by Clarus
Rating: R for sexual situations and language
Summary: Obsessions. A hair fic. I have been told that it is "cool", so please read and review! :)
Notes: The title is French. It means "you love your hair," at least according to Babelfish. That sounds ridiculous in English, and, hey, who doesn't like pretentious French titles? :)

Vous Aimez vos Cheveux

Two months, and he still can't touch Duo's hair. But, oh well, everybody has their own boundaries, and never mind that Heero can stick his tongue up Duo's ass and that was just fine, but if he tries to touch the damn braid, even during sex, Duo gets all tense and that just ruins things, especially on those occasions when Duo deigns to be penetrated. But it doesn't bother Heero. He doesn't care. Really. He has better things to worry about--little things, like, um, survival and sanity--and touching Duo's hair is way down on the list of things Heero Yuy obsesses over.

Right. A great idea. Now if he can just convince himself.

"You can't touch my hair." They'd been kissing at the time, tongue- deep, breath-hot. And there it was, the line, the parameters, the forbidden. Duo's goddamn braid. Off limits, do not pass go, get your goddamn hands off, you're not good

(trusted loved)

enough.

So, he lays beside Duo in the dark and has to tuck his hands into his armpits to keep from reaching out and tuggingpullingmakingloveto that braid. He hates the forbidden.

Maybe if he thinks of it as a mission.

No. It is a matter of word association. Duo and mission do not connect to lover. Heero doesn't go to bed with his teammate.

Heero also doesn't lose sleep over hair.

Right.

+

A week later, he catches Duo just getting out of the shower. Hair covers Duo's back like a living thing; it seems to breathe with him. Duo glances over his shoulder at Heero; Duo is all big eyes and damp pink skin, and before he knows he is moving, Heero is across the little room and pressing his nice, dry body against Duo's wet one. He puts a hand under Duo's jaw and lift Duo's startled- expecting face to kiss. Their tongues fuck in Duo's mouth. Heero's clothes are getting wet, clinging to his skin, and his other hand--

Tangled in Duo's hair.

He uses conditioner. He has to, with that much hair. But the strands still catch and hold Heero's hand, as though saying that yes, this is what Duo and Duo's braid have wanted all along: touch, to be loved, to be adored, to be held, to be gotten at.

He manages it for a few seconds, to touch this hair and make love to this mouth. Long enough for his clothes to get wet and to forget the piss he'd needed to take--the reason he'd come in here in the first place.

Then Duo's hand inserts itself between them and pushes, and Duo is on the other side of the room. He leaves a few strands of hair in Heero's hand.

"I told you no," he says.

Heero says nothing. He straightens. He unzips his fly, turns around, and lets go into the toilet. Movement behind him: Duo finding a towel and brush and leaving the room. Heero cleans up and leaves the bathroom. Duo has run away wet, his feet leaving faint warm-damp smudges on the carpet. Heero follow them. His clothes are wet, too, from the same damn water. The water that had clung to Duo's body.

He goes into the bedroom, beginning to feel.

Indignant.

Who is Duo, to run away from him, anyway?

Answer: Duo is the man sitting in the middle of the floor, the towels one big, humid mess around him, the brush lost someplace, and Duo with both hands working at that plait. Eyes slide like breath across Heero's face, then focus on the braid again.

Duo loves his hair.

It might be appropriate, then, for the hair to come off. For Duo to lose that, too. Heero can imagine it, curling like a serpent on the floor, dead and small and not as bright or pretty as it was when it was attached to Duo. It was just fucking hair. That's all.

Duo treats it like a child.

Heero walks around the small wet knot that Duo has made of himself and goes to the closet. He has the urge to throw his clothes at Duo, to add to that pile. He drops shirt, slacks, and briefs into the basket. He dresses again. Maybe he'll go run. Maybe he'll just sit on the couch and watch a movie. Make sushi. Duo hates sushi and he hates sushi breath and that will show the pretty little idiot that Heero Yuy doesn't need anybody.

+

Duo comes downstairs a bit later. His shoulders are drawn back and he looks offended. Like his space has been invaded. Like the sanctity of his braid had been violated. The thing whips behind him; then end hits Heero's arm and stings, like teeth.

A foot away, on the end of the bar, there's a knife. He could pick one up and swing, and before Duo made it into the kitchen, that braid would be on the floor.

He could.

He doesn't.

"What's wrong with you?" Duo is unaware of how close he came to losing his hair. Heero wonders whether Duo would try to kill him if he cut it off. Try.

Heero doesn't answer. He watches Duo move through the kitchen. Duo has the hips and the waist of a boy, the slim lines. His arms and legs are that of a boy, too, the angles sharp and itching for trees, for fishing, for any boy-thing, for anything the does not involve Gundams and war and killing. They do not know how young they are, but Heero thinks, sometimes, that Duo is the youngest of them all. All of their experience argues against it, and so do Duo's eyes.

A boy never had eyes like that.

Heero does.

He is not sure men are supposed to have eyes like that.

He lets the thought drop. Duo is making a sandwich--banana and peanut butter.

It is so utterly mundane.

+

He is inside. Deep inside, up to his balls, and Duo's body is sucking at him and would bring him deeper if it were possible. Duo is this long, lean, mewling body underneath him. Heero thinks that if he were going to kill them, if he were an assassin sent to kill Heero Yuy and Duo Maxwell, that he would do it now. There aren't many ways to defend yourself when your knees are up around your ears, even if you are Duo. And Heero might as well be paralyzed for all the willpower he has at the moment. It takes all of his control to not tilt Duo's hips a bit and just ride him until they're both worn out.

Heero stops. He grabs Duo's hips and pulls himself out and away. Duo grabs Heero by the ears. "What're you doing?" He is panting. His breath was hot and wet. Heero wonders why everything about Duo is hot and wet. "You idiot, get back in."

"Nnn." Heero moved back even further, and Duo, after a moment, let go. "Get on your stomach."

Duo immediately gets all defensive. "Nuh-uh. You know I don't like that."

"Then I'm leaving."

Duo blinked, stunned for just a moment. Then came the offended little pout. "You can't just--"

"I can."

"You can't jerk me around like that!"

"God almighty, just get on your fucking stomach. You think I'm gonna stab you in the back or something?"

Duo wavers. Gives in. The need to get off is more pressing than the need to get his way. "You ask a fucking lot man. Christ." He turns over, and suddenly, all that Heero can see is miles and miles of white skin, the shallow valley of Duo's spine, and the stream of Duo's braid that rests over the side. "Christ. Just get in, okay?"

"Workin' on it."

Oh, it took trust to do this. To actually put your back to someone and let them in. Heero'd never done it before and he was sure that Duo would throw this at him the next time. Maybe want Heero on his stomach. Like that will ever happen.

He goes in, hard.

Duo's whole body arches. He moans. This was a screaming, toe-curling moan and Heero felt it in his bones. He makes his own noise and reaches forward with one hand. He grabs Duo's braid and holds it--not like a leash or reigns, because as much as Heero might not like it, Duo is not an animal. He is not a dog and he is not a horse. He is a person, a lover--

"Let go, goddamnit, you fucking know better!"

Heero ignores him. He wraps the braid around his fist and moves a little harder. Duo makes the best noises. He doesn't ever shut his mouth. Duo tells him again, "Let go let go not yours!"

And that was hurting the mood. Heero yanked a little harder. "Shut up already it's just your goddamned hair."

end

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