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"Sinnerman"Written By: L.
Valensi Disclaimer: The characters are copyrighted to
BANDAI and all others responsible for their creation. Rating: NC 17 Pairings: 1x2 Summary: Duo and Heero were in the same unit in the war. Heero was killed and Duo is searching for those responsible. « » Marks words spoken in a different language
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx oh sinnerman, where you gonna run to? Nina Simone, “Sinnerman” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx «Shit!» cursed a middle-aged man in a snappy Armani business suit, riding in his patent-red Corvette. In his case, it was perfectly acceptable to curse as much as he wanted, given the situation he was in—that is, given that he was being run down Henry Hudson Parkway by three black sedans all firing away at his rear bumper. «Fuck, shit, fuck, shit, fuck this shit!» He veered violently to the side to avoid a head-on collision with a towering blue cargo truck. «Are there no fucking police in this city?!» He cringed and grabbed a handful of his hair in frenzy. He cursed once more in a distinctly Middle Eastern language as his passenger door smashed against the SUV of a three-children family at ninety-five miles per hour. With sparks flying all around, he kept pushing forward. He looked back and was momentarily blinded by the light reflecting off the golden grills of the gangsters out to get him (and with the very GPs they’d made a deal to ship to his country, no less). The black sedans were only feet away from him now. Pushing down on his pedal with all the strength he could muster, he tore away from the SUV, sending the family spinning aside. Steadily, the bullets began to die down. Still, he could hear wheels grinding on the asphalt behind him. He wound through vehicles, his brain agitated to the point of complete focus; but his concentration was unexpectedly broken by the loud ringing of the car’s phoning system. The caller ID responded by blinking “unknown” several times. His vision shifted to and from the bright lights of New York’s Upper West Side to the neon fluorescence of the car’s touch-screen. His right hand trembled as it pushed the answer key, and a warbled voice streamed into his consciousness. «Do you want to live to see another day, Rashid?» it said in his Persian tongue, catching him off-guard. «Who are you? What do you want from me?» roared Rashid, slamming his right hand into the car’s stereo system. «I am the God of Death, Rashid. Remember me?» The voice laughed halfheartedly. «We’ll discuss what a stupid decision it was for you to choose those mobster dogs over me after we’ve saved you from the hounds. But that begs the question. Do you want to live to see another day, Rashid?» He swerved into the far-left lane and caught sight of the three black sedans still right behind him. Once the sound of ricocheting bullets hit Rashid’s eardrum, he found himself pleading for any sort of direction out of his predicament. «Very well, then; in two minutes take Exit 16 into Fort Tryon Park. I’ll be feeding the rest of the directions to your navigational system. Understand that once you get into the city, they’ll have back-ups sent to go in after you, meaning more men to escape from. Miss a turn and it’s your funeral. I’ll see you at the end, if you make it.» As the exit came up to Rashid’s line of sight, everything began to move in slow motion for him. Whether it was the directions from the lifeless robot wired to his car or the two new black sedans chasing him down Broadway for what seemed like ages, Rashid was at a loss for words or even thoughts of his own. All that would play in his head was the distorted, high-pitched voice on the phone and the clanging of the doors of his half-destroyed red rental. Soon enough, he found himself dodging cars in the dark of night on a bridge. His foot cramped up in pain from the pressure he kept on the acceleration. He could already feel his car craving for more fuel as he watched the needle point closer to “Empty.” The phone began to ring and it was him again—the God of Death, or whatever he called himself. «The last turn is coming up. Drive into the lot behind the red warehouse and into the wide alley. I’ll handle things from there.» Rashid nodded obediently, as if the voice could see him and would repay him with kindness for his deference. But as he pulled into the alleyway, in which the darkness hid an unmistakable dead end from which there was no visible escape, Rashid realized his true fate: that the God of Death only deals in death, not life, and this was his. Rashid exited his car in utter despair. Once he was out in the open, he could clearly hear the black sedans; could feel the steam from their guns heating the back of his neck and head; could feel the gunsmoke singing his flesh until they felt well compelled to blow the life out of him. And for what was he to die for, he asked himself, for what? «You corrupt Americans! I come here from my country to give you money in exchange for help against the terrorists and this is what you give me? False hope and death? You animals have no right to be called human!» Rashid fell to his knees and began to weep uncontrollably. «My Uldouz… my sweet little Zarrin… I will never see them again… Because of you pieces of shit!» He screamed and whipped around to face the gangsters with guns, his finger outstretched accusingly. Yet before he could spout out a new line of curses, gunfire blew up all around him from the darkest corners of the alley. The thunderous gattling sent Rashid flying face-first into the ground. Undiluted shrieking occurred all around Rashid along with the smell of blood and metal. He thought he was already dying and perhaps that was why he couldn’t feel anything. All he could do was listen—to gunshots, to voices, to death—and all he could think was that he’d been betrayed by the Americans—which wasn’t surprising in the least—and that now, he was dead. Dead as a doornail. Fortunately for him, he realized that was not the case. As the gunshots and the screams faded to nothing against the backdrop of the Hudson River’s slow and tepid sloshing, Rashid regained feeling in his every nerve. Once he found the courage to assure himself of his liveliness, Rashid stood up. He felt his pulse speed up at the sight of the area around him littered with bodies and stained with blood. He observed, disbelieving more than horrified, as the carcasses twitched every so often, wide-eyed and spewing shells from their hole-ridden faces. He looked up to the sky, in awe of what he believed to be the power of the God of Death. «You really are the God of Death,» He mumbled as he raised his hands to the sky in thankful prayer. An unexpected light touch to his shoulder caused him to yelp pitiably and fall straight on his back. He locked eyes with a lithe young man whose sharp, down-spiking hair left half of his face a mystery. The young man in the crisp butler’s uniform bowed respectfully to Rashid. «Are… are you the God of Death?» said Rashid, his voice trembling with fearful uncertainty. The youth stood straight and shook his head. «I’m afraid that is incorrect, Mr. Kurama. I’m merely the God of Death’s assistant. You may call me Nanashi.» The youth extended a helping hand to Rashid, which the larger man accepted. However, the young man did not release it once Rashid was upright. «The God of Death has an offer to make you, Mr. Kurama,» said the butler seriously. «He has prepared a new offer since you so rudely rejected it the first time. The price is quite different this time. But now that you have seen the untrustworthy nature of other arms suppliers, he is certain that you have at least reconsidered your position. So what shall it be, Mr. Kurama?» Rashid, overwhelmed by the events of the night, began to laugh heartily. He couldn’t begin to explain to himself what was the right thing to do, only that he had to come out of this alive. Nanashi stayed put, his remote expression unwavering despite the large Iranian’s crazed laughter. Rashid shook Nanashi’s smaller hand vigorously. “What can I say? It is a deal!” said Rashid in his awkward English and heavy Persian accent. He ran hurriedly to the trunk of his car and waved wildly to Nanashi. “I have here the money! Where to put it, Nanashi?” Nanashi removed a small device from his coat pocket and Rashid watched as warehouse garage opened to reveal a yellow Lamborghini Murciélago with pitch-black windows. «Please place the money into the passenger seat,» requested Nanashi. Rashid followed his directions happily, skipping over corpses several times in order to stack ten briefcases full of money into the car. As soon as Rashid closed the passenger door, the engine started as if controlled by a ghost. It backed out of the garage and drove away. Rashid, stunned, turned to ask Nanashi about it. He found the butler standing directly beside him, observing the car as it disappeared into the night. Nanashi’s arm swung gracefully towards another open door which held within it a limousine. «Your escape awaits.» said Nanashi as he opened the door the limousine. Rashid looked at him, bewildered. «Is this a joke?» he asked. «I’m sorry, Mr. Kurama, I don’t quite understand the question,» replied Nanashi. «Please, just get in the car. We will miss your flight back to Tehran if you don’t.» And so, Rashid did. For most of the ride, he napped and snored loudly. When he awoke, he found himself staring at the bridge lights glimmering in the East River as they drove into Queens, entirely exhausted. All he wanted at this point was to get back to his wife and his daughter and to forget he was ever associated with his business. «Mr. Kurama?» Rashid heard Nanashi say from upfront. He didn’t even realize the butler had rolled down the window between them. «Just so you don’t forget, the transaction is not over yet. You still owe the God of Death five million and if he doesn’t receive it, you won’t get your arms nor will you get your money back. Is that understood?» «Yes, that’s clear. I’ll make sure my superiors understand it as well.» «Good. We will be arriving at LaGuardia Airport soon. Please feel free to change into the clothing provided for you in the closet on the side. Your ticket is also located there.» «Wait!» said Rashid as the window began to rise once more. «You know that my superiors refused to deal with the God of Death because they heard he doesn’t make deals in person. It’s difficult to trust something or someone you cannot see. You must ask the God of Death forgiveness for that. But you must also give me something of substance to prove to them that the God of Death is a man to be trusted, otherwise I’m still a dead man.» «Is your life not enough proof for them?» asked Nanashi. «If that’s not enough, at least the God of Death has given you the gift of living one more day so that you may be able to say your good-byes to your family.» «Then tell me, Nanashi, is he really the God of Death?» «I’m sorry,» replied Nanashi, «I don’t quite understand the question.» Suddenly, Nanashi stopped the car and turned to face Rashid, stirring up a fear within the large man with the piercing green of his visible eye. «Have a safe flight, Mr. Kurama.» xxx “That’s him!” yelled some photographer from the sea of hungry paparazzi. All of them began to clamor wildly at the sight of the familiar canary-yellow Murciélago driving into the valet service of the Time Warner Center. They knew the car belonged to none other than their target: the smoldering best friend (or as the tabloids popularly choose to believe, “best-friend-with-benefits”) of the modern-day Leonardo DiCaprio himself, the blonde, baby blue-eyed Oscar nominee Quatre Raberba-Winner. His name was Duo Maxwell and they were out to get him. At least, that was how Duo saw things. Inside his car, he was still safe from the hyenas waiting outside the Center’s main entrance, where he promised to meet Quatre. He knew it was a bad decision from the start, but it had been his idea to give Quatre as much exposure as possible in the first place. Once Quatre’s name was out there, he became an A-list star who all the big producers wanted. Quatre saw these events as an opportunity to thank even the lowest of the media hounds, the paparazzi, for helping his career. “It’s for my fans,” he would say in the paparazzi’s defense. However, that didn’t mean Duo had to like it. He handed his keys to the valet with a smile, and made his way down Columbus Circle to the Center’s entrance. On his way, he was greeted with his usual crowd: awfully-dressed American tourists with loud mouths and no sense of personal space trying to touch his four-foot braid; Japanese tourists with their cameras permanently attached to their necks; hipster NYU students with too much money squealing for attention by trying to relate to him on superficial levels; and then came the worst, the fat men who snapshot his soul to pieces and sold it for blood money to the Enquirer. As he squeezed past the crowd, he acknowledged them with trademarked gallantry, even replying to their questions of “Who are you wearing?” and “How long have you had your hair?” with a generously broad smile. “Well, this lovely leather jacket is Ralph Lauren, and my jeans are Gaultier’s,” said Duo, flashing a sultry smile for the cameras. “And, as you know, I’ve been growing my hair for nearly ten years now.” “He’s like Rapunzel, isn’t he?” a sweet, youthful voice piped in from behind Duo. The crowd began to scream “Quatre!” as the smaller, more adorable blonde put his arm around Duo’s shoulder. “He’s been growing his hair for six years and it’s grown in feet! David Copperfield should ask him how he does it, don’t you all think?” Quatre winked at Duo, who shot him a brief, unappreciative look before he resumed smiling for the cameras. “Just a bit more, Duo. Enjoy yourself.” Quatre muttered through gritted teeth as they posed together. Quatre spent a few minutes signing photographs, with Duo standing beside him replying to what questions he could catch—most of them were along the same lines: are you dating Quatre, are you friends with benefits, are you available, the kinds of things that the tabloids sold for a living. Jokingly, Duo would respond with vague statements, which just left them hungry for more. “Okay, everyone! We’re going to be late! Thank you for coming, bye-bye now!” Quatre shouted, waving graciously while taking Duo by the arm into the Center’s fourth floor, where one of Duo’s clients was holding a party for a recent acquisition. Tonight was a momentous night for many reasons. One of his biggest clients, the limelight’s own Dorothy Catalonia, had recently acquired a sculpture that cost her twenty-five million dollars. She could afford it, of course; her father, after all, was the owner of the Catalonia Acquisitions, not to mention hundreds of international resorts. She was the style intelligentsia of her trust-fund baby peers. And in spite of the fact that Duo had turned her down for a date, they remained such good acquaintances that she had turned to him for help on how to acquire the particular piece of art that she was celebrating tonight—and, more importantly, had asked to sign with his company to insure it. Dorothy was holding an acquisition party at the infamously expensive Masa Restaurant. Upon entering, Quatre’s beamed with joy. The young actor swooned over the simple, tangibly Japanese décor, from the wooden furniture, to the red-orange thatch work curtains hanging from the ceilings, to the amber glow of the lights against the windowless walls. “Oh, Duo, I’m so glad you asked me to come! I’ve always wanted to eat here but I never had a reason to!” exclaimed Quatre, his hands clutching his heart dramatically. “You’re welcome, Q,” said Duo, smirking at Quatre’s swooning. “First things first, though, gotta make our rounds before we can get to taking in some of this Masa sake.” Quatre made a face so cute, even Duo couldn’t resist smiling. “Fine, fine, let’s go. My turn to help, after all,” said the blonde. In an instant, the actor in Quatre was in full bloom: he molded himself into the perfect gentleman the world was privy to in a split second, and it was this gentleman that impressed Duo’s clients and all the potential clients present in the venue. Duo thanked god that Quatre had immensely more reserves of patience than he did, for his crowd was a little less willing to praise than Quatre’s adoring fans. He was pleasantly surprised to find that, after nearly thirty minutes and despite many comments that ran along the lines of, “You were in that teen movie abomination? Well, I suppose you have to start somewhere,” Quatre had enjoyed mingling with his clients. “I’m glad they were honest! I’m a little ashamed of the fact that I spent years just doing teen movies, too. People are never honest with you when you’re in the public eye like I am,” explained Quatre as Duo led him to the bar, where the chef greeted them humbly. “They’re always saying, “Oh, I love you, Quatre!” or “You suck, Quatre!” Nothing really has any substance. Even if I stopped for more than a minute to talk to them, they wouldn’t say anything worth noting. Everyone’s just too afraid of being who they are. It’s awful.” “Ah, well, it’s a fact of life, Q,” replied Duo, taking a sip of his hot tea. “I mean, you’re not exactly ‘who you are’ with these people are you? It’s like that thing Shakespeare wrote.” “Out damn’d spot?” Quatre smiled naively. Duo laughed. “No, Jessica Simpson,” he said. “He once wrote, ‘All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’ Something like that.” “Well that makes infinitely more sense,” replied Quatre. They shared a chuckle and observed the small group of New York high society mingling with each other. But little did they know their peace would soon broken by the tinkling of last season Kenneth Cole dress shoes. The clacking belonged to none other that Wufei Chang, Duo’s self-appointed “rival” in the art insurance world. “What a cheap move to make, Maxwell, bringing some pretty-boy actor to snag my potential clients from under my nose,” snapped the recognizably acidic voice so like a razorblade’s edge to Duo’s ears. “But, since it’s you, it’s kind of expected.” Duo sighed audibly and turned to face his “rival.” He was a petite man, but Duo knew better. Whether Wufei was actually trying to play up Asian stereotypes or not, Duo knew that beneath the man’s rental tuxedo and ugly sneer, Bruce Lee was waiting to come out and kick a few asses. Duo had the misfortune of dealing with the Jackie Chan side of Wufei during an exhibition with an open bar. For some reason, he approached Duo and began to verbally abuse him about swimming in his pool and taking all his clients. Duo, out of courtesy, refused to fight back—but that only incensed Wufei more. After the Chinese man deemed Duo “the devil,” he tried to kung-fu the living daylights out of him. Luckily, Duo’s background as a Marine gave him more than enough experience to subdue even the drunken technique of the inebriated insurance agent. God knows why he chose a career in art over becoming the on-call antagonist in every Jet Li movie ever made, Duo thought at the time. Quatre spun around to face Wufei, whose angular features, right down to his signature thin ponytail, matched the sharpness of his voice with striking equality. Wufei’s demeaning grimace was returned with innocent anger by the blonde actor. “Who the hell are you and where do you get off thinking you can talk to my friend like that?” Quatre made motions to stand up defensively, but Duo put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to restrain himself. “Don’t worry, Quatre, Princess Wufei’s just jealous that I landed a multi-million dollar contract with Dorothy faster than he could jack off to your spread in GQ.” “Keep your nightly routines to yourself, Maxwell, or you may end up losing your trophy boy once he finds out all your dirty intentions,” “Who says I’d mind?” Quatre fired back, unable to help himself from coming to Duo’s defense. Both of the men gave the actor a half-amused, half-perplexed look before turning their attention to each other again. “Careful, Wufei, he looks nice, but he’ll bite if you keep bitching.” But before Wufei could continue the playful, yet oddly harsh, exchange, a broad-shouldered Adonis in a striking royal blue tuxedo whisked Wufei by hand to his side. The man towered over Wufei by at least a foot and a half, and could probably fit two of the svelte Chinese man into his muscular frame. “Monsieur Chang!” greeted Treize Khushrenada, one of Wufei’s biggest clients. “I’m so happy you have come to join me!” It had been a great loss of Duo’s. Treize seemed to have a strange “thing” for Wufei that had slammed the opportunity’s door in Duo’s face. He was a Forbes magazine veteran of being one of the richest men alive and yet, here he was, squeezing the life out of a small Chinese man right before their very eyes—hell, in front of many of New York City’s elite. “Of course I came,” gasped Wufei, trying with difficulty to remove himself from Treize’s clutch. “It—It’s an honor to have been invited by you, Mr. Khushrenada,” “Didn’t I tell you to call me Treize? Anyway, our table’s over there. Oh, I’m so glad you’re here! I was bored to tears…” And with that, Duo and Quatre were left giggling at the sight of one Wufei Chang being dragged across the restaurant to suffer the indignity of being Treize Khushrenada’s plaything for the night. “That was so much fun, Duo!” exclaimed Quatre. “How come I’ve never run into him before? I’ve been to so many exhibits with you.” “He and I try not to swim in the same pool, if you know what I mean,” He left Quatre with a confused look as Dorothy Catalonia captured everyone’s attention with the ringing of a spoon against her glass. “Thank you, my dear friends, for joining me this wonderful, wonderful night!” said Dorothy. “I know everyone is waiting for Chef Masa’s delicious meal, but I just wanted to share with you all my happiness at my recent acquisition of Takashi Murakami’s beloved work, “My Lonesome Cowboy,” a piece of art I have had my eye on for several years. It took great pains to secure this deal, and a lot of money, but it was worth every penny. So, everyone, enjoy your dinner and please feel free to view the sculpture and remember to visit it at the Catalonia House, along with other beautiful works I’ve acquired!” “So this must be some sculpture for her to have spent twenty-something million on it, right Duo?” asked Quatre, cheeks already rosy from the sake. Duo’s brow peaked. “You mean you didn’t even look it up?” he asked the blonde, who was giggling nonsensically. “Nope!” Quatre sighed. “Forgot. Sorry.” “Well, you’re about to see,” Duo pointed to Dorothy, who was gracefully unveiling from under a red tarp the life-size sculpture of a typical blonde Japanese animation male—except he was stark naked and holding a jet-stream of semen shaped as a lasso, and all with a big smile on his face. Quatre’s jaw dropped. He yelped and covered his eyes with a napkin, forcing Duo to act as a cover for the young man cowering from Takashi Murakami’s statement about the emptiness of his culture’s consumerism. He smiled politely to everyone looking their way and told them Quatre had “burned himself on some sake.” They nodded understandingly and returned to their dinner. “Poor baby,” said Duo, patting Quatre’s head and angling the blonde’s line of sight away from the lonesome cowboy as the waiters began to serve dinner. As the first hour of dinner came and went and they were finally afforded a small break, Duo excused himself from Quatre’s side. He approached Dorothy’s side and took up her hand to his lips in so swift and charming a motion that all at her table paused to observe. One of Dorothy’s aunts, also a fellow art collector, eyed Duo suggestively. “My, Dorothy, do introduce this handsome devil of a stranger won’t you?” Dorothy blushed, stood up, and introduced him. “Forgive me, everyone, this is Duo Maxwell. I am signing up with his company to ensure my dear cowboy is well-tended to in all ways. Excuse us while we finalize the arrangements.” Duo nodded politely to her guests (even giving a requisite wink to Dorothy’s flustered aunt). When he passed Treize’s table, he managed to throw the scowling Wufei a smarmy, I-totally-fucking-beat-you grin. “Are you enjoying your dinner?” asked Dorothy as she signed the papers in front of him (a formality). “Of course, Ms. Catalonia; I’m honored you chose the dinner to finalize the deal. I’m really glad I could help you acquire this guy here,” he said, motioning to the sculpture beside them. “Yes, I was so happy to know you shared similar tastes in art!” she exclaimed as she returned the papers into the portfolio and handed it to Duo. “Lovers of modern art are truly few and far between. Everyone’s so stuck in the past—I only look towards the future.” “Well, not many people can be as avant-garde as you, Ms. Catalonia. People love the comfort of tradition. If they’ve always said Picasso’s great art, they will continue to say it and praise it because they’re comfortable with it, even if it’s just some little sketch he peed out one day.” “I agree completely!” the socialite replied, clapping her hands together. “Anyway, I shouldn’t take you away from your date. Let’s shake hands on this and enjoy the rest of the night.” “It’s been wonderful,” said Duo as they shook hands decisively. Duo returned to his seat beside Quatre, who was hungrily eyeing whatever the chef was preparing behind the bar. “Good lord, didn’t you even eat today?” said Duo as he slid back into his braided bamboo stool. Quatre, in one graceful motion, snapped up the last of his blowfish sashimi before turning to Duo with a look of ecstasy. “I could eat forever here!” he said, flashing Chef Masa a brilliant, intoxicated grin. “You can do no wrong with me, Chef!” “He can hold his alcohol very well, ne?” said the chef to Duo with a knowing smile. “Oh, yes, definitely,” answered Duo with a wink. “He’s half Irish, don’t you know.” The chef replied with a hearty laugh, to which Quatre responded, mouth half-full with sushi, “’Ey… are you being sarcastic-or-whatnot? ‘Cause I can hold my alcohol real good… I’m half Irish, don’t you know! You should know… I… said so in Tiger Beat… mmm, toro maki…” Duo shook his head and rubbed Quatre’s back as he called for a waiter to remove the sake from their bar and provide him with hot tea. “Yeah, yeah, eat mine, it’ll help you sober up,” said Duo to the giggling blonde. “You probably had this all planned, didn’t you?” “Mebbe,” gurgled Quatre as he happily chewed his food. “Fatso,” joked Duo. xxx The celebration’s end found Quatre clinging to Duo’s arm for support with Duo attempting to convince everyone he wasn’t dead yet. As the guests began to thin around them in the restaurant, Duo felt the vibration of his phone in his jacket pocket. “Are you here yet?” asked Duo, groaning slightly as Quatre’s chair tipped forward and forced all the blonde’s weight on his arm. “Did you bring the black car?” “Yes, sir. Go down and I’ll be there waiting for you, sir.” curtly replied the young butler. “You better be or you’re fired,” muttered Duo as he slid his arm under Quatre’s to prop him up. Realizing what a travesty it was to be found grunting and dragging a movie star out into New York City, he slapped Quatre conscious. “Hey, Mel Gibson, snap out of it!” he hissed. “Come on, let’s get you home.” Quatre groaned and was dizzily led out of the restaurant. Duo asked the frantic fans who recognized him to keep their distance as they made their way out the door and towards Duo’s young butler, who was standing primly next to a limousine, half his face hidden behind thick, hazelnut hair. “I need you to give Mr. Winner here a ride home,” ordered Duo. The young man nodded and opened the car door. Duo was about to put Quatre into the car when Quatre stumbled out of Duo’s grip and into the butler’s arms. This caused the butler to look at Duo expectantly, who merely shrugged. “He’s your problem, now. I have some things I need to take care of, so make sure he gets home.” When he realized whose arms he was in, Quatre blushed furiously and separated himself from the butler as quickly as he could. He began to laugh, twice as red as before from embarrassment. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry… Trowa,” he mumbled weakly. “I should… I can’t trouble you anymore, Duo, so, I’m just going to take a cab…” Almost instantaneously, Trowa was behind Quatre. “Forgive me, Mr. Winner, but it’s my duty to follow my master’s orders,” explained Trowa as he forcibly escorted the actor into the limousine. Quatre complied, sheepishly smiling back at Duo as Trowa closed the door. “Tro,” called Duo as the butler made his way to the driver’s side. “Everything alright?” “Right as rain, sir,” “Good,” said Duo as he handed Trowa a ticket stub, “Make sure to come back for Lightning when you’re finished.” “Yes, sir,” he replied. And then the two were gone like ghosts into Midtown traffic. From where he was standing, Duo could already hear the whispers growing into proclamations of “It really was Quatre!” But before they could claw at him for information, he’d already flagged down a cab and had slid comfortably into the squeaky leather seats. “177th and Amsterdam,” directed Duo to the cabbie, who was busily talking to his friend on his hands-free phone. The ride was quiet except for the chattering of the cabbie and the soft Senegalese music playing in the background. Duo sat still for most of the ride in deep contemplation. Thirty minutes passed before they arrived at Duo’s destination. He gave the man a fifty and parted without asking for change. He headed down various streets with brisk steps, shoulders hunched, like a criminal on the run. It was far from the actual location of his drop-off, about fifteen minutes in haste towards the Hudson. His actual destination was a humble little wooden church hidden by a grove of untended bushes. He made his way to its entrance, fingers trembling inside his pockets. The old, white-washed double doors creaked open to reveal five pews in faded mahogany and statues of saints on mismatched podiums. There was the altar of the priest in the middle lit up by several candles, with a large crucifix hanging behind it. Next to the altar was an uncomfortably small confessional. Duo was calmed by the fact that he was alone. He entered the wooden box (which was more like a coffin than a confessional). Once seated, he awaited the familiar entrance of his priest: a rush of cloth and silence. He smiled inwardly and said, “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit—Amen.” “May the Lord bless you and keep you,” said the priest, whose voice was younger than his words. “Good evening, Duo.” “Good evening, Father. Thank you for meeting me here tonight.” “It is by the word of God that we are brought together this night, as it is with all nights,” “Thank God, then,” joked Duo—a joke which he quickly regretted. But the young priest behind the opaque screen laughed, which eased his nerves. “Well… I supposed we should get started, huh?” “That is for you to decide, Duo.” “Oh—right. Well,” Duo took a deep breath before continuing. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,” said Duo. “It has been a week since I last confessed.” “I know, Duo. No need for such strict formalities all the time.” “Sorry—this is all still very new to me so I—” “I know, Duo. Go on.” “Ah—yeah,” he stammered. “Forgive me father, for I have committed a heinous crime tonight. I was involved in the deaths of several men.” “And why did these men have to die?” “I was protecting a friend, father. They were going to kill him and I had to protect him from them.” “And did these men truly have to die in order for you to save your friend?” “Father, it was the only thing I could think of at the time. They had backed us into a corner from which we couldn’t escape.” “Duo, it is a mortal sin you have committed,” said the priest, who followed with an audible sigh. “Yet another sin committed protecting yet another friend.” “My business is dangerous father,” replied Duo honestly. “I honestly try to keep the death to a minimum, but they really give me no choice sometimes.” “Is that all you have to confess, Duo?” “No,” said Duo. He sat there fidgeting with his fingers, but he could hear the priest getting impatient. “You know the friend of mine that I saved?” “Yes, Duo,” “I overcharged him a little bit. I was angry that he chose to deal with the men who tried to kill him tonight instead of me, so when I saved him I hiked up my prices because I was angry. Is that a sin?” “Yes, that’s a sin, Duo,” answered the priest. “But it is truly the least of your worries. Are you not concerned at all what your sins are doing to your soul? To your chances for heavenly forgiveness?” “Honestly, father?” “Of course honestly, Duo.” “I already know I’m going to hell.” A lengthy silence followed. “That’s a rather bold statement to make, Duo,” said the priest. “Remember: judge not lest ye be judged.” “Yeah. But it’s the judgment of God that sinners go to hell. And I am a man of a great many sins, father, if you couldn’t already tell.” “That is true, indeed, Duo, but that is why you are here—to ask for penance; to atone for your sins instead of run from them.” Duo laughed. “I know, father. Just a preemptive strike. Speaking of which, I haven’t quite finished.” “There’s more?” “You remember who you’re talking to, right?” The priest laughed. “Forgive me, father, for I will sin,” continued Duo. “Are you trying to say you are purposefully sinning against God, Duo?” “I don’t know if it’s a real sin,” said Duo, “But I’m meeting with someone after my confession, and I don’t think God will approve of what we’ll do.” The priest paused this time. He said after a few moments, “Do you love this person, Duo?” Duo was hesitant to answer. “I don’t know what that word means, father.” “Very well, then, Duo,” said the priest. “I cannot convince you to give up your life, nor can I convince you not to become subdued by sinful lust as many of this world do, but please, Duo,” “Yes, father?” “Please leave room in your heart for God. He cares a great deal for all lives—even for the life of the sinner.” “Believe me, father—I'm trying.” “I know, Duo,” said the priest. “Well, then, let’s get on with it, shall we? “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” “Amen,” said Duo. The window between them closed and Duo was once again alone in the confessional. When he squeezed out of the box, he realized that the candles had all been blown out and there was nothing but the river and distant traffic. Duo, already feeling the biting night winds, rubbed his hands together for warmth and made his way back to Broadway. He wriggled in the cold until an empty cab came and picked him up; this time, a rather noisy Indian man with a flashy headset and Bhangra beats blasting on his radio. “Take me to the Hyphen, will you?” shouted Duo over the music. The cabbie gave him an okay sign and they were off. While in the cab, Duo took great pains to shove his hair into every available inch in his jacket, preempting a tourist attack like the good Marine he was. Soon enough, Duo was slipping another fifty through the taxi shield and back on the streets. He looked at his watch and half-smiled at his punctuality. He ran across traffic like a bastard. He walked as fast as his chilly feet could carry him into the hotel and up the elevator to his room. Being in big hotels reminded him that if he was discreet enough, he could come in and out without anyone really noticing. Plus, with enough money, you never really had to give them your name—and money was the least of his concerns. When he arrived at the room, Duo’s entire countenance shifted to one of ease. His shoulders released all tension they had when he was sprinting up and down New York and his face was overtaken by a wan smile. He whistled the tune to “Feeling Good” as he freed his egregiously long and winding braid from his leather jacket. He set it down on the foot of the dusty green chaise next to the king-sized bed and turned on the lamp. He fiddled with the bed stand drawer as he whistled his happy tune before picking up the Bible and seating himself in order to read silently. After about twenty minutes, Duo’s eyes shifted from the Gospel of Matthew to the bright light spilling into his room from the floor’s hallway. The light was soon overshadowed by the slim, finely-dressed figure of a man whose chiseled, Oriental features were betrayed by the deep-sea blue of his eyes. Upon looking at Duo, it seemed the man’s gaze captured him and was elsewhere at the same time. He peered out from under a smooth mat of carefully-styled brown hair that dropped to the nape of his neck, which was covered by a Benetton scarf in a dark palette. “You’re late,” noted Duo as he put the Bible on the bed stand and stood up to lead the other into the room. “Sorry,” the blue-eyed man said. “Had a previous engagement. Don’t worry, I’ll bill you on a discount...” He didn’t meet Duo’s stare; he merely remained standing opposite of him, slowly unwinding his scarf from around his neck. As he moved to unbutton his navy velveteen blazer, Duo’s hand closed on top of his. His gaze shot up to meet amber glinting off the violet specks in Duo’s eyes, which were leaning in dangerously close to his. “Let me take care of that,” said Duo, his voice low and husky like a tiger on the prowl. Both their eyes fluttered shut as Duo eliminated the distance between their mouths, savoring the lust salivating on both their tongues. Duo’s hands deftly penetrated through velveteen and cotton to wander through his sea of taut, heated skin and muscle. He kissed back vociferously and pushed Duo’s body against the foot of the bed. Their tongues and teeth clashed as Duo wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled their bodies down to lay on top of the white, heaven-soft comforter. Duo led him down to rest on his side, breaking their kiss, and proceeded to ravenously turn his mouth’s attention to the smooth, tender skin of his neck, which tasted like soap and expensive cologne. He moaned receptively, throat thick with wanton pressure from Duo’s lips, as the rest of his clothing was removed. He was completely vulnerable to Duo’s nimble, passionate touches. Duo brought his leg over to his other side and straddled him, swiveling his hips as he sat on top of his lover, inciting both pain and pleasure. He shot up and began unzipping Duo’s jeans, leaving Duo to work on his shirt. As he slid the patented black boxer-briefs over Duo’s divinely-carved hip flexors, he looked up to find Duo staring down at him with a look that made him oddly hot and bothered. It was a gaze not only full of eroticism but also seemed to hold an unparalleled admiration for what they were looking at—in this case, down at him. He made a motion to take in Duo’s head, but the other man pushed him to lie down on his back. Duo nudged his arms to rest outstretched against the headboard as he resumed his string of hard kisses and playful bites. His body arched for more and his voice unintelligibly called for Duo to take care of him. He could feel the blood wanting to burst out of his hardened member as Duo’s fingers tickled the inside of his thigh with his cold fingers. He bucked his hips and hissed Duo’s name in frustration. Almost immediately, his brain was set on fire by the soft wetness that seemed to overcome his entire lower body. His hands gripped the pillow as Duo’s tongue tickled against his member’s every sentient nerve; the friction against Duo’s mouth was so good that he could hardly believe this wasn’t the first time Duo had given him head. His throat tightened up once more when he felt Duo’s cold, wet fingertips leave the inside of his thighs and move towards no man’s land, where they prodded him gingerly, as if he were a virgin. He groaned lightly and bucked his hips against Duo’s mouth, causing him to stop his actions. Duo smiled gently as he slid up to meet the blue-eyed man face to face. He could smell his own musk on Duo’s lips, turning himself on more than he anticipated. “Don’t be in such a hurry,” murmured Duo into the nape of his neck. “The night’s only beginning.” “Don’t treat me like some fucking china doll, Maxwell,” said the blue-eyed man sharply. “If you’re going to give it to me, give it to me hard. I don’t want this fucking pansy. I want a fucking soldier.” “Oh?” replied Duo, eyes blazing with intensity in response to his lover’s insulting demand for him to be a “soldier.” Duo bent down and let his mouth do the talking—his lover’s neck was being buried his neck in violent game of kiss-and-suck that made him gasp for air. Duo relentlessly shoved back his lover’s legs and threw a pillow on top of his face to muffle his oncoming scream. Duo, his spirit inflamed, split him open in one, furious motion, which continued in rough, feverish strokes. It was like making love to a faceless man for Duo as his lover bit down helplessly on the pillow, unable to prevent the sounds from escaping his raw throat. Duo removed the pillow from his face in order to look at him, all of him. His pace gradually weaned to a mechanical gentleness that allowed both of them to breathe. His lover’s face was wet and red, biting back pain or pleasure or both, eyes half-lidded from too-much or not-enough. Duo leaned down closer and shut his eyes tightly, breathing deeply into his lover’s shoulder. His mouth—his hair—his eyes—everything, thought Duo, It reminds me so much of you… Heero… xxx “Hey!” greeted Duo as he approached a young man with a book in hand and leaning against a row of washing machines. Duo waved a hand in front of the boy and tapped him on the shoulder in an effort to get his attention. “Yoo-hoo? Is this the end of the line?” he asked, but received no answer. Feeling rowdy from the adrenaline of the first night at boot camp, Duo’s sense of personal space was limited at the moment; he gave no second thought to grabbing the other guy’s shoulder and ‘shaking a little bit of sense’ into him. Like a flash of lightning, the other boy reflexively ducked from Duo’s grip and shoved him backwards. Duo was about to spew a line of inappropriate obscenities when he recognized a drill instructor coming down from the front of the line. “Now what the hell is going on here?” he asked, pulling the blue-eyed boy back and extending a warning arm to Duo. “What the hell kind of Marine reads when he’s in line for a fuckin’ haircut? Who do you think you are, son?” He snatched the Bible from the boy’s hands and was about to throw it into the trash can—until he saw “Bible” threaded across the worn leather cover. He paused, turned around, and stuffed the book down the boy’s fatigues. “You wanna be a Marine, kid, you keep God in your heart, not in your hands,” said the officer. Behind them, Duo was snickering obnoxiously at the other boy’s misfortune. Sergeant Valder Farkill, as it said on his nametag, raised a brow upon seeing him—actually, upon seeing his waist-length ponytail—and made Duo freeze up instantly. “Scrawny little shit like you made it this far?” Farkill grabbed him by his ponytail and spun him around to face the roomful of other recruits. He snapped off the rubber band holding Duo’s hair together and freed his thick, brown mane. “Hey boys, who the hell do we got here?” “That would be Jessica Alba, sir!” joked a recruit in the back, causing small pockets of laughter to occur all around Duo. Duo rolled his eyes and would have nonchalantly brushed the situation off, but the officer was holding him firmly by the collar. “Adriana Lima, sir!” shouted another. The laughter grew as the recruits traded knowledge of hot, long-haired brunettes all around Duo. “I think he’s trying to be Miley Stewart, sir!” shouted a young man with a soft southern drawl. Suddenly, the laughter switched into a confused silence among the men. Duo, though his face was red with embarrassment, stared at Otto with the same “what-the-fuck” expression. “Who the holy fuck is Miley fuckin’ Stewart, Otto?” asked Farkill loudly. It was Otto’s turn to turn beet red. “Uh… H-Hannah Mont… Montana, sir,” he stammered incoherently. The name instantly made the sergeant smile. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you. Who the fuck is Miley fuckin’ Stewart?” Otto bolted upwards into a position of attention, answering in a desperate scream, “MILEY STEWART IS THE ALTER EGO OF POP SUPERSTAR HANNAH MONTANA, SIR!” The whole laundry room full of recruits laughed insanely around Otto, who was humiliated beyond belief. Farkill approached him and patted him on the shoulder. “At ease, son. Don’t worry, we got a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy, and I ain’t askin’. Now the rest of you better shut the fuck up and sit still as we proceed to fucking buzz the fuckin’ suburbia out of your entire shit beings.” With those inspiring words, Farkill left the area and Otto was greeted by more reconciliatory pats on the back. Duo turned back to face the front of the line and met the brown-haired boy’s still-blank expression. His brows knit together quizzically. “What?” he asked, running the back of his hand under his nose. “Do I got something on my face?” The other then mumbled something before his eyes became downcast, which made Duo’s heart unexpectedly skip a beat. “Sorry, man, I couldn’t hear you. What?” he asked again, leaning forward. “Forget it,” said the boy as he quickly spun around away from him. Duo caught his shoulder and forced him to face him. “No, ask me,” he said almost too eagerly. “I’m not like you, you know, I’m a friendly guy. If you’ve got a question I can answer, I’ll answer.” “Who’s Hannah Montana?” the boy asked, seriously. Duo paused, blinking airily at him, and became embroiled in a daydream. Is this guy joking? He stared vacantly at the blue-eyed boy, who was steadily growing angrier. Duo mentally slapped himself for thinking how cute he was instead of answering his question, but it was too late. By the time he’d got his sense back, the other boy had already gone ahead to get his hair cut. He groaned, disappointed, and pitied himself inwardly until he remembered something of great importance. “Heero Yuy,” he said, pleasantly recalling the name he’d seen on the boy’s backpack. “That’s a strange name…” xxx “Heero…” murmured Duo tightly as he felt his mind burn white and his body tense up in response to a long-awaited climax. He slowed to a stop on top of his lover, the man with Heero’s face, and separated from him. The air conditioning of the hotel room felt like icicles stabbing at his sticky, wet chest. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with a cold, angry stare—looking too much like Heero than he would have liked. “I’ve told you not to call me that.” The man beneath him said, noticeably irritated. “Well? Are you done?” “Sorry,” Duo sighed heavily and rolled off him, getting up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. When the smell of smoke hit his nose, he turned around and shook his head at the other man. He stood up and made his way to the bathroom. “The money’s in my jacket,” he said as he turned on the bathroom light. “And thanks for meeting me tonight.” He shut the door between them before the other could reply. He slid the glass shower door open and ran the water. While he waited for it to warm up, he took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror and found that he didn’t like the man looking back at him. In the mirror was a man that he hadn’t known for years—a man that was for the sake of being; a man whose existence flourished day after day without reason. If there was really a God, thought Duo, then why am I still here? He stepped into a stream of scalding hot water with these thoughts in his head, drowning them out with the splashing of water against his skin. In their place, a cherished memory played out like an old film dug up from Duo’s chest of broken hopes. xxx Duo grimaced as his hand fell upon hard, unflinching fuzz instead of hair. He didn’t even bother to look at himself in the mirror after the fact, not even as he was brushing his teeth in their shitty bathroom, because he knew he was going to hate himself. Being only sixteen years old, Duo was maturely-built enough to pass off as 18. Without his hair and because of the baby fat still pudging in his face, his look betrayed the age he listed. He exited the stall as fast as he could, his body unable to keep up with the day’s excitement. He heard the drill instructor screaming for them to get out, so he, along with all the other recruits, stumbled out of the bathroom naked as the day was bright, and he and the rest of the recruits were deloused in an uncomfortable small room. They marched out of the room and back into the showers, leaving trails of delousing powder on the floor (oddly enough, Duo had a feeling that they would be responsible for cleaning that up, too). Exhausted, he struggled with what energy he had left to wash himself according to strict instructions. His gaze faltered tiredly from the shower head to the stall beside him, where Heero stood. Duo’s eyes lit up accidentally (he liked to believe so, anyway) when he saw the other man intently focused on washing himself the way the Corps wanted him to. Duo, once he finally realized that he’d been staring for at least a minute (too much for any man to have spent in the situation), turned his attention back to his left underarm. Unable to help himself, Duo peeked again—only to find a much-less attractive recruit in Heero’s place. He cursed and forced himself to finish up, running out of the stall in time to see Heero disappear into a crowd of exiting recruits. How the fuck did he brush his teeth and dry up so fucking fast? He thought, desperately trying to fix himself up with the same panache and speed. Unfortunately, he wasn’t so graceful—he could still smell the odor of dried spit in his mouth despite his minty toothpaste and he’d even managed to cut himself while shaving, which he didn’t notice until he spotted a bloody speck on the collar of his newly-issued fatigues. Swimming in his oversized uniform, he marched towards the footwear station to claim himself a pair of boots, keeping a sleepy eye out for the elusive Heero Yuy. He felt a little like Steve Irwin stalking a crocodile, except without all the bombastic narration. They shoved his combats into his hands and he barely even felt the rest of his movements as he straightened himself up and followed the recruits outside. They walked around for thirty minutes—which, for Duo, was thirty minutes too much. He felt as if he held the weight of the world on his shoulders as they entered a white building and were led up at least four sets of stairs. He didn’t even care at that point; his lungs were about to collapse after the first set, and he just beat himself mentally to make it up the rest. Upon their arrival at barracks, Duo thought his never-ending nightmare was finally over. But then he heard the drill instructor yell, “Pick out a rack and take a good, long beauty nap, ladies, ‘cause your personal hell is only beginning.” Duo felt like shooting himself in the head. What the hell was I thinking, coming here? he thought, painfully marching over to the only bunk left. Duo gave a weak “hey” when he got there to address the other recruit. Whoever was above him was probably already asleep, too, because he didn’t reply. The last Duo remembered from that day was that, before he plopped down and his brain shut off, a pair of blue eyes he knew were glaring back at him from the top bunk. xxx Duo absentmindedly turned off the running water and exited the stall with his memories flitting about in his head. His every memory of Heero Yuy played on as he dried his abnormally long and healthy hair with two towels, and as he stepped out of the bathroom to find that the man who had Heero’s face had already left. Upon seeing his wallet propped on top of his leather jacket, he was jettisoned back into his new reality. He made his way to the edge of the chaise and sat at the foot, clothing himself part by part. After he put on his jacket, the familiar vibration of his cell tickled his side. “Sir?” said Trowa’s familiar baritone. “I’m here, Trowa. Did you get Lightning home?” “Yes, sir, she’s fine,” answered Trowa. “However, I do need to know if you will be home in time for breakfast this morning.” “Morning?” asked Duo, looking at the time on his watch. It was already past four in the morning. “Oh, I see. Yes, I will, Trowa, just make me the usual.” “Sir, if I may?” “Of course, ask away,” “Have you finished with this business yet?” “For now, Trowa,” said Duo. “Don’t worry so much about it.” “I’m not worried, sir, just suspicious and honest. One more thing before you go,” “Go on.” “The deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency would like to speak with you tomorrow night. I will see you at home, sir.” “Alright, Trowa, good ni—I mean, morning.” Duo sighed heavily again after the line dropped between them and the dial tone rang in his ear. Duo exited his hotel room and met with the maid he had paid to check him out of the premises. He gave her his card, said “adios,” and left the premises. As he sat in the cab, he couldn’t help but feel that every piece of his body was exhausted. He couldn’t even bring his eyes to open, despite the jagged driving of the cabbie. He just laid his head back against the stiff leather headrest. Welcome to your life, Duo Maxwell, he thought sadly. Today, tomorrow, and the rest of your life. If you’re lucky. TBC !NOTES! Well, here’s the first and ridiculously long chapter of Sinnerman… beware, because subsequent chapters will probably be as long or longer the dumb way I’ve set up the plot. As you can see, the story revolves around Duo again, because I can’t let go of how much I love him as a character. There will probably be a lot of flashback scenes, as everything in Duo’s present is affected by the past. I apologize for the redundancy of the scene in the hotel. It was trying on me not to reveal that Duo’s lover is not Heero, but only someone that looks like him. No fear; he has a name, just not for now. The cover I drew has jarhead Heero and “the lover” (first time I ever used Photoshop, so I apologize for the kiddie coloring, hehe). Interesting side-note, I just watched The Dark Knight and it was to my delight to find that Duo and Bruce drive the same Lamborghini. A beautiful coincidence. I also have a request: is there anyone reading who is or knows of a beta reader that would like to work with me on this story? I would really appreciate the help because the project is so text-heavy, I miss a lot and I know it. Anyway, enough rambling. I hope someone out there enjoyed this! See the Cover! www.theromanovkiller.net/sinnerman/cover1.jpg ~ * ~ |
