking accounts, travel routes, time to move on again as always, a new mission already been assigned and then he felt Trowa's long fingers on the fabric of the shirt.
"It's not your colour," he said, his voice flat and deadpan and Heero would've laughed if he was the sort of man that laughed but instead he snorted, as Trowa reached up to the hat, taking it off. "And I don't like the hat."
"Next job?"
Trowa nodded, his fingers returning to Heero's side, this time bypassing the material of the shirt, his fingers splaying across his back, rubbing in circles, forcing him a few steps closer. He could smell Trowa, the smell of his sweat from the heat of the room, the smell of faded cologne, the smell of his last meal and coffee on his breath and sweat dripped down Heero's back, a trail down from his neck and he pressed forward, straddling Trowa on the bed, the stupid damn single with the thin mattress they'd been sharing. They'd had worse.
"Panama," Trowa said as his fingers moved, teased, and Heero nodded as lips moved to his throat, Trowa mouthing there as it didn't really matter where – it was another job, another place, another violent mission. This one had been mild, brief, a correcting of one agents fuck up, and Heero wondered if it had been a damn vacation for them – Preventer knowing that the next one would be tough.
Right now Heero didn't give a fuck, only grabbed at the hair at the back of Trowa's hair and pulled him up for a bruising kiss, Trowa responding by a quick and violent move, pushing Heero forcefully onto the bed, the metal springs making a noise of complaint at the force. But the force was good. Arousing him, his dick hard in the cargo shorts from the minor amount of foreplay. Maybe it was the high from his run, from his escape, from a success even if it was a small one but then maybe it was Trowa, pushing him to the fucking bed, dominating him like Trowa only ever did. But Heero didn't submit underneath him, he was grabbing at the material of his t-shirt, fisting it and he was dragging his teeth down Trowa's skin, leaving red marks in its wake.
"The shirt, Yuy."
Heero pushed Trowa hard, making him sit back on his heels as he undid the buttons but then he got impatient, he wasn't fucking keeping it so he pulled, the buttons parting and Trowa looked amused as he pulled it off, sliding the tank top off in its wake, looking up at Trowa through his bangs, his eyes heavy lidded.
"Clothes, Barton," he responded, knowing they were playing this game – orders, names, and Trowa removed his t-shirt, throwing it to the floor, his own shorts following, boxers removed without ceremony. They didn't need to strip for each other anymore, no tease was needed as they had been together too damn long, been partners, lover since their teens so Heero's shorts and boxer briefs fell to the floor, joining the pile of clothing and the stupid fucking orange shirt.
Naked now, sweat sticking, their hands grabbed roughly, Trowa maintaining his position on top and he grabbed at one of Heero's thighs, making him hook his leg around his waist. Heero used the leverage to grind his dick up against Trowa's body, his body slick and sweaty, pre-cum leaking from his cock. He grabbed for Trowa's hair, pushing back the bang, meeting his eye and there was a challenge in the look Heero gave him, one that Trowa accepted, manoeuvring to find the lube on the small table beside the bed, returning his body to covering Heero's, Trowa's fingers dragging on Heero's thighs.
There was a wrestle for position, hands grabbing, dicks slicking against each other, legs damn entwined but Heero gained some advantage somewhere, pushing down Trowa, his hands on his broad shoulders, Trowa smirked looking up at Heero and his searching eyes scanned his torso. Heero was scarred, damaged, wounded in so many damn ways. As a child, as a teenager he had healed but as the years went by, whatever had been done, whatever had been pumped into him had faded and so each livid mark on his skin became darker, more pronounced but shit, Trowa's body was the same.
Riddled with scars, criss-crosses of his life and Heero traced one with his finger tip, slick with sweat and he found Trowa's large hand, grabbing it and indicating the next move, Trowa following his lead wordlessly, the lube procured from where it had fallen in the shuffle, slicking it on his fingers before Trowa thrust them inside Heero, making him arch his back.
It was perhaps a little more gentle than usual if only a little, Heero straddling Trowa, his head falling onto his chest as Trowa's fingers slowly stretched him. Heero rocked his body on those fingers after a while, forcing the movement forward, the sensual speed replaced by neediness and when Trowa withdrew his fingers, Heero didn't take any time in reaching for his cock, impaling himself on it, the breath drawn from his lungs at the familiar sensation, the burn and stretch of Trowa inside him.
"Fuck," Heero breathed out, the sweat, the heat, the feel of Trowa inside him intense and shit, when Trowa rocked his hips up, Heero almost felt his eyes roll back into his head. It was always too fucking good – rough and perfect and everything Heero would ever want.
He'd always fucking want those green eyes, the confident movement of Trowa's hands, his thrusts of his hips, his scarred pale skin. Heero never wanted fucking normal, he wanted Trowa Barton, damaged and violent and equally fucked up – mocking him for a stupid cover, giving him that slight curve of lips, always challenging him, making him survive, live, fight.
Heero bunched his thighs, moving up and down, feeling Trowa's hand grasp his hips, helping them create a fast pace together, too fucking fast but Heero didn't want it any other way, fast and hot, sticky, messy – perfect sex was never romance and candles and champagne and this was better than perfect sex. Rough. Bruising. Quick.
Each downward motion of Heero's body was met by Trowa's movements up, his dick deep, and fuck, Heero only tried to keep up, the thrusts upwards so confident that Trowa was hitting his damn prostate on each slick move of their bodies. Heero came, needing only the lightest of touches to his cock and Trowa used the temporary limpness of Heero's orgasm to flip their positions, fucking him hard until he grunted into Heero's skin, collapsing onto him.
Trowa rolled off, sitting on the edge of the bed, and Heero reached to his scarred back, tracing the mark from a whip that had been done years old.
"Flights?" Heero asked sitting up behind Trowa, his lips kissing at a scar on his shoulder blades.
"Tomorrow morning."
Trowa got up, walking over to where Heero had left the fruit, using one of the large blades, cutting up the apple as he returned to the bed, offering Heero a piece.
"Tonight?"
The pad of Trowa's thumb went over his jaw. "You and me."
Heero nodded, took a bite from the piece offered and then leaned towards Trowa, tasting fruit and stale breath and the tang of copper on his tongue.
