He's whimpering again.
From across the distance between our two beds, I can see him, silhouetted
as he writhes in the throes of his nightmares. It's always like this after
a battle. He dreams and thrashes in the clutches of the same demons that
keep me awake all night.
When he wakes up, he won't admit it, but he'll remember the dream. He
won't admit his fears to anyone, but they're plain on his face at the
crack of dawn. Even the Perfect Soldier gets scared out of his wits sometimes.
Nobody would believe it, though. Gundam pilots are supposed to be fearless.
We're just as much machines as the mobile suits are. We live, breathe,
feel, but we go when told to go and we kill when told to kill.
It's only at night, alone like this, that we're allowed to be anything
less than robots, and it's more terrible than the fight itself. At least
in battle, you can lose yourself. You don't have to think; you just do
as your instincts tell you, do as you've been trained. Push this button,
pull that lever, check your stats, and don't get killed. When it's all
over, though, you have time to really think.
The battle itself was just limbo, purgatory. This is hell. This is when
the floodgates open, and you're filled with guilt, the faces of unknown
soldiers floating in your mind's eye; anger, white hot and burning you
from the inside out; and fear, like some slimy creature uncoiling in your
brain, working its way down your spine and through your limbs.
So I lay awake, and I watch him suffer in his sleep, feeling strangely
calm for knowing someone else experiences all these things right along
As I watch, the guilt claws at my chest, and the anger and fear have laced
themselves into my bones, but there's something like compassion sitting
in the back of my throat, because I know it's not his fault. He's the
same as me; he didn't choose this.
And that's the reason that I slip from my bed to climb into his. It's
empathy, maybe compassion, but nothing more. We can't afford for it to
be anything more complicated than that.
His body stills, calms, and he doesn't recoil as I slide in next to him.
I lay on my side and put a gentle arm over his waist. I think any touch
but mine would have him awake in a flash, up on his feet with the gun
that stays under his pillow tucked firmly in hand. But it's me, and his
body knows my touch; he wakes slowly.
When his eyes finally flutter open, they're nearly black in the moonshadowed
room. His tanned skin is limned in silver-blue and darkness, and his lips
are nothing but shadow. It's still easy to find them, and he doesn't stop
me. He needs the comfort and the release of this as much as I do, and
we both know it. Like most things with Heero, this goes unspoken between
He tastes like clean sweat and warm breezes when I kiss his jaw, when
my tongue flickers over the pulse at the side of his neck. His scent is
soap and machine oil, and something earthy like sweet-smelling topsoil.
His flesh under my calloused fingers feels divine; the little mole here,
the slick, shiny scar there; familiar terrain.
We shift, and then he's below me with my mouth in the dip beneath his
Adam's apple. His skin is sweetly salty and warm on this cold November
My leg eases itself gently between his thighs, and we move together as
if trying to rock one another to sleep. I can feel his flesh firming against
my hip, and my own presses into his in turn. Like this, we can put aside
the guilt for a time, let the anger lie dormant. The fear still wriggles
at the edge of consciousness, because I'm too afraid to put myself inside
him. I know that if I try tonight, I'll want to crawl into his body and
never come out.
Even the safety of Heero Yuy's arms holds a danger. It does no good to
get attached to someone whose entire life is battle. So this is mutual
compassion, a need for comfort, nothing more; it could happen with anyone.
It doesn't have to be he who helps me sleep at night, and it doesn't have
to be me who chases away his nightmares.
I hold firm to this belief, no matter the niggling little demons in the
back of my head that say otherwise, no matter the way we shiver together
while his fingers dance up my spine. I lift my lips from his collar to
instead work my way back to his mouth. Strands of my hair have escaped
my braid, and they fall down to lick at his cheeks. One of his hands is
twining his fingers into my braid, and it sits hot and heavy against the
back of my neck.
We're kissing again, and it's warm and so, so sweet. His lips are chapped
beneath mine, but wet and a titillating combination of rough and slick
as I slip my tongue into his mouth. I know the taste of him by heart,
as well as the smell and sight and texture. He knows me just as well:
inside, outside, and everything in between. Still we explore each other
as though it's the first time, because any time could be the last.
His skin beneath me is soft and slippery with my fluids as we lean into
one another, rocking like slow, perfect waves on the ocean, just before
the hurricane sets in. My fingers count his ribs as though the number
will be different from the last time, before they slip lower. I have a
thumb circling his navel with the fingers resting on the jut of a boyish
hipbone, while the other hand traces one finger slowly down the crevice
of his firm rear.
I lift my head to watch him, for this is when he is most entrancing. He's
staring at the ceiling while I stare at him, his eyes glazed and shining
in the half-light. His shadowed lips are parted and wet with our saliva,
and he breathes hot, tickling breaths between our faces.
My fingers are delicately searching, and I'm watching him, feeling and
reading him for reactions. I'm slow about it, but I don't aim to tease;
not tonight. His gaze is still intent on the ceiling, but his eyelashes
flutter a little. There's a sharp intake of breath, and then his back
arches, and he lets his eyes go to tiny slits.
Now that I've found what I'm looking for, I go back to it again and again
in long, slow strokes with my fingers. He writhes beneath me, and there's
such sweet friction on my cock.
Something in our movements changes, because now we're working toward release.
It's still unhurried, but each motion has a sweet intensity that drills
itself into my bones. There's something eternal about this moment, as
if it's a dance we've been caught in for centuries.
And then we shatter.
I'm silent as it happens, the rush catching me almost by surprise and
snatching my breath from my throat. I feel his body react before I feel
the spill of his release, before I hear the word on a thready note: "Duo."
It holds so much weight, the way he says my name. It says more than either
of us ever wanted the other to know, and I have to close my eyes as I
fall against him, else I'll fall into blue pools so deep that I may drown.
My tongue steals the taste of his sweat from the hollow just below his
ear. We don't say anything more as we lay there, curled around each other.
Our bodies are lean and compact, perfect for fitting comfortably into
the cockpit of a mobile suit, and perfect for combat outside of it. No
matter what we do or how we do it, we're even more perfect together. For
instance, there's this place in the small of my back that fits the palm
of his hand like it was made for it. And when we shift around before dozing
off, the backs of his knees seem molded for the fronts of mine.
For a moment, I wonder what we must look like together. Perhaps we look
like autumn, with our hair and bodies so many shades of brown, and both
with eyes of ever changing blues to match the moody sky. If we, together,
are autumn, then I am the false warmth that hides the lurking chill and
death of winter, and he is the smoldering, lingering heat of Indian summer.
to Makishef's fic]