a mini interlude
Have you ever loved someone so much that, even when they're right next to
you, you miss them because they aren't in your arms? Have you ever found
someone so beautiful that looking at them made you want to cry at the fact
that you *could* look at them? Or have you ever loved the sound of
someone's voice so much that hearing about the end of the world would be all
right, as long as they were the one telling you about it?
I feel that way about Duo.
Have you ever wanted to fuck someone so bad that you'd let someone like
Relena Peacecraft jerk you off it it turned them on?
Well, I feel that way about Duo, too. Although I'm glad he'd never make me
go through something like that with Relena. And I'm doubly glad that that
sort of thing doesn't turn him on, anyway.
Anyway, right now I'm thinking about him, because he's in the bathtub. ANd
not here, next to me. And not here, laughing in my ear. And not here,
sitting on my dick. Gods, that's the best feeling in the world. To be as
close to him physically as I can possibly be. I love him so much, every bit
of him, that I want sometimes to climb inside of him and see for myself how
those beautiful eyes take in the world, how those long immaculate fingers
feel things, to taste with that wet pink tongue.
But I have to content myself with being buried in him every chance we get.
Don't get me wrong. It isn't just sex. It's just Duo. He's so intoxicating
that I want to experience every part of him, taste every bit of him, *be*
him. Am I crazy? I don't know.
What I do know is that he is so beautiful when he comes. He is so perfect in
that one sweaty, glowing moment that there are no restrictions on his face
or his movements or his cries, and that his beautiful countenance is twisted
in the most exquisite ecstacy, and that his hands claw me so frantically
that blood leaks from my skin beneath his fingernails, and that his moans
are endless circles of lust and love and want that spiral forever into the
He's pure music and art to me then.
God, I get hard just thinking about his voice. I think, as much as I love
him, I could live the rest of my life just looking at him, and listening to
him. I'd want him like the devil the whole time, but he's so beguiling that
I think I could stand it. I really think I could.
But I'm glad I don't have to.
He's moaning now, in the bath. He thinks I'm asleep, that I can't hear what
he's doing to himself. As much as I love to watch him touch himself, to
watch him stroke the length of hard pink flesh between those milky white
thighs, faster and faster until he's pulling frantically on himself, I think
I get even more turned on by him thinking he's doing it in secret. He
always, always moans my name.
He looks like a little, innocent child when he comes. Even when he touches
himself, he looks like a child. I wonder what he was like as a child. What
did he like to do? What were his favorite stories? Did he crack his knuckles
then the way he does now? Did he hate to wash his bellybutton then, too?
What I wouldn't give to have been part of his life then. I think together we
could have had such a childhood as no one ever has, abuse and hunger and
loneliness included. Because even then we were soulmates. Twin stars.
Brothers and lovers.
He's wrapping up his bath now. I can hear him humming to himself and the
water draining. The faint smell of gummy bears drifts out from the partly
open door. I love smelling it up close, it's exclusively Duo's scent. I
mean, I know there are others, there must be, that use the same shampoo, the
same body wash that Duo does. But there are none, I know for certain, who
carry the smell of gunpowder like he does even now, years later, or the
scent of stealth that, strong as it is, never gave him away in hiding. That
will always be his alone. And mine.
He's brushing his hair now. I can hear the soft rubber spokes running
through the heavy wet mane, but I never hear a single hair snap, even though
it's wet. I never hear him rip through a tangle. He approaches them with the
same methodic rythym he does with all his hair. And then the smooth,
unbroken glide as he frees the tangles and continues to the ends, which now
brush the backs of his knees. I can't see him doing it, but I know he's
leaning to the side to get to the bottom of the gossamer he calls his hair.
I am so overly sensitive and emotional now. Wufei would laugh at me. But one
good thing has come out of it. I now have the words to describe him to
myself. Before it was hordes of images and feelings that simply overwhelmed
me. I had no way of knowing how to catalougue beauty. Of course, you can't
put labels on his anyway. But at least I have words now.
He comes out of the bathroom and I shut my eyes quickly, knowing he wants to
wake me up the way he always does. His towel drops to the floor with the
faintest brush of terry cloth against silken skin, and he creeps toward the
"Hee-chan, lover, wake up." And the softest longest most wonderful lashes in
the world brushing my cheek in a deliberate and intimate kiss. I flutter my
own and stare up into watery orbs of violet, where I drowned years ago.
"Ohayo, koibito." He loves my Japanese words. I love him.
He falls onto me, giggling, like the bells of heaven in my ears, and makes
me smile. He kisses me with the softest lips that must exist in this world,
I'm certain. And wraps his arms around me, his smaller lithe frame resting
on my chest, which has started to grow hair that I hate and he loves so I
love. And he sighs and snuggles.
And I think to myself that it isn't so important that I am inside him, even
if it never happens again. Because we are each other.