May 7, 2001
hunger
part seven
this is an au; the topic upsets me a great deal.
by bianca
I see the tension in his neck from a mile away. He thinks I don't see anything beyond my world of comic books and posterboard and dreams dreams dreams, oh Duo, the dreamer. I select a pencil with a shade heavier lead and begin to fill in the hair on my character. The expression is somewhat strange, the eyes staring into nothingness, lips perfectly neutral. He's nothing more than a pale imitation of Heero anyway. And Heero is infinitely more important.
He's typing an AP Phys paper; the freak took too many damn AP courses, him and Wufei and Meiran, trying to take over the world with AP credits. We're only sophomores. They just kind of laughed at my studio art, which to tell the truth, pissed the hell out of me. I think art is fucking hard as hell, and all three of them can go there if they don't agree.
But right now, he's rubbing his neck, trying to press the flesh between vertebrae, as if his spine were the hands of scissors coming together to crush the flesh between. He just kind of wilts, his face falling forward against the computer monitor, and I know he'd be crying if he didn't have such a fucking loser for a father. And if I didn't have such a fucking loser for a mother, maybe I'd have the guts to actually get up and carry him to bed, instead of simply moving there myself and hoping he takes the invitation.
"Heero," I say, "it's so cold. Don't you want to come snuggle with me?" And because it's an invitation wrapped in a plea for help, for the warmth he can give, he nods and sits under the blanket with me. I can feel his breath, his rib cage expanding against my side, can hear the cracking of his knuckles.
And then she shows up, and for a moment, I just want to kill her. It's all her fault, really, even if it isn't. If she hadn't fucking decided to throw up after every meal instead of flossing or chewing Trident, none of us would be in this mess. But I can't do anything, so I wrap my arms around Heero and glare at her until she leaves.
"Hmm," he says, and I know that's a surefire sign that he's falling asleep, that his AP Phys paper will have to wait for tomorrow morning. I press him against the pillow, staring into his closed face.
I can't help but wonder what he thinks of all this, Relena wanting him and hating him all at the same time. I wonder what he did to deserve it, or if he was simply the right person at the right time, and she was ready to love someone, anyone.
She left a little glass dancer on his dresser, the bitch. I know exactly what she's trying to do, probably because I've wanted the same thing at times. That makes me feel ashamed, even more than I already do for hating her for something that's a disease, that she can't control. But she didn't have to do it this way; she could have asked for help, at least. Anything but this. Anything but slowly killing him. I can't even bear to watch anymore.
I grab the dancer by its head and, trying not to slam the door, run into the hallway as quickly as I can and drop it into the trash, running back inside as quickly as I can. It's like kids who have to shut the light off and have one hand on the doorknob before they can flush the toilet, ready to run at all times.
I move back to my desk and erase the eyes, drawing in closed ones. Then I move to Heero's bed--he's in mine--and fall asleep. I wake first, and the little cursor on the word processing screen of his comoputer is still blinking, hyperactive and annoying. It's like the damn thing never gets tired of doing its job, being the same thing to the same people, day in and day out.
End Part Seven
Bianca
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