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? :)
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
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.
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
"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.
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.
"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
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.
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
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--"
"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."
[back to Singles a - k]