Fandom:Gundam Wing
Rating:NC-15/M
Pairings:Heero and Duo
Warnings:Profanity, references to male/male love, angst
Disclaimer:I do not own them although I would like that. Or at least someone like Duo or Quatre, or perhaps both of them. All rights with their original owners.
Spoilers:None.
Summary:After the guns fell silent. Heero working for Preventers, Duo at an engineering company. Duo's version of their personal problems.
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A rather angsty one. Thank you for the reviews, which I found very helpful. This is a repost with a few minor changes, plus a new chapter, with a third one to follow soon. Let me know how you liked it, folks. Cheers.
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Duo's world had chilled by several degrees, and it was his own doing.
He hung his head over the sink and splashed some tepid water into his face, wiped over his eyes and looked up at his reflection in the mirror.
To meet a still reasonably handsome face. Quite a feat at almost forty, he mused listlessly, though there lay shadows under his eyes and lines creased around his mouth and at the root of his nose. He gave himself another tired, critical glance and turned away to towel himself dry. Old routine, scrub until the pallid skin reddened, then soothe with some cream.
God, he hated growing old.
He felt old.
Life had become comfortable. Ten wild years of war and horror had faded into some nightmarish memory, too weak to jump at him at night, merely causing a shudder now and then when he forgot his guard. Eight good years with Heero had soothed him, settled him somehow.
He walked into the bedroom to get dressed. Heero had gone out to work already, early this morning because they would not share the car – Duo had time off. Time to think. Way too much time.
Thoughts were churning in his head, and his head told his guts to cramp.
He dragged on his clothes, with a slight frown and a twitch of disgust on his lips. His hair slid over his shoulders and tickled his jaw; he wiped it back absentmindedly. He had started growing it again, almost unconscious of what he was doing. Definitely not wanting to know why he was doing it.
Heero could be so damn oblivious.
"Nice," he had commented, sliding his fingers through soft brown silk, with not a grey thread in sight yet. "You look lovely."
Duo felt a twinge in his chest and hastily buttoned up his jeans. Thank god for unisex rags, he thought rather incongrously as he rumbled down the stairs to get coffee in the kitchen, otherwise he might have ended up wearing drag now and then. On the counter stood the little tray Heero had readied for him this morning, with a mug of coffee gone cold and a fruit juice. He picked up the mug with resigned bitterness and poured half of its content into the sink.
Heero woke him with this arrangement every morning, except when Duo had time off and Heero had to go early. Then Heero would leave the tray by his bedside, kiss him good bye for the day and sneak out, trying not to wake him.
He would usually wake anyway, drag his eyes half open and mumble his thank you, nice coffe, every time. Routine. Friendly, soothing small things. If they both had to go out, they would have their coffee together, in bed, Heero dressed, Duo still in pyjamas or nothing. When Duo did not have to go out, he would snuggle down for another round of sleep, and his drink would go tepid.
This morning Heero had shouted up from the kitchen, "Want another coffee?"
"No thanks," Duo had declined. Heero did not insist, just left.
Duo watched the kettle coming to a boil. He felt hollow, his eyes hot and grainy from staring at the computer screen almost all night long.
Heero knew Duo's work was not going too well. Company downgrading. They had not much use for someone who spent ten years warring, without university degree or carreer ambitions. Duo felt out of place, tried to do his work and get away with as little as possible. Sometimes he dodged out of work altogether, and he despised himself for this slack, resulting in even less motivation.
He had taken to drinking more than his usual glass of sake in the evening. At first it soothed him and brightened him up. Then it helped numbing him. Some evenings it would be two, three glasses. Sometimes a bottle. By himself.
Heero watched, concern in his eyes, but said nothing.
Duo pressed his eyes shut and sucked his lip between his teeth. The kettle hissed and boiled, clicked off; he spooned some more powdered coffee into the half-empty mug and filled it up with hot water.
"You think I'm drinking too much?" he had asked once, waving the bottle at Heero. He had drunk too much years ago, like the father he never knew, to sail through the blackest times of his life. He could not remember much of it – a heavy grey haze wrapped it all up – though being a drunkard terrified him.
He loathed himself for it. He just could not help it. Not any longer.
Outside, the sun was shining. Spring had arrived late this year, but with unrivalled glory, in a spate of gleaming blue days and a haze of birdsong, the brilliant green of new life veiling the blackness of winter.
Duo went into his room, his own little space, a dusky cubbyhole under the stairs with a chair, some shelves, a computer, and set the mug down by the screen. Turned on the machine and logged onto the internet. Desperate for some mail, something, someone to talk to him, tell him what Heero used to – I need you. Want you. Come to bed.
It had been him asking Heero whether he could stay, all those years ago. In Heero's life, in his arms, in his bed. Heero had responded rather enthusiastically, taking Duo somewhat by surprise.
It had taken time to heal, and Heero had helped, soothed, been around with endless patience as Duo ploughed his way through waves of bleak depression, drink and near-madness. Before he could dare giving in to a fragile kind of happiness.
Duo gasped at the wrenching feeling in his chest. Thankless, he cringed, how can I be so damn fucking thankless.
But he had tried to make up for it, had he not? Blown fun into Heero's steady, slightly dull existence, put colour into his life and a prickly edge of irrationality. Heero seemed to like that, though when Duo asked, curious and wracked with self-doubt, why he should be so incredbily lucky to be loved by Heero, there was no answer, just a shrug, a smile, soft eyes shining at him.
No answer.
Duo's flame, the fire that had flared so high as to almost consume him when he alighted with Heero, had been lovingly contained to burn brightly without destroying, and now it had burned down to the embers. Burned out. Cooled down. And he was desperately trying to hold on to the heat. He hated ashes and he was afraid of the cold.
Heero was warm, but not burning.
Duo checked his mail, found no new messages, and thought listlessly about the missed appointment with his university tutor. It had been scheduled at eleven, not twelve. Finding her office empty, he immediately realised and telephoned to leave an apology on her mobile answerphone. He should have been mortified. Instead, he found it embarrassing, but in a somehow distant way – it did not touch him. The course was great, she was good, he had hoped for a new lease of life, an impetus to keep him going.
It was not enough. Not now.
He turned the little radiator by his chair on full and wrapped a fleece jacked round himself. It was brooding hot in the small room. He shivered with cold.
Duo was sensual, Heero was practical and rather fond of his routines. His work was hard, Duo knew, and he ran their life, allowing Duo time to indulge his little quirks. Writing stories, for example, which no one bought. Now they were turning into a lifeline, something Duo could use as a screen, a shield behind which he could hide from life.
He had taken to spending days and nights in the cupboard with the computer for company. Reading things he wanted to try with Heero, for love. To help them both.
Heero did not like it. "Can't feel you," he would grit through clenched jaws, or "Hurts."
Duo could feel him though, and what he did to Heero turned him on more than what Heero would do to him: another routine, gentle, well-established, frustrating like hell. Duo felt used, knew it was unjust and almost cried with anger and disgust at himself. Tried to talk about what he wanted, needed, meant to give and share, only to realise it caused Heero intense discomfort even to consider.
Duo tried writing explicit things, pouring his longings into his stories where he and Heero would follow them through in disguise. Brought himself to show them to Heero who liked some of it. It did things to him. Other stuff put him off. Duo felt the worse for it. Dirty, like a whore. And they were back to routines.
He longed for Heero to swipe him off his feet, like he had at the beginning, make love to him until he melted into a haze of lust, be a bit firmer perhaps – he could take it, he wanted it – anything, really.
But it had been him seeking, coaxing, imploring, suggesting, begging. Almost every time. Until he felt disgusted with himself, fuckhead that he was, and a total failure for he could not open Heero's eyes to the pleasures, could not make Heero want him enough to go all out mad and reckless, disregard a little pain and discomfort and go for it.
He needed this more than Heero who was content to sleep with him now and then in his tender, caring, a bit lazy way. It was usually Duo igniting the spark, Heero feeding off it, coming into a nice glow and leaving it at that. No offer to reciproke. Duo had been his first real lover, discounting a one-night-stand for defloration, which he hardly remembered or did not want to talk about because he had been drunk, and one attempt at having a relationship which ended in a friendly, dispassionate way because the girl went back home overseas as planned.
Duo taught Heero some shades of making love, finding it hard work after the initial rush of passion, enjoying it, hoping for something to ripen, happy to leave his traces on the blank canvas of Heero's innocence. Yet he had overlooked something, and it dawned on him now, after eight years: Heero did not have the same urge, kept more to the conventional things. He did not refuse to look at spicy stuff in magazines or elsewhere, but he showed no great interest either. Duo sought things out, Heero would cast a glance, smile, perhaps blush a bit, but never get the message that Duo wanted to try some of them, no kink, no pain, just the nice bits. Lustful play, for pure joy, for love, for the pleasure of living, taking and giving.
Duo opened the web browser. He should be doing housework, or something useful. Try to sell the books he had written, tidy up the tomes of stories and present them to some agency, read up on stuff for his masters degree. Or at least load the dishwasher.
He could not be asked. Sadly, he began to browse for the things that had replaced what Heero and he used to do in bed. Or what he had dreamed of doing with Heero in bed. After all, there was no point in fooling himself. He had thought that perhaps he was not what Heero needed, either. One day he had tried to dress in a more feminine manner, brushed his growing hair to a shiny wave of chestnut down to his shoulders and slicked on some lip-gloss. If Heero did not like this body, perhaps Duo could slip into another one for him? Heero had given him a startled glance; then his lips had curved in a cautious smile. "Looks good."
"Perhaps I should change," Duo had seized upon the opportunity. "Everything. Myself!"
"You're perfect as you are," Heero said promptly, with the tiniest click of alarm in his voice.
"I don't feel like it."
Heero had offered no reply to this.
"I need to talk to some folk," Duo prodded, trying to swallow back the lump of fear and misery in his throat, "I'm a mess. I'm confused."
"Hn." Heero shifted uncomfortably in his chair, eyes wandering to the television, hands on the keyboard of his laptop for hold.
I need to talk to you, Duo thought desperately, but Heero's face had closed, the set of his shoulders stiffened. Heero did not do confused. He disliked this sort of issues in particular. How could you be confused about your sex? It disgusted him.
So Duo disgusted him?
Duo shivered, clicking on a site that promised stories. Hot, passionate, sweet stories of people losing, finding, loving, struggling for one another. Same sex, opposite sex, it did not matter – the issues were always the same, as old as humanity. The fights were the same. Love was the same.
Heero disliked fighting, too.
That particular evening, Duo had slipped under the covers to him, naked and hot, and snuggled up against his warm, pyjama-clad body. Heero had caressed him, kissed, in this reluctant, gentle way of his, waiting for Duo to ignite the fire. Duo caressed him back the same way. Waiting, feeling the initial passion fade, drain away, leaving behind cold frustration and tears stinging his eyes. Grab me, he wanted to yell, for fuck's sake make love to me. Now. Hard. Show me you want me, know what to do, will keep hold of me no matter what. I need this now: to know that you like me, want me, my body, everywhere. Or play with me. With yourself. You know it turns me on like nothing to watch you playing. Please, Heero.
He had asked before. Often. Timid at first, a bit more direct then, until he felt like he was begging or trying to move a rock. It had hollowed him out. And suddenly it struck him that he was tired of it, convinced he had lost his attraction, that he was perhaps even repulsing his lover. He began to hate his reflection in the mirror and the hunger with which he picked up on compliments from strangers, or ogled crisp young flesh of either sex that usually ignored him. He felt ancient.
So that evening, he decided in a hot flash to try it on, in a last, wretched attempt of defiance. He had to find out. Instead of pleading yet again, he turned his back to Heero, dragging some of the cover with him, and settled for the night. Desperately hoping for a reaction, he listened to Heero's breathing and then turning away in silence. Duo could sense he was puzzled, perhaps a little upset to judge from the slight tremor that ran through his tensing body. But it was not enough to keep Heero awake for he fell asleep before long.
That had been it. Duo's world had chilled. He knew now – no, he was jarred from his illusion that it could be different – that he was worthless, unattractive, useless. He had always known. How could he have deluded himself for so long?
It froze his soul and cracked his mind, brittle ever since those ten years of agony. He could not bring himself to try and talk to Heero. He should, he thought painfully, but how if Heero despised him for being in such a mess? Depression settled in like a black cloud, exacerbating things by making him lethargic and raw. He welcomed it with fatalistic stupor. Let it suffocate him. It would be nice to be dead.
It was unfair. Heero was tired from working and organising their life. Worried, Duo had sent him to see a doctor whose diagnosis was overwork. Still, Duo kept lusting after him, unreasonably and desperately, unable against better judgement to accept that this should be it. Not so much Heero being exhausted, but being unwilling to share other pleasures, showing no interest beyond the occasional comfort fuck.
So that was it, Duo thought bitterly, beginning to skim over the raft of stories listed on the site he had opened. I'll spend the rest of my life fucking myself after getting hot on someone else's fantasies. He touched himself, overwhelmed by a black wave of hopelessness. He could not even bring himself to come much anymore.
They say it starts in your head, he mused, afraid of the detachment he felt sinking between him and Heero.
He did not want this. It screamed at him. It tore him apart, made him bleed inside.
Getting together with Heero had been his dream. Eight years living in a hazy dream of happiness. Hoping for it to last to the end of their lives, for he needed Heero as his hold, his love, his soul mate, or so he had believed. Duo had clung to his hope. But he did not deserve it, never had, and Heero could have an easier life without him hampering his every step, costing his money with his antics and follies, grating on his nerves with his jumpiness.
He had no idea what to do now, and it drove him insane. He could see scraps of his mind float away from him, like paper boats on a river, like sand running between splayed fingers that tried to hold on in vain.
He needed Heero to fight. One spark, from Heero to him this time.
The morning coffee had gone from a loving little ritual to stale routine, cool and dependable. Except that Heero would not peck a kiss on his cheek any more, and Duo offered none. Their evenings belonged to different things, and Duo's nights to the computer, for dreams, love and sex.
He nestled deeper into his chair, drew up his knees and began to read. Forgetting for a while and not forgetting, bitterness slopping in his soul while he read of love and passion and plunged himself into sake and dreams that would end in a drunken roll into his bed or onto the sofa at about four in the morning, if he possessed enough willpower to tear his gaze from the screen, or if his eyes gave out and refused to decipher any more text. Red-rimmed and sandy, they had become permanently inflamed. He did not care.
Duo had yielded.
Duo was defeated. For once. Something that had not happened in ten years of agony, war and murder, for however close he had scraped by.
He could mend it by helping Heero light the fire. Provide the spark.
He could not bring himself to do it. He felt old, his heat smothered, gone, unwanted.
So he kept reading. Drifting away.
His world had gone cold. Frosty. Duo yearned for warmth.
Hell, how could he be like this? It was this very steadyness of Heero that had saved him. Dragged him from the darkness of the gutter and returned him to life, provided light and a focus, his only focus, in a world that was madly spinning out of his grasp. Heero had held on to him. Gently, firmly. Perhaps not knowing what he was letting himself in for – Duo had always suspected this, a nagging little doubt that ate away at the bottom of his soul. Oh, he had been so grateful, so utterly, completely flooded with gratitude. He still was. It was something undiminished, as bright as on their first day, their first night together. Somehow redeeming him a little, making him believe he was not quite as rotten as he felt.
And it condemned him all the same, for he was out looking – it had hit him like a truck to realise that he was actually seeking, if not quite prowling. Left him in reeling in shock. He had never been a prowler, but not good at resisting temptation either, always after the thrill, keen to sense the sharp edge, and would promptly end up cut and crushed because he always invested too much. Playful, naive, stupid Duo. Always throwing in all he had, heart and soul and mind, way too much for most folk who would drop him as though he had burned them. It got him a reputation he did not like because it was wrong.
Heero had not cared then, he did not care now. Took him as he was. But he did not know, Duo thought painfully. Right now, Duo had thrown his arms wide open to temptation, welcoming it, thirsting for it like some parched soul for a drop of rain to flourish again. He could not do this by halves.
Because right now, he was down and out cold.
Duo smirked resentfully to himself. His face had not shown a real smile in days. It felt wrong to smile, and the muscles around his mouth had gone right stiff. He could tell Heero was thrown a bit, quite possibly hurt because he did not understand what was happening. But then, Heero did not do layers, Heero did not split in two, three, four warring minds and get tangled in the mess, hopeless and helpless and twitching with agony. To Heero, he was the cheerful one. Duo with the sparkling laughter and the twinkle in his eyes, with the sharp tongue and bouts of energy fit to blow the planet.
Hah!
He had lost his grip.
His laughter.
His sparkle.
Found that now when it mattered, he actually had not much to give, and it was all spent already. So, dull and sullen, he retreated into his dreams and fantasies, switched to autopilot, and his autopilot was set to self-destruct.
He needed Heero to hold him.
And wondered, as always, whether Heero knew.
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Next chapter: Redemption
Heero's view, and some new developments:
'...I do not understand – that he feels wrong in his skin, that he wants to make love to me in ways we never considered before and that make me uncomfortable...'
'If I had wanted a woman, I could have had one, but I wanted him...'
"They want to put you into a box because people are scared by what they cannot label," I say, remembering too well what we went through during the wars...
