Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ A Different Circumstance (Arc) ❯ #2 - Spun Around ( Chapter 2 )

Heero opened his eyes to a ceiling that was most distinctively not his own. The arm sprawled heavily over his chest didn't feel like his own either.

 

He managed to remain calm and rigidly still for all of three seconds, before he jerked out of the bed as if he'd come into contact with a live wire. Dimly, his brain took stock of his immediate surroundings, the state of his undress, and the legs tangled around his own.

 

“...Stop that.”

 

Oh. Oh fuck.

 

He was in bed. Naked. With a man.

 

Heero tore the covers back, panic lending strength to his grasping fingers. The flimsy material of the pillowcase ripped under his hands, and then he was looking down at smoky dark eyes that were still obviously sleepy and very definitely holding an expression of irritation.

 

Who...?

 

Memory came rushing back. The severe knot, extending to a sinuous ponytail of black hair. The stern glasses—Heero noted with a detached horror that those eyes sans spectacles were large, limpid, and undeniably sensuous, just like how those thin lips, compressed tightly yesterday, were now bitten swollen and red—

 

“You...we...you...!”

 

It was the closest Heero had come to spluttering in years.

 

There could be no mistake about what had transpired between them. Heero knew his body better than the doctors to whom Relena paid exorbitant amounts to for their twice-yearly check-ups. He hadn't felt this lazily post-coital and sated in a long time, his limbs heavy in a pleasant way, his arms aching where he had—

 

—his gaze trailed to the thumb and finger-shaped bruises on the bronze shoulders below him, arms, a muscular chest, down to the sharp angle of hip—

 

“Done looking yet?”

 

The words were cold, biting, and taunting, and Heero felt as though a bucket of icy water had been dumped over his head.

 

The other man got up gingerly, sliding upright, the white coverlets an almost obscene brilliance next to the expanse of tanned skin, juxtaposed with the smell of sex and cigarette smoke. Heero's eyes followed the display despite himself. Against his will and his iron discipline, he felt his mouth go dry.

 

“I usually charge two grand per fuck, Mr. Yuy. You owe me quite the fortune from last night.” Still taunting, yet somehow emotionless. Heero was too busy absorbing the words to take umbrage at the disrespectful tone. A whore.

 

This couldn't be happening. If word of this got out...

 

“I'm not blackmailing you. Just asking you to pay for what you take.”

 

And that was real fury rising in his blood, even as Heero felt himself quaver inwardly at the possibility of the press finding out, of Relena finding out. He stifled the fear ruthlessly.

 

When he spoke, his voice was as hard and cold as usual. A poor comfort, this mimicry of normalcy.

 

“So you do this frequently? Ambush drunkards at a bar, get them into bed, and then make them pay the next morning?”

 

Black eyes leveled at him critically, and an acid retort was already on the tip of Heero's tongue. He wanted to lash out, wanted to blame someone, and it wasn't his fault, damn it...

 

“Say what you like, Mr. Yuy. I suppose you'll tell me next that I somehow seduced you to the point where you had to bruise me from neck to ass. Had to twist my legs open, and—I do believe you've fractured my ankle, by the way—and fuck me so hard that there's blood on the sheets. Perhaps I should also apologize for your depressed and frustrated state of mind while you were attempting death by alcohol last night. All presumably through my own insidious strategies to take advantage of you, of course. I suppose you'll tell me next that I crushed my own glasses in my haste to strip you and have sex with you before you came to your senses.”

 

He really couldn't listen any more. Heero swung his legs off the bed, scrabbling blindly for his pants, fumbling for his wallet and yanking out bills without really seeing or feeling the paper crinkle beneath his stiff fingers. “Fine,” he managed to grit out, fury and haplessness washing over him in a tidal wave. “Just. Not a word. To anyone. It was a mistake. My mistake.”

 

He slapped the money on the sheets, and fled.