Good Night

Author: LoveyouHateyou
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: NC-15/M
Pairings: Duo and Heero
Warnings: male/male love
Disclaimer:I do not own them although I would like that. All of them... but in particular Duo. All rights with their original owners.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Quite a few things are revealed by the way people make love...
Prequel: You might want to look back at Home as a precursor of this story.
Sequel: Perhaps you would like to read on with Afterglow.


Hellcat, thank you so much for reviewing my stories – it made me really happy! I had not posted this story here before – apologies, but here goes. Hope it makes sense.




I hear his voice whisper in the dark, feel him shift on the bed, his hand alighting on my arm. He is worried. I keep my eyes shut, my breathing even; perhaps I can fool him for a little while into believing I am still asleep. It feels so good to know he is concerned. And there are things he only does when he thinks I do not realise, such as letting his fingertips roam up the tender inside of my arm, right from the wrist to the shoulder, and on until they settle on the pulse at my neck. He wants to know whether I am still around.

I do not break easily, although my last trip to L2 did batter me a bit. It turned out the stakes were somewhat higher than Trowa had anticipated, and the demands had risen too. It is part of our job to give everything if we must; we all know that, although Heero keeps railing against this particular interpretation of duty.

"Are you awake?"

He sounds unsure, with the slightest hint of crossness in his voice. Let it last a little longer, please: he curves around me, pressing himself to my back as though he could protect me better this way. Sometimes I wonder whether he realises that he is much more fragile than me for I can blurt out at least, and I do. Duo the loudmouth, the joker, the baka. He would hate me trying to play the great protector, but that is what I am: his shield, the wall for shelter, the one that gets battered before anyone gets through to him. Fine by me – I like it this way. He is worth every bit of it.

He tugs my braid. "C'mon, I know you're with me."

Only Heero gets away with tugging my hair. Only he can call me names although that hurts sometimes.

"I'm asleep," I grumble, trying to roll over, but he clamps one arm across my chest and nestles his face into the crook of my neck.

"Baka," he mumbles, somewhere between relief and anger.

Here we go. It does annoy me. "Why're you waking me?"

He stays silent, his breathing soft and warm against my skin, his lips parted – I can feel his tongue on my pulse in a gingerly touch to taste my skin. His hand flattens against my chest, splayed fingers pressing against my ribs where my heart beats. He has this thing about touching me where he can feel my life signs. I think he nudged me from a nightmare because I can still sense the tingling in my limbs, the nameless horror from something without face or shape, a blackness so profound and terrifying I cannot even begin to put it in words. That is right, not even I can do it. I get these dreams when I am tense, wrought up for a mission or winding down from one. They usually melt away after some time at home, with him.

"Now that you did wake me," I say pointedly, placing my hand over his firmly, "let me shift at least. I'm getting sore in all the wrong spots."

I cannot hear him chuckle, but I can feel the small shudder that runs through him before he eases his grip. He has a death grip and he is much stronger than me: if he wants to pin me, he will, and there is no way I could get out of it without hurting him. I might as well cut myself. So, I have to keep him sweet.

He expects me to roll over onto my back and is a little surprised when we keep rolling and he finds himself staring up at me one of a sudden, my fists on the pillow to either side of his head, my knee between his legs. "Besides," I cannot help but smile at the face he is making, "it's you doing the sore bit, ne?"

The only time I will hurt him, ever so little if I can help it although it does not always work out. He can be damn fierce, with a short temper and a hard way of doing this even if he tears. I do not like it, not when he ends up bruised. I do not mind myself, I have been through stuff that really hurt, but he has no clue how such things feel and I do not want him to get ideas.

He huffs but manages a little grin, with clenched teeth, his shoulders tense and his hands clawing into my shoulders. I lean into him and kiss his mouth. His tongue darts out and I draw back, teasing him with a little game of catch-me-if-you-can. He gives me one of those death glares, I grin, he responds with an angry snarl. He is way too serious about all this and does not like me taking it easy, for as often as I try to explain to him that it is supposed to be fun. He just does not get it. To him, it is heaven and earth coming together, no less, for eternity and then some.

I love him for this. He could mush me into a red smear on the floor and it would be bliss, although I prefer to keep this to myself – he might decide to take advantage too soon.

"Who got to fuck your pretty ass up on L2?" he all but sneers, yanking at my shoulders and twisting his hips.

Ouch. Sometimes he is way too direct. He is trying to move out now, but I have him down there where he does not want to risk getting bruised, and for good measure, I press my hands against his cheeks and kiss him blue. He likes that but is unable to make up his mind: whether to fight me or hug me close. So I decide and let myself drop on top of him, knocking the air out of him with a loud oomph. "Who told you it wasn't me doin' the fucking, hm?"

"'Cos I'm the only one who lets you," he hisses into my ear and bites the lobe. Hard.

He can be nasty. I grab handfuls of his thick, shiny hair and tear at it, my knee moving up high, forcing him to spread and let me push his legs up. "Then let me now, to welcome me back home, soldier-boy." He has this guilt thing, which means he needs to believe he cannot get out of it, he has to do what he is told, that it is all out of his hands. I would prefer him to just relax and enjoy, but that would be too much to ask. The part of our mind that tells us to have fun is somehow damaged in Heero Yuy, it works in a self-destructive, complicated way that I can sense but not grasp. I am different – I will take what pleasure is offered, anywhere. Life is too short to miss out, especially our lives.

He turns his face away into the palm of my hand but offers his body, arching up against me, his rear pressing into the mattress, his thighs falling open. He sleeps in loose shorts that do nothing for modesty, and my hands seek, find, and make him moan deeply.

He hates it when I come home smelling of someone else. Well, it is all part of the job, and I almost succeed in believing my own tale; man, I could sell ice cones on the North Pole. And sometimes it is a bitter pleasure to coax more than his usual non-show of emotions out of him – he tends to give a frosty shoulder when he is really cross, and then it will be hell in bed for a few nights, with him fighting tooth and nail when he really wants me to take him. I know he does because the one time I let off, I woke up later and heard him cry. Hell, yeah, he was crying, eyes dry as sand, in an angry, bitter, silent way, curled up in a ball, scrubbing at his face as though he wanted to skin it. I felt so rotten I wanted to die.

It does not take much to have him in throes of ecstasy, and he is wonderfully wild once he arrives there, as hot and vocal as it gets. He will fling his arms round my shoulders in an attempt to clamp me down on him, his eyes will turn up until only the white gleams beneath black lashes, and he will breathe in harsh, hacked little gasps. He will yelp my name every time I push inside him, and tremble and shiver so much I need to hold him close or he will tense up too much for it to be fun.

He grabs my braid and hastily unravels it, mussing my hair around my shoulders in a quick, breathless motion, and his breathing dissolves into fitful little sobs when I touch his manhood, and further down, all the softness and tender skin and little hairs, so intimate, so vulnerable, and all mine. He is mine, whether he likes it or not, forever and eternity, and he is saddled with me for the same.

In every sense. I like raining kisses on his face while I get ready to ride into him: brow, eyes, the permanent frown between his brows, cheekbones flushed with passion and a good helping of embarrassment. The bridge of his nose and its tip, chin and finally his lips when he is already releasing a steady stream of curses and abuse under his breath for he wants me in fast and hard.

Kissing my way down over his throat, nipping his nipples and navel, with the occasional strategic tickle – he hates that, I love it for it reduces him to a wriggling bundle in fits of laughter, croaky for his voice is not used to laughing – and then giving a wide berth to the parts he wants to stuff into my mouth. Not now. I have never seen skin as golden and soft as on his inner thighs, and nuzzling there makes him swear like a sailor with impatience. I can soothe him instantly with a massage – he is a sucker for this, and I like sliding my hands all over him, enjoy giving him the touch he is too uptight to accept when he is sober. Not tonight though; for he owes me a proper welcome and I want to play him for all he's worth.

He looks so wanton when he is writhing beneath me, too distracted to realise I am using some lube, and then too needy to bother wiping it off – he disdains the stuff, how stupid. But he is too busy trying to suck every inch of me into his body and swallow every bit of my tongue down his throat, and if I told him, he would hate me for it. So I shut up and enjoy.

Plunge into him deeply, and it feels like I have died and gone to heaven for he is so hot and wet and melting around my flesh. We are slick with sweat, we groan and puff, we smell of sex and musk as skin slaps against skin; the whole thing is carnal, feral, and grand beyond words. A blush creeps from his face over his neck and chest and his eyes fly open – always when he is about to come. Every single time, he stares at me with this expression of bottomless awe, before throwing back his head and crying out, and I can feel his release wet our stomachs while he is clenching and pulsing around me.

I press him close, so close I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, and I dig my chin into his mop of hair as my body tenses and my loins knot and burn. I follow him in one hard spasm and many small waves that rock me senseless, turning my vision white and bursting little stars in my head and inside my belly. There is something great about this way of dying and resurrection, and I take particular delight in knowing he will carry a bit of me inside his guts for a while. I have marked him. He is mine.

Heaven forbid me ever telling him – I can only hope I do not babble in my sleep.

"Tell me what?" he murmurs, cracking open a mistrusting eye. Does he ever relax? I mean, ever? He is still panting beneath me, I am too lazy to withdraw and just let my flesh wither where it rests until it slips out on its own accord. Fine by him, for the looks of it, for he is playing contentedly with my messed-up hair that flows all over his shoulders and upper arms. "You do talk in your sleep. You never shut up, Maxwell."

We are always on formal terms after sex. It is part of him trying to ignore what he has just done, to run away from his surrender and gain the upper hand again. I can live with it. He is unaware that his expression is one of curiosity. He is trying it on: I bet I do not talk that much when I am asleep because most of the time I will black out high or low on whatever little helper is at hand. Mostly alcohol. It helps me to cope, or so I want to believe, and keep up appearances. Our life has stabilised, and it has done him good. I am different, jittery, always on the move and if it kills me, so now I am frantic about slipping up because if I do, I cannot be there for him. He must never know how precarious my mask sometimes sits.

"What do I talk about then?" I challenge softly.

He hesitates a little, the play of fingers in my hair changing subtly into a gentle caress. He can convey so much with a gesture, more than all my words can ever say. Right now, his touch is tender, kind, soothing. "You have nightmares, Duo." I cannot stand the pained expression that creeps into his face, still flushed with sex, and the shadows – never leaving his eyes completely, they now gather into a dense cloud. Hell, why does he have to burden himself with the pain of the world?

"Everyone has nightmares sometimes," I make light, but he will have none of it.

"Not the kind you have, and not every damn night," he snaps, his voice angry, his hand even softer and a little shaky.

Never mind my nightmares, I muse, testing his reaction by blowing into the tousled hollow under his shoulder. Predictably, he bucks me off and is over me in a flash, an amazing storm of lust and anguish and sorrow crossing his face. I sprawl out and grin up at him. "Want me to do it again?"

"Is this a dare?" He gazes pointedly down between us at my softening flesh, then meets my eyes with a little smirk. "Well, you're in no shape now."

"Just you wait."

With a satisfied little grunt, he rolls onto his back, linking one arm with mine and angling the other one over his face. He will be asleep before long, albeit restless after this as though it still bugs him that he lowered himself to the level of a mere mortal by having sex. Having made love. Having let down his guards and allowed me to worm and batter my way inside his body and mind.

I have no compunction in doing just that. Abusing his rare moments of weakness, of showing the need for closeness to take what I need, and give myself in return. Me, Duo the street rat, the madcap and good-for-nothing.

"Don't," he mumbles, tightening his arm, muscles flexing under smooth skin, "I hate it when you put yourself down."

I really have to control my tongue a bit better, along with this silly habit of thinking aloud. Yet, I cannot help a smile as I drift off to cloud nine. It is his job to put me into my place when he sees fit, it is mine to shield him so he can crawl out of his stupor sometimes, and to splash some colour into his life. We have figured this out nicely.

"Yeah," he sighs, "so shut up now and don't spoil it." Damn my babbling.

So that is what I do, my limbs still humming with the afterglow, my mind in pleasant oblivion. Nestling his dark head against my neck, he allows me to draw him close. He throws one arm over me possessively even as I sneak mine round his waist. I know he likes it because some of the tension leaves his body, and his breathing deepens and slows down.

Try as I might, I never manage to outwait him. I drop off from one second to the next, but somewhere in my dreams and nightmares, I feel his lips on my pulse and his breathy whisper, "Duo? Good night."

And a good night it is.


You might want to read on with 'Afterglow'.