07-Sep-2000
Archive: All those with prior permission are welcome (and hugged profusely) to archive this. Email me at the the address at the bottom of this page if you'd like to ask. :-)
[Note: all fics accessible @ http://www.oocities.org/fenris_wolf0]
Category: Yaoi/Shoen ai. Lime. AU.
Pairings: 1x6
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is quite sadly not mine, but in fact the property of Bandai, Sunrise, and other large corporations and companies I have no affiliation with. (Again, quite sadly.) "The Chemicals Between Us" is a Bush song. But this ain't no songfic. I just like the title.
Warning/Rating: NC-16. Yaoi. Non-graphic descriptions of sexual acts between two consenting males. However, the age presents a statutory rape issue anyway, depending on where you reside.
Feedback: Hit me.
Note: Concerning age discrepancy… in the beginning, Heero is 11, turning 12. Zechs has just turned 15. In three years' time (and a little more), Zechs will be 18, but Heero will be 15. Got it? He had to be 11 in the beginning for some reason I can't remember now. Oh, well, no one ever said there was a pattern to my insanity.
I'm not going to defend myself. I understand that whatever I did went against the set rules of society, the rules of conduct. So what I did marked me as a deviant: some deranged teenager running off his hormones and letting some evil chemical imbalance get the better of me. I'm not even sure anymore. Nothing feels wrong in the moment, you know? Your brain rationalizes everything, supplies you with infallible reasoning that melts away like snow under the sudden onslaught of sun, of heat… heat… I said this was chemical, right? Chemical reactions produce heat, sometimes… sometimes. But… maybe I should go back to the beginning, before you begin to judge me.
Yeah. The beginning.
It wasn't much-- more like a family debt, or something, but I found myself forcibly volunteered (under pain of allowance suspension from my father) to baby-sit for the Yuys on Thursday afternoons, 3:30 to 7 p.m. I'm not even sure why my parents insisted on it-- family friends or not-- and for below minimal wage. $5 an hour comes to $22.50 for four and a half hours of looking after their eleven-year-old son, who, rightfully, should be perfectly capable of taking care of himself, was insulting.
I'm not saying I didn't like Heero. It's just-- he was my sister's age. She was madly infatuated with him and had actually threatened me with death if she found out that I was mistreating him. While my sister might like she's all sugar and spice, her little knuckles are hard enough to bruise by themselves, and she throws a mean right hook. Oh, sure, she acts the part of little miss pacifist for our parents, but I, after enduring a little over a decade of her mistreatment, can vouch that she's hellspawn, pure and simple.
Oh, man, I'm getting off subject again, right? Well, Heero. Heero. What can I say about Heero? He was quiet, intense, insanely brooding for his age, showing promise of being darkly good-looking when he grew up a little. Right then, he was best described as small, skinny, slightly ungainly, with eyes that seemed ludicrously big: almost effeminate. But memory has a weird bias, you know? Yeah. So, anyway, it was the first Thursday, and we were sitting on the couch, watching some random action flick.
All the lights were off, curtains drawn-- the TV illuminated the entire room. It wasn't so bad; really… the Yuys have the biggest big screen I've ever seen. We were watching the hero-- hero, Heero, get it?-- detonate the explosives and the building crumble into bits of debris. Then, a close of the impossibly unscathed hero, kissing the girl. Zoom in, black out.
I guess I should have been watching it more carefully, but I'd been staring at Heero for a while, his one pale leg jiggling impatiently, tensely… dark blue eyes riveted to the screen, skin bathed in an unholy luminance. I mean, there he was-- like I was suddenly seeing things clearly-- immersed in a prepubescent beauty, a kind of neutral-but-awkward poise that sometimes strikes at his age. The clearly defined lines of his jaw, and-- I'm sure I sound crazy. I know I sound crazy, but maybe you know what I mean? He was so bleakly innocent, head tilted, mouth half-open.
After the film ended he carefully turned his head towards me, still cocked to one side. I could finally understand why my little sister had such a fixation on Heero Yuy. He was the ultimate enigma. I wanted to take him apart and figure it all out.
"Zechs?" My name sounded strange coming from his mouth. I had insisted to go by Zechs instead of Milliardo. When you're a high school freshman and you have a name like 'Milliardo,' you're just inviting yourself to be shoved into a locker. Zechs was so-- suave, so sophisticated-- or so I thought. But it sounded strange from him.
"Yeah?" I tried to feign nonchalance, drumming my fingers against one arm. He stared at me from the immeasurable distance of the other end of the couch.
"Have you ever done that?" The question was so soft, I had to strain to catch it.
"Do what?"
"Kiss. Kiss a girl." His eyes were hesitating, but serious.
"Yeah," I drawled. "Yeah, sure, sure, done it a million times." I had, actually. Twice. Nevermind one had been a mistake, and the other a dare. A million times.
"Oh." He seemed almost disappointed, dejected. His eyes lowered, forlorn.
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Just wondering." Then, as if added as an afterthought: "I haven't kissed anyone except-- you know-- family."
"You ever want to?" I asked, wondering how I'd been drawn into this conversation.
"Kiss a girl?" He replied, tone skeptical.
"Yeah. Kiss a girl."
He considered the question in his quiet way, still jiggling one folded leg. He finally answered, softly, "No."
"You're not at the age yet to be interested in those kinds of things," I said, picking up the remote control and rewinding the tape.
His cold eyes suddenly blazed into a spark of infant pride. He sat stiffly. "Are you saying I'm just a little kid?"
I chuckled. "You are." The whirl of the tape filled the gap of silence before he-- a gorgeous little elfin creature, clothed in green and black-- leaned over hesitantly and brushed a kiss on my lips-- barely touching. The moments after were drugged and bright-- his eyes, a mere inch from mine, lips just the briefest caress of plush, until he pulled away.
"Sorry," he mumbled, not meeting my eyes.
A few more immeasurable moments passed before either of us moved. I was completely still, still trapped in the pure aftershock of it, before I crooked my neck to look at him. The tape stopped, rewound. I reached over, slowly, to stroke his cheek and tilt his head up. "You aren't," I said thoughtfully. As if I, at the grand old age of fifteen, could pass judgment on the little cherub beside me.
I kissed him again, fully, deeply, trying to inhale some of him into me… to contain some trace of him in all those countless blood vessels and cells. Running through my veins. His little hands wound themselves hesitantly in my hair; my fingers stroked the small of his back.
And that's how his parents found us.
And to make a very long, painful story short, I never got paid for those four and a half hours. Their babysitting offer was retracted. Relena attempted to assassinate me by putting a tablespoon of cayenne powder into my soup. My father sent me off to military school. My mother wondered where she'd gone wrong. And Heero's parents put him in therapy, thinking their little boy was permanently scarred.
I remember the last time I saw him that year-- deep winter, frost covering the car windows. I had been banished to the back of the station wagon for the five hour drive to military school, and there I sat, staring into the crisp whiteness, staring at the little smudge of darkness outside that I knew was him, waving goodbye.
I scrubbed the tears off my face and fell asleep, listening to my father's rants and Relena's taunts.
But, I know what you're thinking, you know? What's the big deal? He kissed another boy-- albeit, a much, much, much younger boy-- a child, really. And overlooking the possible emotional scarring-- but severely doubting it-- it wasn't as bad.
Except that the story doesn't actually end there.
My parents gave in after two years of spotless records in military school. They convinced themselves that I was just frustrated and confused, and I was choosing to "act out" in strange ways. But yeah, they pulled me out and put me back into high school as a senior, but not after I'd taken away something from the… experience. The sergeant insisted that I use 'Milliardo' instead of 'Zechs.' I learned to fight, during those years. I learned all about erecting emotional barriers, about societal values of masculinity. Plus, I completed the obstacle course in record times and I could stand at attention without blinking for hours.
I'm kidding about the last one. About the blinking, at least.
I think my dad was secretly pleased when he saw me in my cadet uniform, standing stock still, awaiting orders. "Get your stuff," he said. "You're going home."
I never let the raging emotions show in my eyes. I threw a salute. "Yes, sir." About face, march. Relena's mouth had fallen open. She twirled her hair and blew a piece of bubblegum, sneering.
When we were walking to the car, she cooed in my ear: "Miss your Heero-baby?"
I turned my head and gave her the coldest look I could manage without my eyes icing over. "No," I said, clipped, and continued marching. Left right, left right…
She smiled, a malicious vision of pink. "Good."
So I went to Sank High School. And that almost catches us up. In fact, we're just about up to speed… current as of this afternoon. I'd been gathering my books go to home. When I closed the locker door, Heero was there, casually leaning against a locker.
"Miss me?" A beguiling smirk on a chiseled face, the same eyes periodically that haunted my dreams. My prediction had been correct-- if young Heero was beautiful, this Heero was enough to make me choke and stumble a little, which is what I did. My eyes traced his lean form, fleetingly-- up the impossibly long legs, across the slim torso, up to his perfect shoulders; his neck, just slightly tilted, enough to be submissive.
I'm not sure how long I stared at him. He just smirked, though, eyes taking in a three-year-older me. "I like the hair," he offered. Behind us, beyond us, people walked out doors to catch buses and cars. Life sped on, but I was trapped looking at him, caught.
"I'm going to come visit," he said, easily. "Maybe around 9? I'll see you… Milliardo."
This name slid across his tongue, a verbal caress.
My father and mother asked me about school that night. I was detached, but they never noticed… they'd barely seen me in the last two years (summer courses filled most of my vacation time), so maybe I had just turned out this way: quiet, reserved. I swirled mom's casserole on a fork and excused myself. I had AP Chemistry homework to complete. I sat up in my room, tapping my pencil, staring at the clock. 7:04 p.m. Stared at the diagrams on my paper. Hydrocarbons. Bond types. Carbon rings. Synthesis reactions. It was probably the longest two hours of my life.
Then, at 9 p.m. exactly, there was a tap on my window.
Heero was outside, perched on a branch. I opened the window, slowly, and he climbed in easily, lycanthropic in his movements.
The same androgynous grace.
"Door locked?"
I nodded a confirmation. "You got up that tree easily enough," I said.
"Two years worth of practice," he answered, eyes daring me to look away.
"Oh."
He stepped closer to me, our bodies painfully close and looked up at me with adoring, worshipful eyes-- for me-- and said: "Kiss me."
Fervent eyes. Reverent eyes. Eyes of an eleven-year-old child.
And so I did. I drew him back into me like this was where he belonged-- which is true-- in my arms, held tightly, lips against mine, body molded against mine, sharp lines countering each other, skin hot at each juncture.
It'd only been three years.
This was more illegal than ever.
Hands traversed-- mine? His?-- over open flesh, under the cotton fabric of shirts. Fingers-- definitely his-- pinched, brushed, hopelessly trembled. My hands wavered, and found the buttons of his pants.
His mouth, hot against my lips, moaned my name.
And then I stopped. The moment of clarity I'd been looking for.
"Have you kissed anyone else?" I asked roughly.
Maybe not the exact kind of clarity I was pushing for.
Eyes-- still adoring, a little lost-- gazed into mine. "No," he answered hollowly. "No one since you. No one but you."
I kissed him again, heart wrenching, overwhelmed. I bit his bottom lip, softly. "There's been no one but you," I murmured, honestly. And my fingers worked again, unbuttoned him, unzipped him, slid the loose jeans down, revealing light blue boxers that left nothing to the imagination. He winced when I touched him for the first time, and my mind registered this shocking fact: his first, his first and only.
"What do you want?" I asked, demanded, fingers tracing lightly over cotton-shielded flesh. Maybe I was being a little unfair. His eyes were glazed, if just a little.
His answer was choked. "Whatever you have to give."
I pulled him towards the windowsill, one hand still over him, the other closed the window, drew the curtains. Outside, nothing would have been visible except for a tangled silhouette. I pulled the boxers down and ignored the wheedling voice inside my head that whispered little truths of discovery. Heero half-sighed, half-moaned, resting against the windowsill. I bent in, close, my hand between us, and gently squeezed him. I got a full, low moan that reverberated in my ears. And then, uncertain. Two years of military school didn't cover what I thought was a vital part of education-- I had no idea what to do. My only experience was with myself, and personal quirks and kinks lend to experience.
I knelt, in front of him, hair tickling his legs and blew, gently. He shuddered, but never moved. I could see his hands gripping the windowsill, looking for support. And-- slowly, unsure-- took the first plunge, taking him into my mouth. His hips jerked, eyes wide, mouth open, gasping something silently… mouthing my name. It was probably the single most erotic sight of my life. Heero, wordlessly panting, t-shirt still on, jeans gathered around his feet, in front of me, above me, inside me. My teeth scraped against him, but he never seemed to mind my inept fumbling-- I never tried to take him entirely (I wasn't so stupid, but lust-wrapped would have apropos)-- instead, combining the swirl of my tongue with the grip of my hand, alternating slow licks and slower pumps. His breath was ragged and suddenly his hips thrust forward, minutely, his hands clenched and unclenched, as something (I take it) unfamiliar and wonderful washed over him-- a combination of ambience and experience, I guess. I took it all, desperate for him: his touch, his smell, his taste… His breathing returned to normal after a little, and he finally offered me words.
"Zechs…"
And he was back again, at age eleven, the same glance he'd given me after our first kiss. Mingled regret and desire… regret? I realized my eyes were mirrored in his. I couldn't tell which look was mine, which was his, or if there was a difference.
I couldn't give him anything in return for a single word.
So-- I guess this is where we are. I'm staring at him, but I don't know what else I can offer him, what else I can take from him… the brutal exchange of ecstasy for-- what? Robbing him for his purity, I think. He stands, exposed, vulnerable, and I kneel, unsure of everything… everything seems right in the moment… everything seems justified… completely rational… an obvious choice instead of a compulsion. I touch his hand, to feel the heat of his body. Heat. Chemical reactions produce heat, I said.
But only half of this is chemical.
[fin]
Jay Sez: I have a whole new respect for lemon writers after this. It was damned hard. (No, you hentais, not like that.) I have no idea how you do it.
Jay