Somewhere in New York Part 5

Stepping outside of Nick's I adjust the stocking cap to cover my ears and zip up my leather jacket. Tugging on gloves I'm reminded of Pat's kindness to a dispossessed wanderer, am thankful for the Shamrock's shelter and, most of all, comforted by Heero's friendship.

"I'm going to be pissed if there isn't any Rocky Road." Heero comments as we survey Connolly Market's limited selection of ice cream.

"Didn't figure you'd be the vanilla type."

Heero raises an eyebrow. I wink, "There's nothing ordinary about ya."

Quite pleased to find Rocky Road, Heero also purchases four shiny Red Delicious apples. My "Ice Cream du Jour" is strawberry swirl.

*********

Cartons of the frosty treats are stored in the kitchen's freezer; the apples are going upstairs along with my backpack from the Eastside Center that shouldn't have been left where Pat could trip over it.

Backpack dangling from my right shoulder, I trudge upstairs, Heero on my heels then use my key to unlock our room. (Our room-kinda makes ya all warm and fuzzy.)

While Heero puts the apples in a wooden bowl to keep them from rolling off the desk, I sling the pack up on my bed and am rewarded with a sharp sting. "Overtaxed my muscles." I explain the obvious discomfort.

"Would you like a massage so you won't be sore in the morning?"

A rubdown from my roommate. I'd be a fool to refuse. "If it's not much bother." (Don't want to appear too eager.)

"Take off your shirt and stretch out on the bed." Heero orders.

Stripped to the waist I lay on my stomach, cross my arms under a pillow, rest my head on top and try to steady my breathing.

*********

I imagine the bedroom is a fancy resort where wintry wind and squalling snow is replaced by tropical breezes and white sand beaches kissed by an azure ocean. I'm at the spa, just finished soaking in the hot tub and now am waiting for---

"This should do the trick." Heero announces as he exits the bathroom with a bottle of baby oil and two towels.

One towel is positioned under my body to shield the quilted comforter from dripping oil. The second is set aside to clean up when we're done. The mattress sags as Heero carefully angles both legs to straddle me. Braid tucked out of the way, a liberal amount of oil is warmed between his hands.

Can't help but shiver when slick palms flatten on tense shoulder muscles. Talented fingers knead the nape of my neck then glide to my waistband. Over and over, with just enough pressure to tame the soreness; circling, squeezing, manipulating the taut fibers and all the while his groin is hovering inches above my ass.

"Gosh Duo you are tight." is proclaimed with a slight grunt of effort. Fingers trail down my spine leaving goose bumps in their wake. "Wait a minute while I slick up again."

(Damn! Heero sounds like the hunky stud in a gay prom movie.)

A pause while my masseur reaches for the oil-HOLY SHIT-his crotch brushes my back and, this time, shockwaves race straight to my manhood.

Good thing I'm on my stomach 'cause I'd be mortified if Heero saw the bulge straining inside my jeans. I wiggle to get comfortable but the friction makes the overly-stimulated situation worse.

Now all I can do is suffer the onslaught of an incredible hard-on, hope he doesn't notice my flushed face and pray we finish before the well-meaning massage nudges me over the edge.

Mercifully the rubdown ends with a tad of control still intact. I feign total relaxation. "Thanks." is expressed sincerely despite the growing discomfort. How the hell am I going to get up without exposing the proof of my erection?

"Want some ice cream?" Heero wonders as he wipes his hands.

"Yeah, but let me take a quick shower so I won't feel sticky."

As soon as the door closes, I ease off the bed so as not to pull the trigger, gather socks, boxers, the sweatpants and shirt I slept in last night then seek out the bathroom's privacy.

Shower adjusted to slightly hotter than usual, I undress, pin up my braid and step into the tingling spray. Heero did a good job, maybe too good. Muscles are loose, the dull ache is gone, well, except for my distended joy-stick that's standing at attention.

For weeks I've watched Heero, studying for any signs he might be interested in more than friendship or that my "accidental on purpose" touches had any effect. He's hard to read, doesn't show emotions easily, but you'd think there'd be a clue one way or the other.

My mind recalls this morning's lessons at the gym, remembers Heero's muscles flexing; the shimmer of sweat on his tanned body. How his hands felt as he coordinated my arms and legs into specific stances. How each shift in position exemplified his dominate power kept in check by dedicated discipline---how each kata evolved into a sensual dance.

Hands wander, across my chest, down my belly. Fingers brush through the patch of curly, reddish-brown pubic hair. Like an electric shock, the initial caress along my engorged penis generates an involuntary shudder. A low moan accents the return trip to the base.

Hot water pelts, instigates a flush of heat. Sultry images of an identically horny Heero standing behind me bombards my senses. Closing my eyes I envision another set of hands, feel phantom fingers stroking my length, fondling my balls while his rock hard manhood grinds against my ass.

"Slow down." is ordered as I will my hands to halt their fantasy masturbation.

*Duo.* a husky voice, Heero's voice, whispers inside my head.

*Huh.* I reply through the lusty fog addling my brain.

The mental dialogue continues with a throaty, *Want you.*

Hands move of their own accord, no stopping now. "Want you, too." is hissed when heat enkindles in my groin. A twitch is the only warning before I'm engulfed in an orgasmic firestorm.

Eyes open with a start. Milky fluid erupts, yet the climatic spurts are quickly washed away and, just as quickly, Heero's apparitional presences vanishes. Knees rubbery, breaths ragged, one hand braced on the tiles and the other cradling my limp manhood, I tremble in the afterglow throes of la petite mort.

Usually after jerking off I'm sated, sometimes elated. At this moment I'm empty like my emotions have drained through a hole in my heart. Shouldn't care so much; shouldn't want something that won't ever happen.

Soap and steamy water eliminate all traces of the self-inflected passion session. Wish it was as easy to scrub away the heartache from unrequited love. Damn, it's a good thing Heero doesn't read my journal.

Messy braid trailing down my back, I wipe off the foggy mirror and frown at the pathetic reflection of the streetwise kid who used to not give a fuck about nothing or no one.

"Get it together." is growled in exasperation.

Dressed, I fix my well-practiced "just friends" aspect firmly in place then join Heero for a bittersweet portion of ice cream.

Completely clueless Heero asks, "Feeling better?" as he hands over my bowl.

Sitting cross legged on my bed I mumble "Much better." around a mouthful of strawberry swirl.

LIAR!

*********

Atlas Sports Center is three times bigger than Goldman Gym, but not nearly as grant as Madison Square Garden. Set up for Saturday night's competition the regulation size ring is surrounded by portable bleachers ten rows high.

Waiting for the next match to begin the near capacity crowd murmurs in anticipation, meanwhile, Bill and I watch Heero warm up in the staging area midway down the hall.

Clad in navy blue trunks, barefoot and shirtless, hands protected by padded, fingerless gloves and hyped up on nervous energy, Heero jogs in place while Bill reviews the battle plans.

"Whitman is twenty pounds heavier and six inches taller but you're wiry and quicker. Don't worry 'bout landing the first punch or kick." Bill advises, "Stay out of range and tease. That'll piss the bastard off, make him reckless. Trust your instincts, wait for a mistake then pounce."

Heero rolls his shoulders and snorts like an angry bull. "I'm not wasting time on Whitman's cocky ass." Making eye contact with me he asks, "Want to celebrate later tonight?"

"Sure." I agree without hesitation. "Be waitin' right here for ya."

*********

Fred, the event manager, is a dumpy man with thinning brown hair and a chipped front tooth probably a souvenir from a long ago fight. Lips puckered around a smoldering cigar, he motions to Heero and Bill. "Yuy. Next up."

"Give em hell." I declare, positioning myself in the doorway thirty feet from the ring.

Heero smiles but his eyes hold an ominous glower that makes me glad I ain't fighting him.

Whitman is already waiting on ring's opposite side. Bill parts the ropes to let Heero slip through then takes his position as corner coach.

"Ladies and Gentleman," the announcer's voice quiets the crowd, "Tonight's main freestyle match is between Heero Yuy, in the blue trunks and Roger Whitman, in the red trunks. Three two minute rounds, best score on hits, takedowns or a yield will determine the winner."

Ignoring the noisy applause and cat calls, Bill is offering last minute guidance when the referee in a zebra-striped shirt signals for the contenders to meet in the center.

A military type, Roger Whitman's coal black hair is buzzed cut. Boarder across the shoulders with legs the size of tree trunks, his larger frame makes Heero appear even smaller.

Without thinking I make the sign of the cross and whisper an intercession for "the karate kid" to come outta the fray in one piece.

The ref reviews the rules, warns against infractions-like that's going to do any good-and wishes both opponents good luck.

*********

Round One:

I flinch when the bell clangs.

With the ferocity of a junkyard Rottweiler Whitman charges. Heero stands his ground. At the last moment he sidesteps the headlong rush then bounces around with a nonchalant attitude designed for maximum vexation.

Whitman cocks his head, no doubt studying his young challenger who, he decides, is either naEely brave or incredibly stupid.

To further goad his rival in gladiatorial combat, Heero makes a disparaging comment about the diminutive size of Whitman's manhood in relation to his lack of sexual prowess.

I don't see Whitman's foot snap up as much as I hear the WHACK when the kick smacks Heero's blocking forearm. I hold my breath as Heero totters backwards before regaining his balance.

In a blur of motion, Heero counters with a roundhouse kick to his opponent's gut then lands an uppercut to an exposed jaw. Now it's Whitman's turn to stutter-step and struggle to stay upright.

After a retaliatory series of glanced punches and ricocheted kicks, Whitman is showing signs of Bill's predicted impatience, swiftly trading textbook technique for sloppy footwork and miscalculated blows.

To Heero's disadvantage, Whitman's extra height coerces him to overextend his reach and he pays the price when a solid hit opens a gash above his left eyebrow. Luckily, just before blood-tinged sweat seeps into his eye, the bell ends round one.

It's hard to resist the urge to race to the ring, instead, obscenities are loudly launched in Whitman's direction and, when the vulgarities gets his attention, I flip him the middle finger salute.

The cut is sealed with Liquid Bandage. While Heero gulps water from a pre-approved plastic bottle, Bill critiques both fighters' strengths and weaknesses and fine-tunes their strategy.

*********

Round Two:

Not as impulsive, Whitman seems content to bide his time for an opportunity to land the decisive blow. Heero figures optimal strike zones, how to knock the big man off his feet to level out the height difference and, all the while, his malevolent glare never lessens in intensity.

Although Heero manages to avoid a vicious kick intended to make his see stars, he's still enduring more punishment than Whitman. Even from my distant vantage point, I can see swelling along his right jaw and bruised discoloration encircles his left eye.

Seconds tick off the clock.

The combatants escalate their cycle of attacks and retreats, evasive maneuvers, hard tags and near-misses. With no clear lead on either side round two ends in a draw. Obviously dissatisfied with the stalemate the crowd jeers. I guess there wasn't enough fuckin' carnage!

I never realized two minutes could drag out so long. Damn it's tough watching Heero imitate a punching bag. Sitting in his corner, he's drenched with sweat, bangs plastered to his forehead and his chest heaves in labored breaths.

He glances at me; his left eye looks worse. I force a smile and give "thumbs up" encouragement. Right now I'm making a promise to take our sparring lessons seriously and make him proud.

*********

Round Three:

The constraints of fleeting time erode patience and strategy and the match rapidly deteriorates into a brawl.

Whitman growls as he unleashes a flurry of punches which Heero barely fends off with defensive body-blocks. Even after the ref steps in to separate the fighters and gives Whitman a stern warning about his aggressive behavior there's no easing up.

With each grueling contact I want to shut my eyes. Every time the keen crack of gloves smacking flesh incites the crowd into bloodlust mania, I'm compelled to gaze in morbid fascination at the primal danse macabre.

Bill is trying to shout above the reverberating noise. As much as he wants Heero to win, there's a fine line between a stand-up fight and risking serious injury. I've moved from the door. If the match gets any uglier I'll tackle Whitman and face Heero's rage because a forfeit is better than ending up in the hospital.

Suddenly, as if fueled by pure adrenaline, Heero lets loose a triple volley. A thrust kick plows into Whitman's knee buckling his leg. Next a straight-leg side kick impacts Whitman's breastbone sprawling him on his back with a thud that shakes the ring.

Lastly, in less than a heartbeat, Heero straddles his adversary. Right arm cocked and fist quivering in the air, his bested opponent is offered two alternatives-yield or risk a fractured cheekbone.

Overhead lights spinning into blurred circles and consciousness ebbing on the fringes of Roger Whitman's brain, he lifts a hand to signal defeat. The final bell clangs.

The referee raises Heero's hand in victory. The announcer proclaims, "Heero Yuy, Class Three Division Freestyle Winner."

Elated, Bill stands beside Heero, lifting the other hand. Now on their feet, the frenzied crowd cheers, whistles and chants "YUY! YUY! YUY!"

Reaching up to take Heero's hand and guide him through the ropes. "That was awesome." is declared as I pull him into a one-arm hug. "You're one hellva a fighter." the praise resumes as we walk down the hall.

"Yeah, you strutted your stuff tonight." Bill adds his accolades.

Crashing from the adrenaline surge, Heero wobbles on shaky legs. Leaning heavily on Bill we enter the locker room and ease down on a bench. Settled beside my roommate, I hand him a chilled water bottle.

"Don't gulp." I echo Bill's frequent advice.

"Yes mother." Heero mockingly mimics my favorite comeback.

Bill drapes a damp towel around Heero's neck. "Take a few minutes to cool down then indulge in a long, hot shower. I'm going to collect your winner's check and make sure you're fully credited on the score sheets."

On his way pass me Bill lowers his voice, "Keep an eye on him, will ya?"

Side by side I have a clear view of the bout's aftereffects that make me cringe. Both eyelids are puffy. Heero's left eye is especially bloodshot, underscored with blue bruising and red welts mottle his arms, legs and torso.

*Why in the hell would anyone volunteer to get the crap beat outta them?* I mentally question the logic behind choosing such a brutal sport.

Although I don't comment aloud on the boxer's dubious state of sanity, I ain't gonna to hide my concern. "You look awful." is stated bluntly. "And don't give me that "looks-worse-than-it-is" bullshit. Your head has gotta be throbbing and I bet your peripheral vision is shot to hell."

Heero can't argue, after all, physical evidence doesn't lie. Standing unsteadily he sighs, "Just want a shower."

"Need any help?"

"No." is barked in a gruff tone then his shoulders sag apologetically. "Thanks, I'd rather take care of myself."

*********

Once Bill returns to the locker room I don't mince words. "Practicing at the gym, even when Heero and I were sparring, I never imagined these matches could be so violent. I know he's a grown man and I don't have any say about what he does, but--"

"You'd rather he'd stop." Bill finishes my thought.

"Yeah. Is that selfish?"

"You care about Heero; so do I. We've talked about him quittin' but he hasn't had good enough incentive."

"You really think he'd quit for me?" is stated more than asked.

Bill shrugs. "Don't know for sure but if anyone could persuade him, I'm bettin' it would be you."

Our conversation is cut short when Heero, showered, shampooed and modesty guarded by blue and white plaid boxers, reappears. "Chilly in here." He proclaims, gathering faded jeans and a hunter green cable-stitch sweater from his duffle. "Where's my socks?"

"I'll find your socks."

Jeans are tugged on in measured degrees, the time-consuming progress dictated by sore muscles. The sweater is pulled over his head. Arms angle to thread through the sleeves then he winces and sucks in a breath so hard it scares me.

Grabbing Heero around the waist when his knees go rubbery, Bill exclaims. "Dammit!" Lowering his apprentice on the bench, he hisses, "It's them ribs again. I knew you went back on the card too soon."

Now it's my turn for stern chastisement. "Heero Yuy, have you lost your mind? Of all the brainless stunts-I swear-why do you always have to be so fuckin' stubborn?"

Before Heero can rebut my criticism or refute the analysis of his ribs' damaged condition, Bill rejoins the tongue-lashing. "Finish dressing. We're going to haul your ass to the twenty-four hour clinic."

Fortunately three x-rays showed no fractures. There's deep bruising which earns Heero a lecture from Doctor Webber, who apparently has patched him up on prior occasions, and a free sample packet of Extra Strength Tylenol caplets.

Under strict orders of no matches for at least four weeks and, after that, only at Bill's discretion, Heero promises to abide by the rules so the Doc compromises to allow for light workouts.

*********

11:50 P.M.

Bill delivers Heero and me to the Shamrock's side door. "Sleep late tomorrow."

With noticeable effort, Heero climbs out the passenger seat and leans against the car. "I'll take it easy." he restates his vow to rest and heal. "Thanks for everything."

Bill directs his attention at me. "You make him behave."

Standing beside Heero I aim my best "don't mess with me" glare and put him on notice. "There ain't gonna be no behavioral problems."

*********

True to his word Heero lets me help him change into a maroon tee shirt and light-weight black sweatpants. "We're supposed to be celebrating tonight."

I shrug. "We can do something tomorrow."

"I'll treat you to lunch." is promised before going to the bathroom to empty his bladder, wash his face and brush his teeth.

Turning down both beds I review Heero's fitness status. His face isn't as puffy, the discoloration around his left eye will take longer to fade, as for the ribs, that three-inch wide bruised band stretching midway around his chest still bothers me.

I'm shutting the front curtains when Heero shuffles in like an old man plagued by arthritis.

"Ready for bed?" I wonder.

Slipping between the sheets, Heero rearranges the quilted comforter. "Thanks." is expressed in gratitude for two Tylenol caplets and a glass of water.

Glass is set aside. The lamp is switched off. Cocooned in my downy comforter I remind, "If you need anything don't hesitate to wake me."

Heero turns on his side, the movement a spectral shifting of shadows. "Duo." He calls softly.

"Huh."

"I hope you know how much your friendship means to me."

"Same here, buddy."

Staring into the darkness, listening to Heero's steady breathing *Would he quit for me?* creeps back into my mind.

TBC...

 

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