So, Ich lebe! Yeah, that's right, I finally got the internet back on my computer, and I'm free to update as frequently as the muses permit! ::dances::
Dedication: So totally dedicatedto the great new chapter of (The Beginning to an End)from everyone's favourite author, Joy2. Also to Kat, Chewy, and Sarah, who know me only as the un-street-smart idiot who can't ever seem to spit out a coherent sentence with dignity.
A/N: Throughout writing this, things in my life have changed dramatically. From the people I live with finding out about a lot of personal things, to the fact that my girlfriend was practically snatched away and is stuck against her will in Palestine, there have been a lot of problems this year. But strangely enough, they don't seem to effect me so much. I'm not sure what impact that's had on my writing, but I wanted to make it clear that the jumbled nature of this fic is largely due to that fact that it's reflecting the changes in my life. You'll have to be the judge of whether that's worsened the writing here, or bettered it. Tell me what you think in this chapter and the ones to come. I can use all the criticism you can give me.
WARNING: This is a lemon. Yes, sorry, it can't be helped. I'll cut it out and post it on another site if someone has a complaint, but we're all old enough to judge for ourselves what we can handle, and if you've made it this far, nothing is going to shock you.
SO FAR, SO GOOD
chapter 5
Trowa is the one to wake me this time. He's gentle enough when he shakes me, but I still flinch. I hate mornings. They're the end to every illusion.
"Quatre's making breakfast. You've got four hours until you leave." He turns his head slightly and I watch him as he studies my room. He sees the box Heero left for me and moves to pick it up. I don't try to stop him. What's the point?
His eyes widen as he takes in the contents, gaze darting to me and back to the box. "Duo..." it's just a breath, but I can feel shame welling inside of me, like the eager spill of blood from a wound. He looks so horrified. I have to do something. I don't hesitate. I know how to distract people. I've done it my whole life. I stretch a hand to him, grabbing a handful of turtle-neck, and pull. He falls, but lands gracefully, a hand on either side of my torso, eyes directly on level with mine. The first kiss comes easily, second nature to a whore like me.
He tastes like coffee and metal. Coffee for breakfast then, like me. He pulls away quickly, eyes flicking away and down. "What--"
"Shhh..." I wrap my hand in his shirt again, bringing him back to my mouth. I hurt too much to make any sudden moves of my own. The second kiss is much less innocent and I'm surprised at his lack of protest. Almost like he's okay with this. Almost like he expected it. His kiss tells me that he knows what he's doing, but isn't particularly confident about it. His hand moves to my hair, weight shifting onto my thighs and I gasp, pain shooting through my body. He doesn't stop though, other hand going to my neck. I drop the handful of shirt I have and clutch his back, writhing against his hips, letting the pain make this okay. I'm already paying penance this way. His lips leave mine briefly, and I take the moment to drag his shirt up and over his head.
It's almost like eating; you're so hungry and everything sounds good, but then you start to eat and you feel so fucking guilty and you just want it to be over with. I can't believe I'm doing this. But I can't stop either.
"Need you" I gasp out, surprised when cool hands dip beneath my shirt and graze over scars there. More questions in his eyes. I tug the shirt over my own head, amazed by the contrast between my own pale, scarred skin and his deep tan chest. We look so different. Like a Greek god compared to a fucking commoner. Not even a comparison really. I feel so ugly under his curious examination. He touches a first scar, hands trailing over my belly and I feel the muscles there jump under his touch.
"No questions, okay? Just feel." I tell him, fingers deftly undoing his belt, tossing it off the bed, helping him with his pants. He nods, directly into my eyes, and I wonder how much he knows, how much he's guessed. I wonder if it bothers him at all, or if he's just confused. I wish it would bother someone besides me, but I know he's not the person for that. I touch his face and kiss him again, fiercely. He pulls away, softly this time, and I prepare to be told off, but instead he simply asks what I want.
I almost say 'stop me' but end up whispering, "This might be my last day on earth..." instead, begging him not to say no.
He looks so sad. So fucking sad for nothing. If I do die today, I won't be the only one, and it's not as if I don't deserve my fate.
"Just don't stop, no matter what."
"I won't." he promises, soft Latino voice soothing, calming even to me. I smile and glance at his boxers.
"You're overdressed, Trowa."
"So are you." he quips back. I move my hands to the waistband of his pants first, the theory being that if he's already naked, it's too late to back out. He lets me undress him the rest of the way, helping me get them off. I try not to be nervous when it's my turn, but don't succeed. I can feel the torn skin against the cotton, and I don't want him to see it. I wish it was darker, but the morning light is bright enough to read by. He pulls them down, face carefully impassive as the harsh gashes are revealed. When I'm lying completely naked beneath him, my pajamas discarded on the floor, he bends down, kissing the inside of my thigh, above the worst of my cuts. I moan, loudly, fear leaving my mind in a rush of desperate arousal. I want him, I want him to take me, hurt me, use me, fill me. I wrap a leg around his, and flip us over expertly, flinching as I feel scars shift painfully. I grin down at Trowa, glad to have gained this much control over the situation. "Need you so fucking much" I hiss as I ride out pain from the tearing wounds.
"Lube?"
"Don't need it."
"Duo..." there's a wary quality to his voice now, but I refuse to back down. I like a little pain. And it's not like it hurts that much anyways. I've been through so much worse.
"I'll be fine. We can use spit." I smile mischievously. He relents with a nod. If it makes him feel better, I'm not going to argue about it. "I promise, I know what I'm doing." It's the wrong thing to say, but I don't really care anymore. I spit into my palm and run my hand up and down his member. He moans as quietly as possible and I watch the scene hungrily. He really is beautiful. I hope he finds someone worthy in the future. Someone who can give him things I just can't, like a relationship, normalcy, love. I know this is as good as I can do, for either of us.
"Relax. I can do the work." I say, my hand still wrapped around his erection. I lift my hips and then press down, slowly, agonizingly. I grit my teeth to keep from screaming, but little whimpers escape anyways.
His eyes flutter shut and I'm relieved that he's not watching me go through this much pain. When I move, I feel the wounds on my thighs tearing open and I gasp, falling forward, white-hot daggers dragging through my skin as I slump and barely catch myself on shaking arms.
His eyes fly open, inches away from mine, and flick downward, concern in his expression. "Did I hurt you?" he asks and I almost laugh.
As if he could. "No." I grind, trying to ignore all the protests my body is making to the contrary.
"Maybe you should take the lead."
"We shouldn't be doing this. You're hurt." well no shit, Einstein. What gave it away, the blood or the bandages? "I'm fine Trowa, I want this."
"You're sure?" I know he's worried, but this is starting to get tedious.
"Yes Trowa, you really can't hurt me." Not any worse than I can hurt myself, anyways.
We roll over, and this time he's on top. When he pushes back inside me, I let out a strangled shout, which he immediately stifles with his hand. He looks at me, and I can tell he's reevaluating the risks of the situation. Damn Gundam pilots. Sorry Trowa, but it's way too late to back down now. I move, clenching around him. He lets out a cry of his own, softer, but definitely one of enjoyment. He takes over again, hand still on my mouth, warning more than stopping me. Finally, he's just willing to take me, building into a rhythm that sends shocks of both pain and pleasure through my system. He moans as the thrusts get more desperate, less controlled, until he's slamming into me, and I wring the sounds from his lips, louder and louder the closer he gets to his own release.
I've done it again, I've made an essentially good person dirty; brought them down to my level for a moment of cheap thrills.
A second later he finds my prostate and damn his hand, I scream loudly, fingers digging trails into his back as pleasure sears my nerves.
You would think fucking would get old, but somehow it never does. It's kind of like smoking. The first time hurt like fuck, and you swore you wouldn't ever get used to the feeling, but you went back for more the next day, and you didn't really know why. Roughly seven years later, I'm still coming back for more, and I still don't know why. It must classify as some sort of an addiction by now.
Trowa's head is thrown back, and thankfully he's given up on being quiet. I writhe under him, forgetting completely about the torn skin between my legs, and giving over to the rhythm between our bodies. He's pounding into my willing body as hard as he can, our nails tearing at each other's skin desperately, screams combined on our mingled breath, cream mutilated skin contrasting against smooth brown. I feel orgasm so close I'm hardly able to breathe as he shoves into my prostate at the apex of each thrust. I come just before he does, the contractions of my muscles around his cock bringing him with me into ecstasy. His hands wind in my long hair tightly as he screams his release. If everyone in a three mile radius doesn't know what we just did, they'd have to be deaf. Really, really deaf.
Trowa pants, hovering above me, then gently pulls out to lie next to me. We are both silent as our breath regulates, reality setting in again. Reality and a shit-load of guilt on my part. I hate this. I'm afraid to break the silence. I'm afraid to look at him. I know I can never take it back, and I know I will never let it happen again. That was it, the one and only time I will ever have sex with Trowa. I'm not the type of person who can use someone more than once. A person can only be broken one time. Unless they're me, and then they live for it, over and over again.
Finally he rolls over, not looking at me, and whispers, "You're beautiful" and I can feel the regret already taking him away from me.
"I'm sorry." I reply, standing up on shaking legs and walking as fast as I can to the bathroom. His eyes follow me until the door blocks me from site, but he doesn't call me back.
I sit, aching and alone again on the tile floor; how I end most days. I hate the weakness that drives me here, the inherent flaw that makes me seek out sex with a desperation only matched by my love of blood.
For the hundredth time, I wonder how I can make it stop and am faced with the same bleak truth as every time before. I cannot end this cycle, unless by death. And I am Shinigami. It is not my right to die. What kind of death can a black angel have, after all? I touch the wings tattooed into my flesh, fingers knowing the patterns carved there by heart. I can only reach part of the art engraved on my back, but it's comforting to me. They're the only things I've ever gotten tattooed by choice. I have another, but no one will ever see it. It's a tiny number on the inside of my ear: 02. Pilot-0-fucking-2. That's all I really am. None of my issues matter in the face of that.
The shaking begins, my teeth chattering for no reason, goose bumps all over my naked body. I make myself sick thinking like this. I'm all too aware of the time ticking until I have to follow orders again, possibly for the last time. I don't think anyone could be happy under those circumstances, no matter how stable they were. And since none of us are prime examples of sanity, it's likely that all of the pilots have their own little traumas and disorders that I will never know anything about.
Oddly, it is Heero whose past intrigues me the most. What could turn a boy into a robot? What did the Doctors do to him that they failed to do to the rest of us? Of us all, Heero is the only one who has no reason to be fighting. The rest of us have our vengeances and retributions. We have our dead companions to fight for. Heero's past is a broken slate, all information shattered and hidden far below the emotionless facade of the Perfect Soldier. Who knows, perhaps that really is his personality. I suspect very much that the truth is a mystery to even him. I wonder what it must be like to have his complete lack of grounding in fear; hatred; desire; all the things that motivate the average human. What motivates the Perfect Soldier? Maybe the only drive he has is his missions. It seems so unreal to someone as human, and as humanly flawed, as me. Perhaps his drive is simply not to fail. Even so, I find his lack of compassion disturbing at best. I know that he can be trusted for nothing beyond cold, hard facts, but still, he has always confused me. And what confuses me tends to fascinate as well. Playing with Heero's mind could very well be even worse for my health than piloting a Gundam, and I can't afford to forget that, no matter how intriguing I find him.
I have been contemplating the mystery that is Heero Yuy for a long time; almost fifteen minutes. That's a fourth of an hour less time until I have to get in my cockpit and be prepared to die for another cause I don't believe in.
I search again beneath the lid of the toilet. Heero, for all his tactical brilliance, can be more stupid than I ever would have thought. He never even checked. There are still three razorblades here. I tape the other two back to the porcelain and hold the small metallic object up to the light, admiring it blankly. I don't know why I'm doing this. I'm already cut up enough as it is.
Without even thinking about it, the blade goes to a deep cut on my thigh, and I flinch as the blade worries beneath the flesh, driving through the fresh blood already caked there. I put my thumb-nail against the place where it disappears into my skin and pull it out. Almost a half an inch deep. I'm going to need fucking stitches. I shrug and drag it down, over the two-day old cut, reopening the places where it had been trying to close. Blood wells up immediately, and the pain is amazing. Sharp and pure as the blade itself. I hiss lightly, cringing more at the thought of what I'm doing than the actual pain. I can't believe how much more this hurts. Usually I don't bother with cuts I've already done. There's plenty of new flesh to mutilate. But today I feel the need to bleed worse than usual. I want to see how deep I can go before I chicken out. Maybe if I die before the mission, there won't be any complications. Someone capable will do it for me, and I won't have to be retrained. I know I'm not that desperate, today anyways. I'll live, and I'll kill as many OZ soldiers as they send, and then I'll crawl back here to lick my wounds in peace.
The thought makes me so angry that I hack deliberately into another open cut. Blood is dripping onto the floor, and I have to force myself to put down the blade. Three freshly bleeding wounds, deeper than before, are feeding tiny rivers between the tiles. My blood is like a grid on the floor, running into the grout and staining it red until I remember to bleach the tile. Or Heero finds it and does it for me. Maybe I won't bleach it. The contrast is beautiful. I sit there, only concerned when I'm still bleeding the at the same rate ten minutes later. There is no sign of it stopping. Worried, in a very distant and lethargic way, I push the flesh together, watching in sick amusement as it peels apart slowly when I let the edges go again, gaping wide and mocking at me. I imagine the scars it will make and for a minute I actually regret doing it. I regret picking up a damn razorblade in the first place. I almost work myself into a panic right there on the bathroom floor. A distant part of my brain wonders if I've hit a vein, if I'll die the one time I didn't mean to. Another part of me says that I've survived much worse. I can even put stitches in myself if I have to.
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes on the bathroom floor. Shit. Someone's going to come looking for me soon. I have to stop the blood. I have to clean up this mess. I have to look normal, act okay. Standing is intensely painful. But I'm used to pain. I force myself to make it to the cabinet and take out a roll of gauze. I stare at the fragile material for a minute and nearly laugh. It seems so pointless. I've never been good at this part. I'm not capable of dealing with the disasters I leave behind me, not even the ones I write in my own flesh. I can't imagine this flimsy cloth doing any good against the bloody mess that I've made of my thighs. Still, I have no choice but to try. I've been through worse; I've even battled with more grievous wounds than these. The gauze is unrolled on the floor and then wound tightly around my left leg. I stare at the blood soaking through the temporary bandage already and allow myself one sharp bark of laughter, bordering on hysteria. I suppose there's always duct tape. I suppress the next unholy cackle and go back to the cabinet, hissing with each step. Damn baka. Don't you ever think before you go and do fucked up things like this?! The silver tape is almost gone, so I only use enough to hold the dressing closed, saving the rest for later. I wrap my right leg in the same fashion and start the shower. I need to get the scent of my trespasses off of my skin. I already feel like enough of a whore without Trowa's semen drying on my thighs.
I feel slightly more human after I step out of the scalding water. For some reason being clean can give you a whole new perspective. I think that after years of living on L2, where water was precious and nearly non-existent to street-rats like myself, being able to take a bath whenever I want is a luxury I will never take for-granted.
The gauze clings to my legs in pathetic washed red fragments. At least the wounds are somewhat clean now, even if they're bleeding twice as heavily as before. When I'm completely dry, minus my hair, which takes hours to dry if left to its own devices, I go back to the abandoned roll of duct tape. The first bandage is flushed down the toilet, and I wrap the silver material completely around my leg, right over the top of the wound. It's a sort of make-shift pressure bandage, and while it's not the most innovative thing I've ever made, it seems to be working right now. No further blood leaks out from underneath, so I figure I'm all right. It'll hurt like a bitch when I take it off, but that's not something I even have to think about right now. I suppose that's how I do everything. Act first, think later, after I've already gone through the mandatory near-death experience of the day. It's kind of a stupid way to live life, but at least I know I'm in control of my own destiny.
I can stand now, with only a minimal limp. Heero won't even notice. Not that he would even if I was bleeding on the floor in front of him.
There aren't any clean clothes in the bathroom, so I'm forced to take the chance of Trowa still being in the room, although I think the chances of that are pretty slim after my behaviour. I open the door cautiously and peak out, then dash to my closet when I see he isn't there. I dress in the same black of days before, thankful that my chosen color is one that doesn't show blood easily.
After I'm fully clothed, Heero isn't the frightening prospect he had been only minutes earlier. I've got bigger problems, unfortunately. Problems that can't simply be told off or ignored. Heero barely registers as a threat in the face of all the other things I'll be going up against in the next few hours.
A/N: ::gaspshock:: that was really not a cliffhanger at all, I know, but meh, I can pretend I have command of basic literary elements if I want to! The important thing is that I wish to know whether or not to leave the battle scene coming up in or out. It's not terriblyrelevant to the story line, and it's truly craptacular since I suck at writing fights. It's your choice.