Fic: Dark Poetry 2/?

Dark Poetry 2/?
By Max


Disclaimer: I don’t own Gundam Wing.


Heero’s fingers lingered on the keyboard, doing little more than caressing the well worn keys and considering.

Duo did not remember him, directly, but named a new pet Heero. There had to have been brain damage.

Fingers stroking the keys he considered his path forward. He could solve the mystery of how Duo got brain damage and harm whoever needed to be harmed.

There had been a time right after the wars, after he’d rescued Relena when he thought he’d never fight again, that violence was not something he wanted. In those months he and Duo had spent a lot of time together. Duo had been angry and frustrated with the world, losing his temper one minute and sobbing heartbroken the next.

Maybe it had been a brain tumor.

Chang’s medical team could certainly have resolved that, if that had been the case. They had all been exposed to all kinds of radiation in the wars, and as Heero thought about it, he didn’t think that the war torn L2 colony that Duo had been on as a child could have been counted on to have decent shielding.

So that was the second path. He could accept his own medical retirement and devote himself to taking care of Duo. That path had a mission oriented sense of appeal and something deeper, more frightening, more full of need than Heero had ever admitted to himself, though, as he thought about it now Service in Preventers had been just as mission focused, but violent, ruthless, and often lethal This would be more dark poetry, a winding of desire and will, towards happiness and contentment.

So if Duo had had a brain tumor.... was he competent? Was he still an adult? That mattered in ways that Heero also found dark. He wanted something from Duo, something vital and flowing as blood. He wanted passion and attention and desire.

He looked around the room, checking to see that he was alone, before pressing the heel of his hand to his zipper, rocking it over the hard flesh. He wanted primal. He wanted Duo’s mouth to open so he could slide his tongue in again, just like that time on the beach, but more so.

If Duo wasn’t... adult in his mind, then such things were gone. A broken Duo frightened him, but one that was eternally innocent and cuddling snow weasels brought a darker bleeding sorrow to the edge of Heero’s being.

Though he loved him. Only now feeling the edges of that love did he really understand what that meant, the dark obsidian sharp edges that cut through his own soul sharp works cut breath, leaving marks that would never not be there.  It had always been there, this love, from the first moment he really comprehended Duo, from the moment he had an image of that laughing, friendly, genuine, vibrant personality in his mind, he had been lost to it’s gravity, suck down a gravity well that he had never even tried to fight. He’d just accepted it as part of himself and like all parts of himself, it needed to be hushed as he served the greater needs.

Except those broken obsidian edges cut through him, cut away his need to serve others, cut away the demands made by Dr. J as if Duo’s being were such darker wizardry than J could have ever been. The fear that Duo might be childlike mentally made a vital and human part of Heero feel like it couldn’t fit down the gravity well and he’d be torn in part as sure as a dark hole would shred a man, spinning the threads of his being through to some other universe where his desires could never go.

Duo wrote books though, and those must show his state of mind though, right? Steeling himself for Good Night Moon with Ferrets, he opened a digital copy of Duo’s most recent book.

At the end of the first chapter, he transferred the book to his tablet and found his own private room.

Duo was definitely not a child, whatever he was, childlike in mind was not part of it.

And thus did Heero read his first gay erotic novel and learn why really good hotels put lube in the room.

When he woke, wearing only his shirt and socks, stretched out on the king sized bed they’d provided of him, snuggled up under a down comforter that was unreasonably light, fluffy, and heavy all at the same time, he stroked his softness and tried to summon anger at Dr. J for inhibiting that particular behavior. He just felt so right that he couldn’t find anger. It was like that obsidian blade of embracing his need for Duo cut that way too.

Though he expected he’d find that part again.

When he sat up, the lights came on slowly, like the sun rising. A slightly warmer light came from the bathroom, drawing him in. A clean outfit, not his previously, but enough in his style and functionality that it might as well have been, lay folded neatly on the counter. There was a glass enclosed shower with three shower heads. There was also a steaming Japanese bath, with a cup and pot of what he expected was his favorite tea, brewed perfectly.

There were advantages to moving into the Imperial Chinese family household, he supposed. How the staff got in without waking him, he didn’t know. He kind of didn’t wan to know, as thinking about staff entering his room at will felt like an enormous security breach and risk.  He scowled at himself in the huge bamboo edged mirror, trying to decide how upset he was over that.

When a disembodied face of a child appeared in the mirror, he grabbed a towel to hide that he wasn’t wearing pants and decided that Wufei’s children had entirely too much power and privilege.

“This form bothers you,”  the child asked apologetically. “I thought it would be non-threatening. The face shifted to that of a beautiful Chinese girl with clearly blind eyes. “I am Ming Lin. I am not human. I provide services here. Please allow me to serve you, Heero. Anything you want, please only ask and I will bring it to you.”

“What are you?” Heero asked, still holding the towel firmly around his waist. “Do you record what happens in my room?”

“I am synthetic intelligence. I am aware of everything, but my memories are not accessible without court order or Imperial Decree. Neither have ever been presented during my lifetime.”

“How old are you?”

“I am approximately seventy-five years old I was of limited use until the last five years, however. Are the clothes I provided acceptable, Heero?”

“Yes,” Heero said. “Can you see me right now?”

“All things are retained, but I am not aware of them. As you can see, I have assumed a blind avatar.”  She smiled patiently.  

“Is Duo sick,” he asked, words rushed.

“The privacy of all my residents is sacred, but you can rest assured that Duo is not ill.”

“I... I want different clothes,” Heero said, biting the edge of his lower lip for just a moment.

“What would you like?” She asked as the clothes she’d provided previously literally dematerialised.

“I want... black slacks, polished leather shoes, a white shirt, black tie, a fedora, gray.”

“Oh,” she asked. “Like this?”  A small hologram appeared of a man from a movie that Duo and Heero had seen years ago, a historical movie with a detective. The man looked a little like Heero, thinner lips, shorter hair. “Would you also like a hair cut?”

“Can you do that? How did you know?”

“I have watched that movie 1928 times,” she said without emotion or further explanation. “If you will hold still, I will cut your hair. You may feel a slight tingle.”

He watched in the mirror as his hair magically cut into the style of the man from the movie.

An hour later, Heero set the dusty gray fedora on his head, cocked his head. There was temptation to pray to whatever gods, that Duo would find him attractive, would desire him too. Such a prayer would be unethical though, and futile. There were no gods and if there were, he wanted Duo to want him because he did, not because of some god, but the temptation still tugged. That was that edge of obsidian cutting his soul again, wanting something so badly that might not be able to be had.

It took him another fifteen minutes, twelve of which were spent in front of the door which his hand on the handle, waiting to decide if he wanted to leave his room, before he stepped into the hall.

Duo was waiting, baggy jeans and a tee-shirt, braid laying on his shoulder, hanging down his chest with a dozen silky flyaways around his face. Heero took his hat off and bowed a little. When Duo’s fingers touched his temple, he didn’t see it coming. The touch was warm, gentle and he stopped breathing. Caught rising from his bow, he stood there, a virgin unicorn caught in the dark whispered poetry of the God of Death.

Duo’s smile was bright and touched every part of his face.  When Duo leaned closer to him, he suddenly could breath, short panicked little breaths that turned into a deep breath into his soul when Duo’s lips met his. His mouth opened and Duo’s was in him, possessing him, transferring emotion couldn’t be possible. Peace and euphoria swirled until he reached out, his hands touching Duo’s face, then suddenly he wrapped his arms around him, breaking the kiss and just holding Duo to him as if he could undo years of poor choices in one embrace. Just as suddenly, Heero was crying again, like he hadn’t since the end of the war.

What washed out of him felt endless, but Duo was stiff in his arms, patting his back awkwardly, so that Heero let go, wiped at his face and tried to smile, which felt like he was some vermin smiling before getting kicked hard. Duo’s eyes had that empty look again, though his hand reached out to touch Heero’s cheek, tracing a wet line of tear track.

Then he pivoted on one foot and strode off.


Heero followed. Wherever Duo was going, he was too.

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