Sequel to The defining parts of existance
Category: Dark drama
Rating: NC-17
Setting: post-EW
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters, or the setting. Just non-profit fanfiction.
“No.... Please don’t!”
The voice sounded weak and pathetic in my ears, the voice trembling when pleading. Of course I did it anyway.
And what a lovely little thing he was. The silky hair that was dyed black was completely disshevelled around the ivory-pale face, large green eyes making him look like a wild creature straight out of myth; ifrit we call them, desert spirits. It could have been a nice fantasy to toy with in your mind, a captured spitit, squirming in vain unerneath me, as I had pinned his wrists over his head, holding them there effortlessly with just one hand. I’m sure I would have entertained such thoughts, had it not been because I’d had a rather different fantasy in mind when I’d first seen those emerald eyes, and decided I would have him.
He was probably about my age, even though he somehow looked younger, and if he had a name I hadn’t bothered to find out. I didn’t want to know. No need to make this personal.
The white starched sheets underneath my ifrit were strained by his stirring, creating sharp folds as if dissaproving of what I did. It seemed like a sin in itself to disturb the neat making of the bed done by the hotel personnel. The snug, blue, half-length tank top and the black gloss pants the boy had worn lay on the floor on top of my own white shirt and the cravatte that had gone with it, the scanty piece of clothing stained by an unknown substance, contrasting to the spotless, polished floor. All things, it seemed, conspired to stab me with the knowledge of what a farce this was. I could see father frowning at me when I closed my eyes, that thoroughly disappointed look that was far more hurtful than any lectures, any yelling. The look that so clearly said ‘Quatre, what’s happened to you, what have you become?’
In anger and dismay, I impatiently zipped down my beige slacks, jostling to a position between the boy’s legs, positioning myself at the opening and then forcing myself inside with one hard stroke, giving little consideraton to preparation or lubricant. The image of father shattered into a thousand pieces to be replaced by hot desire mixed with pain created by the friction. I knew from personal experience though that the boy was hurting far more than me at the moment, having been at the other end of the equation. I growled deep down in my throat, the rush made all the more exhilerating by the whimper of misery my harsh penetration wrought from my victim. The blood was pounding in my ears and in my loins, every bit of reason overcome by the thrill of control, of power, and raw animal need. It was reassuring and shameful both to know that those base, caveman instincts were in me still, despite a lifetime of training in all the refined aspects of human life.
When the initial shock of penetration had subsided, and I found myself lying panting on top of the boy, still buried deep inside him, the reality of the world fell heavily down on my shoulders again. He lay so still, you’d think he was hardly alive. I didn’t know if he had closed his eyes, because I couldn’t bear to look at him. Whatever was in his eyes, I did not want to see it. Instead I grabbed hold of both his wrists, pinning his arms to the bed. I wasn’t supernaturally strong like Heero, nor was I tall and broad over the shoulders like Trowa. I’d kept myself in shape even after the war had ended, true, but that didn’t make me a soldier. Only you didn’t need to be one to hold this boy down. His arms were so slim I had to wonder if he was on some form of heavy drugs, because I doubted he was starving. I hadn’t ventured quite that far into the bad side of town when I’d picked him up.
Outside the window I could hear the laughter of youngsters on their way out to have fun. It was Saturday night and the war was over. By the behaviour of some people, you’d think it had never happened. I resented them for being able to act so carefree, to be so untainted by the bloodiest, most encompassing act of violence in recent history. I resented them, because they were free of mind, free of spirit, while I was trapped here in a hotel room with my own personal hell.
I groped around inside me for the rage I knew so well, trying to feed it with the sounds from outside. Even so it was subsiding, leaving only that foul taste in my mouth, the taste of bitterness. I hardened my grip of the slim wrists, enough so that I’d probably leave bruises on the delicate skin and thrust listlessly inside the tight, hot body. Now that the fire was gone, I saw no need to drag this out. Once, twice... Did you count too, Trowa? Did you count the number of times you pounded into me before you came? I did. Twenty-five. It could as well have been an eternity, for me. Such pain... I never knew it even existed before I met you.
Five, six, seven... Then I spent myself with a soft cry of despair, hoping even now that the release would somehow intensify the faltering anger inside of me, would give me the satisfaction I was seeking. Of course, I was disappointed. It was a bit like opening the cork of a half-full bottle of champange from yesterday’s party. Stale.
I only waited a few seconds, lying on top of the boy, feeling the familiar laxless drain all energy from my limbs as well, until the defeat was complete. There was an unpleasant slurping sound as I, already going soft, slid out of the boy, rolling off him. I grabbed a corner of the blanket to clean the worst of the mess off myself, careful to never look at the boy as I did so, not caring what he did from now on. I’d taken what I wanted. Now I just wanted him out of my sight so I could go through the rest of the ritual alone.
Zipping up my pants I rose and walked over to the window, seating myself on the wide windowsill, picking up the black, ebony pipe from the table, fumbling in my pocket for a lighter. The pipe was stuffed already – let no one say that I do not know how to plan ahead – a perfect blend of haschisch and cherry-flavoured tobacco, because I couldn’t stand the taste otherwise.
Just as I did, I could hear the rustling of sheets and clothes behind me as the boy got up and got himself dressed in silence. I didn’t turn to watch, trying as best as I could to zone out, because this was the part of it I hated the most, when the meaninglessness of it all as is descended on me. It was like having a mirror put in front of you and finding out that the man you saw was one of these people you’d usually look at with repulsion mixed with pity.
“The money’s on the table,” I informed the boy, before he had the chance to ask, my voice sounding hoarse and twisted even to my ears.
“You didn’t use any lube. That’ll be extra,” an indifferent, young tenor announced to me.
I lowered my head in shame. “I know, it’s all there. Keep the change.”
There was no further conversation, but I heard soft footsteps as the boy walked up to get his payment, the stack of notes lying beside the candlestick. He never asked why. It wasn’t his job to ask and there was no reason why he should care. Come to think of it, he’d probably had customers with stranger perversions than mine. Somehow, that was no comfort to me at all. I heard him linger in the doorway for a moment, as if about to say something. I turned my back towards him pointedly. A few more moments, and I heard the door close behind him. I was alone. And it was probably for the best.
Lighting the pipe, I stared out at the sky through the slightly blue-tinted window. Have you ever been looking at the world through blue shades? It’s a weird experience. The blue filter makes the world look almost surreal, like something out of a science-fiction movie with aliens and warp speed spaceships. And twelve floors or so down, I could see people milling about like ants. I snorted in amusement at the irony of the picture. As if I was somehow above those people, when in fact I was sinking.
They say rats are the last to leave a sinking ship. Well, if that is the case, then I suppose that my darling sisters are rats. A few of them were even rather patient, Iria in particular. Not that there was anything they could have done, not that I gave them reason to stick around – in fact, I was rather apt at driving them away. Even so, a small portion of the darkness of my desecrated heart is reserved especially for hating them for the betrayal. I guess there’s a lot of hatred inside of me. Plenty enough to go around.
I inhaled lungfulls of smoke, feeling the soft veil of warmth and calm seeping into the corners of my mind almost instantly. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the window frame, trying not to think about what a pathetic wreck of a human being I’d become. How did it ever come to this?
The war. It would have made such a handy excuse. The war did this to me. But then, I was a Gundam pilot, was I not? I fought in desperate situations, I even had it in me back then to inspire hope in others when they’d lost their faith. I used to be a leader of a kind, like my father. No, it wasn’t the war. Zero-system? I was still carrying around the guilt of the people I’d killed while under its influence and that wasn’t all. Zero – it changes a person. Let it enter your brain, and it never leaves, not entirely. Sometimes at night, I can still hear it speaking to me, that voice that isn’t a voice, imparting knowledge in your mind that you’re not prepared to handle. Yes, it screwed with my brain. It does that to you. Only – zero doesn’t bring out anything that wasn’t already there. If I went crazy and destroyed a colony when under the influence of zero, that rage must have been there to begin with. Zero just gave me the means to direct it at something. No, Zero isn’t to blame. It must have been in me from the start, only buried so deep I never knew it.
We all have our demons to face, I suppose. I’m not alone in that. But some of us handle them worse than others – much worse... At my darkest hours, I sometimes think that if my father hadn’t been so damn insistent on teaching peace, perhaps he’d have spent some time preparing me for those moments, how to handle threats that don’t come from people around you, but from within. No amount of diplomacy can save you from yourself. It isn’t fair, I know that. My father was a good man, and it’s shameless to blame the dead for your own flaws.
Our demons... I’m not a complete idiot, I know from whence mine came. Even a first-year psychology student could tell you what incident inspired this behaviour in me. I shook my head slowly, my mind already feeling heavy by the haschisch, as I was trying to extract myself from the endless loop of the one thought I was trying so hard to escape.
Trowa... Even when I sleep I can still see his green eyes in front of me. They had a blunted nuance, as if that young man had already experienced so much pain and suffering in his life that he was becoming indifferent to it. I thought I could save him. Can you imagine the conceit? It’s sickening, now that I think back on it. What was I thinking, that he’d take one look at me and realize that my childish love would be enough to leave behind a life-time of suffering? That was why I let him do what he did to me; because I understood that he didn’t mean to be like that, he just couldn’t help it. I wanted to help him so badly that I just couldn’t see that all I was doing was letting him strengthen the barrier between him and the world even further. Maybe I even thought that if he could have his way he would love me back. I was wrong, of course. For a while I thought that maybe Trowa was incapable of loving. When I found out that he did love someone, only not me, it hurt so much I couldn’t bear it. And stupid, clueless Heero didn’t even realize that he’d thrown away the one thing I’ve ever wanted for myself and done so without a second thought.
I’d let myself be violated, and Trowa wouldn’t even compensate me for it. He couldn’t even give me one more night, even when I begged for it in the most pathetic of ways. I’d thrown myself at him, and he’d winced, as if I was a bother to him and he’d rather be somewhere else. Allah, I hated him! I hated him and wanted him still. It was somewhere in that dark and doomed desire that I went over the edge.
I inhaled until my lungs were burning, the world outside the window warping into strange shapes. And still he was there. I leaned my forehead with a thump against the glass, my fingers cramping around the pipe. I was shivering, eyes clenched shut, voice hoarse.
“TROOWAAA!”
I banged my fist against the sky-coloured window.
“What have you done to me...”