I watched him over the edge of my book. Fingers flying over the keyboard in
a dance of their own. His face—set, emotionless—staring into the screen of
his computer.
This boy—slight, effeminate, cold, and barely above 16—had killed millions of people with that same taciturn look on his mysterious face. This boy, for whom I would have died a million times over, paid no more attention to me than to that of the spider idly sitting upon its web in the corner.
To him I WAS merely an insect. My questions, concerns, no more important to him than that of the crickets songs beneath our window.
It's now or never, I told myself, Now or never.
I set my book down beside me, absently brushing a stray strand of chestnut hair behind my ear, and cleared my throat.
"Heero?"
The only response that I was rewarded with was a harsh grunt to show he had heard me. His fingers never paused.
"Heero!" I said, louder this time.
He stopped and turned around. His clear cobalt eyes narrowed at me in annoyance.
"What?" he demanded impatiently.
"Do you actually LIKE being alone so very much that you push your only friends away?" I asked, "Why do you treat me like I don't exist? Why do you IGNORE me?"
He met my eyes with a level glare but I could see an emotion flickering on his face like that of the light from the streetlamp. It was confusion. He couldn't understand why I—ever the optimistic one, witty and strong and independent—why I would care. But I did and he knew it and it was obvious from the way he didn't dismiss me with a roll of his eyes that he knew I wasn't going to just give up on this.
In the silence then, I took the time to look at him. To drink in his exotic beauty as I had never been able to do in the light.
Heero's legs, lined with sinewy muscle, were out in front of him, crossed at the ankle.
His thighs were resting on the chair, the muscle on the top standing out. He was dressed for bed and thus, was only in boxers.
His slim hands were entwined on his lap, taut, olive stomach lifting gently as he drew in each breath.
His shoulders, resting against the chair, lead up to a finely muscled neck. And his face, adorned with large, clear, blue eyes, cheeks flushed in embarrassment at my scrutiny, never turned away from mine.
His lips though, soft, tempting, and glistening with saliva were his tongue had wetted them, were open as if he had been stopped before he said something.
He turned then, bare back to me now, hair that always looked as if he had stepped in from a windy day taking the place of his face in my view.
"Why?" I said softly, slowly.
There was a moment of silence before his husky voice came across the room to me, "Because."
I sat there then, looking at him longingly, wanting what I knew I couldn't have because he was a boy and he was my partner. I listened as his fingers began again their monotonous, tapping rhythm.
I gave up then, I knew there was nothing I could have done to make him talk except maybe to get him drunk. So I lay back on my bed, easing out of my pants and tossing them on the floor, slipping under the covers alone, not even saying goodnight for the first time since I had had to share a room with my indifferent partner.
I lie there for what seemed like forever. For the first time I wasn't lulled by the click-click-clicking of the keys being pressed down and let up again. I wondered if I would ever get what I wanted. Knowing that I would give my life for one smile, one tiny quirk of his perfect lips. And I was so caught up in this that I didn't even notice that the typing had stopped, didn't hear the graceful footfalls of the other boy crossing the room. He stood above me, looking down. I wanted so badly to open my eyes, to ask what he was doing, but I lay there silently, waiting.
"Duo?" he whispers, "Are you awake?"
I don't answer, my curiosity is getting the better of my need to ask him what he is doing. I want to know what he WILL do if I pretend I AM asleep.
"Duo?" he asks, a little louder.
I lie there, still like Death except for the quiet breaths that escape through my lips.
He leans down now, I can feel his breath on my face, he smells like peppermint, and shampoo, and soap, and a bit of his own sensually, musky smell.
"If only you knew," he murmurs, "If only I could show you…."
And then his lips are on mine. The delicate press of butterflies wings, asking nothing of me in return no matter how much I ache to tell him how I feel, to kiss his stone cold face and make him warm again.
He stands, stepping silently to the light, switching it off. In the cover of dark I open my eyes and watch him slip into his own bed. How many nights had I done this? Watched him until I was full from the sight of him. So innocent in sleep, like a fallen angel. Such the irony of me, the God of Death, in love with him. But now I know that, no matter how cold, how insensitive he may seem, when the war is over—the war, his only reason for existence—then I will give him reason to exist and I will show him love.
Finally I slip into a peaceful sleep. The first I've had in years.
This boy—slight, effeminate, cold, and barely above 16—had killed millions of people with that same taciturn look on his mysterious face. This boy, for whom I would have died a million times over, paid no more attention to me than to that of the spider idly sitting upon its web in the corner.
To him I WAS merely an insect. My questions, concerns, no more important to him than that of the crickets songs beneath our window.
It's now or never, I told myself, Now or never.
I set my book down beside me, absently brushing a stray strand of chestnut hair behind my ear, and cleared my throat.
"Heero?"
The only response that I was rewarded with was a harsh grunt to show he had heard me. His fingers never paused.
"Heero!" I said, louder this time.
He stopped and turned around. His clear cobalt eyes narrowed at me in annoyance.
"What?" he demanded impatiently.
"Do you actually LIKE being alone so very much that you push your only friends away?" I asked, "Why do you treat me like I don't exist? Why do you IGNORE me?"
He met my eyes with a level glare but I could see an emotion flickering on his face like that of the light from the streetlamp. It was confusion. He couldn't understand why I—ever the optimistic one, witty and strong and independent—why I would care. But I did and he knew it and it was obvious from the way he didn't dismiss me with a roll of his eyes that he knew I wasn't going to just give up on this.
In the silence then, I took the time to look at him. To drink in his exotic beauty as I had never been able to do in the light.
Heero's legs, lined with sinewy muscle, were out in front of him, crossed at the ankle.
His thighs were resting on the chair, the muscle on the top standing out. He was dressed for bed and thus, was only in boxers.
His slim hands were entwined on his lap, taut, olive stomach lifting gently as he drew in each breath.
His shoulders, resting against the chair, lead up to a finely muscled neck. And his face, adorned with large, clear, blue eyes, cheeks flushed in embarrassment at my scrutiny, never turned away from mine.
His lips though, soft, tempting, and glistening with saliva were his tongue had wetted them, were open as if he had been stopped before he said something.
He turned then, bare back to me now, hair that always looked as if he had stepped in from a windy day taking the place of his face in my view.
"Why?" I said softly, slowly.
There was a moment of silence before his husky voice came across the room to me, "Because."
I sat there then, looking at him longingly, wanting what I knew I couldn't have because he was a boy and he was my partner. I listened as his fingers began again their monotonous, tapping rhythm.
I gave up then, I knew there was nothing I could have done to make him talk except maybe to get him drunk. So I lay back on my bed, easing out of my pants and tossing them on the floor, slipping under the covers alone, not even saying goodnight for the first time since I had had to share a room with my indifferent partner.
I lie there for what seemed like forever. For the first time I wasn't lulled by the click-click-clicking of the keys being pressed down and let up again. I wondered if I would ever get what I wanted. Knowing that I would give my life for one smile, one tiny quirk of his perfect lips. And I was so caught up in this that I didn't even notice that the typing had stopped, didn't hear the graceful footfalls of the other boy crossing the room. He stood above me, looking down. I wanted so badly to open my eyes, to ask what he was doing, but I lay there silently, waiting.
"Duo?" he whispers, "Are you awake?"
I don't answer, my curiosity is getting the better of my need to ask him what he is doing. I want to know what he WILL do if I pretend I AM asleep.
"Duo?" he asks, a little louder.
I lie there, still like Death except for the quiet breaths that escape through my lips.
He leans down now, I can feel his breath on my face, he smells like peppermint, and shampoo, and soap, and a bit of his own sensually, musky smell.
"If only you knew," he murmurs, "If only I could show you…."
And then his lips are on mine. The delicate press of butterflies wings, asking nothing of me in return no matter how much I ache to tell him how I feel, to kiss his stone cold face and make him warm again.
He stands, stepping silently to the light, switching it off. In the cover of dark I open my eyes and watch him slip into his own bed. How many nights had I done this? Watched him until I was full from the sight of him. So innocent in sleep, like a fallen angel. Such the irony of me, the God of Death, in love with him. But now I know that, no matter how cold, how insensitive he may seem, when the war is over—the war, his only reason for existence—then I will give him reason to exist and I will show him love.
Finally I slip into a peaceful sleep. The first I've had in years.