This fic was really never supposed to be. It started from one scene I wrote after reading a snippet of something Imo-chan wrote, and... well, add a lil' Incubus... and you have a 'fic'. I warn you, this is a really...weird piece. Yeah...
Title: Of Revelations on Wings
Author: Blue
Genre: Drama...and angst... of sorts
Disclaimer: G-Boys aren't mine (*sniffle* I'm still grieving over that)
Warnings: Umm.. some language... And, of course, there is definite shounen ai/yaoi in this piece... think citrus fruit from an old 'Mike's Hard Lemonade' commercial... the ones where the lemons were battered and beaten... it's just plain twisted. And I hate it.
Rating: PG-13
Comments: I was inspired to write this by something a friend of mine, IMO-CHAN, wrote. *shudders* She makes an art out of disjointed 1x2 relationships... the kind where everyone's fucked up and less than half of them ever even begin to realize just how messed up they really are...*sobbles* And to top it off, she's evil to the core...Flaunting tidbits of her unposted fic parts in my face and then snatching them away again, killing off charas at random, and so on... What's a poor lil' ficcer like myself supposed to do? Writing stuff like this is the ONLY defense I have left. *deflated* Man, I am /so/ running outta options... I hope this works... *coughcough* On a more /serious/ note...The style in which I wrote this fic is not even close to my norm (except for the length, of course...hey, at least it's just one part...!). It contains a lot of sentence frags and it's much... blunter (less description) than my stuff usually is. It's in first person, but there are times when I had to really struggle to keep it from turning into a stream of consciousness fic. *sighs* Enjoy?

Of Revelations on Wings

Sometimes I would say something while he was taking me. Nothing romantic, though. Just a few random sentences, quiet and reflective, from between the bed sheets and him.

Like the last time. I was lying on the mattress, hands clutching the pillows. The fabric was soft against my cheek. Gentle, even.

He was on me, in me, all over me. Not that it mattered. I was elsewhere, as always, looking out my small bedroom window, out into the yard where a solitary tree stood, disrobed by the cool, uncaring caress of winter. I could hear some faint tweeting in the distance and saw a tiny flurry of feathers zip past my keyhole view into the outer world.

"Why do they fly?" I asked, my violet eyes following the scant, furious movement from Beyond. "What's the point? In the end, they'll all be on the ground anyways. Why struggle against the inevitable?"

Heero stopped thrusting momentarily, his hands still firmly gripping my shoulders as he thought, calculated, or did whatever it was he did when I said such things. Just momentarily, though. He never spent much time on my nonsense. A smart one, he was.

"Hn," he said at last. The safe response. Typical. Then he set about finishing what he'd started. And I closed my eyes, enjoying the softness of the cloth on my face.


To believe in love is to believe in delusion. Heero taught me that. And he was right.

That lightness in your step, that flutter in your heart, that sheer happiness from just knowing the one you like exists... everything you associated with being 'in love' is biological. A matter of hormones, in fact. It's based on who we are, and what we evolved from; creatures whose sole purpose in life is to grow, mate, and reproduce so that their offspring can also grow, mate, and reproduce, and so forth, in an endless cycle as futile as the illusions in which we mask it. Sure, nowadays we take one helluva roundabout way of getting to that end, but the innate desire to follow this repetitive design is still there. When it dies, we, the species, will also fall.

Love is only lust, dolled up to look like something prettier and more attractive than it really is. Y'ever heard the expression that all men want is sex? Well, it's true. Women do too, but they're just much better at deluding themselves to the true nature of our existence than we could ever be, so it's harder to tell with them.

You can wrap concepts like 'passion' and 'romance' around the physical act for which they actually stand, if it makes you feel any better, but they aren't real. The Need for the deed, the necessity of the moment, the lust... those are real. Living happily ever after isn't.

Then why let a guy fuck me, you ask? Why not find a girl with ten fingers and ten toes and follow nature's will?

Yup, that's where Heero and I really mess with the system. You see, chances are, we'd never find women who've discovered the Truth for themselves. They aren't easily torn from their delusions, lemme tell you. Reality can screw them over as often as it pleases; there still won't be a handful of women willing to give up Prince Charming (or even Bob the Slovenly Stableboy) if he chances by. They're a tenacious group; I'll give them that.

But Heero and me, we're above that system. I may've played to the delusions of the girls cheering for me on the court, but, when it comes to personal matters, I'll no longer settle for anything less than someone who sees the world for what it is. Someone like Heero.

It's rather ironic, actually. It was the realization that 'love' is just an illusion people use to make the process of procreation seem like a truly noble act (rather than a desperate, inborn desire to keep the species alive) that turned me off the whole reproduction thing.

Realizing that my sole purpose on earth was to proliferate veered me off the 'straight' and narrow for once and for all. Heh. That is funny...

Look, I'm not depressed; I'm realistic. I haven't given up on life; I've finally connected with it. Knowing what I do is a powerful feeling, one that lets me wave to all the girls I see, to call them 'chicks' and 'babes' and to pretend to be a part of their delusions without ever losing my grip on solid ground. It's what allows me to smile and laugh and chatter endlessly -- not to mask my real self, but to share with others the fact that I am one with the universe in my own sordid way. To show them that I'm happy with things just the way they are.

Reality. It's fucked up and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Not any more.

There was a time when I was on the Other Side of things, a time when I saw the world through tinted glass, but Heero broke me of that habit pretty quickly. Like, from the very first time he showed any interest in me.

I remember that night too well.

It was in the evening. We'd been wandering the streets for a bit when we'd 'chanced' on the district of his apartment building. He never asked me up; I never pushed. It just happened. He took of his jacket and began washing some dishes. I wandered through the small pad, yammering incessantly. At one point, I found myself in his Spartan bedroom, still talking about nothing in particular, as if filling the silence was absolutely necessary. Even now, when I have come to realize its uselessness, I still find myself doing it. Ah well. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Suddenly I couldn't hear the sound of water running. I turned to the door, only to find Heero leaning on the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. How long he'd been there, listening to me talk loud enough for my voice to reach the inset kitchen while scanning the contents of his dresser top, his bedside table, his windowsill... I can't say. I was startled, to say the least.

"You could've said something," I chided. But something didn't feel quite right. The light was low, and his narrow eyes seemed to glint dangerously in the semi-darkness. He didn't reply. Then again, I hadn't really expected him to, but I still felt cornered by his silence. I made another useless remark. He still didn't move. He was just... watching me, his eyes so catlike in the dimness that I couldn't help but feel like prey. Not that I was far from the truth.

Finally, he blinked. It didn't calm me in the slightest. I was sure something was going to happen, something momentous, and I feared it.

Yes, I feared it. I laugh at that weakness now, that cowardice in the face of the Truth. To think I was afraid of the revelation he was about to deliver... To think that, at the brink of salvation, I felt pure, unadulterated fear...

I was wretched in every sense of the word.

Then he lunged with unexpected speed. And force. His talon-fingers slid across my face, through my hair, and he shoved his tongue into my mouth. And I merely trembled. He held me where I stood, helpless, immobilized by his surprise attack, while he roved, searching...

And then I realized...

It was beautiful.

After what seemed like a thousand forevers he loosed me abruptly, with such abandon that falling to the bed was my only possible recourse. Unable to string thoughts together, I stared blankly at the floor as he brushed past me and headed for the bathroom.

"Take off your pants," he ordered as he moved away.

I don't know what it was: the tone of his voice, lower and more sinister than anything I'd ever heard before, or the fact that he'd caught me so completely off-guard and vulnerable. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because I had begun to feel the tremendous weight of the wisdom he was about to impart on me. And maybe, in that split-second, I had started to overcome the fear that had held me back from the Truth only moments before.

Whatever it was, I took off my pants. Most obediently, I might add. I didn't even get up to do it. I stayed right where he had dropped me, all at once hesitant to do anything he hadn't specifically told me to do.

He came back a few minutes later, his tight jeans out of sight. He strode over to me (in silence), gave me a quick once over (in silence), pushed me back onto the mattress (in silence), rolled me over (in silence), and gripped me firmly, one hand on my shoulder blade, one on my...

In silence.

A day earlier, I would've expected far more. Wine, rose petals, or even the slightest bit of foreplay, for heaven's sake! Especially since we hadn't even gone through the preliminaries of a 'real' relationship. Surely there should have been more to it than that?

But I didn't get any of those things. No courtship, no romance, no 'magic.'

Instead, I got him.

And since then, I've never wanted anything else.

Being new to sex, it was hard. Painful, even. On later occasions, when I wasn't caught by surprise, I'd have the chance to use a little lube. I got caught by surprise a lot, though.

But when the Need strikes, what else can I do? Lust is one of the few real things in the world. One of the few key concepts not shrouded in ideals and dressy names and promises no mortal can keep. So to deny lust when it occurs, well, that's the same as denying reality. And after that night, I never did that again.

The bruises didn't last, anyway.

When he had finished, he stood, dressed, and went into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. I didn't move for a while, finding in my sudden isolation an avid interest in the space above my head. Heero didn't have much of a bedroom ceiling, but it held my attention for a good quarter hour.

At long last, I got up. Slowly.

I ached everywhere, as if I, myself, was a cocoon, and the caterpillar within had chosen that very moment to break free.

My feet moved awkwardly, reluctantly carrying me to the main room. The TV was on; Heero was watching the news from a chair at his dining/work table. He didn't look up as I walked in, and I didn't say anything. I stared at the screen for a moment, fixated on the news anchor's chipper expression but unable to comprehend a single word she said. Then I turned back to Heero.

I was still in my boxers. The need to find my pants had never really sunk in. I don't think he minded, though. I stood just on the edge of his line of sight, hovering uncertainly as I tried to think of something to say, something to do, something - anything - worthy of what had just occurred. To ask him if it meant anything. To ask him what was going to happen now. To ask him to tell me everything was all right and to allow me to return to the world of self-delusion from whence I had come.

But he didn't.

He wouldn't let me go back.

I was in his domain now.

"The door tends to catch. Close it firmly on your way out."

And that was it.

I could've exploded then, yelling at him for his coldness and horrendously gentle brutality, but it wouldn't have done a damn thing. And I knew it. In that split-second of shame, confusion, and utter vulnerability -- more so than in the bedroom -- all my questions were answered. I understood what he had said without saying, had shown without showing, had preached without preaching... even though it took me many a week to realize that I had.

When I had retrieved my pants and coat, and called out a small goodbye to him from the doorway, he was still riveted to the newscast.

I was extra careful about closing that door.

After that, the sex became fairly regular. Whenever he had the Need he would take me. The issue of 'where' was never a concern for him. As long as he had enough privacy to sate himself in peace, he was content. I began spending more time at his place, and he allowed it. We even slept together once or twice.

The act itself is always rather quiet. No moaning or groaning or banging or crying out the other's name. There is usually never more than some soft hissing, the escape of conserved air from my constricted throat, and his occasional panting after a series of rapid attacks. Even my random comments are infrequent at best.

No one else ever realized what had passed between us. To the others, I'm still the same old Maxwell, solo and loving the life of a bachelor. Perhaps they're better off not knowing. They all cling too fiercely to what shreds of delusion they can find, hiding from reality beyond those palm-sized scraps of idealism that used to cloak me from head to toe. They wouldn't understand, and awareness of the distance between them and us would only serve to hurt them even more. So I endure that invisible separation the way I endure everything else, the way Heero taught me to endure: in silence.

Isolated even from each other, but never alone. Together, apart; just him and me.

That's not to say we don't go anywhere or do anything that other couples do. Why shouldn't we have some fun while we're here on earth, as long as we never lose touch with reality? I've made him dinner on countless occasions, and he... He bought me a new lamp to replace the one he broke when he took me in the living room (a nice gesture, I thought).

We spent a day at the park once. I talked quite a bit about nothing in particular while we walked. He listened or tuned me out; I'm not sure which. We ate hotdogs on a bench, sitting a good foot apart. There was no need for closeness. We knew we were together.

What else mattered?

My arms were dangling over the back of the seat and the sun was warm against my face. He was sitting as he always does; compact. He had managed not to look me straight in the eye all day long, and he wasn't showing signs of giving in any time soon. I think I shut up about then, my words beginning to sound hollow even to me, and since he never says anything, we just watched children chase each other, ducks swim, trees swaying the wind. I don't know how long we stayed there, like that. It seemed like an eternity, though.

When we got home he nailed me in the bathroom. I had just gone for a quick shower before dinner. He entered without knocking, turned off the hot water, and stepped in to 'warm me up'. That was his personal game, I think. To try to catch me off-guard, to see me vulnerable, even if it was only from a little shivering. His little inside joke against humanity's passion for weakness. He was good at it, too. The cold water caught me by surprise. I didn't see him coming. I barely had time to brace myself against the ceramic wall tiles before he penetrated me.

But Need is Need. Nothing else really matters. If it was necessary, so be it. I'm not one to argue with the countless millennia of natural selection and evolution that had created him... and me.

'Steady,' he said, quietly, as if genuinely interested in my well-being. And perhaps he was. The cold water was now on his back, after all.

That time certainly wasn't the easiest I've ever had, but somehow, whenever I hear the word 'companionship', it's always the first thing to come to mind. Don't ask me to explain. You might not like the answer.

Now, to think that what we have will last forever is to relapse into the imaginative, seemingly noble ideals that mankind works so hard to instill in its children and society in general. Security's a biggie for our folk. Being helpless when there's someone around to 'protect' you is a quality revered by many of our cultures and slipped into just about every fairy tale there is; just being vulnerable, however, is frowned upon and considered simply pathetic. It's a cruel, risky business, living with delusions of 'love' and 'romance' is, and I for one am glad I'm not a part of it.

See, I realize that one day, Heero's gonna pull another one of his disappearing acts. I'll wake up and he just won't be there. Maybe he'll have tired of me; maybe he'll just need some change. Maybe he'll have found someone who can sate his Need far better than I ever could.

Whatever the reasons, that day will come. And I don't know how I'll handle it. Maybe I'll feel miserable. Maybe I'll feel lost.

Maybe I won't feel anything at all.

And then maybe, maybe I'll take what he's taught me and find someone to share his Word with, someone to sate my Need, to exist for /me/ and me alone.

Heero might even come back, when he's ready. But I won't be holding my breath while he's gone. He's given me the tools I need to survive on my own; we both understand the eventual consequences.

Until then, of course, I will enjoy every blessed moment of pain and darkness that he has brought into my life. I will revel in the fragile beauty of his many silent sermons - wherever the pulpit may be, and whenever he makes Sunday come. And while he still lets me, I will live my life by his side, for all that that's worth.

You see, it's really very simple...

I don't need love anymore.

I have him.


When he finished his business that time, after I had asked him about the birds outside, he left me curled up on the bed, donned his pants and jacket, and opened his briefcase (the contents hidden from my sight, of course). After a moment of rummaging, he pocketed something. Curious, I inched towards the foot of the bed and made to put on my own jeans. But he knew what I was doing before even I did.

"Stay here," he said, his gaze elsewhere as always. Then he left.

It was the only time I ever disobeyed one of his direct orders.

I followed him to my front door (we were at my place). He must've known I was there, but he didn't say anything. Perhaps he had even wanted me to disobey him, just that once.

I left the house, stalking him as he made his way to the backyard. He stopped in the middle of the lawn; I leaned against the side of my home, just barely in the shade.

It was the middle of the afternoon. It was a little chilly, but the sun was shining, and the air, crisp. The birds were hopping from branch to branch on my one lonely tree, singing gaily. Every so often, a few would move together, swooping up from lower branches to higher ones. Always reaching for the sky, they were. Rising higher and higher, right up to the heavens themselves.

Then Heero pulled out his gun and slid a silencer into place.

Then he aimed it at the tree.


One round.


Two rounds.

The bodies started hitting the ground at the twelfth shot. He was so fast, so accurate, so silent that they had never stood a chance. Not one managed to escape.

I felt a little awkward, smiling at the funny little 'thump' sounds their corpses made as they hit the dirt, but I couldn't help myself. Even now, I'm still not quite sure why.

I tensed, waiting for the sounds of Heero reloading his gun again. They never came.

Heero undid the silencer and shoved both items into his jacket. For a full minute he stood there, regarding his handiwork from a distance. Then he spun about abruptly, meeting my gaze and holding it captive.

Apprehension started to set in. The same glint that I'd seen in his eyes the first time he'd taken me had returned. Regretting my decision to disobey his command, I could only stand, frozen to the spot, as he advanced on me, hands outstretched to repeat that first encounter.

But this time, he stopped, just inches away from my face. And then he smiled. The glint turned deadly. Brushing his fingers through my hair with a gentleness I had never even deemed possible from him, he planted a light kiss on my forehead.

My eyes widened in disbelief. His smile grew. My fear materialized.

"Never grow wings," he told me softly, "Ok, Duo?"

I nodded slowly. He patted my shoulder with such tenderness... and withdrew. By the time I had gone indoors again, the smile had disappeared, replaced with his usual imposing passiveness, and his gaze no longer met mine voluntarily. And I was glad for it. I wasn't deceiving him when I nodded, out in the backyard, with the little birdie bodies strewn about the grass.

After all, why would I grow wings? There was no need.

You see, I already had a pair.

The pair I was born with.

The pair that had grown with me, piece by piece over the years, slowly unfurling as my mind expanded to accept the illusions and ideals of society.

The pair he'd clipped in just one night, that first night, all those months ago.

He took me as soon as he put the silencer away. And I let him have everything that was worth a damn.


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