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
/ = lyrics
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.
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.
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...
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
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...you look through me...
And when you talk...it'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
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
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
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
/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
"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
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
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
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
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
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
His eyes are all pupil, not even a hint of blue showing.
"Hell yes... Maxwell. Your own fault... for being a... walking... wet
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
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
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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