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"Drabbles"Written By: Clara Barton Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. The following
is an intellectual exercise with no intention of profit. That said,
these characterizations, words, and situations are mine. Please ask
before reprinting. Rating: R A/N: A/N: For Crown-of-Winterthorne who requested
#18 from the 54 Writing Prompts, "You're my favorite muse,"
with 2x? Warnings: angst, language, sexy times, historical
AU Pairings: 2x?
Eighteen It was just after noon and the sun, directly overhead, filled the streets with heat and light and stink. That was the thing about London, Duo had learned. In the winter it was bitterly cold, in the spring it rained every damn day, and in the summer - when it wasn't raining it was way too hot and it smelled like the piss and shit and unwashed people who occupied it. Fall was, Duo had discovered, the only time when living in London wasn't awful. Of course, awful just about summed up Duo's life regardless of where he lived, so, aside from London providing a new litany of internal complaints to stack against previous ones for Paris, New York, Singapore and San Francisco, Duo knew it didn't really matter. Not much did. Not much had since Father Maxwell had died last spring, only a few days after Sister Helen, both of them falling ill so fast, dying so miserably and quickly, that Duo hadn't even had time to be upset with them for it until after, when he stood alone in the rainy cemetery and watched the undertaker heap mud over their coffins. And then he'd been alone, in the damn rain in London in the spring and he'd had nothing but the clothes on his back - the fancy sack suit that Father Maxwell had insisted on getting for him, the waistcoat with orange silk on the back that Sister Helen had laughed at when Duo had put it on for the first time, the linen shirt that was finer and cleaner than anything he had ever had before, the neck tie that chafed, the black leather boots that had gleamed with polish - the gold crucifix that Helen had worn, and the Bible that Father Maxwell had read from every night while tending to the sick in the slums of London. Now, more than a year later, the Bible was long gone - bartered, six months ago, for a few coins and the medicine that should have, but didn't, keep Hilde alive. Hilde, the prostitute who Father Maxwell had cared for, who very well might have been the one to pass on the sickness to Helen and him, who had taken Duo in, had taught him which alleys were best avoided and which theatres to lurk outside of to pick pockets and which street corners to stand on and how to hold his breath while sucking off the men who paid for a pretty, long haired boy to fuck. The clothes, once so fine that Duo had felt he looked like one of the nobility or at least a wealthy merchant, were now threadbare and the boots that he had so loved hadn't been polished in so long they were more brown than black now. The crucifix, though, Duo wore around his neck and clutched in his fingers at night as he curled up in doorways and rubbish bins. It had, ironically, been that crucifix that had changed Duo's life. Two months ago, as Duo lounged against the streetlight on his usual corner, as he tried casual jibes with Trowa, the experienced prostitute who ran the corner, and Heero, the copper who probably would have given his right arm for the chance to just take Trowa away and live in the country and raise sheep or something unfathomably dull, it had happened. Three gentlemen with more money than taste, judging by their garish waistcoats, striped trousers and ridiculously tall top hats. Heero had greeted them, had made a show of trying to get Trowa and Duo to leave them alone but had been laughed off while the three fawned over Trowa, passing over Duo entirely and Heero had scowled, had hesitated and then melted away into the night so that he didn't have to see the man he loved sell his body. Duo had kept one eye on them, as the four men moved into the shadows, ready to intervene if he needed to, but he had been distracted by the sound of a match striking, the flare of light just a few feet to his left. It was another man - just as well appointed as the three rakes in the alley with Trowa, but clearly with better taste, his suit a soft, somber gray that looked like rising steam in the dim light. "A God fearing whore?" The voice had been soft, low and full of humor and arrogance and Duo had felt his fists clench. The man came closer when Duo remained silent, had tipped his hat back and Duo had caught a glimpse of stunning features, of icy eyes and a cruel mouth but then he had been distracted by the long blonde hair, pale as moonlight, brushed carelessly over the man's collar. The man blew a lazy curl of smoke in Duo's direction as he looked him over, eyes critical, and Duo knew the man saw every flaw, every weakness and he shivered. The man made a tutting sound when Duo looked away and it annoyed Duo enough that he turned to glare at him. His lips curved upwards in a slow, sensuous smile that had Duo's heart pounding and his palms growing sweaty. "Aren't you afraid of suffering the punishment of eternal fire?" Duo remembered the verse. Jude 1:7. Remembered Father Maxwell's alarm when he had caught Duo behind the rectory, his clothes half off and his tongue down the throat of Quatre Winner, son of the church's wealthiest benefactor. Remembered the tight line of Helen's lips and the sadness, the overwhelming sorrow in both their voices as they told Duo just how very, very wrong it was to love another man. Duo shrugged one shoulder and affected a careless smirk. "Who's to say desire is unnatural?" He said to the man. He chuckled, low and cold, and used the silver tip of his cane to tap the crucifix around Duo's neck. "I believe He says." "Yeah, well, I don't see him doing much about it, do you?" Duo let his voice drop, let it become the purr that Hilde had taught him and he saw the way it affected this man - the same as all the others, in the end. He'd expected a quick, rough fuck in the alley, had anticipated having to maneuver past Trowa and his men but instead, the man had held out a thick, creamy card and waited while Duo stared at it in confusion. "Come by in the afternoon. That's when the light is best." Duo had been confused by the directions, even more than he was confused by the card, but he had taken it, had let his eyes linger on the black script. Lord Miliardo Peacecraft The address was near Belgrave Square. Fashionable, but only just. When Duo looked up, the man was gone. It had taken a two weeks, of rough sex and stale bread and wet, miserable nights before Duo took the card out of his pocket and presented it to a butler whose sneer suggested he would rather cut off his nose than have to smell Duo in close proximity. Duo had been led through the house, hadn't even bothered to be discreet about his awe at the well appointed furnishings, hadn't bothered to hide his confusion when he was led up, up, and up to the very top floor of the house while the butler knocked on a closed door. It had opened only a moment later, Lord Peacecraft scowling, dressed in only trousers and a thin linen shirt, looking ready to yell at the interruption until his cold eyes landed on Duo and his entire demeanor transformed. Duo had followed him into the room, had seen the huge bed pushed against a wall, the flood of light from the large windows, and he had started to undress without being prompted. He knew, after all, what he was there for. Or he thought he had. Peacecraft had laughed, had stopped him from removing his waistcoat with long, strong fingers and tipped Duo's chin upwards. "I have no interest in fucking you, dear boy," he had said in that same patronizing tone. Duo had frowned. "Well, not today," Peacecraft amended. He had taken hold of Duo's jaw, had turned his head first one way and then another before nodding. "Yes. Just as I thought. Go, sit by the window and I can sketch you while there is still light." And it had been weeks of just that. Duo arriving and sitting while Peacecraft drew him, painted him, moved him about like a marionette, touching his body with a careless familiarity that both inflamed Duo and made him feel worthless. And gold, more coin than Duo had seen since the collection plates at Father Maxwell's church, pressed into his palm as the sun set and Peacecraft packed away his pencils or brushes or pens. Six weeks of that. And today, as the sun beat down on Duo, as his wool suit itched and his linen shirt clung to him with sweat and grime, Duo followed the butler - Otto, who still, even after all this time, refused to address Duo or look at him with anything less than disdain - up, up and up, Duo expected the routine to remain unchanged, expected to sit and hold his breath in the hope that Peacecraft would touch him, would look at him with those freezing eyes and see something worthy. But today, when the door opened, Peacecraft was shirtless and smirking and Duo could hear laughter. Bright, artificial, feminine laughter. He felt hot and cold all over and he dug his fingers into the hem of his jacket, worried at the fraying fabric, and he glared at the floor instead of the smear of rouge on Peacecraft's cheek where, clearly, some tart had kissed him. "Ladies, I believe our time is at an end today." Duo had listened to them complain, listened to them cajole, listened to the rustle of fabric and the amused groan of Peacecraft as he was fondled and kissed and begged and finally, after what had felt like hours, three women had trouped past Duo, their perfume as vivid as their makeup, their clothes in disarray and their eyes sharp as they raked over his too slight, too dirty, too unfashionable form. And then Peacecraft was ushering him inside, was closing the door and Duo felt... Bereft. As abandoned as he had been the day Father Maxwell and Sister Helen had been returned to the earth and he fought against the urge to scream or cry or run or - or do anything. He stood there. He continued to glare at the floor, and he waited for instruction. Waited for the lump in his throat to go away and the burning in his eyes and he waited and he hoped. "Duo." Peacecraft didn't let him wait. He walked over and tipped up Duo's chin in a gesture now well practiced and his cold eyes and cruel mouth tightened as they took in Duo's expression, as they took in the pain and anger and betrayal that Duo didn't hide fast enough. He sighed and he stepped away and Duo could see, could feel his disappointment. Duo reached out, caught his hand and tangled their fingers together. "I can be better. I can be better than them. I can - I can put on makeup and a corset, if that's what you want. I can do whatever they do. You can fuck me however you want. I can be better. I can - just give me a chance." Peacecraft looked at their joined hands, and Duo knew he should let go, should step back, should admit defeat and run but he couldn't. He couldn't give up this beautiful god. So he knelt and he worshipped him, he unfastened his trousers with unsteady hands and he smoothed down the silken drawers and there he stumbled, confronted with Peacecraft's already hard cock, with the red, swollen flesh and he had never seen a cock so beautiful before and he tried to swallow all of it, tried too fast and he choked and coughed but then he tried again, silently begging Peacecraft, begging God, to let this be good. To let it be better. To let it be enough. The whole time, Peacecraft stood silent and still, letting Duo plead with his mouth, with the only thing he had ever had confidence in. When Peacecraft came it was with a soft, almost silent grunt, a shudder, and hot, bitter cum that filled Duo's mouth and throat, that dribbled over his lips and down his chin as Peacecraft pulled away. Duo looked up, then, finally, to see the verdict - but Peacecraft was pulling out his sketchbook and his pencils, a frown drawing his perfect pale brows together and he stood there, trousers around his thighs, spent cock wet from Duo's mouth and his own pleasure, and he looked at Duo with those cold eyes that saw everything and he drew him. Duo felt numb. Felt cold all over and he - he couldn't think. He could do nothing but kneel there with cum on his face and tears in his eyes and emptiness in his heart. He didn't know how long it was, didn't know how many pages Peacecraft flipped through and discarded, but eventually the sun began to set and the book and pencils were tossed aside and Duo closed his eyes. It was time. Time to stand up and take the payment and leave and - and he knew, could feel it, that things had ended. He had not been better. Had not been enough. Could offer Peacecraft nothing that came close to what those three women had and this was it. His last moment to look into those cold eyes. But when Duo raised his gaze from the floor, when his eyes met Peacecraft's they were, for the first time, thawed. "My Duo," the man said and he pulled Duo to his feet, pulled him close and kissed his lips gently. "You are my favorite muse." He didn't know what it meant, the words or the touch, the warmth and the tenderness. Duo could barely remember what it felt like - to be held, to hear his name said with affection. He didn't know how to react. "You will always be better than anyone or anything else that I have," Peacecraft continued, his fingers running through Duo's hair, uncaring of the tangles or the grease. "You will always be mine."
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