17 Oct 1999
Hello mina -
Here's the next fic in the Charm School series. When I wrote the first one, I had a lot of people asking if Heero and Quatre were going to be getting... together (lots of little winky faces came with those ^_~) and I've been feeling evil and perverse lately so I thought, what the heck, let the boys go at it.
Anyway, this fic is dark (and stormy?) 'cause everything I'm writing lately is dark. I can only write fics that crawl out of beds, do the wild thing all over the floor and then throw themselves on my kitchen knives... *sigh* What's an author to do?
So, as long as you promise not to throw yourselves on my kitchen knives (what you do with your *own* kitchen knives is entirely up to you), feel free to wallow in the angst ahead. One last heads-up though: there are some scenes in here that some readers may find disturbing, but then, as Sigmund Freud** would argue, that's why the stuff's in your dreams to begin with... BWAHAHAHAHAHAH....
jaa -
kumiko
DISCLAIMER: All Gundam Wing characters are property of Sunrise, Bandai Visuals, Setsu Agency, and Asahi TV. This work is not written for profit, but for entertainment purposes only.
WARNINGS: Contains shonen-ai and lemonish yaoi scenes. Do not continue if you are under 18 years of age and/or uncomfortable with male-male romantic or sexual relationships.
This fic contains scenes that may be disturbing to some readers.
Key for punctuation:
"..." - character dialogue
/.../ - character thoughts
2:00am
Winner Estate 01
~ Heero ~
The dream itself began on a highway, in the fog.
He looked at the clock on his dashboard for the hundredth time. It read 9:17pm. As his eyes drifted to the road ahead, he was comforted, at least, by the knowledge that he could blame everything on the white mass of cloud hovering around his car, and shrouding the road.
And there *would* be things that required blame assigned to them. It was a funeral after all. Being late was bad enough in Heero Yuy's book, being late to a service for the dead seemed one of the worst insults a person could deliver. Surely on this, of all days, punctuality was crucial, if only to show the great respect one had for the departed.
However, if it were only that, he might be able to be forgiven. From the back of the car, though, the sweet, strong scent of funeral flowers was a constant reminder of another obligation. He was bringing the largest two arrangements: a wreath of white gardenias and a large sheaf of white ginger. Someone else, he couldn't remember who right now, was bringing tiny white chrysanthemum bouquets to serve as each guest's *memento mori.*
There would be more flowers of course. He assumed many friends and acquaintances would be there to pay their respects and most would bring arrangements of their own. But these two were special. The wreath was from the pilots, who had decided that a circle was the best form to mark their relationship with the dead. The other, the sheaf of ginger, was from someone even closer. It would be placed directly on top of the coffin and would stay there during the burial. It was imperative, therefore, that he be on time.
He hadn't counted on the fog. It was so dense that he could see only as far as the end of the car's hood itself. His headlights shone on a white-gray mass, distinguished only by the occasional swirl of darker gray mist. Out his other windows, he could see nothing at all - nothing but the press of fog, always there, hiding what he needed to see. It sat on the road and on the car and Heero could have sworn it actually had weight - a crushing weight heavy enough to stop his wheels from moving forward.
And what was most disturbing of all was that he wasn't at all sure of what was out there... in that swirling grayness. It should be the road to the churchyard. But he could have missed any number of turns and never would have known it in this weather. It was only then that it dawned on him. The road to the church was winding, with several intersections and turns. And Heero, although he had no memory of getting into the car, knew that from the time he had started out, he had been driving in a perfectly straight line.
He knew they were waiting for him. He knew the way one always knows in dreams - through the dream memories that seemed real because they were there, ready to be accessed, just as everyday, waking memories were. He remembered their solemn faces when they entrusted the wreath to him, thinking him the most reliable. He remembered that the ginger sheaf, lying on a marble table in the front hall, was nearly seized by the trembling fingers of the loved one. They hovered just above it, nearly stroking it, the owner so far gone in grief that soft shrieks were the only sound made. The last and loudest came when the sheaf was placed in Heero's hands.
So now they were gathered. He could see in his mind, with the strange perception that dreams bring, the crowded churchyard in the gray mist, the mourners, the officiating clergy... the coffin. Bare. Waiting. Waiting for its flowers.
The deceased stood by, head shaking, eyes downcast. "Oh, Heero. Couldn't love me when I was alive; can't honor me now that I'm dead." An anguished face looked up at him.
/Whose face? I should be able to tell - looking right at it... I can't tell who it is.../
"Where are they?... where are my flowers... Heero?"
Ah, no - that sound. The sound of his name, spoken by two voices at once. One high and bird-like, the other much lower with a rakish quality to it. They were saying his name, over and over, each one saying it differently, distinctively; each needing to be heard. They swirled around him, like the fog out his windows, pressed close to him until he couldn't separate them from the air he needed to breathe.
Did he need them to breathe?
He crouched low over the steering wheel of the car, trying so hard to focus on the hidden road in front of him. /No. Not both. Only him - for life. For the basic functions of blood through veins and air through lungs, only him./
But one of them was dead. And for the life of him, he couldn't remember which.
~ Quatre ~
So hot. Hot and stuffy, and what could he do about it? Nothing. He could only wait. All of them were waiting, here in this hot and stuffy government building. They were waiting for packages that had gotten lost or waylaid during the last horrible days of the war. They were waiting for pieces of their lives to be handed back to them over the dingy black counter at the front of the line.
Quatre shifted on his feet and a drop of sweat slid slowly down his back, making him shiver as it moved. He knew this package was important. He had expected to receive it early on in the war, when he had traveled to earth as part of Operation Meteor. But, as so often happens, war delays things. And it was only in the last couple of weeks that he learned of the package's existence. Now it was here, somewhere behind the ugly gray metal doors of this government office, and he would wait for it.
No one spoke in this place. The people in the line never looked at one another, never joined together to complain about the slowness of governmental functions or the heat or anything else. They simply waited.
Quatre, however, was growing more impatient by the minute. In order to distract himself, he thought he would strike up a conversation with the woman in front of him.
"Excuse me, Miss?" He addressed her politely and she turned, slowly, to face him. Her eyes seemed flat - almost dead, and she did nothing but slowly raise a piece of paper toward him that she held in her hand.
Quatre looked at it. In the space reserved for a description of the contents for the package to be picked up, it read: infant; undeliverable. He looked back up at her in horror and she turned away.
At last, after what he knew had been several hours of waiting, he found himself at the dingy counter. The man working behind it was the same color of gray as the metal doors behind him, which, strangely, stood completely on their own, with no supporting walls on either side. The entire back of this room, Quatre realized, was a large reception area. Well-dressed people mingled around the floor, seemingly oblivious to the government workers who moved in and out of the doors, standing alone in the center of the space. Why didn't we know about this?, he thought. I believe I even had an invitation to that party. And I've been waiting here in this line the whole time. Silly.
The worker gave him an impatient snort and Quatre pushed the notice he had received across the counter. It was only then that he looked down and saw what was written for the contents of his package.
Trowa Barton
"Is he here yet?" A high, bright voice came from behind him. "Where do I meet him?"
He turned and saw Cathrine Bloom standing behind him. Her smile was just a bit too wide, her eyes overly bright and there was a forced cheerfulness to her voice that made Quatre uneasy.
"I heard he'd be here," she continued. "I had to come, I just had to! I've missed him so much. He simply has to come home. I'll take care of him, better than anyone! Really! Where is he? Do you know?"
He was trying to hold himself steady through the barrage of words. "Cathrine," he smiled at her, "I didn't know you'd be here. This is where they told me to come. He should be here soon -"
/It makes sense for her to be here. She cares about him just as much as I do, surely. I shouldn't be surprised. I just wish, sometimes, that he and I could... But that's selfish. I can't be selfish... with him.../
The man working the counter put a box in front of him. Turning from Cathrine's overeager face, he watched as it landed on the scarred black surface with a soft thud. Immediately, Quatre felt a wave of anxiety.
He stood in silence for a moment, just looking at the box. It was about 2 feet square, the typical dingy brown of corrugated cardboard. It was wrapped with brown mailing tape and otherwise would have been completely unremarkable with one exception. One corner, on the side nearest Quatre was stained a disagreeable reddish-brown color, as if something had leaked, long ago. It made his stomach feel strange and he was glad to turn his attention away from it when the worker asked him to sign for it.
He looked around to find Cathrine, thinking she'd want to be up here with him when Trowa came through the doors, but she had vanished as quickly as she'd come. The man at the counter had started helping someone else and Quatre stared back at the doors, puzzled, the anxious feeling getting stronger. Where was Trowa? Why would they give him the box without Trowa being here?
/Those doors. Something about those doors. Lots of people going in and out of them... but just the workers. No one else has come through. No husbands or wives. No friends or children... None of the missing have come through those doors. Then what is this.../
He looked down at the box again.
/The box. Open the box. It has his name on it. It may have some kind of clue. Open it./
He slid the package over to the end of the counter and took a small penknife out his pocket, slicing the tape along the edges. As it happened, he didn't get it very far open. He had slit the tape along two sides and was pulling up the center flaps when he saw something, out of the corner of his eye, that caught his attention. He looked closer and saw, inside the small box, a lifeless, emerald green eye.
The trembling began in his hands, the hands that still gripped the box, in the act of opening what he knew now he could never open. The penknife clattered to the floor. He slammed the flaps back down, shaking his head back and forth, and starting to shiver uncontrollably. "No... no... no... NOOOO!!!" he yelled at the man behind the counter. "There must be some mistake. He didn't die back then... I just thought he did, but he's okay now." He could hear rising panic and loss of control in his voice. "He's okay now!"
The man scowled at him and grabbed the notification letter off the counter. He looked at it, checked the label on the box, and pushed the piece of paper back to Quatre. "That's the right one. Trowa Barton. No one gets ‘em back alive when they're told to come here."
Cathrine was back. She stood at the end of the counter, her elbow resting on the box. "Did they tell you where we could meet him? Are we in the right room?"
He looked down the counter at her, so hopeful and expectant. How could he tell her what had happened. How could he show her the box, the horrible and precious thing inside it? She wouldn't be able to take it. What could he do?
"Cathrine -" he took a step toward her.
"Cathrine Bloom?" The man behind the counter was calling Cathrine's name. She walked forward, eager for news. She conferred with the counter worker, who led her through the strange gray doors. When he came back, she was no longer with him.
Quatre looked at the box again. He closed it, running his hands over the slices of tape, trying to seal it up once more. The he carried it slowly out through the back of the room. As he left the stuffy government building, Cathrine Bloom appeared at his elbow, her face joyous.
"He's back! He's back with me! He's in that taxi." She pointed to a car waiting at the curb. "We're catching a shuttle to L3 Cluster in an hour!" She shook her head, eyes overflowing with grateful tears. "I've never felt so happy in all my life!" She waved at him and started to walk toward to waiting taxi.
Quatre felt a wave of panic at her retreating back. "Wait!" he called after her. "Cathrine! May I see him? May I just say hello to him, before your leave? Cathrine?"
She turned slowly, her face full of happiness and pity. "No. I'm sorry. *That's* yours," she said, pointing to the box he carried. "*This* is mine. I'm really very sorry." And with that, she climbed into the car and it drove off.
Quatre stood, as if he were frozen, feeling so heavy inside that he imagined never moving again. Trowa was alive and going back to L3 with Cathrine. And he was dead, his body here with Quatre. They had both gotten something back after the war after all, he thought to himself. Cathrine had gotten Trowa. He had gotten the box.
"Aaaah!" The blond-haired boy was on his knees, sitting up in bed, before he realized he was awake. His was panting and his hands and arms were shaking violently.
"Trowa," he muttered. "Trowa..." Jumping out of bed he sat at his desk and brought the comm unit's screen to life. He found the message from Trowa that he was safely back in the L3 cluster that he had gotten several days ago. He reread it three times, running his fingers over the words on the monitor screen, before his heartbeat began to slow, allowing his breathing to quiet as well.
Why? Why had *he* gotten such a horrible memory, while Cathrine had gotten Trowa?
/Cathrine isn't a murderer/ he told himself. /Cathrine is a loving innocent whose only thoughts are to care for the brother she cherishes. She deserves him. Why would he want me? So much blood on my hands. So many terrible memories I must bring up for him. The ones he wished would never have come back.../
He sat for a moment, his fingertips resting on the monitor screen, his eyes seeing nothing but the face he loved so much. "It was only a dream, and yet... Forgive me, Trowa. I'll never be an innocent. But I do love you, just as much as she does... in my own way..."
He felt sick. He got up from the desk and went to check on Heero, just to give himself something else to think about.
Circus Grounds, somewhere in L3 Colony Cluster
~ Trowa ~
He was drifting again. So many of his dreams began this way. He had thought about this a lot and decided that it was probably just a result of being conscious for some minutes after the Vayeate exploded.
During the day he could consider it rationally. No doubt anyone in his position, being consciously aware of drifting off into space, would feel the terror he assumed he must have felt at that moment. He had had no jet pack to help guide or steer, he had suffered injuries that prevented willful movement, and the scarcity of ships in that area was well-known. He was a shipless pilot, adrift in the vastness of space, away from help, away from light, away from anything that would or could stop the endless drift.
"Quatre... my gentle friend... you weren't yourself... can't lose that... I treasure that part of you. It that part dies, the world's chance for innocence and hope dies too... Come back to us, Quatre... come back... to *me.*
It felt strange to him now, as he floated further and further away from the scene of the accident, that he had never considered the possibility of death by drift. It was a singularly horrible way to go, he realized. He would simply fall through the blackness of space - forever. There would be nothing to break the fall, nothing to slow him down or speed him up. It would be an inexorable freefall towards death at the hands of - what? Suffocation? Thirst? One of the many injuries he could tell he had sustained? What ever the cause would be, one thing was true. It would not be quick and he might very likely be conscious, right up to the end.
/ How long do I have? It... it really will *end* this way... my life is over. What a waste it was... and now, a proper end... completely alone. I can't be more alone than I am now... Was it ever different?... Perhaps it could've been. With Heero, perhaps, if he hadn't been been distracted by Relena - or was it someone else? Or Quatre. So much tenderness there... could have been... But it didn't happen and now it won't. Ever. Never felt so alone...Fitting, though./
The blackness of space was getting blacker. He must be losing consciousness. He choked back a sob, half loneliness and pity, half abject terror. If someone had asked him while he was awake, if he remembered being this terrified when the accident has actually happened, he would have had to say no. In waking life, he assumed that he had been terrified, because anyone would have been, but the actual memories of being *here* and experiencing *this* amount of terror were lost to everyday consciousness. It was only in the unprotected state of dreaming that the true amount of terror he had felt seemed to become obvious.
But terror intense enough to produce insanity should be remembered.
Is this why the drifting dream returned? Came to him again and again, never failing to strike absolute terror within him? Is this why he remembered, in the dream, being so grateful that there was no sound in space.
No one, not even he himself, could hear him scream.
He trembled, his body seeking the warmth of the blanket, but he didn't wake. His eye movements slowed as did his breathing and heart rate and soon he was back in the blissful emptiness of deep sleep.
3:30am
Winner Estate 01
~Quatre and Heero~
Heero's breathing was anything but calm when Quatre slipped into his room. The blond-haired boy stared down at his friend, tangled in the blanket and sheets, fists clenched. He was making small distressed noises and Quatre wondered whether to wake him up. As it turned out, he didn't need to.
Heero gave out a particularly harsh sigh, then rolled onto his stomach and raised himself on his arms. Quatre leaned down to look at his face and Heero looked up at him, blinking, trying to remember where he was and why. "Quatre -" he murmured, then sat up all the way.
"I think you were having a bad dream, Heero. Can I get something for you? To help calm you down?"
The Japanese boy shook his head. He looked around the room and saw the windows. In an instant, he was out of bed and opening the curtains, leaning far out into the clear and cold desert night. He drew in several deep breaths of blessedly dry air.
/So clear... I can see everything... buildings and sand hills and stars... ah, all the stars... so clear... no fog... absolutely no fog/
Heero shut the windows slowly and sat back down on the edge of his bed. He stared straight ahead for a moment, his face pensive, and then turned to Quatre and asked, "Is he dead?"
Quatre's face paled as he recalled the government building, the stuffy office, and the horrible box. But Heero couldn't have been talking about that. That had been for Quatre's mind only.
"I'm sorry, Heero - who are you talking about?"
A pause. A breath. And then, "Duo. Was it him? Or was it Relena? I need to know who those flowers were for... I was late... " He looked back at the window.
"Heero," Quatre said softly. "It was all a bad dream. You had a dream -but now it's over. You're here, and no one is dead. No one you know or love is dead right now, Heero. We all made it. We made it through."
Heero stared at his host's face for a moment, then walked again to the window and looked out at the clear sky. "A dream?" he said in a soft, far-away voice. "I never had them... until I met him." The dark-haired pilot began to tremble again, a sign, Quatre was learning, that his energy to handle the powerful feelings coming up was almost exhausted.
Quatre walked slowly to the window, and stood next to Heero. "It's all right, Heero. I had a bad dream, too, tonight. They can be scary, but they're just dreams." He put a hand up tentatively to Heero's shoulder. "No one's dead, Heero... *Duo* isn't dead."
Heero's head spun around and his glare caught Quatre off-guard. "Duo? Why should I -" He stopped in mid-sentence. Just speaking the name loud enough could do it. He was losing his tentative hold on the situation. The world was bending, folding on itself and his need to see Duo, to hold him, and hear his voice was crushing. He reached out for Quatre, his eyes wide and staring.
"It's happening, again, Quatre... " He was leaning heavily on the other boy, breath coming fast, and not daring to take his fists from Quatre's shirt.
/If I let go now, I'll fall forever.../
Quatre rested his hands on Heero's arms. "It's okay, Heero. I'm here. Is it just... too many feelings? Too much, all at once?"
Heero couldn't bring his eyes up to meet Quatre's, but his friend's words hit the mark. He nodded, slightly, just enough to let Quatre know he was on the right track.
The blond-haired boy moved a little closer. "I know you'll hate me for saying this, Heero, but out of all of us, I think you're the one with the most to feel."
The dark head was brought up, sharply. Quatre was ready for it.
"Sometimes it feels like they cleared everything out of you, doesn't it. They just reached inside of you and took it all away - all those inconvenient things that make people human.
Heero's voice was only a whisper. "Humans make mistakes."
"Yes, Heero, they do. And you *did.*"
Heero's eyes widened. He tightened his grip on Quatre's shirt and tried to decide whether it was anger or embarrassment he was feeling.
"You made mistakes, Heero Yuy. And so did I. It was inevitable, because we're not machines, Heero, in spite of how hard they tried to make us that way. Especially you... but, Heero, that has to be okay. It has to be. We can't live in a world where there's no room for mistakes.
Heero ducked his head, the huge, soundless tears falling once more -straight down to the floor.
Quatre could tell he was close to giving up. "Maybe you don't believe me right now. But you *do* want to live, Heero.
"How do you know that, Quatre?"
"Because if you didn't, you wouldn't be here with me."
Intense eyes met his gaze and, for the first time since Heero had arrived, Quatre felt a flicker of hope that some part of Heero could be recovered. "Yes, I think you want to live. You want to be with him again. You want back what you almost had."
Quatre put an arm around his friend, and got him back to the bed. He realized that he faced a difficult decision at this point. To really and truly comfort Heero, or to patch over the pain with something sincere but shallow.
/He needs me. Well, no, he needs Duo, but he's only got me right now. It's so obvious, so open. Like he's never been before... This must be really difficult for him to do.../
The Arabian boy made his decision and slid into the bed beside Heero. He wrapped his arms around the dark-haired boy and murmured, "Heero - why don't I sleep here tonight, okay?"
Heero stared at the boy in bed with him. His head shook, lips moved. "Duo..." he began.
Quatre moved closer. "It's just a place to sleep; someone to hold on to." A slender hand reached up and pushed sweat-damp hair back from cobalt-blue eyes. "I'm not trying to take his place, Heero." Quatre moved closer, smiling softly. "It'll be all right. You'll see."
Heero lay there for a long time. The dream... the fog... the feeling of obligation and disappointment. He shivered, remembering the smell of flowers, and closed his eyes.
Warm arms were around him, and for one moment, he was back in L2 Cluster, and Duo was there, lying beside him, warm and alive, ready to wrap him up in that fragrant, silky hair, ready to nuzzle his cheek and ask him what was wrong. He'd done that on so many nights like this, when the feelings from the dreams just wouldn't go away. When Heero had insisted on leaving the light by the bed on, so that he could simply watch Duo's beautiful face until he felt safe enough to sleep again.
He felt a sharp stab of grief. "Duo..." His whole body began to shake. Uncontrollable spasms that he couldn't stop. The sickening finality of things came crashing down on him. Duo was really *gone.* *Gone.*
Quatre turned out the light, and pulled Heero closer. "I'm here, Heero," he whispered in his ear. "Don't forget that..."
A painful sob escaped Heero's lungs. He wrapped his arms around Quatre, holding and stroking the Arabian boy and whispering his lost lover's name like a mantra. "Duo... Duo... Duo... " His arms were still tight around Quatre as he fell asleep.
4:15 am
~Heero ~
He was in the car again, still driving, only now the road was a large highway with 5 or 6 lanes. /How do I know that? The fog is thicker than ever? Can't see the lanes, but I know they're there.
He was traveling very fast, even though the fog effectively cut off vision for all but the closest cars. He estimated that by the time he could see tail lights, he would be approximately 15 centimeters from the car they belonged to. The thought of this made him shiver and yet he knew this was what he had to do.
He looked at the dashboard clock again. 9:17. Damn! The stupid thing wasn't working! Now he had no idea what time it really was and how much more time he had before the service began. He groped his arm - no watch. But - wait! He was saved. He knew (dream memories again) that there was a large factory sign coming up during this next stretch of super highway, and that it had an old-fashioned LCD readout of the time. He blew out a breath, feeling a small measure of control return.
The sign was looming up now, just as he had known it would, on the left side of the highway. He looked up to the top, where the small bluish rectangle displayed the time. A shiver of fear, like he had never felt in his life, ran through him. The display was showing regular clock time, but it was as if everything had speeded up. The digits that should have been the hours and minutes were moving forward almost too fast to read. The numbers on the clock were transforming at a sickening pace. As Heero watched, they all began to blur together.
/It's insane. The clock...is, is *insane*. Why is this so frightening? Why am I suddenly so afraid?/
/Just whose funeral is this I'm going to? Who are these flowers for?/But when he looked back, he saw no flowers in the car.
It was only then that he noticed he no longer driving, but creeping forward behind a long line of cars. Two faint reddish spots of mist were all he had to lead him - the taillights of the car in front of him. The fog, he realized now, had just gotten noticeably thicker.
/We're all going to the same place/ he thought. But it wasn't the funeral service anymore. It was some kind of waiting area, a place where they were all waiting to be called for something. With the logic particular to dreams and hypnosis, he felt no surprise to find himself, suddenly, standing in a sterile waiting room outside a large white door. There was a window next to the door, with rippled glass so you couldn't see through it. He could make out figures moving back and forth behind it, but nothing else. The window bothered him, but he wasn't at all sure why.
The waiting room was furnished with seats in an ugly green. The dismal material clashed unpleasantly with the fluorescent lights overhead, making the whole room seem filled with a pale, green gas, making an ominous atmosphere even more so.
The occupants of the seats all seemed to be absorbed in reading the tattered magazines left on low tables around the room. They didn't look up at him, they showed no signs of impatience at not being called. They simply sat, and waited.
/This is horrible. I feel like shit and I don't want to be here, waiting. Maybe I should take a walk./
He looked around the room, and noticed for the first time that a street ran through it. It was over against the far side of the room, where the wall would be. It was dark, lit only by a few street lamps and a wind blew down it from somewhere. It seemed perfectly normal to him - a good place to stretch his legs while waiting. He looked over at the window once more before walking across the carpet and stepping onto the sidewalk.
He saw the boy almost immediately. He was younger than Heero, perhaps 13 or 14, with hair down to his waist. He was watching Heero walk into the street, his arms wrapped around one of the lampposts, head ducked, looking up at the newcomer through long, thick lashes.
As Heero watched, the boy nuzzled the lamppost, licking and kissing it before putting his legs around it and swinging himself around in a circle, his crotch pressed against the cold iron post. For the most part, he kept his eyes on Heero, watching his reaction. Then, he began sliding up and down on the post itself, working the tender spot between his legs, his head thrown back in what appeared, at least, to be ecstasy.
Heero couldn't take his eyes off the boy. He was so familiar. Looked so much like him. Did Duo ever have to do this? Did he ever have to offer himself in exchange for food or money? The thought enraged him and yet he felt so strangely excited...
/It couldn't be. That kid's too young, and if Duo ever had turned tricks to survive, he sure as hell didn't need to do it now. But still, he looks so much like him.../
The boy's legs had stiffened, his arms pulling as he pressed his erection against the post, hair falling loose down his back. At the sound of his soft, rhythmic cries, Heero began walking toward him, breath coming quickly, fingers itching to touch the silky hair, the warm skin.
The last, soft moan had just escaped the boy's lips when Heero's hands were on him. "Where?" whispered Heero urgently. "Where??"
The boy grinned up at him, and he choked back a moan. Beautiful, indigo-colored eyes. The face of an angel. A lopsided grin.
Slipping out of Heero's grasp, the young prostitute walked to an alleyway, and looked it up and down. He turned back, smiling at Heero. With his his hand held at the level of his hip, the boy made a beckoning gesture and the Japanese pilot followed him into the alley.
Heero was breathing heavily. His desire for the young Duo-twin was almost a tangible thing. As he reached for the boy, though, slender young arms pushed against him, keeping him a bay. The street boy seemed to take delight in Heero's frustrated expression. He grinned again, then brought his fingers up close to Heero's face and rubbed them together, indicating payment was required first.
/Gods, no - I'm not this desperate am I? Would I pay him if that were the only way? And if this is him - him four or five years ago - should I do this to him? Should I be a part of this?/
The boy seemed to sense Heero's indecision. Never taking his eyes off of Heero, he let his head rest against the grimy brick wall behind him and raised a hand to his mouth, brushing slender fingers over his lips. As Heero watched, the hand trailed down the boy's throat and over the black t-shirt that clung tightly to his chest. Slowly, the hand slid up under the shirt and pulled it upwards, stopping only when one hardened nipple was exposed. Heero felt his knees weaken, almost collapse from under him, and he put his hands on the wall to steady himself, one on either side of the boy. He leaned in closer and watched, spellbound, as slender fingers rubbed the tender nub just inches from him.
"I'll give you anything..." Heero heard himself whisper, and the boy smiled.
Heero leaned over and took the little nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting it until the boy arched his back and cried out, panting rhythmically and pulling Heero's palm down to press against.
/I made him do that just by... gods this kid is a maniac... wait... wait... I told Duo that once... after the first week we were together on L2... he wanted it so much, so often... and he taught me to like it that much, too... oh, please, this *can't* be him... please...but if it isn't, why do I want him so much?/
He pulled the boy to him, roughly, kissing him hard and sliding feverish hands over every part of his body he could reach. The next thing Heero knew, the boy had slipped off his dark jeans and turned away. He planted his feet widely, and well away from the wall, then fell forward a little to support himself with his palms against the blackened brick. He arched his back, an eloquent invitation, and Heero felt himself lose control.
In a moment he was deep within the boy, moving... moving... holding the slender body tightly, his thrusts so forceful that the boy's breath was forced out of him each time. Heero buried his face in the boy's hair, first moaning, then screaming Duo's name, not caring who heard or saw him.
And they did see. The faceless, nameless people in the waiting room, still just beyond the end of the alley, had turned to watch Heero take the street boy. He was able to watch them whisper to each other, as he pressed against the boy. As he did so, the thought came to him that they were judging his skill and power - and finding him wanting.
With one last effort, Heero wrapped his arms around the boys hips and pressed into him as deeply as he could. A deep guttural moan came from somewhere dark and primitive inside him. But just as he reached an exquisite release, he felt the boy's body go limp and sag against the wall of the alley. Heero, dazed from the coupling, watched as the boy slid off of him, down to the dirty asphalt at their feet, his head resting against the bricks. He was bleeding, bleeding badly, so much so that a pool of blood was gathering between his legs. Heero looked down at himself. He was covered in blood; it was dripping off of him.
Heero knelt down and carefully turned the boy over. He cradled his head in one hand, the other cupping his chin. "Can you hear me?" he whispered to the bleeding boy. "You know I didn't mean to hurt you. You wanted it. I thought you could take it."
For the first time, the boy spoke, and when he did it was with Duo's voice. "Too much, man. Can't put all that pain inside of me, too much... Ya got me, buddy... got me really good, didn't you? Just too much... too much, pushing too hard..." As Heero held him, the voice faded, the eyes clouded over, and the alleyway street boy slipped away from his life of poverty and misery.
~ Quatre ~
He awoke to find Heero on top of him. The Japanese boy was breathing hard, his hands roaming over Quatre's arms and chest. Every now and then Heero would take Quatre's face into his hands and stare in his eyes, as if he could calm himself in the blue-green depths.
"His eyes..." Heero whispered, his voice more intense than usual. "His eyes are the color of shadows... did you know that? They go down forever. You can fall into them." Heero buried his fingers in Quatre's golden hair and continued his low-pitched crooning.
"And his hair, Quatre... it smells like... rain, and leaves... He let me play with it..." Heero moaned and brushed his lips against the Arabian boy's mouth. "When I took him... from the back... we could both feel it, in-between us...
Quatre's head was spinning. He wanted so much to be able to reach out to Heero, to take some of that pain into himself. But the stakes had just been raised. Heero was wanting - needing - more than a caring shoulder to cry on. He needed Duo and the warm, responsive body that he was remembering - craving.
/Heero - do we really want to do this? Do you really need this from me? I can pretend, but I can't be him, could *never* be him for you... no one could... but maybe... just by doing this, I'll show him that there are other ways... Oh, Trowa - I don't want to betray you, even if you aren't really mine... but he needs me right now... please forgive me..."
He hesitated a moment more only because he feared failing. He had to succeed, he sensed, because for Heero, this had become a matter of life or death.
/All right, Heero - I'm ready... /
Quatre slid his arms around the Japanese boy's neck and pulled him down for a soft but insistent kiss. Heero was ready as well, wrapped tightly in his memories of Duo, and as the kiss deepened, so did the trance he was in.
/The dream was right, Duo. Time really doesn't exist. You're here with me, right now. I can feel you inside of him... and I need you... like air...feel your kiss through his lips... touch your body through his skin.../
Heero looked down at the golden boy beneath him. "Quatre" he whispered. "Forgive me for this... For being so weak..."
Quatre closed his eyes and buried his face between Heero's neck and shoulder. Then, feeling Heero's urgency, he fumbled for a small container in the little table drawer, next to the bed. Pushing Heero back just a bit, Quatre took a small amount of the oily liquid and stroked the dark-haired boy's erection.
Heero moaned and bucked under Quatre's gentle touches. Everywhere the Arabian touched him was liquid fire, and he found himself pressing forward to meet the slender and insistent hands. /Yes... bring me in, love... right where you want me... oh, you *know* how to do this.../
And with that, Heero Yuy pressed forward, into Duo's waiting body, even though Duo himself was thousands of miles away.
For his part, Quatre hadn't counted on his body's response to Heero. He hadn't prepared himself for the feeling of electricity that ran through his skin as Heero's tongue explored his chest and nipples, or the disturbingly familiar feeling of sleek muscles tensing under his fingers. And he wasn't prepared for the feeling of being pursued.
/Ahh - never done this before... Is this what Trowa feels? Strange mix... giving up so much control... he'll do what he wants with me... but there's power here, too, in making someone feel this way... being the object of so much desire.../
Always before, in their few times together, Trowa had let him take the lead. But this was Heero, and Quatre was feeling the first, delicious shocks of submission. He whimpered softly as Heero pressed against him -demanding entrance... and getting it.
/Hnn... want you so much... Trowa... Heero... oh, it's so strange... being taken over like this... just please... don't stop doing this to me.../
Quatre concentrated on Heero's breath in his ear, filled with little grunts and whimpers, Heero's hands, clenching and unclenching on his arms, and most of all, on his own body, willing himself to open up to the Japanese boy's invasion.
As he did, Heero burrowed into him, his arms slipping around Quatre's back, his face buried in the crook of the blond boy's neck, lips against damp skin, kissing and moaning.
Now, one fevered hand moved up to Quatre's hair, the fingers wrapping around the short, golden strands. Heero's forehead was pressed against Quatre's, and now he took the Arabian boy's lips in a fiery kiss that left both of them breathless.
"Tro -" Quatre breathed. "Ah, Heero..."
He closed his eyes then, and lifted his legs to allow Heero to push deeper. He cradled the dark-haired pilot's head against his shoulder as Heero's thrusts continued and the soft, low voice began a little chant. "Love you... love you... my angel... oh, my sweet boy... love you... I love you... Dee-chan... my *Shinigami...*
Quatre felt tears running down his face. He was crying and he couldn't stop. He just didn't know who he was crying for... Perhaps for Heero, making love to a boy who wasn't here, or for Trowa, who wouldn't feel the kisses Quatre gave him, kisses that landed on Heero's body.
Or, perhaps, he cried for himself. For the sacrifice that had grown so heavy inside of him that he was willing to let one boy take him over even as he gave his soul up to another.
In any case, the tears spilled over his cheeks as he felt Heero tense deep within him. The Japanese boy braced himself on his knees, and arched back, letting himself flow into Quatre. The flood was strong and hot and it filled the blond-haired boy just enough to send him falling as well... trailing his fingers over Heero's chest, and hoping Trowa, far away in space, could feel it.
Circus Grounds, somewhere in L3 Colony Cluster
~ Trowa ~
In front of him, down and to the west, stretched a grimy urban landscape of grays, browns, and blacks. They had run the target to ground somewhere in this square kilometer of burnt out factories and putrid alleyways. He had been told to wait here, in the loft of an old cannery, in case the target started to run. The automatic weapons he carried should provide more than enough firepower to bring the bastard down.
That's how they always described the targets. Bastards. Monsters. Scum. Death was too good for the people they sought, or so he was always told. That's why, if at all possible, torture before death was such a treat when they had the chance for it. Some of the men shied away from this, wanting to make a clean kill and move on to the next job, but others found that "playing" before dispatch was what made the job worth all of the risks.
It could be anything that thrilled the mercenary's heart. Beating, burning, dismemberment while still alive, rape - anything. He knew the man he lived with. He enjoyed raping his victims with various objects, the more painful, the better. Male or female, it made no difference to him. It was the exquisite power he sought, the absolute control over another person's body that made his face flush and his breathing come hard. Trowa was always his witness. And the one who had to take the lust left over when the target was dead. His man was many things, but a necrophiliac was not one of them.
"WOO HOOOO!!!" There was a whoop from outside as the signal came that the target was entering his control space. He trained the gun on the only entrance the target could come through, brace his arm against a stack of large, wooden crates and prepared to fire. He would go for knee caps first. His man didn't like the target's face to be damaged.
He saw a shadow cross the doorway and his finger pulled back on the trigger until it felt resistance. He was holding his breath. The judgment of where to aim would have to be made in a millisecond. /C'mon, c'mon - let's get this over with!/ The anxiety was having an effect on his ability to use the sighting scope.
Just then, the target stumbled through the door, looking back over her shoulder to see if she was being followed. Her reddish-brown curls gleamed in the dull gray light from outside the cannery. And, somewhere inside of his head, he screamed to see her there. Nothing came out, nothing ever did. But the scream was there, all the same.
She turned abruptly and looked up at where he was standing, her eyes full of terror. She said nothing, only mouthed the words, "Help me", and then crumpled at the blast from a gun. He had still had the spotting scope trained on her, but now sighted as quickly as he could around the room for the location of the gunman. As he did, he was well aware of the price he would have to pay for hesitating, for not shooting when the target had been directly in front of him and unarmed. There would be hell to pay, maybe with his life.
He wanted to run, to grab her and get her somewhere where she could be safe, but he was frozen, His body no longer obeying his commands. Screams tore at his throat, making it feel raw, but nothing came out but small squeaking noises. No movement! No sound! Couldn't help! Couldn't do one damn thing!!!
SISTER!!! SISTERRRR!!! RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNN!!!!
But of course she couldn't run, even if his scream had broken through the paralysis of dream sleep. She was writhing on the ground, blood everywhere. Her screams must have sounded like a lover's soft moans to his man, because the mercenary was there in an instant, broken bottle in hand.
In what seemed like slow motion, Trowa vaulted down to the floor of the old factory and stood in front of Cathrine..
"Do it to me," he said in an icily calm voice. "You want to, so do it. Leave her alone."
His man had laughed then. "Well, now... wouldn't *that* be a treat. Maybe a little punishment for not carrying through on your orders." He grinned and his grinning made Trowa feel sick. "Shall we let her watch?"
Trowa froze as his man lifted him off of Cathrine and onto the cold concrete floor. The chill beneath him, and the press of the man's weight above made the transition complete and soon he was watching the assault happen from a safe distance inside his head. He thought of how much she meant to him as his clothing was ripped off. He remembered how happy they had been living together with the troupe as the first jagged edges of glass cut into him. And as the black spots grew before his eyes, he remembered her kindness, and accepted that whatever was happening to him now was offered in payment for everything he owed her.
He looked over at her, sobbing on the floor nearby, and kept her in his sight as long as he could as his man pushed the bottle home.
*** Trowa's eyes flew open and the dream was gone. He ran slender hands along the length of his body, as if to make sure the man was no longer there. The horror of the dream was still very much a part of him, and he worried that he had screamed so loud he'd woken the entire troupe. But everyone else was asleep. Everything was quiet. No problems here at all - not in this landscape.
He got up, still trembling, and walked silently to Cathrine's trailer. Looking in, he could see her peacefully asleep. He sat down on the floor beside her bed and watched her breathe - something that never failed to calm him. Instead of becoming mercifully blank, however, his mind searched for something, someone to hold on to.
/Not Cathrine. Too fragile, can't take the chance of losing her. Heero? Hadn't heard from the dark-haired pilot in months, which made him sad. Quatre... hmm, that's nice... the way he looks at me is so different from what I'm used to... it felt so good, the last time I was there. His lips tasted sweet... didn't want to stop... next time we won't Quatre, I promise. I'll give you what you've been wanting so badly... at least for awhile./
When Cathrine woke in the artificial dawn known so well by every colonial, Trowa was there asleep, his head resting on the mattress. She reached over and took his hand. It was icy cold and she took it between her two and rubbed gently to warm it up "Trowa? Why are you here again? What are you afraid is going to happen to me?"
He roused himself, looking up at her, one green eye shining like a cat's behind his long bangs. "Horrible things can happen, sister." he whispered. "Anything can happen. But not to you... I won't ever let it happen to you..."
5:30am
Winner Estate 01
~ Quatre ~
They had drifted off, both of them exhausted, with arms and legs still entwined. Heero had kissed the tears from Quatre's face and promised to never let this happen again. But the Arabian boy had had to fight to let sleep come, still dazed as to what actually happened and what it meant for Heero, Trowa, and himself. But sleep did come, and with it, one last dream.
He was building a tower out of gleaming steel rods. They had come in a set, as a birthday present from Duo, and Quatre was having a wonderful time figuring out how they worked and deciding on a design. As he had thumbed through the manual that came with the kit, he noticed that each design had a difficulty factor next to it.
/Well, I think I'm up to a challenge. Let's go for one of the really tough ones.../
He had found a design that produced a tall tower and decided that would be the one. Having inventoried and laid out each piece, he had set to work. Immediately, he saw that he was in for a difficult time of it, because the writers of the manual had not given the tower a base. He began constructing one, using his own design as he went, but every time he looked back at how the model was supposed to look, it seemed his design was destined to fail.
He felt horrible about this. Duo would be expecting to see the stuff that was pictured on the side of the box. It was very important to make his tower look like that one. But as Quatre looked from the pieces in front of him to those pictured, he noticed that the pieces themselves were completely different than those on the package Duo had given him, and it made him very upset. He didn't think it was possible to recreate the picture, given the parts he had, and yet, somehow, he *must.*
Just then, the phone rang. He picked it up and heard the sound of crying, muffled and scratchy, as if from far away. "Hello?" he said tentatively. "Duo? Duo, is that you? What's wrong? Are you all right? Duo??"
"Bad choice! Bad choice!" the Shinigami pilot wailed, his voice at once terrified and heartbroken. "God. It's no good, Quatre!! Leave it alone! Pleeeease! You'll get hurt. Leave it alone!!!
At that moment, Quatre turned to look at the tower as it stood thus far. He was still holding the phone in his had and could hear Duo screaming at him to get away, as far away as he could from the rods. Duo was still screaming as the half-built tower exploded and Quatre felt several of the steel rods impale themselves in his chest.
He knew he was dying. And, as he hung there against the wall, unable to move without searing, nauseating pain, he cried for Duo, who had wanted him to enjoy the present and who had misjudged it so badly. And he cried for the tower that would never be built, a tower too dangerous for its own existence.
The only one he didn't cry for, oddly enough he thought, was himself. He had simply gotten what he deserved.
6:45am
Quatre knew before he opened his eyes that he was alone. Heero had left when the first gray light appeared at the window, not saying anything to him. He had pretended to be asleep. But now he couldn't pretend anymore.
He got out of bed, moving slowly, feeling sore, so sore, where Heero had been.
/Had Duo gotten used to this?/
Pulling on dark blue sweatpants and an oversized white shirt, he made his way to the living room, where Heero was sitting on the window seat, watching the sun turn the dunes purple and pink. His arms were crossed protectively over himself, and he sat hunched over, as if expecting a blow.
Quatre sat down on the window seat beside him. After a long moment, Heero looked over at him. "You must hate me." His voice was low and harsh. "I know I hate myself. I'm leaving"
Quatre looked at his troubled friend for a long time before speaking. "Where would you go, Heero? Back to Relena? Back to L1? Or, maybe to L3, to see Trowa?" Quatre shook his head. "You don't belong any of those places."
Heero looked out at the waves of sand, his body rocking slowly back and forth. He couldn't or wouldn't meet Quatre's eyes. "I don't belong anywhere. I used to belong with Duo, but... I sure don't belong here. Not after what happened last night..."
"What happened last night happened because of the pain you were in, and my being lonely and wanting to help you. If you like, it won't happen again, at least on my part."
Heero let out a strangled sob. "I can't even be faithful to him when I'm dying to get him back... what kind of monster am I...?" Heero's voice was lower than Quatre had ever heard it.
He took Heero by the arm and pulled him around to face him. "You're no monster, Heero! No more than I am, or anyone else for that matter. Did you know that you kept talking to him, through the whole thing? You kept telling him how much you loved him. He was the only thing you were thinking about, Heero. I was just his stand-in... and I asked to be that."
Heero looked reluctantly at Quatre. "Why?" he whispered.
"I wanted to know what it was like to be him... with you. Maybe... maybe it will help me understand you, too." He smiled softly at Heero.
/And maybe, Heero Yuy, just maybe, if I understand you, I can understand Trowa./
Heero looked down at his knees, his face sleepy and miserable. "I had these dreams last night and... well...they *still* feel really bad. I really want to run away right now, but that's the same thing I was doing with Duo, wasn't it?" He looked out once more at the dunes, now turning golden in the rising sun.
"It all started when I was driving on this foggy highway..."
owari
(:./kumiko/2road5)
