August 23, 2000
a random fic by bianca and ariana
warnings: ooc, yaoi, au, twt, pwp, lemon, lime
pairing: 6x1
It is early the next morning when I rouse him from his slumber. He lies, slumped over a pillow, wearing a shirt I recognize as a throwback from the days during the war. Why the war would be a comfort to a soldier, I can imagine, but it still turns my stomach painfully. I reach down to shake him awake, and his hand crushed mine. I wait for those blue glass shards to flicker open and fix me with that suspicious stare, but his eyes remained closed, though his breathing indicates he is awake.
"I didn't know you wanted to hold my hand," say I flippantly, and his lips curve into a generous smirk. He looks his age when he smirks like that, a teenager out past curfew.
"If you try to sneak up on me again, I'll kill you," he says simply, and releases my hand. Graceful as a lion prowling the savannahs, he rises from his bed and pads his way over to the large wood wardrobe Relena had commissioned especially for him. I doubt he knows, or even cares. That full upper lip curls into a sneer at the pretension of the clothes hung dutifully within.
"You have to," I say simply and I can see the switch flip on, the label of 'mission' being assigned to it, as he does to all distasteful tasks. "Pick the blue," I say simply, staring fixedly at the silk suit that hangs loosely from the hanger, a perfect replica of my own in all but color.
He glares.
"Get out," he snorts, as if he doesn't really care whether or not I stay to watch him change save pride.
I bow mockingly as I see myself out. "As you wish, sir." But I leave the door a bit open, watching as the tank top falls to the ground, followed by silk boxers. I can make out the shapes of strong calves and slender thighs, and then he is not an inch in front of me, one eye peering through the crack.
I open my mouth to say something, and he slams the door.
I wait for him in the hall, giving him my best diplomat smile. He returns his, only his is too genuine, too close to the reality of people for these strange men isolated by power. "Not so real," I say, and it pleases me to see the understanding in his eyes.
I instruct him quickly as we walk the two miles to the other side of the palace. "Let's hear your fake laugh," I murmur against his ear, making sure to brush my lips against his cheek. He twitches slightly, then walks a bit faster. Suddenly, without warning, I erupt into loud, jovial laughter that rolls and rolls and is utterly pointless but for the sake of sound.
The reaction is unexpected. Instead of a pistol halfway up my nose, he laughs louder, watching me carefully. I know a challenge when I see one. His is more mocking, almost as if to say, 'You really think you're funny? You're pathetic. I can't stand the sight of you. You're--'
I blush as Heero pokes me in the arm, childish and abrupt. Drawing a deep breath, I let out a roar that Santa Claus in his drunken stupor would envy. Before I realize it, we've rounded the corner and several balding ministers from an envoy from China are staring at Heero and I, trying to determine which of us is the creator of such an ungodly sound.
So far so good. We're into the third course of the meal, and Heero has yet to make a single mistake. And then what--or rather who--I have been dreading the entire time comes to pass. The Countess of Newark, splendid in her many diamonds and rubies, looks coyly at him from behind her wine glass.
"Perhaps you wouldn't be averse to joining me for a glass of wine in my rooms later tonight?" she suggests, looking at the Japanese boy with something like simple greed for beauty in her blue eyes. She is a pleasing picture, with black curls falling over her ample bosom, but beneath the silk and porcelain lies a creature of venom.
"I would love to," he says with the tiniest smile, and the entire table, from thirty feet down and further, gasps. I kick him under the table; he does not kick me back, but a young lady next to me suddenly chokes on her chicken and examines him behind large spectacles.
"I am--"
"I know where your rooms are," he says softly, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. What is he waiting for? Does he expect me to step in and ride away with him on my white steed into the sunset? Perhaps it will be a learning experience.
Conversation resumes, and he acts the perfect politician throughout the rest of the courses, over bowls of French soup and platters of escargot. Yet as I watch him retire for the night, heading back to his rooms to freshen up, no doubt, I feel a sudden and intense hatred for the Lady Katherine of Newark that does not belong inside me. He does not belong to me.
My head has barely hit the pillow when I hear a soft click.
He stands in the doorway, shirtless beneath his blazer, arms crossed over his chest. I sit up quickly, letting my hair fall over my face so he cannot see how I flush. Heero closes the door behind him.
He comes closer, every step an agonizing moment in the span between now and the time when I will have him in my arms. "Would this happen to be the Countess of Newark's chambers?" I shake my head. "How unfortunate." The little brat. Relief swells in my heart.
"Oh well." With that, he climbs into my bed and falls asleep, curled into a little ball. I understand the reasoning, but his teasing is nearly too much to bear. A disaster averted and transformed into one of larger proportions.
It is a long time before I too fall asleep.
End Part Three
Bianca and Ariana
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