Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ A Different Circumstance (Arc) ❯ #3 - Entrenched ( Chapter 3 )

Heero nearly screamed when he looked up to find that his feet had carried him back to the same place. Again.

 

It was ridiculous. He was being a fool. What was he thinking? Scratch that; he obviously wasn't hinking very much at all.

 

It had been a week since The Mistake, as he'd taken to calling it in his head. There were no accidents for Heero Yuy; everything was under his control, and, well, if he'd found himself drunk and in bed with a whore who appeared more sarcastic than the rest of the prostituting population put together, then he had only himself to blame.

 

The image of inky black eyes, sleepy and flashing with annoyance, refused to leave Heero's mind. He'd been thinking about those eyes earlier. Had nearly spilled his coffee when Relena called just then to ask when he was coming home. She'd mentioned that Quatre had a baseball game in two weeks, a game that he wanted his Da to watch. Heero'd muttered something about work, cleaning up the vestiges of the scandal, making sure the proper infrastructure was in place for the rebirth of the company. He'd even managed to throw in some details about Quinze's trial, even though he couldn't quite remember what it'd been about. Then he'd hung up, and buried his face in his hands.

 

And he'd come back here.

 

Standing outside in the misty rain, looking at the eerily neon lights of the signboard, Heero wondered what had possessed him to enter this bar the first time. Heero didn't believe in Fate, or any other such nonsense that wrested control away from his own choices and actions. Fate was sentimental, for idiots who wanted excuses or something to blame. Yet...

 

It pricked at Heero, the memories of a dimly lit bar, a sweet-faced, smiling bartender, the fleeting and distant recollection of hot hands grasping at his shoulders, a honey-warmed voice gasping beneath him, asking him to Stop, damnit! Sto—...unnngh...oh god, fuck... Wake up...you...bastard..! An uncommon heat blazed within his blood, and Heero was so tempted to blame Fate for it...

 

The door opened, and he glanced up.

 

Both of them froze there. Surprise widened the dark eyes behind the glasses, before the expression was swiftly erased and replaced by a mask. Pale moonlight spilled soft glows on the ebony black hair, played along the shadows on dark creamy skin.

 

Heero's hands felt strangely sweaty. Vaguely, he wondered at how he could have ever found this man anything less than beautiful.

 

“You again?”

 

And now what was this alien thrill racing through his veins, incinerating the threads of his normally steel will, replacing it with almost reckless abandon? Consequences, possibilities, dangerous what-ifs. All the questions seemed to burn and scatter like cold ash in a maelstrom.

 

Soft footsteps and then a dark head, bowed slightly, into view. A shuffle of feet and a stop, just to the front of Heero.

 

The drizzle fell like a translucence of gossamer satin on a blanket of midnight. Sometime during that observation, Heero's hands had come up without his knowledge; they now gripped slender forearms, crushed a hot body against his own.

 

The little chuckle was warm and teasing through Heero's damp shirt and against his chest, making him tremble. “Grown men have no excuses for not learning from their mistakes. Isn't once enough?”

 

Again, his errant fingers were already answering, combing through the slightly wet black strands as if starved for their silken softness. Heero breathed deeply of the other's scent, sharp, fresh, masculine; it made him heady, to know that he had possessed—could possess—this.

 

“...I suppose not,” a soft, dry, and amused reply, for the million and one things crowding in Heero's head that he couldn't explain or even voice aloud, not to himself, not to this man, not to anyone. Strong arms finally tightened in kind around his waist, and Heero knew then that he had lost; he was embroiled, entrenched, drowned.