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"Kiss"Written By: Fancy Figures Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, wish I did, just
enjoy writing about 'em for free etc Pairing: 1+2 Warnings: Duo POV, yaoi, lime Rating: R Summary: For Valentine’s day, and with special
love to asia_2 who had such a miserable journey home this week –
and whose beautiful picture inspired me! "Kiss" When I come back into the lounge, he’s asleep again. It happens quite often, nowadays. I went out to the kitchen for a while, and in the meantime he leant back on the couch, rested his head on the cushions, and fell asleep. It’s a familiar, soft old couch and he looks comfortable enough. The fading sunlight from the window lights up one side of his face: his skin looks taut and pale against the shock of dark hair. I stand still in the doorway for a moment, but he doesn’t stir. I carefully put the mugs of steaming liquid down on the hallway table, because it doesn’t look like he’s interested in after dinner coffee now. He barely managed the meal, the movements of his fork getting slower and more hesitant as the weariness overcame him. He refused anything else to eat, though he thanked me for the food: he always does. His manners are perfect and his gratitude genuine, not that I ask for that in particular. He’s my friend, and I know what that means to me. I know how I should – and do - treat a friend. Especially Heero. He arrives late at night when there’s nowhere else for him to stay and he doesn’t want to give explanations of either his absence or his return. Sanctuary and succour. That’s what he expects and hopes for from me, and I’m happy to give it to him. I walk quietly over to the couch and stand behind it. I can look down on him from here. I don’t get much chance to study him like this, and I feel kind of embarrassed about it. Stupid, eh? I’ve known him for years. We come and go, in and out of each other’s lives without complaint or awkwardness, but we rarely talk about it. Talk about us. There’s a small flake of something on his shoulder – maybe a shrivelled leaf from one of the neglected bushes outside the apartment block, or a wood shaving from the decrepit old front door. I reach down and flick it away. I move very gently, but he still doesn’t stir. He laughed about this apartment when I first rented it – said no wonder it was so cheap when it was barely above a squat. But when he first stayed with me; when he saw the way I did my best to make it homely; when he first spent a night on this couch… well, he often came back to stay, that’s all I can say. His breath is very shallow, but steady. This year has been good for me, finding a job, making some money and a few new friends. But for Heero… it’s been harder. He still travels; still finds it difficult to settle. His wanderlust suits him for the moment, but I’ve seen how tired he gets – how it’s beginning to wear him down. His visits are irregular and often unannounced, and sometimes it takes him a long time to relax. I watch the sudden flicker under his thin eyelids. This kind of exhaustion isn’t peace for him – but it’s part of the winding-down process that allows him to recover some of his energy. A thread of his hair is caught in the corner of his eye. I lean over the back of the couch, careful not to disturb him, and I brush it gently away. His skin is warm at his temples; there’s a flush on his cheeks that may be from the sun on his skin, or maybe something else. I don’t know what goes on in his dreams when he sleeps, and I wouldn’t presume to ask. I should be happy that he feels able to relax here, and believe me, I am. There was a time that no-one could help him – no-one could reach him. He wouldn’t let them. He’s so much more sociable now, and that suspicion has largely gone; the sharp narrowing of his eyes at anything new; the reluctance to give account of himself and his needs. And when he returns, I’m usually the first one he comes to. I don’t want to boast, because like I said, that’s what friendship is about, but it makes me very happy. I’m hoping he’ll stay for a while – it gives him time to build up his strength, and then he’ll smile again; laugh and tease me; play sports with me; share the modest routine of my life for a while. Though never for long enough. He murmurs something in his sleep, just a breath escaping from his closed lips. There the tiniest freckle on his cheek, just to the side of his mouth. I’ve never noticed it before. It’s caught in the crease line from his smile. It’ll take a day or so before the smile returns fully, but it will. I like to see him smiling. I like to make him smile. I think a lot about it. Maybe I should get a life, right? I feel a little too warm, the sunlight pooling gently on my shoulders. I can’t take my eyes off it: the freckle. Something makes me reach a hand to his cheek, just holding it a few millimetres away. I can imagine touching the skin, stroking it, holding its warmth in my palm. Up close like this, I can smell his scent, woven into his worn, creased sweater – the only one he has. When he breathes out, I also smell the piquant sauce from our early supper. His lips are slightly moist; his eyes are flickering rapidly now. My thumb brushes against his jaw and I let it. It’s a selfish temptation, I know it is, and yet I let it have its way. My head dips down over his shoulder, and for a few moments, I breathe in rhythm with him. I’ve never felt so close to him – and he’s not even awake. The movement startles me. His eyes are still closed, but he stirs, and his hand slides very swiftly up around my neck, tugging me down against him. His fingers snag in my braid, but I'm not pulling away anyway. His lips open just a little, and his head turns slightly towards me. The temptation is still my master, and my mouth touches down to his. He’s smiling: I feel it underneath my lips, and I slip my tongue into his willing mouth. I trace the creases of his smile with my fingertips. He tastes of everything I ever needed. My sanctuary. My succour. I never tasted a mouth like this, never took a kiss like this. Then his hand grips me even tighter, and I know I'm not taking - he's giving. We break momentarily, though my hands are still on his face. "You were asleep," I gasp, breathing in swiftly, my lips slightly numb. He nods in reply, his hair tickling my cheek. "For a long time," he whispers. "But not any more." He pulls me to him again, preventing any more words. I lean against him and feel the warmth trickling through me; delight; excitement; a more than familiar love. Should I be surprised that his kiss is just as deep, just as full of care? Should I have kept the temptation at bay - kept my feelings hidden for ever, if needs be? Then his tongue flickers back into my mouth and I know he wants this. Maybe he’s waited as long as I have for the right moment – for the wanderlust to bring him back here one last time. To stay. End
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