disclaimer: you know the drill.

rating: NC-17
warnings: yaoi, lemon, sap

a mini interlude
by kai

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 night.

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 bed.

"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.


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