Death and the Devil Arc
-Drunken Lullabies (alt. ending number 1)
Pairs: 2x6x2, refs to 13x6, 2xH, 1x2
Warning: yaoi (male/male love), language, vulgarity, drunkenness, odd, rough limes, implied lemons (of long, but rough sex), that Cozzy angst/sap stuff, a little bit of the supernatural... kind of. Adult situations, some mention of Duo's Ep 0, some mention of the series (concerning Zechs).
First Note: Unlike the other additions to the arc, this contains TRUE YAOI. As in Zechs and Duo really DO love each other, really DO get down and dirty (for real), and really DO do what every fangirl wants them to do. :coughs innocently: If you are not a yaoi fan (yaoi is male/male love) or are afraid/disturbed/confused/whatever of heavy limes, borderline lemons (implied/not-so-implied sexual content), please do not read this addition of the arc. It is not needed to understand any other addition and is, in some cases, a stand alone. That means you don't have to read this to understand the rest of the story, and you don't need to read the OTHER parts of the arc to understand THIS one. So don't bother if you can't handle it, okay? For newbies, this is an alternate ending to the Death and the Devil Arc. All you need to know is that Duo and Zechs have just met in a bar about a year after EW, and they are drunk (or trying to be). Hehe. You ask, I deliver-eventually. Sorry it took so long.
Second Note: Special thanks to Adrian for his wonderful White Caucasus story. I was really struggling here toward the limey end of the fic, because I don't write lemons, and I never really wrote a lime this heavy before. I was completely losing it (literally) until I got a hold of my Fanboy's WC. He wrote a few magnificent lemons with Zechs and Treize, and it was all the inspiration I needed. Thanks so much, Adrian. It's not a true lemon, and like I said before, I'm not going to write any, but it's as close as I'll get for the time being, and this one's all for you. :huggles: And yes, this is still suitable content for ;D
-
He and I sit at this bar, this small little bar in the middle of absolute nowhere in an unnamed city that I had cared not to remember, a faceless tender tending to my drinks as he fears me, dodges me, stepping on eggshells. He knows my name, my two names, my face, my two faces, my death. He knows, just as everyone knows, how ridiculous I am, how dangerous, how scarred. I'm sure that when they look at me, they see an ugly face. A torn face that has been damaged and ravaged and ripped and shredded beyond all repair.
I am ugly. I have been accused of such in the past.
But he looks at me, Maxwell, the man that I had just met in this bar, and he smiles oddly. His eyes are twinkling with recognition of some idea, some thought, and he nods. He says in a cool crisp voice, the slur of his drink reminiscent"I believe we have a place to go to, Milli-man."
I don't understand what he means by that, but I don't care. He calls me Milliardo-Milli-man being his version of the name-because I told him to call me that... I had introduced myself with that name after speaking to him for a good portion of the hour, and we decided that we would start over, try again, and shake hands. Originally, I had insisted that he call me Joe-or rather, I told the bartender to call me that after he had called me 'Sir.' I did not want to be called Marquise or... that other name... ever again, because that is the past and I have moved beyond such things.
But now me calls me that, he calls me ...Milliard, and I wonder if it is a mistake.
It is hatred, that name. It is dead, and there is no use digging it back up again. I am dead now, forever.
I am, aren't I?
I nod and smile to him, to Maxwell. I know he knows, he probably always knew. "We do have... have to..." I frown, my brain muddled. I have had way too much to drink, and I can't seem to get out the words. Determined, I firm my lips and get on with it. "I have to go somewh're" I slur. "...have to go home."
I laugh, then, wryly. Cold. It is a joke and he knows it.
We are both homeless.
He shrugs yet again, tips back a final swallow of his beer and thumps it back on the counter. Suddenly I am jealous of him, and a little angry, because he is still graceful, he can still speak clearly, he is still beautiful, still calm, still reasonable, still all-fucking-knowing and I am drunk, one disgusting, ugly daddy's boy.
Daddy's boy. I snort.
Scraping back his stool, Maxwell looks at me, at my face, torn and ugly, and gestures me to follow him. I have only just met him an hour and a half ago, but I feel like I have known him for the past three years-oh wait. That's right. I have, haven't I?
He stands, limbs stretching like a cat as he almost crawls out of the bar, his aura black and about as ugly as my face-scarred, covered, gone... but still somehow beautiful. His braid whispers at his back as he sways, the rope a play on other things too dirty to name, and he's wearing the black cap he'd worn when I met him, the mahogany strands spilling over jeweled cobalt eyes, his grin frozen in time. I follow him, my steps unstable, stumbling like a madman as the floor beneath my feet warps with a mind of it's own. I've had too much to drink but somehow not enough, and my body is unbalanced, depraved, shallow, in need for more. Begging, like a slave for his life. Like...
Oh god, it has been so long since I have let go, just felt the air of nothingness and ...let be. It has been so long... since I felt anything... nice...
My breath is shallow as I follow him, and struggling, I feel the weight of the bartender's glance upon my back. I feel all of them looking at me, perhaps judging me, watching me. Waiting for me to come to my senses. I ignore them, ignore all of them. To hell with them! Fuck them all! When you're me, you learn that waiting is a hopeless cause, waiting will get you nothing but killed, over and over and over again. Waiting will get you dead, and believe me, I know what it's like to be dead. Might just as well be buried, might just as well have had a funeral march, complete with sobbing widows and a long line of carpeted black ghosts so nameless I'd hardly care to notice them anymore. I wonder if Noin would play her part, if it happened. I wonder if I would even recognize her, should she attend.
I wonder if Treize would be there, somewhere, perhaps watching from the other side. Smirking, maybe, in that classic suave way of his. He would make a great representation of God, now that I really think about it. I'm sure that if I ever confront the old man, it will be in the form of Treize. He would enjoy that. He was always such a goddamn hypocrite, Treize, but he believed in his morals so fully that he died with them a happy man. He's told me many times that he does not believe in God, but respects the poor old yoke quite seriously. I have never understood Treize. Not in all my years of regretting his existence in my life.
And loving it.
He was the one after Sank, you know. He was the one who found me. It was years later, I admit it, but he was the one who got me into Victoria, he was the one-Trieze Kushrenada was the one-who gave birth to Zechs Marquise. He was the one who gave me the idea, gave me the name, he was the one who persuaded me to use it. He was always the one, in everything he did. He was always just... He had always called me ...Milliard, in private, but he was the one who named me, trained me, raised me all over again and created me, reborn. He was the reason I was in the Alliance in the first place, he was the reason I went after Daigo Onegel, he was the reason I used my revenge through irony... oh he was the reason. So many reasons...
I could blame him for so many things. And thank him. But he and I have always danced a little tango, or waltz, as Marie would tell me.
Hm. Of course, Duo would also be there, at my funeral. I'm sure he'd be there, he'd deliver me over, being Death, so he would be the first to say goodbye. He would definitely be there. Hell, he's probably looking forward to it! Is that where we are going, Duo? Am I really going home?
Everyone had thought I was dead, and I was, in a sense. I mean, I have a tombstone with my name on it, two of them (one for Zechs, one for Milliardo...), and I have had a funeral. I am dead, I was dead, my name, my life, my humanity is dead, buried six feet underground. Buried in Sank, next to my parents. King, Queen, Prince... Marquise... dead...
Buried next to Treize, somewhere lost, in a memorial forgotten in time.
No one gave a damn. No one bothered. No one helped, no one came, no one saved me, no one cared. It makes me wonder what the hell the point is. Maybe there isn't a point. I have a child's tombstone in Sank. I have a small coffin. It's right there, in between my mother and father. I would know, I was there when they buried me, when they put up a stone for me with my old name carved on it like some sacrificial rite drenched in blood, hanging over my head. Ha, you know, I was six when I saw it, I suppose it was a bit damaging, but I have a tombstone, as did Relena, until they tore it down. Mine is still there though, as requested, and it says"Milliardo Peacecraft, beloved son. AC173-82."
Ha ha ha... Beloved son... What a fucking joke.
Bloody hell! I need to focus before I lose my damn mind! Stop this! It's not sane.
Bloody hell, indeed. My hands and my face. So bloody... so... stained... dead... scarred...
Ugly.
Heavy strands of white-blonde hair whisper along my face as I try desperately to shake the memories away, all the sounds, the smells, the sights and the screams. I don't want to feel it, see it, hear it anymore, I don't want... I don't...
I watch him, Shinigami, they say, I watch him move for the door. Ahead of me. Leading me home.
No, I want this. I do. I want it badly.
I need it.
I trail Duo's fading form ahead of me. I notice for the first time that he is dressed in gothic black, heavy boots thumping on the wooden floor unusually graceful-not silent, but graceful, like a dancer, his long duster coat a buttery leather, smooth, intoxicating, his shirt and jeans both unending, uncompromisingly black. He is deadly, as I see the whole of him; he is the missing piece of the puzzle he himself had been looking for. That I had been looking for. He is everything.
Does he know?
I smile oddly, smile a crooked thing that further scars my face as he waits for me in the doorway, his arm extended out to catch me lest I stumble over like an ass and die too early, fail the game. No, it's not my time yet, and no, I don't think he knows. He does not know he is...
We are equals.
Carefully, I toe one step before the other, and finally make it to the door, the exit of this goddamned bar. I take Duo's hand-Shinigami's hand-and pull myself into him... and I collapse on top of him, partially on purpose, partially because of the alcohol. I breathe in his scent along the way, as if testing the beauty of a rare flower.
Oh god, so rare...
He smells of cinnamon, fiery and alive, with a touch a wood smoke and an odd lemonade. I can also smell the traces of a machine on him, thick grease never fully washed away, grime buried deep from childhood trauma, fear so fossilized it has become one with his soul. I can smell sweat on him, I can smell blood. I can smell Duo on him and I love every second of it.
So bloody rare, too...
I feel a hand touch my face and awkwardly, I try to lick it. I want to taste. As my tongue slides along flesh, I choke out a funny sound-something between joy and sorrow. My eyes heavy, my vision growing dark, I whisper words I have never known to say before. "You tas'e very goo', Shina... Sshinigaam'. C'n I hav' some more"
A chuckle from above me, all around me. Washing me. My body is floating, and I am weightless... so heavy...
"Whatever you want, Joe-Joe. Whatever you need."
My last thoughts before fading out were that I was going to stick him to it, into death.
So be it.
-
He licked me. He licked my hand.
Granted, he's drunk off his ass and depressed as hell, but... Zechs Marquise-Milliardo-fucking-Peacecraft-just licked my hand!
Huh. Okay Duo, calm down, it's not like it was intentional. I mean, he can't even talk straight and his eyes are so glassed up he's hardly conscious. Actually... I don't think he is conscious...
Damn. His weight is heavy in my arms, but not uncomfortable, and I scowl at nobody as I realize that I like idea of a blonde sex-god drunk off his ass and vulnerable to me. Wait, wait, wait... what the hell am I saying? This is Zechs Marquise damnit, he's not a fucking whore. I can't take advantage of him, be damned if I want to...
God. Noin was a lucky woman when she had him, and Treize... well I still dunno what Zechs meant when I asked him about it, but either way Treize was a lucky guy. They're both lucky, anyone who can have a piece of this is lucky. I don't entirely mean the looks either, although Zechs is a beautiful man-okay a very beautiful man with very nice hair and a very nice bod, but that's not the point. Zechs is... well, he's just...
Getting to know him for the last hour, getting to see him as he slowly opened up like a blossom to sunshine, getting feel him, to understand him, I realized that...
That...
Hell. What did I realize? I guess I just like Zechs. I like the way he watches over a crowd, assessing the good from the bad, weakness from strength, escape routes, offensive positions, and the ever present lord-to-servant, higher authority to lower authority. Not cocky, but a faint hint of truth. He is better. He is taller. He is royalty, whether he will admit it or not.
He has a certain amount of power over me, and the rest of the damned world.
But the funny thing is, when Zechs looks at me, he doesn't look at me the way he looks at everyone else in the bar. He looks at the others in the bar like he is responsible for them, like he needs to care after them, and protect them, but when he looks at me he sees an equal and he knows, feels, that I can protect myself. When he looks at me, he sees the same royalty, the same respect, and he probably feels that I could protect his crowd the way he does, will always do.
Personally, I could give a damn about the other people, the innocent ones, but Zechs Marquise will always care about them no matter my opinion, always care for others before himself. He even died that way. Twice.
He has fallen on top of me, fallen into my arms like angel from heaven, and he trusts me enough to take him home, put him away where he will be safe. He trusts me. Why the hell would he trust me? I am not one to be trusted. I hurt people. I kill them. I...
But...
Why do I feel like I can trust him?
God. What the hell is going on here? Why... no when did life just do a one-eighty on me?
I shove the questions back into my mind and concentrate. First, haul Zechs out of the bar, then we can talk. Right? Good.
I shift his heavy body in my arms, trying to find a better position to carry him. He's both taller and bigger than I am, even after the massive growth spurt I'd had after the war, and I find him extremely heavy. So I resort to resting most of his upper body on my shoulders and I half-drag half-carry him out in a stagger.
He mutters something into my neck and I get some mad heebie-jeebies running through me, hormones running wild. I almost stumble over in the brunt of it, but then I catch myself at the last minute and pant my last two steps to my beautiful baby car, Deathscythe-okay"mini Deathscythe." Whatever. Happy? Fingers numb from the cold, my breath in a fog, his subtle shivers running through me, I grab the handle and yank open the door. I know I'm getting a few stares, but I don't entirely give a damn, and I land a controlled fall of Zechs's body into the front passenger seat, gently setting him back and checking to make sure I didn't hurt anything. It's odd, he's stronger than I am, and I'm worried about hurting him. But I check anyway, my hand running over ancient scars, feeling his legs, his thighs, his chest, his...
Stop Duo. Stop.
My hands grow a life of their own and they reach up for that beautiful white mane of hair. I curse my weaknesses, I curse my hands, my damned stupid hands, they won't stop touching him. Damnit! What am I doing? What the hell-
My fingers sift through the strands, caressing his scalp, and I brush back the bangs in his eyes. They just fall back, so I brush them yet again, over and over, marveling at how soft his hair is. My hair is firm and strong; you could pull a tractor-trailer with my hair, not that I'd recommend it. Though I've been accused that it has a nice texture, it's not silk, it's not soft. Zechs's hair is soft. Silk. Smooth. Like butter.
God...
I could touch it forever, it's so addicting. I find myself wondering what kind of shampoo he uses, and the conditioners. How often he must brush the thing, and does he carry a pocket mirror? Lord, if I had hair like this, I would carry an entire set of brushes and hair care products. Hell, I'd become the baddest selfish bastard in the entire Earth Sphere. I'd never leave a fucking mirror.
I have to wonder how Zechs can be the way he is, so damned sacrificing in everything he does, when he has hair like this. It's a sin.
I feel my fingers brushing, caressing, and I still can't stop. I think I've lost my mind, but really, I can't blame myself. No, wait. C'mon, Duo. Stop. What if he wakes up? What if he finds you doing this to him? What would he do? He'd kill you, slaughter you, maim you to pieces. God he'll be pissed, he'll be-
A moan. Or a groan. Or maybe both.
I didn't make that sound, just so you all know.
And because of that little fact, it goes straight down my spine, rumbles in my stomach, pinches my heart and does a zigzag down to my groin, which seems very happy about the situation. My fingers still, then itch, begging for that soft, smooth hair, and so naturally, I do it again.
I have very little will power, I think.
His lips are parted, a faint puff of smoke breathing out of them in the cold air. It's only November, but it's still freaking cold, and I wonder vaguely why I'm still standing like an idiot with the car door open, watching Zechs like some spell-bound slave to his master.
Or something.
I shake my head, and pull away. He moves, shifts toward my heat, makes another sound, as if in protest, and mutters again. Then he stills and he's dead to the world. I shut the car door before my weak-willed hands decide to do something very naughty and ruin our little peaceful moment together, ending my life painfully and no doubt messily, once and for all. Despite everything, I am not, repeat not suicidal.
Slowly, very slowly, I walk around the car to the driver's side, and hesitate. I can see him in the window, head down against the glass, knees almost curled inward, shoulders hunched, hair spilling everywhere. He is beautiful, yes. But now, when I really look at him, he's also depressing. Sad. I want to make him happy, I realize suddenly. I want to make him smile.
Really smile.
Hm. He's not going anywhere, and from what I've learned, he and Noin didn't work out too well. He's alone, I'm alone, and we're both young men in need of a good fuck. Maybe a relationship isn't too bad of an idea?
Maybe it's okay?
Maybe... maybe we can do it? Right?
I'm an open minded sort of guy. I take what I can get, male, female, blonde, brown, blue. I don't care, so long as it has the ability to make me happy for a few blissful seconds. At one point, that happy second came from Hilde, and it didn't work out. It also came from Heero-very secretly-in a way even Hee-bear probably doesn't realize.
In both cases, it was always out of need. It was always out of want. I didn't love Hilde that way, I loved her as a sister. And I didn't love Heero that way, I loved him as a partner. No. But Zechs? I look at him and I can't help the smile. Not a happy, stupid-in-love smile, but a simple, dumb, guy-smile. A I-found-my-chick, smile. A my-god-he's-beautiful smile. A happy smile. A rough smile. A carefree, gotta-love-life smile.
I could love Zechs, given the effort. I'm sure I could. Maybe.
I could love him, care for him, and not be afraid that he'll die on me.
I just could.
I could, because I know, deep down, that when I look at him, I don't see a good fuck. When I look at him, I don't see a sex god, don't see the use and abuse of unspeakable organs in the body. I don't see stars.
I see Zechs. For the first time in my life, I see someone, a person (not an organ), someone other than family that I can love. And care about.
Maybe.
In time.
As quietly as possible, so as not to disturb him, I open the diver's side door and slip in. I shut it as gently as possible, put the key into the ignition, and set off into the sunset.
I head back to my motel room, since I have no idea where Zechs is staying, and I honestly don't want him out of my sights, now that I've grabbed him, hook line and sinker.
Yes, he's mine.
I'm going to make him mine.
And I'm going to make him smile when I do it.
If I can do that... maybe I'll smile too. Honestly.
-
I had a dream. I can't remember what I dreamed about, but I had a dream, a terrible, beautiful, horrible, sincere, great dream.
And then it died, disappeared, slipped from my fingers, and I woke to the feeling of my stomach in my throat, my brain split down the middle, my mind bleeding from the after effects of hangover. Without thinking, I lurched up, stumbled my way though an unfamiliar room and guessed the right door to the bathroom. By miracle (and instinct), I was right, and I didn't even bother to flip on the light as I stumbled across the small space to the toilet. I barely had the time to lift the lid before I started to blow chunks, and I fell down on my knees and gave in to the God of Drunks.
I hug the filthy, slimy, goddamned ugly toilet bowl for my all worth as I slump against the wall, spilling vomit after vomit. Somewhere, I hear a noise, and in the haze of pain and a last go at my throat, I look up to see Duo Maxwell leaning in the doorway with a smirk on his face. He seems amused, perhaps touched that he would be allowed to witness the downfall that is Milliardo Peacecraft first hand, but I don't really care that much anymore and lean back, gulping for air and feeling sorry for myself.
Goddamnit, why couldn't he be down here, with his face in a toilet bowl? Why couldn't he throw shit up from his stomach right along side me? He drank the same amount that I did, but I'm down here and he's up there, perfectly sober and definitely not suffering from a hangover.
I think I hate him, if only because of that.
He must have read something in my face, because he answered my thoughts and my hatred died on the spot.
"Doc S and a lifetime of good resistance" he shrugged with pure causality. "I can't get drunk. At least not easily. Can't get high either. Or wasted."
So at least some of the rumors were true. When they'd captured him during the war, I heard that they had a hard time containing him because their truth drugs weren't working and beating him was pretty much useless. They'd tried every single drug they had, even tried getting him drunk, and nothing worked. After that, they grew more and more frustrated until they reportedly tortured him illegally. But that just pissed Shinigami off, and that's where the real horror stories begin.
Looking at him now, in person, I have to wonder what they saw before they died. I have to wonder what would really scare a man to death.
I shudder, and another wave of nausea hits me. My mouth kisses the seat as I choke up acid, losing all the food I'd had in my stomach. Duo steps closer, kneels down and puts a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. After it's over, I lean back, bitterly shove his hand away, and close my eyes. God, I have a fucking headache...
He steps away, and I hear a cabinet being slid open. There's a rattle of pills, a pop of a cap, a clink of glass being lifted from the porcelain sink, and water running. Then he's next to me again, that hand on my shoulder, and he says my name.
"Milliard."
I flinch involuntarily before I can help myself. I open my eyes, and find his palm extended with one white little pill and a glass of water. Duo smiles and tilts his head to the sink, where a bottle of aspirin rests. "For the headache" he said in an oddly quiet voice. "I bought it an hour ago for you, since I knew you'd need it. You can have the whole bottle if you want, that stuff will never work on me, even if I do get a headache. Sucks, really."
I lift an eyebrow, curious. "You bought a bottle of aspirin for me"
He just grins, oddly, and shrugs again, nudging the pill and the glass of water forward. I squint my eyes, my head pounding, and acknowledge the fact that aspirin would be nice. So I take the pill, and the water, and drown them.
What do I care, anyway? Duo has no reason to poison or drug me, and if he wants me to succumb to his will, I'm already vulnerable and slightly willing. I have nothing else to lose.
After drinking down the entire glass, I can feel my stomach rumble, but then relax. I stand up and wobble back to the bedroom as I brush passed Duo and fall back down on the mattress. I don't even ask as he follows in behind me, and I feel the mattress dip down to support his weight. He lays down on his side of the bed, his back to me, and goes to sleep.
I stuff my head into the pillow, cursing my head, biology, and the fact that even though I proved a formidable enemy against all of the gundam pilots combined, I'm still considered a normal fucking human being.
Damn.
-
Several hours pass and I sleep like a baby. He does too, though he complains while he does it, the occasional run to the bathroom his only interruption into oblivion. I heard the bottle of aspirin rattle more than once, and I know he's going to take it when he leaves here, with or without my prodding. When I told him that I bought the medicine for him, he looked... odd, but not in a bad way. It seems that I still have a chance with him, however faint.
I'm not going to mention it to him yet, though. I want him healthy, semi-happy and willing when I approach the subject.
Maybe tomorrow.
I grunt as I sit up, laughing softly when my stomach rumbles and hunger pains eat at me. God, I'm starving. When's the last time I'd eaten?
I look over at Zechs and find that he's still out like a light. He's been in and out all day, obviously exhausted from life, tragedy and the ghosts that he's confronted in the last few hours. And will confront again.
His hair is a mess and it needs to be combed, as does mine. He is also sprawled in the blankets, one knee out, against his chest, the other down and away, shunned. His arms are wrapped around him, his face tucked down and hidden, his body relaxed, but somehow tense, and shivering, as if in the midst of a nightmare.
I watch as the shivering grows, and he makes an odd pained noise, shifting in his sleep. The free leg slowly draws up to join the one at his chest and his curls in on himself, hiding from some horrible, inescapable pain.
No, he's not relaxed at all. He's tense as a fuckin' board.
He makes another noise, this one slightly louder. I know for a fact that he's having a nightmare, a bad one, and don't want him to suffer it. Without thinking, I put a hand to his hair, and start sifting my fingers through it. He shivers even greater, climaxes with the pain, but then relaxes, very softly, and tumbles back down to oblivion. His hair is a tangled mess, and he needs to have it combed. Coming to a decision, I pull away, pick up the phone and dial out. I order dinner, than dig into my bag, looking for my good brushes and an extra hair tie.
-
I wake and this time, I feel better. I can smell pepperoni, cheese, and garlic. I can smell food, specifically pizza. It smells good.
I haven't eaten since yesterday, so I open my eyes, and sit up. My stomach growls, announcing the situation, and I hear a laugh. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I look around, finding Duo on the edge of the bed holding three different black brushes, and a hair tie. There is a pizza box on a table in the corner of the motel room, and stare at it hungrily.
Duo shakes his head, a playful grin on his face. "Not yet. You need to wash up first, you're a mess, Millie-man."
I notice that he's already taken a shower and that his hair is in a fresh braid, still damp from the water. He's also in different clothes, still black, and still somewhat gothic. He looks good in them, I notice, but then I slap myself and I try to remember that it shouldn't matter what he looks like, because I'm not going to do anything with him anyway.
Right.
He tilts his head, and motions for me to slide toward him. I do, feeling that there's no reason I shouldn't and... well... why not? I've got nothing else to lose, right? He slides around me, the weight shifting smoothly on the mattress, and there is a moment of stillness. Hm. I knew what he was planning when I saw the brush and the hair tie, but I was still surprised when I felt the familiar tug of my hair. He put the brush into my hair, and started combing. Combing. Combing my hair for me. No one had ever done that before, so I pull away and look at him.
He is not smirking when I turn around. He is not smug or foolish or grinning or even amused. He's just... Duo. I think. I don't know him well enough, but I know that what I saw on his face was not a joke. He simply wants to do this for me. Honestly.
"Don't worry Joe" he says in a soft voice. I shiver, because it is so odd. Odd that it feels right, odd that I like that voice. I hardly know him, but I like the way he says that name, the names that he calls me, whether it's my birth name or a pet name.
They're all my names, when he says them. Mine. I like feeling that way, I think.
He smiles impishly, and motions me to turn around again. "...Just relax."
Relax. Let it be.
Just...
Let go.
Right.
I close my eyes as the brush pulls the snarls out of my hair, massaging my scalp gently, but firmly. It feels good, I note, and then my world slowly dwindles down to Duo's body heat against me, his hands in my hair, the combs picking apart the knots, sifting, swimming, swirling, loving my hair.
Loving me, I think.
Maybe.
I'm almost sure of it...
-
I spent almost an entire hour combing that mane. It didn't need an hour, but god, I wanted to extend it as far as I could, already addicted to the feel of his silk in my fingers, and the little sounds that he makes occasionally, ones that I'm sure he doesn't even know about.
Every time he made a sound like that, I just about lost it. But for him, I kept my control and told myself this is not a random romp, this, if I can help it, will be the real fucking thing. I've never had it before, and I'll be damned if I know what I'm doing, but I won't let this fall away on a mistake. I need to know that he wants it.
And now, after this, I'm almost sure of it.
After all snarls, knots, and tension are out of the way, I start to gather his hair into a tail. I reach up across his temples and slide up his neck, brush against his cheek and pull his hair into an even mass at the back of his head. Holding it in a fist, I let the stragglers drop down and ready the hair tie, tying back the tail tightly, but naturally, so it hangs free from his shoulders. It's a fairly long tail that reaches down passed his shoulder blades, and it god, does it look good on him. The stray pieces that escaped frame around his cheeks and down his neck, behind his ears. With a soft, strange sigh, he reaches back and touches the tail, pulls it and runs it through his fingers. Then he turns around and looks at me, his head tilted with a frown on his face.
"Why did you do that"
I grin, a cover for my nervousness. "Because you look sexy as hell with it" I say before I can stop myself, but the words are already spoken. He looks at me odd for a minute or two before nodding and looking away. He thinks I'm joking, I'm sure of it. I don't know if that's good or bad.
"I like it" he says firmly, as if coming to an important decision. "It feels lighter. Less..." He squints, looking into the distance, trying to find the right word. He struggles.
My big mouth jumps the bandwagon yet again. "...Exposed"
He stares at me, his eyes widening. With an epiphany, he nods and says"Yes. That's exactly what it is." And he blushed. Actually, god be my witness, blushed. "...Thank you."
Huh. Okay Duo, don't go awkward on me, keep talking. Smooth your way outta this mess, c'mon...
"Oh uh... Heh, you're welcome." My heart lurched. Great Duo. Just great.
I firmly stamp down on the thoughts and shake my head. I'm still hungry as hell, and I know he is too. I stand up, grab the box and sit back down on the bed. "The pizza's gone cold" I say, as I open the box. But then I shrug. "...but cold pizza's the best."
He smiles, nods, and eagerly grabs a slice. He must be hungry, I've never thought Zechs for a pizza hog. I shrug, grab my own slice and eat as I watch him eat, who watches me eat right back. He eats it slowly, savoring, but not too slow, not too fast. I ordered pepperoni and mushroom, with extra cheese and he seems to enjoy it. It's nice when people have the same tastes that I do. It's rare for me.
After he finishes his slice, he huffs a wry smoke of air and cracks his first joke all night. "That's the best pizza I've ever had." I grin and nod, but he just shrugs and grabs another. "Hungry" he grunts.
I laugh. "Duo hungry too" and I grunt loudly in return, for emphasis.
He smiles, oddly soft, and savors the rest of his slice. I pick up a third while he finishes his second slice, and grabs another. We stare at each other for a minute, and I'm not entirely sure what we're both thinking, but then I see him shake his head slightly, clearing a thought away, before munching down on the pizza again.
I finish my third slice and sigh contentedly, debating on whether to grab another or not. The pizza is from a local little place, the best in town, and the slices are not conservative. Each one is big enough to make people like me happy, and even my bottomless pit of a stomach isn't sure of how much more it can handle.
Zechs finishes his third as well and smiles, obviously on the same train of thought. We stare at each other for about a minute before both our hands reach into the box for a forth one anyway. To hell with it! If it's one thing I've learned, it's that you never waste the chance for good food, be damned if you're hungry or not.
But the piece I'm holding is pulled and I look down, only to discover that Zechs and I have grabbed the same slice. He lets go before I do and so I take it from him, grinning awkwardly because in a way, it's very funny. He coughs, grabs another and looks back to me. He must have seen something in my eyes, because he's suddenly paralyzed again, watching me, unable to move. I have to wonder what I could possibly do that makes Zechs Marquise of all fuckin' people freeze on the spot, but then I shake the thought away and remember that this is a good thing, could be a good thing. He's obviously struggling with something, something about me, and I have a funny feeling that it's not my suave sense of humor nor my dashing good looks.
Or well, that could be part of it, but that's not the entire picture, I know. I can see it in the way he's looking at me right now. Wide eyed, mouth slightly parted, dirty images flashing before his pupils. That hair is pulled back, tightly bound at the back of his head, and he looks protected, safe, strong... stable.
Suddenly, I want him vulnerable. I want him open, off kilter, unstable. I want him unsheathed, the real deal, the passion, the fire that he is underneath. I want him in all his glory, and I just can't help myself.
I don't care anymore. I don't care. That look is there, he wants it, and I'm not going to fuck around with him anymore. Well... I am, but no more wasting time.
We need this. We need it badly.
We need it now.
I put my slice back down in the box and lean in to kiss those very much kissable lips.
-
Before I know what's going on, his lips are on mine and he's kissing me. He's... my god, he's fucking kissing me. Me! What the hell is going on? Where did the world suddenly go? What-
Sanity has just flown out the window, darling. It's just you and me now, and we have the rest of time to take advantage of it. Gotta love life, seize the day, carpe diem. Don't just sit there, Milliard, go on... Kiss the fool back! You know you want to.
He's just so hot and bothered, so damned rough, so damn... go on...
I think if Treize's ghost were in the room, he would whispering in my ear, goading me on.
Bastard.
Before I can fully control the thoughts flooding through my mind, I take his head into my hands and plunge deep into his mouth, stealing his breath for my own. His kiss was tender and sweet, but I am not tender and sweet, and I don't need or want tender and sweet. If it's going down, I want it all the way down, and I want it rough. It's going to burn.
He makes a growl from deep in his belly, almost feral, and holds my own head, his fingers digging into my hair, scratching, clawing at my skull. His tongue wars with mine, and we tango, dancing to a beat only sex-driven beasts could understand, an unrelenting tempo that years of evolution and revolution have failed to diminish. Images flash before my eyes-his own eyes, deep jeweled cobalt flecked almost violet, almost black in the bad lighting of the motel. His chestnut bangs shroud them in mystery, tickling his forehead and intermingling with mine as we mash our mouths together, trying to eat each other alive.
Teeth clash, tongues are bitten, lips bleed, and lungs starve for air. For a moment, I thought I would die, and I thought he would die with me, but then he pulls away, shoving me back and wipes his mouth with the back his arm, a beastly grin on his lips. His eyes are dangerous, hungry, eager.
I know that I'm looking at him in the same way, and I swipe a tongue across my own lips, licking the blood away. He's chewed them pretty bad, but I don't care; his tongue is bleeding and he's favoring the inside of his right cheek.
And suddenly, I choke out a laugh. It ruins the feral touch in the air, and his grin softens to a confused frown as the laugh I laugh grows into an insane thing, haggard, but funny, and wry to the core. It takes a few minutes for me to calm down and I shake my head relentlessly, finding the entire situation bloody ridiculous.
He lifts an eyebrow, and tilts his head to the side. If his lips weren't swollen, his breaths shallow, he would have looked innocent.
Right.
I laugh a little harder, and fall backwards. He's looking at me now like I've lost my mind, but I did, so it doesn't matter. He leans over me, looking down from above, and brushes a callused hand along my cheek. "What's so funny" He sounds almost indignant.
I calm down, wipe the sudden tears that had gone down my cheeks, and sit up again. He pulls back, stares at me, while I look down and stare at my hands. Like his, my hands are callused, born and bred for battle, itching for the trigger of a gun and graceful with the blade of justice. I've carried a variety of weapons, even this one, this feral, beastly love, and I have never felt this way before. My hands are shaking, literally shaking out of... something. Fear? It doesn't feel like fear.
More like anticipation. Need, perhaps.
Oh but, damn, do I need...
"Milliard"
I flinch again, and look at him. The tears have stopped, had stopped when I stopped laughing, but now I don't know if they were happy tears, hysterical tears, depressed tears... all of the above...
I stare at him. Really, really stare. He may be shorter, smaller, younger, but he's got tough skin, hard muscles, attitude and purpose. He's a man in every single way, and he walks like he could and would take the life of a king with the breath of one word. He walks like a cobra, like a goddamned snake, but I know, have always known, that he is the single most honest man I could ever meet. He'll twist, turn, run and hide, but he doesn't lie. Does he?
I could trust him. I have trusted him.
That's more than enough for me.
"You're the last person I would have ever kissed" I say in a hazy voice. My vision is a little blurry, my throat dry. I grip my hands into fists and grit my teeth. I choke out another laugh, smile still wry. "But you know... you kiss... you kiss just like..."
I can't get it out. I can't say anything. A tear bursts, rolls, spills, falls, drops, tumbles down to the sheets of the bed. I can feel them, feel them all rolling, leaving silken paths behind them, staining my face, marking me... bleeding me... I have never cried before. Not even in my kingdom's death. I didn't cry at my funeral, I didn't cry when Treize died. I have never cried, ever, in my entire life.
So why would I cry now?
"Zechs" he sighs and shifts closer. His hand hovers over my shoulder, uncertain what to do. I grab it, take it in my hands and kiss it. I kiss it, and then I laugh into it. I stare at his hand, his beautiful hand, callused, scarred, dirty with blood that will never wash away. Hands that have killed millions. Hands that have ripped out another man's trachea. Hands that could take my own life in one half of a second, should there be a need or a want.
Hands like mine.
Like ...his, even.
My smile grows wider and I look up. He thinks I've lost my mind, but again, I did, so it doesn't matter.
"You kiss like Treize" I say in a half-whisper. "You kiss... You kiss just like"
He grabs me and pulls me into him. He puts his lips to my forehead, my temple, down my jaw line, under my neck. He bites softly, nibbling, and then licks apologetically. He says nothing, and I say nothing.
We don't say anything.
-
We took it slow. Unlike the kiss, the sex was slow. Sweet. Hard, but slow and sweet. Not tender, not soft, but...
It lasted for hours, I think, though I lost track of the time. I wanted to make him feel, I wanted to pump all that pain out of him so that he could breathe again.
I think, tomorrow night, it may be my turn. Once I make him better, he'll switch the tides on me, and make me scream my own pain. I'm sure he will. He would. He'd enjoy that.
Revenge is sweet, isn't it? All's fair in the love and war, my beautiful devil. Death loves you too damned much to refuse you the glory.
And I do love you. I love you now, and I know I love you because you can't make love if there isn't anything to make it with. And we made love. I'm sure that's what lovemaking is, I'm sure that's the difference. I'm new to this whole slow sex scenario, but it feels different than whoring. It feels different than those quickies in the clubs and the jack-offs with Heero stuck in my head. It feels different than the forced-luster that was Hilde, feels different than anything.
If it's different... it's gotta be better. It can't get worse, and it doesn't feel bad. I liked it. I liked it a lot.
So I think I love him. Maybe. Probably.
Does it matter?
I'm resting mostly on top of him, my chin over his shoulder, kissing the skin just at the end of his jaw to the beginning of his ear. He loves it there, and he moans in his sleep, a heavy shiver running through him. I run my fingers through his now-unbound hair, and whisper random thoughts to him, confessions, secrets that I have told no one. I can tell him anything, he could tell me anything, this I know from our meeting in the bar. From our actions last night. We have started this relationship on confession, and I want to continue the tradition. We're honest together. We don't hide.
It would be nice to have someone to share my stories with. It feels good, being able to give voice to them.
He sleeps, but I know he listens. It had been intense and it knocked him right out, but that's what I wanted from him, so it's okay. I cleaned us both up long ago, and put the remaining pizza into the trash because whatever we haven't... ahem, used, fell on the floor. When I'd finished cleaning, he'd practically grabbed me and forced me to his chest like some obscure security blanket, a teddy bear to cuddle and feel safe. He was asleep the entire time, but he had gotten addicted to my heat, and maybe even my presence in his life.
Idly, I nip at his neck, licking and sucking, stroking my fingers through his hair. He tastes so good. I can't describe that taste, it's just him, and my tongue loves to roll in it. If I could eat him, I would. I would cook him a huge pot and make a stew out of him.
I bite particularly hard with that thought, and he whimpers-fucking whimpers-stirring in his sleep. I nuzzle apologetically and kiss him softly. He relaxes, stills, grows completely dead to the world again. I whisper some more into his ear, telling him about Solo, and how he died, telling him about Shinigami, telling him about the thievery, the manipulation, the drugs, the sex, the rape, the death, the sickness...
I tell him everything and I feel lifted. I feel listened to. I feel elated.
I feel whole.
And he sleeps on, at peace for probably the first time in several years. It makes me remember what he said to me, after that kiss, it makes me remember the laugh, the obscure, wry, mad... so damn sad...
I remember what he said about Treize.
Suddenly, a cold breeze bites at the back of my neck and I shiver. I can feel a presence, very subtle. Not dangerous, just cold, old, distant... An instinctive fear bubbles inside of me before I stamp down on it.
I smile. I know a ghost when I feel one. I'm death, after all.
"You don't need to worry" I whisper to the walls. "He's not alone anymore."
There is a breath along Zechs's cheek. It is not mine. It is a cold, chilled fog, a soft puff of air. Zechs shivers in my arms, and mutters something, a name, a memory.
The breath lingers, kissing Zechs's skin before vanishing. The room warms. The presence fades.
And my voice whispers truth.
"You're welcome, Treize... and thank you."
-
I wake and he is still there.
That's all I know, that's all I care about, and I don't bother to move.
It's morning, finally, I can feel it. I'm not entirely sure how many days have passed, how many hours, but it's hard to consider that not too long ago, a week perhaps, maybe a century, I had been alone and completely given up on life. I had been so depressed, so down, I was literally suicidal. I know I was getting there. I know that's where I was headed.
But then so had he, the man in my arms. And together, we fixed that. Two souls in misery, fire burning, lusting for love. We gave each other what we needed, we helped each other. We're not alone anymore, we never were.
Duo was right. That last moment in the bar, he was right.
We're not alone. I never was alone. I never will be alone.
And if I am alone, we're all alone. Every last one of us. Alone together.
He had said that we are all names in the walls of war, every last one of us dead with a story to tell and a tear to cry, a voice to the memory that we shall not be forgotten. We were sacrificed for the greater good, we were tossed into hell so the others could go to heaven. We are all scarred, and together, we're not alone.
I reintroduced myself to him as Milliardo Peacecraft in that moment, a name that I had neglected for years. Even in that last battle, it was a curse, not a name. Not what it was born to be.
He tries to call me Milliard, like we agreed to do, and every time he speaks it I flinch involuntarily. But someday I won't flinch, I won't curl away, I won't shudder with pain, and that will be the day that I finally understand what happened last night.
I feel clean. My face isn't as bloody as it was a few nights ago. I feel... different. Better. Not healed, not earth-shattering-contentedness, but just... I feel different. I feel better. I feel like I've found something that could really help me understand things. There is so much that has happened in my life, things that don't make sense to me, and perhaps he can help me.
He has helped me. He's here, with me. He's still here after last night... he didn't leave.
He didn't...
He stirs and opens his eyes. He must have seen something in my face, because he reaches up and traces a finger along my jaw. With a small, strange smile, he crawls closer and presses his lips against mine, willing me to smile, to brighten, to feel better.
Morning breath and all, he plunges slowly, deep into my mouth, drawing a long, low, moan from me.
He grins. "Stop brooding, Millie-man. Though you look cute when you brood, you've had enough brooding to last a lifetime. Maybe ten of em." He dips back down, and seizes another kiss, this one a touch more rough, and that insidious little grin widens. "Learn to love life for a change. Smile a bit. Take a deep breath, let all the worries evade you, and just live. Let me take care of the rest, 'kay"
His head lowers... and lowers... and lowers... and I feel him slide down my body, under the sheets. My last coherent word for next half-hour was"Okay..."
And life just got a while lot brighter.
I saw stars.
-
Ah, but maybe it's the way you were taught
Or maybe it's the way we fought
But a smile never grins without tears to begin
For each kiss is a cry we all lost
Though there is nothing left to gain
But for the banshee that stole the grave
'Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess
Singin' drunken lullabies
- Flogging Molly
-
A/N: Came out better than I imagined, and a good deal longer. My first orange/almost-lemon, if you will. How'd I do? This is really my view on what would happen if, somehow, Zechs and Duo did hook up. I've always believed that Duo would be the overall top in the relationship, and that it WOULDN'T be sappy/fluffy at all... but rough. I don't know why, but I see a lot of rough sex in the two of them. It might be my dirty mind, but can you blame me? Heh... if you're a lemon writer, you're more than welcome to write a lemon based on this thing. I want it, so just ask and rant with me, okay?I do want to see a lemon for this part of the story (imagine the hotness!), but I, being stubborn, won't write it. I'm not a lemon writer... at all. Hehe.