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" Love Is Often a Bitch"Written By: Presser Pairings : 2x1x2 Disclaimer : Gundam Wing characters aren't mine Rating : PG 13 Warnings : adult situations
"Love Is Often a Bitch"
Tonight I stuffed a dollar down the front of Shawn's underpants. Several, in fact. I was at a gay bar called Circumspect, in a little off-freeway dive of a town called West Barrister, just south of the warehouse district at the end of the L2 industrial spoke. Don't ask why I was there; I won't tell you. Okay, maybe I will. You have a nice face -- anyone ever tell you that? Anyway. I stormed right out of the house after Heero Fucking Yuy, the Big Man, told me I was making a mistake. Mistake? What the hell does /he/ know about making mistakes? It's pretty obvious to everyone, es-PECIAL-ly him, that HE'S never made one, so how the hell would he go about REC-ognizing one -- even if it hit him in the face? Doesn't matter. He told ME, didn't he? And I responded the way I always do, by turning into a flying Banshee, screaming incoherently about how -- Ah, hell, it doesn't matter, does it? We fought, and I'm too dunderheaded to -- to -- * * * Like I said. One moment I'm yelling at Heero, for nothing that now seems important; then he's in the doorway, yelling at me as I head for my shit-for-wheels Honda; then suddenly -- suddenly -- I'm sitting on this stool at the Circumspect, surrounded by middle-aged boys-turned-men, leering with them over Shawn and his co-workers for the evening, Trevor and Corey. Shawn swivels through the thumpin-pumpin 80's beat like it's olive oil. He slides my way, 'cause he knows I'll have another dollar in my fingers, waiting for a chance to feel his slick-firm belly as I stuff an American greenback into his satin-white crotch. I do. And he spoils the mood by striking up a conver-SA-tion with me, for godssake. "Are you having a good time?" he says with a smile as he air-fucks me. "Yeah, baby, I am," I manage to croak out. God, why am I here? The liquor's cheap; the room stinks of tobacco; the music's equally loud and bad. Corey slinks my way and -- Hell, they all, all three of 'em, they all know I'm an easy mark -- the gold daddy for the night, the one who'll pay over and over just for a touch, just for a tongue across the lips that smirk under glowing eyes -- "Mike," I yell over the Bose speakers. "My tab." I reach for my scarf, my hat. * * * In the parking lot, I stumble through a wanna-be-spring breeze at twenty past the witching hour; find my car; climb in and start the engine. J-rock explodes, and I careen against the window as the heater shudders against the plastic vents above the cigarette lighter. "Shit," I whisper. Then I start to laugh. "I'm such a fuck-up," I say to no one. Flem made from scotch slaps my esphagus, and I lean against the window with a cough-sputter-chuckle that drags breath from my lungs. Sobriety dawns, as only it can. My eyebrows rise slowly, and my mouth turns down as a wave of sad reality washes over my psyche. "God, Heero," I whisper, "I -- I -- I'm sorry." I know I've come out here to hurt him, but all I've done is hurt myself. I scowl, sit up, slam the stick into reverse, and the car skitters backwards. Gravel screws the tire tread. "Woah," I say, bringing things to a halt. "No sense gettin' myself killed over a l'il ol' lovers' spat." I chuckle-cough again. * * * Everything clears, and I can see him, sitting at the kitchen table, patiently waiting, sipping stale coffee, waiting, glancing at the clock, smoothing nothing from his jeans, waiting. He deserves better than this. Than me. "I'll go home; apologise." But will it make any difference? Will I ever reform? Turn over a new leaf? Will he? Love is often a bitch. It demands the best you've got, even if you're not used to giving it, even if you've never given it before. I slowly take my foot off the brake and ease out of the lot, point my Honda toward the freeway, toward Central, toward Heero. I'll apologise. I always do. And he'll forgive me. He always does. But for how long? God, all I want is to -- I sigh, soft, long, slow. And I go back. Back home. To Heero. ~ * ~ |
