Author: Ravengirl
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: 1x2x1(of course), implied 3x4
Time Frame: 6 yrs after EW
Warnings: Angst, implied abuse, EXTREMELY explicit M/M sex
Disclaimer: Don't own Gundam Wing... have no desire to. `Stay (Faraway, So Close!)' is the sole property of U2. I make no money doing this, so suing me will get you nowhere. Do us both a favor and don't bother.
Author's note: I suppose you could call this a song-fic. I think of it more as a fic with a soundtrack I actually bothered to write out. After all, don't most of us write with some kind of music in our heads? As for who tops whom... ever heard of topping from the bottom? Duo's damn good at it.

/ = lyrics


/Green light... 7-11...
you stop in for a pack of cigarettes...
you don't smoke...don't even want to...
I see you check your change/

You pause outside the all-night convenience, rip the plastic off a pack of Djarums. It's been so long since you picked up a cigarette that you had to buy yourself one of those cheesy plastic lighters.

The smoke is smooth and spicy on your tongue, your lips sweet with the clove essence when you lick them. It's been nearly two years, but you don't choke when you inhale. It goes straight to your lungs and your head... a rush that only another former addict would understand.

You lean against the concrete wall and stare up at the barely visible stars of an LA night. It's winter, or as much of winter as it can get in this unnatural land of palm trees and perfect bronzed bodies, and you shiver within the black leather that covers your slim body.

Those stars... you fell from them so long ago, you can barely remember the boy you were then. The man-child driven by revenge and hate. Six years since the last war ended, and here you are: ancient and jaded at twenty-three.

Your lips curve slightly in sardonic amusement. It's a sentiment you indulge in when you're alone. The other pilots wouldn't recognize the expression; they saw only the jester, the practical joker. Even the one you considered your best friend.

"Stop it."

You hiss the words into the waiting night and dig your nails into your palms hard enough to draw blood. The pain clears your head and you unclench your fists and lift a hand to inspect it. Absently, you lick the ruby smears away, glance at your watch. It's 02:00.

He'll be wondering where you are, swearing and smashing whatever gets in his way. Usually it would be you. But not tonight... no, not tonight. Not ever again.

/Dressed up...
Like a car crash...
The wheels are turnin' but you're upside down...
You say when he hits you, you don't mind...
Because when he hurts you, you feel alive...
Is that what it is?/

You showed up on his doorstep the first time he hit you; running instinctively like the wounded animal you were towards safety. He said nothing, just looked at you with those eyes like the depths of the ocean -- calm and still, but hinting at hidden currents beneath. Then he stepped back, opening the door wider for you and you stumbled through gratefully. And when it closed behind you, you felt your mind ease and your body relax. He caught you before you hit the floor.

You don't remember much of it, just the gentle touch of his hands as he cleaned you up and put you to bed in the spare room; the peace of his quiet presence as it wrapped around you and soothed you to sleep. The only thing missing was the clicking of laptop keys.

He was gone before you woke the next morning... his job allows for little rest. You know - it used to be your job, too. Before the blood and death finally caught up with you. Before the long lines of brutalized and broken children haunting your dreams became too real.

You're still not sure how he felt about it... about losing his partner since the wars. When you told him you were resigning he just looked at you for long minutes before nodding and turning back to his computer.

"Fair winds, Duo. I hope they take you where you need to be."

That was all he said at the extravagant farewell bash Quatre threw for you... a pilot's blessing. You waited for something else. What, you didn't know. But he just clasped your hand, never looking away from your eyes. Then he let go, walking soundlessly through the crowds... walking out of your life.

Until the night you turned up at his apartment, beaten to a pulp and barely conscious. He let you in. You still don't know why.

/Red light, grey morning...
You stumble out of a hole in the ground...
A vampire...
Or a victim...
It depends on who's around/

You met him at one of the endless string of clubs and parties that became your life. You were tripping that night, high as a fucking kite, dancing like a demon or some man's hottest wet dream, singing like a fallen angel. Your hair was loose against your naked back, your eyes wide-open and dreaming.

There was something about him -- dark hair, blue eyes... the intensity he focused solely on you - that drew you to him. You could see the flame in those eyes that reminded you so vividly of another's, but like the proverbial moth you couldn't pull away. And so you burned.

Hell yes, you burned.

At first in a conflagration of lust and passion... then in the stifling heat of a blazing trap. The first time he hit you, you were so astonished you laughed. It was one of the biggest mistakes you ever made in a life full of them.

/You used to stay in to watch the adverts...
You could lip-synch to a talk show.../

Tonight you are untouchable. Up above the packed rows of this screaming arena, singing your guts out for the world's dissection; burnishing the bad-boy Gundam-pilot-turned-rock-god image they so cherish.

Tweak and adrenaline -- that euphoric combination -- keep you moving at the frantic pace you set, your voice pouring out into the echoing spaces. From the corner of your eye, you can see him, off in the wings, smiling smugly.

You are his creation, after all.

"I told you you'd be a hit, baby. You've got the looks and the voice and you're hot as fucking hell. It's just a bonus that the public already knows your face."

He kisses you brutally and you taste the cocaine on his lips and the blood from your bitten tongue before he pulls away, walking off to talk to some big-shot producer he's set on impressing.

You signal the bartender. Another single-malt, hold the rocks and leave the bottle. You know you'll crash hard tonight, the massive amount of alcohol on top of the meth you snorted earlier guaranteeing it. You glance over at him. At least the sex'll be good... if you can make it that long without passing out.

The glass and bottle appear and you knock the shot back. You never knew the real date of your birth, but the one you chose five years ago - laughing with Q and Wufei at the silliness of it - just happens to be today. You are twenty-one years old.

"Happy fuckin' birthday to me."

/And if you look through me...
And when you's not to me...
And when I touch you, you don't feel a thing.../

You are in his bathroom, trying not to wince as he stitches your lip together. It's nothing new... you did this for each other during the wars. You had to. There was no one else. You never thought you'd be sitting on Heero Yuy's bathroom sink while he sutured the split lip your abusive lover/manager gave you, though.

There's a slight frown of concentration between the thick, black brows—he's being as gentle as possible.

"Just get it over with," you mumble. "I can take it."

Indigo eyes meet your own amethyst gaze, calm and steady as always.

"Is that what you're thinking when he hits you?"

Your breath stops and you stare at him like a rabbit cornered by a starving wolf. All the times he has done this -- patched you up, driven you to the hospital, given you a place to hide and lick your wounds -- he has never spoken of it. Has never asked you questions, never mentioned him. It is a silent pact between you and it is suddenly broken.

"Duo," his fingers brush your bruised cheek, the touch so soft in spite of his calluses, "why do you let him do this to you? You could kill him with your bare hands in three seconds flat. You could break his damn neck if you wanted to. I've seen you do it. It saved my life more than once."

"I... I don't know. I just... I just can't... I... Normal people. They don't live like that," you whisper, unable to give voice to a reason that is pure emotion.

The words dam up in the back of your throat along with your hitching breath. You know he must see the tears swirling in your eyes, and you hold them back somehow. He says nothing more, just finishes stitching and cleaning. But when you attempt to rise, he keeps you in place.

As he just said, your body is strong and well-trained, but that strength is as a child's compared to his genetically-enhanced musculature. For a moment you revel in the fact that in this way he truly is superior to you... that he can hold you motionless like this. You want that strength - want to feel it against your own. You know he will never use it to hurt you.

These thoughts burst through your skull in a blinding flash, and you barely keep from twining yourself around him like a parasitic vine on a sturdy oak. This is what you want... what you've always wanted. So much that you would accept a twisted facsimile of it.

Your mouth is open as you stare at him, partially from the pain of your throbbing lip, but mostly in shock. He is your best friend, your partner, one of only four people alive you are able to trust. He is the person you love so much that you've hidden it from yourself for fear of losing even that small part of him you possess.

His hands are warm and hard on your shoulders, but not painful. They hold you in place, give you a little shake. Those midnight eyes search yours.

"Duo, no person can know what motivates another. If nothing else, my life up to this point has taught me that. No one else understands the guilt the five of us live with... or what we went through both before and during the wars. I would never condemn you for your actions."

It's true. He was the one who drove you to rehab at your own request. He never asked or demanded. He just waited - in the silence that has become so necessary to you -- for you to ask for help. And then he gave it, no questions asked... wrapped in that comforting stillness that is Heero and no one else.

"I thought -- I hoped -- that when you left the Center, you wouldn't go back to him. I can accept that you felt you had to. I don't understand or agree... but I accept. What I cannot accept is this continuing cycle. Someday soon it's not going to be just a broken arm or a bruised kidney: it will be your life. And I'm beginning to think that's your intention."

He bows his head, touching his forehead to yours, his hands still cupping your shoulders. The sexy tangle of dark hair flops forward and you are seized by the unbearable urge to brush it back. Your chest and throat ache as you swallow, waiting for him to finish.

"I can't keep doing this, Duo. I can't watch my best friend destroy himself one shattered bone at a time. It's been six years. If you can't forgive yourself, at least find some other form of penance."

He takes a deep breath then lets it out before raising his head to look at you once more.

"If you go back there, please... don't come here again. Quatre has a room ready for you if you want it. I already asked."

You are frozen in place by his hands and his eyes. You could not move if your life depended on it. You feel what is left of your soul splinter as you look into those eyes and - for the first time since you met him and put a couple of bullets in him - see tears there. The Perfect Soldier can cry, after all.

The hands slide from your shoulders and he walks past you to the doorway as you stare blankly at the space he no longer occupies.


His voice is very soft, a note of something you do not understand blending with the sorrow that is now so evident. You turn your head to look at him, the movement jerky and unnatural.

"When you need me, and not just someone... I'll come."

/If I could stay... then the night would give you up...
Stay... and the day would keep its trust...
Stay... and the night would be enough.../

You drop the glowing butt to the asphalt and crush it under the sole of your boot. Pushing away from the convenience store's wall, you light a new clove and shove your shades back up the bridge of your nose.

The aviator-style mirrors are nothing more than prop -- a part of the image you wear 24/7. It began, you recall, as a way to hide inconvenient black eyes.

Your boots' raised heels click against the pavement as you walk through downtown Pasadena, your ankle-length duster swirling around your legs. Thanksgiving is over... the Christmas decorations are up. Your mouth quirks. You wonder what Father Maxwell and Sister Helen would make of America's rampant commercialism and the exploitation of one of the Church's most important holy days.

The smile fades quickly. You already know what they would say about your current lifestyle... and him. You wonder what they'd think of Heero. Strangely, you're convinced they would have liked your former comrade-in-arms.

A gust of wind whips the duster's skirts and you shove your hands into the pockets, pulling it closer around you. Even head-to-toe leather won't keep the chill out if you neglect to wear a shirt. Your fingers brush the com in your pocket and you contemplate calling a cab, but quickly decide against it. A walk in the crisp, cold air will feel good.

You think about the last eight years as your heels pound the sidewalk. You think about the wars... the time you spent with the Preventers... hanging with Quat and Trowa... teasing Wufei into apoplexy... and Heero. You save him for last, letting the memories flood through you, tangling you up in peaking waves of need and regret before leaving you drifting in the backwash.

You wonder how you let yourself get so far from that boy who fell from the Colonies with nothing but his Gundam and a fiery rage in his gut that could have burned OZ to the ground all by itself.

And then you are at his door. You press the com and wait for the explosion. He doesn't disappoint.

"Where the fuck have you been?! Out screwing around like the little slut you are, yeah? Get your ass in here before I kick it back down the drive!"

You watch him dispassionately. Why have you allowed this piece of shit to dictate to you for so long? Did you subconsciously give him permission to hurt you?

His face is dark with fury and he reaches out to grab your wrist, but you block the move and curl your fingers around his instead. And squeeze... Bones meet, grind together and then crack under the pressure you're applying. A high-pitched shriek rips the early- morning darkness in two.

His eyes are staring into yours out of a face gone sheet-white, and as you let go he collapses against the doorway's arch. You can see each individual bead of sweat on his skin, its pallor grey-tinged by now... see the smoky evidence of his uneven breath on the air.

You pull the Ruger from your waistband and thumb the safety, pointing it straight between his eyes. He knows, mentally, that you were Deathscythe Hell's pilot. But before tonight he has never realized it at a gut level. It's hard not to, though, when Shinigami is staring at you down the barrel of a gun.

The God of Death has roused from his slumber and he is righteously pissed about it. A morning person, Shinigami is not. Especially around 04:30.

"I've had about enough of your BS. Stay the fuck away from me or next time I'll shoot you instead of breaking your wrist. And you can consider our contract null and void... unless you want to take this to court. I've got plenty of documented evidence... and so does the hospital."

He stares up into huge, violet eyes that always before seemed so lost and innocent. All he can see now is his own death. The man in front of him is a killer... he'll be lucky to escape with most of his body parts intact.

He babbles incoherently at you, but you've already turned away. There is nothing else for you here.

/Faraway, so close...
Up with the static and the radio...
With satellite television, you can go anywhere...
Miami, New Orleans, London, Belfast and Berlin.../

The Jag is fast and responsive under your hands, its sleek silver body licked by the flames of dawn. Rob Zombie growls `Thunderkiss '65' through the speakers, the heavy, grinding bass beat pounding in your blood, followed closely by Powerman 5000's `When Worlds Collide'.

Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt... almost bought the farm.

The raw energy of the music cranks your adrenaline out-put to dangerous levels, and your lead foot is getting heavier by the second. Time to head back to the city before some cop gets the urge to chase your silver bullet.

Will he be home? It's 06:45, so probably not. You don't want to go to your rarely-occupied apartment, so you pull out your hand unit and punch in a code.

"Hey Quat. Yeah, it's me... did I wake you guys?"

You can hear Trowa grumbling in the background, which tells you that while they might not have been sleeping, you definitely interrupted something. Grinning for the first time in what feels like eons, you listen to Quatre's protestations that of course he has time to talk, pay no regard to the irritable Banged One.

"Q, I really hate to barge in, but could I come crash with you for a while? I swear I'll be quiet... you won't even know I'm there. I just finished up a tour and I'll be in the studio more often than not. Probably won't see me at all."

Trowa mutters something like, "I should be so lucky," which is quickly cut short by a breathless, "Ooof!" and then Quatre comes back on the line, sounding extremely self-satisfied.

"Ignore my idiotic spouse. You're always welcome here, Duo. You know that. In fact, two months ago Heero..."

The blonde Arabian's voice trails off uncertainly and you quickly grab the ball and run with it, not wanting to go into Heero and his motivations.

"Hey, awesome, Q-man! `M on my way. Have Marta put some coffee on if she's not too busy, would you? The vanilla-hazelnut roast, if she's got it."

"She'll be thrilled to do it for Senor Duo." Quatre's voice is warm with affectionate amusement. "My staff thinks you walk on water. Hassid's granddaughter made me promise to get your autograph. She says `Tripwire' is the best thing this side of Slipknot."

You can tell the Q-man has absolutely no clue what that means. Quat wouldn't know heavy metal if it came up and bit him on the ass. That's what comes of one too many violin lessons at way too young an age. Ruined the poor boy for life. And Trowa isn't much better, with his atonal alternative and freaky new-age crap.

You shrug mentally. Takes all kinds.

/And if you listen, I can't call...
And if you jump, I just might fall...
And if you shout, I'll only hear you.../



"I need you."

You disconnect and turn off your hand unit. He'll find you if he wants to.

/If I could stay... then the night would give you up.../

He comes over the balcony sometime after midnight. The tanks and spandex shredded themselves to pieces years ago, but the skin-tight black body-armor is the same thing where Heero's concerned: battle- wear.

His scent is gun-oil, cordite and musk, with a faint, underlying whiff of blood.

"Tough day at the office?"

You keep your voice as casual as possible. The room is dark but you're wide awake, curled up in a chair, smoking. You sensed him coming minutes before he vaulted the balcony railing and slipped soundlessly through the open French-doors. You knew he wouldn't use the front door. Not tonight. Not for this.

"They held the Auction early this year. In my city."

"Careless of them," you murmur, lips curling upwards. Heero is so arrogant in his perception of right and wrong... except where you are concerned.

/Stay... and the day would keep its trust.../

"Heard an interesting call over the LAPD channel this morning. Early."


You rise from the chair, clothed in nothing but your loosened hair and the faint moonlight streaming though the balcony doors. He stands in the middle of the floor... light and shadow warring for control of his face... just watching you come.

"Yes. Man over in Pasadena with a broken wrist... said he was attacked by unknown assailants."

You laugh and shake your head, stopping in front of him and looking up into fathomless eyes.

"Poor guy. The crime rate these days is just shameful."


Reaching out, you run a finger down the body-armor's seal... watch with greedy eyes as it opens under the light pressure. A hard hand grips your wrist as you reach waist-level.

"Duo. Be very sure."

Your eyes shoot back up to his and your lips part slightly at what you see there. It's as though a shield has dropped and every emotion dammed up for over twenty years is now on display.

"I'm not sure... I'm certain," you purr, sliding your hands into the open skinsuit and running them up and down dusky golden skin stretched tightly over impossibly hard muscle.

Callused fingers grip your chin, tilt your head up and then his mouth is on yours, blotting out thought... shutting out anything but him.

/Stay... with the demons you drowned.../

It is not lace-trimmed hearts and romance. It is not whispered words of love and devotion. It is violence and lust and excruciating pleasure that catches both of you up and hurls you into each other.

His hands curl painfully into the thick mass of your hair and yank your head backwards as his mouth comes down on your neck, sucking so hard you can feel the bruise as it forms.

Your fingers rip the rest of the skinsuit from the flesh you are dying to taste and your teeth tug at tight, bronze nipples.

A choked sound escapes him and he shoves you backwards. You hit the bed hard and topple onto it, balance lost. Then he is on you, preternaturally strong fingers clamped around your wrists, pinning your arms above your head.

His teeth sink into your lower lip and your mouth opens to his invasion on a gasp. His tongue tangles with your own, but you have no intention of being his conquest, oh hell no. Both of you were soldiers and you recognize a battle when it's shoved in your face... or your mouth.

You suck on that aggressive tongue and slide one hand between you, down to the rock-hard cock grinding against your own. You are both slippery with sweat and pre-come and the wet friction is driving you out of your mind. Your entire body is taut with arousal... your skin so sensitive that the wash of his breath is an electric shock.

He goes rigid against you when you wrap your fingers around his erection and you catch him by surprise, flipping him off you and reversing your positions so that he is flat on his back and you are sitting upright on his thighs.

Your fingers explore the length and breadth of the impressive cock they grip -- teasing the vein that runs along its underside, dipping into the leaking slit in the crown. He is both wider and longer than you... but not by much. You imagine how it will feel to be split open around him and you shudder, feeling the surge in your balls.

/Stay...with the spirit I found.../


Your name is ragged on his lips as you rise to your knees and suck two fingers into your mouth. Your eyes never leave his as you drench the digits in your own saliva then slide them between your legs to the tightly puckered entrance behind your sac. Amethyst holds indigo as you lean down to envelop his jerking erection in your mouth while you prepare your anus for his penetration.

The head of his cock hits the back of your throat and you relax the muscles to take him in all the way. You hold him like that for an instant, your tongue gently tracing the raised veins. And then you swallow, your throat clamping around the head, your entire mouth rhythmically caressing him. It is too much for even the Perfect Soldier... a guttural moan works its way from his throat as his back arches.

But you are pulling away, lifting yourself over him, and his hands come up to grasp your hips, their grip so tight that you know you'll have the bruises to show for it tomorrow. He watches your face as you position his slick shaft at your stretched opening.

"No lube. It'll hurt."

"I know," you say, and push down, feeling the tight ring of muscle resist. Then something gives and the flared head is through, the rest of him following somewhat more easily. It does hurt, but it's the good kind... the pleasure/pain that wraps itself around your gut and makes you want to beg for more.

"Oh fuck, that's so fucking good... Heero!"

The hard heat filling you is indescribably perfect and you grind your hips against him, the erection inside you rubbing solidly against the tiny protrusion that makes anal sex so fantastic if you happen to be male. And you are decidedly of the masculine persuasion, as the stiff prick curving up along your tight abs will attest to.


Heero's hips snap upwards, driving his length deeper into you and a shot of white-hot pleasure blinds you for an instant... makes you scream his name and begin the drive towards completion both of you are dying for.

Your head drops back as you ride him, your waterfall of chestnut hair spilling down your back and over his thighs. You reach behind you, grab a handful of brown-gold-red silk and rub it all over his balls.

"Christ, Duo! Is that your fucking hair?!"

His tone is incredulous -- he knows how important your braid has always been to you -- and you smirk down at him.

"You know... you jerk off... thinking... about my hair, Yuy," you pant, biting your lip as his hands pull you down and his cockhead rams your prostate dead-on.

His eyes are all pupil, not even a hint of blue showing.

"Hell yes... Maxwell. Your own fault... for being a... walking... wet dream."

He is as breathless as you as you shove together, mouths meeting in wet, messy hunger, bodies straining, reaching for the ultimate peak.

"Hee-ro... gonna... gonna..."

Long fingers curl around your weeping cock, pulling steadily in time with the pounding of your joined hips as his other hand pulls your face back down to his. You whimper into him and he nips your full bottom lip.

"Come," he growls into your open mouth. "Come all over me, Duo. Go ahead and strangle my cock with that tight little ass."

/Stay...and the night would be enough.../

The words are hot... so dirty... something you would never have expected from Heero Yuy. Just hearing them in that hoarse, sexy voice shoves you right off the edge and you obey, shooting long streams of milky semen all over both of you.

From the haze of nirvana, you feel him join you in climax... his cock jerking against your convulsing muscles, spilling liquid heat inside you... a rough shout echoing through the room as his hands tighten on your still-pulsing shaft and your hair.

You collapse forward onto him - unable to hold yourself up any longer -- and bury your face in his damp neck, feeling his grip finally loosen and his hand begin to stroke the length of your back.

/Three o'clock in the morning...
It's quiet, there's no one around.../

"Shoulda done this a long time ago."

Your voice is blurry... your entire being sated and content.

"I've wanted to. For a while."

His voice is quiet in the pre-dawn stillness, his presence a welcome weight against your spine. You turn slightly, surprised at his words.

"Why didn't you say? And how long are we talking, here?"

There is momentary silence as he trails his fingers along your flat stomach.

"Eight years, Duo."

/Just the bang... and the clatter...
As an angel runs to ground.../

Your lips part... nothing comes out.

"Have I finally silenced the Amazing Maxwell Mouth?"

You can feel his low, amused tone throughout your body, you are pressed so close together, and you have no idea how to respond. The thought that Heero wanted you... and for so long... it's amazing what few brain cells you haven't killed off don't spontaneously combust.

"I... I can't wrap my head around this. I didn't even realize that I... until the last time..."

"The bathroom," he finishes softly.


You turn in his arms so that you are looking at him. You can see only his profile, but it doesn't matter. What you say next will.

/Just the bang.../


/And the clatter.../


/As an angel.../


/Hits the ground.../



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