Um. Weird.

Yaoi. OOC. AU. Weird.

Not mine. But I wish.


Some days, the guilt is too much. Especially on the days after a mission.

It crushes me, grinds me between the enormous millstones of duty and horror, oppresses me and suffocates me, until I have to do something--anything--to relieve the pressure.

The simplest, most efficient manner, I've found, is through sheer physical stimulation.

In other words, raw sex.

So I disappear after missions, bury myself in the loudest, busiest night club I can find, shooting sultry looks at both sexes until someone pulls me out of the crowd, pawing and groping at my body, covering my face with alcohol and smoke-laced kisses, until the force of lust and hormones overwhelms the burden of guilt for those illicit hours in cheap hotels and the backseats of cars and in dark alleyways.

I get offered money, most times. I accept it. Might as well profit in as many ways as possible.

I never expected to get found out, but I did. Was careless after a mission, or perhaps he'd just grown curious about my absences. In either case, he learned my tawdry secret.

He confronts me while we were alone. Values his discretion. "I know where you go after missions," he announces abruptly, in the middle of a discussion about repairs and upgrades to our gundams.

I look at him. "So?"

"Never figured you for the type... always thought that you were ... above ... that sort of thing."

Danger here. He may sound casual about it, but there's deeper currents lurking beneath. He's angry. I can see it, coiling and uncoiling lazily under the surface of his eyes.

"It's my way. Always has been."

"What, the battle excitement is too much to handle on your own with a hand in the shower?"

I glare at him, but decide the straightfoward approach might get this over with faster. "It's not that. Physicality... lets me forget. For a while."

And suddenly he snarls, closes the distance between us, seizes my shoulders. In my face, he barks, "Did you ever consider how goddamn dangerous stunts like that are?!"

I stare at him coldly. "It is an acceptable risk."

He slaps me. "Baka. It isn't."

"Let go of me."

He stays in my face, fingers digging into my shoulders painfully. "No. Didn't you ever consider coming to one of us, instead endangering us all with your little jaunts to the redlight district?"


He must be reading something on my face, because he leans in. Kisses me. Hard, brutal, the way I prefer it, demanding dominance and taking it, mostly unchallenged. And I respond, leaning into it, seizing his hips and pulling him closer, grinding. We groan into each other's throats, hands already scrabbling at each other's clothes, pulling and tearing cloth aside in an effort to touch skin and body and taste and bite and scratch and fuck each other stupid.

He tastes like sweat and soap and dirt and he smells like oil and leather and the flowers in his shampoo and his face as we fuck is tense and passionate and pure and beautiful and his voice as he curses and moans and whispers my name strikes something deep inside and I love the feeling of his bare skin next to mine, hot and sweaty and flushed in the aftermath.

And I look at him, and I swear quietly, long strings of profanities following each other, and I know *this* is why I go to bars and nightclubs for my physicality, because now something is changing between us, and I don't know how to deal with anything deeper and more lasting than a few hours in a rented bed.

He looks at me, eyes hooded and sated and wary and somehow warm and cold all at once. "You're welcome," he says, sarcasm lacing his voice.

"I didn't want this..." Anger and defeat and resignment and a strange feeling that something in me wants to call hope. "Why the hell did you do this to me, Duo?"

He smiles, a baring of teeth with eyes that aren't smiling in any friendly way. "Because I wanted to, Heero. Because I don't want to share." He sits up, starts pulling on clothes. "See you after the next mission."

Then again, maybe nothing has changed at all.


Weird, huh? Give me feedback, please?