Shinigami's Claim Part 2
To Possess Perfection
"Home sweet home, eh buddy?" Duo opened the door to their dorm room and flicked on the light, his voice so full of false cheer it was almost manic. He flung his duffel bag across the room. "Better get over here so we can take care of that arm."
"Hn." Heero dropped his bag just inside the door, then went and sat on the bed, trying to concentrate on clearing the dizziness from his head. His arm was yammering like a wounded animal, felt like it was on fire from his wrist to elbow.
// Too bad I didn't slit my wrist deeper. I would have bled to death before we could have gotten to a hospital. If I was lucky. //
"Man, Heero, you really fucked yourself up, didn't you?" Duo said, taking a cool wet rag from the small bathroom, wiping the dried blood from his forehead before working on his arm. Heero didn't interfere or protest; he had found out months ago that it was useless.
"You wanna tell me why the hell you did that? I want a little explanation for that dumb stunt you pulled, if it's not too much to ask why you had the urge to put your fist through a half-inch thick pane of glass. I've got a bottle of peroxide, ya know, and I'm not afraid to use it."
Heero was disgusted with himself. He should have anticipated Treize's move, should have known better than to attack without reconnaissance. He shouldn't have given in to the urge to vent his feelings in the car. He shouldn't have needed some foolish American to take care of him, he couldn't get used to it, and he couldn't expect that kind of comfort. A Soldier needed no compassion. A Soldier did not need friendship, and lived a solitary life by fate. No emotional attachments, no loose ends.
But he was tired, soul-sick and heart-sore. Hurting. Besides, Duo's touch felt entirely too welcome, gently removing the signs of his suffering, inside and out. The American pilot gently wrapped a soft gauze bandage around his forearm.
"I'm a murderer," Heero said softly, rolling the words around in his mouth, feeling the texture of them. "Not a killer, not an assassin anymore. Murderer."
Duo jerked beside him at the word. "C'mon, cheer up. I'll make us some breakfast. Heero, it's okay--" He put a comforting hand on his partner's shoulder.
Heero jumped to his feet, jerking his arm away from Duo, blue eyes blazing. "Hanase! How can you help me? I did nothing last night but kill civilians. Innocents. Escorting families. Duo, there were children on that shuttle! Do not tell me it is all right again!"
As he stood up, a wave of dizziness and nausea pummeled him. // Murderer... // He straightened up, the pain in his arm flaring again, his composure returning to him. With the dignity appropriate of a Soldier, he gazed down at Duo and said, "Gomen. I have to go throw up." He fled quickly to the bathroom, and Duo could heard the industrial grinding sound of the Perfect Soldier losing whatever it was he had last eaten.
~*~
"I've had better mornings." Heero was sitting on the white tile of the floor, his legs folded under him, his head still hanging weakly over the toilet bowl.
"Was that a joke? I guess this means you're not up for breakfast."
Heero dry-heaved. Nothing. His system was empty. "Iie," he finally got out.
He heard Duo sigh from the right. "Nah, I didn't think so."
Duo got towel from the towel rack and wet the end of it with cool tap water from the sink. He sat on the floor, handing the wet towel to Heero. Heero swiped the cool cloth against his cheeks and forehead, laying it across the sink again. Duo looked more concerned than he should for nothing more than a fellow soldier.
Heero didn't like it. He felt a hell of a lot safer with his thoughts of suicide when he thought of Duo as a comrade-in-arms, rather than a friend. He didn't like to contemplate these strange moments when Duo seemed more than just a fellow pilot or an affectionate friend.
"So, how are you really doing, buddy? You okay?" Duo asked softly. He leaned forward and tucked a few strands of hair out of Heero's eyes. His knee brushed Heero's thigh, and in spite of everything, Heero felt a spark jump between them.
"Hai. Arigato."
"Toothbrush?" Duo said with a grin, holding Heero's toothbrush out to him.
"Hn." Heero forced himself to his feet and began methodically brushing his teeth.
"You never answered me. Why did you put your fist through the window?"
"I don't know," Heero muttered through a mouthful of foam. He spit and rinsed his mouth, stalking into the other room. Duo followed him uncertainly.
"Heero, it's okay if you want to talk about it. I mean, killing noncombatants is a pretty traumatic thing..."
"Is that the voice of experience, Shinigami?" Heero growled icily, wanting to lash out at someone else, but Duo was the only one in proximity. Maybe this way he would be able to re-establish the boundary lines of their relationship. Heero walked back and forth across the room, throwing his gun on the bed, pacing like a caged wild animal.
Duo's face went rigid. He had never used his nickname with that kind of tone before, never had it used in that contemptuous tone before. And the worst thing was, the tone seemed to fit. "Fuck you, Heero Yuy. What do you know about suffering?" he asked, grabbing Heero's arm. Heero jerked it away, his face cold and emotionless. All of the fury and sadness was behind his cobalt eyes.
"Don't touch me!" he snapped. "I never said you could touch me! Why would you want to? I don't know what you want from me. I don't know why you dragged me into this..."
"I didn't drag you into it, Heero," Duo interrupted softly, his violet eyes violent and stormy. "We're partners. And partners look out for each other."
Heero grabbed the smaller pilot, taking him by both shoulders, pulling him close, emphasizing his height advantage over the American. "Yamero!" he ordered.
"No. What're ya gonna do, Heero? Beat me up? Kill me? Or kill yourself?"
"I didn't ask for your help, bakayaro!"
"But I'm not gonna wake up in the morning and find your fucking brains all over the wall! I know what it looks like on someone's face when they think about it! I've seen it in the mirror on my own fuckin' face!" Duo hissed in his ear. When he pulled back, the lights flashed too brightly in his violet eyes.
// What in God's name is this? He's almost crying. //
Heero wanted to shake Duo, wanted to yell at him. Wanted to... kiss him. His anger, pain, and sexual frustration was bleeding together into a feral, confusing mix. He wanted to put an arm around the smaller boy's waist, but he forced himself to stand back from him. He moved away from Duo until the backs of his knees hit the edge of one of the mattresses. He slumped onto the bed, leaning against the wall.
Heero looked defeatedly up at the American pilot. "Why me?" he asked finally, his voice soft and beaten.
The slight-figured pilot glared firmly down at him, violet eyes sparkling. "Because you got nobody, and neither do I. Trowa has Catherine and Quatre, Quatre has Trowa and his family, Wufei has his ideals and a wife he can't let go. I got dead friends and a dying colony, you got a normal life that was taken away from you. It's not fair to me and it's not fair to you. We don't have nobody. And we..."
Duo trailed off, looking away, and then looked reluctantly back down at the Japanese pilot. "... we should, Heero. It's not fair. I want that. And I want you. I want you to trust me. And I want to know that you haven't given up yet."
Heero was amazed at the words that were coming out of Duo's mouth. He had never wanted a partner and he didn't waste time trusting people. He didn't expect anyone to trust him, either. He wasn't even sure why he was angry with Duo. Of course, if Duo considered him a friend, the American would try to help him.
Even though Duo stood over him, the American looked small and fragile. Heero stood up, feeling a strange stirring of compassion for the smaller pilot and an unwelcome twinge of deep guilt for the thoughts he had been having. He had doubted Duo's motives for becoming partners with him from the start, questioned his concern and loyalty, even though he was exactly what he appeared to be: a good soldier who wanted a companion, a light-hearted American fool that wanted nothing more than to be cherished.
"Gomen nasai, Duo," Heero murmured, pushing the thoughts away viciously into the back of his mind, knowing they wouldn't stay gone. He closed the distance between himself and Duo.
"Don't you ever need anyone?" Duo asked in a whisper, his breath tickling Heero's ear.
"Hai," Heero answered softly as he put his hands on Duo's shoulders, all the fight draining out of him. He shut his eyes as if he could wish it all away.
"I'm glad." Duo raised a hand and touched his cheek, stroked his slender, pale fingers down the side of Heero's face.
/ That means you could need me. /
Heero told himself to turn away from Duo's touch, but he couldn't make himself do it, couldn't hurt Duo and couldn't bring himself to deny that warm comfort.
"Are you scared of this?" Duo asked, his fingers reaching around to tangle gently in the soft dark hairs at the nape of Heero's neck. His voice was low, the sound of it affecting Heero in a way that was both disconcerting and almost excruciatingly pleasant.
Heero looked into those violent eyes, L2-savage, and Duo looked back into the frigid cobalt depths of his, bright with the intensity of suffering inside of him. Heero was scared of this, but the fear wasn't of Duo.
"Iie. Just of what I have become. Gomen, Duo. Gomen nasai."
He murmured those soft Japanese words over and over as he drew Duo closer to him until there was no space between them. Duo wrapped his arms around Heero's waist. The embrace of Death seemed to swallow him up, and he let himself get swept away with it. Duo stroked a hand through his unruly mop of hair and then down his back. The smaller pilot kissed the side of his neck, then nuzzled his cheek. Blindly, in a rough, unpracticed movement, Heero turned his mouth into Duo's, sending a wild rush through the both of them.
Heero clung to Shinigami for a moment with something akin to desperation, like a shipwrecked sailor grabbing a broken mast in a tossing sea. His body was stiff. His hands clutched tensely, one on Duo's shoulder, the other working its way into Duo's hair.
After a moment, Heero relaxed slightly into him, and he began to take the initiative, moving his hands slowly down Duo's back, tracing the delicate contours of his body. Duo practically purred, gathering closer to Heero and kneading his muscles in return.
Heero could feel the heat between them, the need that they shared. He could feel it, wanted to give it to Duo and take it at the same time. He wanted to obliterate everything about the battle before from his mind. He didn't want Missions or discipline, reason or logic. He just wanted Duo. And he may have never gotten what he wanted before, but he sure as hell was going to get it now. His hands slipped beneath Duo's black T-shirt and skimmed up his back.
The shirt came off as Heero took charge, pulling Duo back on the bed almost roughly. He discarded his own between kisses, almost ripping it in impatience. Duo lifted his hips, pressing them frankly and completely against Heero's, the first time anything like that had ever happened to him, and his amazement was total.
He had no idea how and when Duo's offered comfort became offered - and accepted - love. Heero readied him and then, when he drew Duo's unclothed body closer to his, he felt the incessant growl of Dr. J, the voice in his head that symbolized the essence of the Soldier, slip away. He had never felt so normal in his entire fifteen years of life.
Duo dug his fingertips into Heero's back, wrapped his pale legs around Heero's hips, let the urgency and passion of the act consume both of them. Duo held tight to Heero as the cobalt-eyed boy's body gripped his. His voice was low and rough in Duo's ear, a stream of hot, erotic Japanese. Heero rode Duo harder, faster, bringing Duo to climax and finding his own end as he drove deep within him. Duo felt him come, felt the sudden rigidity of his back, heard his groan through clenched teeth.
Heero suddenly realized why so many compared orgasm to death.
Finally sated, they lay in each other's arms for a while, silent, at peace with each other's company, but the soft afterglow of the moment gave way to a strange uneasiness for Duo.
He looked over at Heero's gentle, almost-not-there smile, studied every much-loved line of his stoic face, listened to the slow easy rhythm of his breathing as he slept--and had the startling, unshakable feeling that Heero was going to try to kill himself.
He tried to tell himself that his sudden apprehension was just the reaction of someone who had never, ever gotten what he wanted before. And now he had it. The motto of the L2 street kid, the I-don't-deserve-to-be-this-happy syndrome. He had finally gotten what he wanted. Shinigami had made his claim with his tongue, his lips, his teeth. He ran his fingers gently over a few red welts that his fingernails had left in Heero's shoulders.
Finally, he chased the thoughts from his head and leaned over to sleep with his head in the crook of Heero's arm. Drifting into sleep, Duo felt sorry for the terrible people who had raised Heero to be what he was, because those people had never realized love was the closest thing to perfection that mankind would ever know and that the only - and best - answer to death was loving. Loving him, the Perfect Soldier.
TBC...
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