Title: For Heero, Forever Ago
Author: Taw
Pairing: 1=2
Written: Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Spoilers: No. Is there any point in even stating that? Probably not. But hey, what the hell.
Warnings: depressing themes, mild violence

A/N: I don't know where I'm going with this, only that I was listening to Bon Iver's album Blood Bank and wanted to write a fic that corresponded to it. So, taking it from there I decided that if I was going to write a fic for Blood Bank I would have to write a fic for For Emma, Forever Ago too and that the latter should come first. Of course, when I originally set out to do this I didn't at all suspect that listening to Bon Iver's album about love and philosophy in winter would take my mind to such emotional places.

There are a few things I must point out here, before we begin. This is not really a bdsm fic okay well actually it is but I'm afraid that if I admit that people won't read it. I do not condone the use of bdsm themes the way they have been used for this pairing previously, so if you're expecting Heero (or Duo!) to lick Duo's (or Heero's!) boots while being whipped into submission, go elsewhere. I know that won't be hard for you to find if that's the kind of thing you're into. Not that there's anything wrong with that kind of thing (okay, Julie, your nervous is showing gulp).

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Chapter 1 - Flume

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At 9:00 p.m. I am tying knots around arms and legs. Maroon curtains turn the moon to orange and red and cast shadows over maroon bed sheets. There is a beautiful boy spread out before me. I can breathe him in through reddened nostrils, a pungent mix of the day's humidity and sweet shampoo. His eyes are water blue, his feathered hair gluey with sweat. He looks at me angrily and his lips are upturned to show a treasury of snarling white teeth.

At 9:00 a.m. that morning I said goodbye to my mother. She's a very frail old woman, you have to understand. Too old to be my biological mother--almost seventy now. I took her fragile hands in my own strong ones, placed my lips against her knuckles. You be good now, Duo, she told me, although I could not see her paper lips move. I told her I'd be good, I told her I'd play nice with the other boys. She believed me. She turned down my red and black collar and kissed my cheek before sending me on my way. My hair was perfect and neat, a soft rope of brown hair that I am neither ashamed nor proud of. It simply is.

At 10:00 p.m., he is motionless. Not because he is unconscious, but because he hasn't moved in an hour. Even his eyes have remained stationary, focused only on me with a steady blink. I have done much. I have cleaned my boots, untied my hair only to tie it again. I changed from tight black to more comfortable work clothes: a pair of slacks and a red collared shirt. I am not unnerved by the constant, sorrowful stare. If I am anything, I am depressed. You know I will untie you when you tell me where you were, I say to him. He says nothing in return. At 10:00 a.m. I was opening the front door to his--our--apartment. It was dark and empty and full of an uncomfortable, suffocating silence. With heavy feet and a scowl on my face I opened a bottle of bourbon and took a few numb swallows. Where I expected a letter there wasn't one. There hadn't been a single note in a month, not even a small email of reassurance of his safety. It was when I almost allowed the bottle to consume me completely that I noticed a small dark stain on the carpet in front of the bathroom door. It was so inconspicuous, so well concealed that I hardly saw it at all. When I entered the bathroom, I saw the red. Not dark red, but bright. Still wet and shining. It was fresh blood, a few drops along the sink, a smear on the faucet. You came home, was all I could think. You finally came home.

At 11:00 p.m. I am in pain. I know that should I stare at him any longer I will give in and untie him, as I so desperately want to do. I will hold him in my arms and kiss all the bruises and cuts. My tears will wash the blood away. I don't look at him. Surrendering will not keep him with me and if he didn't need it so desperately I would cut his binds and let him walk away. But he would come back. He always comes back, even when I am so sure he won't. He needs this as much as I need him, so I will give it to him. I will give him anything he wants. He still says nothing and I want to hear his voice, so I say, I love you. Heero, I love you. And although there is silence, his eyes shut.

At 11:00 a.m. I called him. The first time it went straight to voicemail, a machine answering that threw a stone down into the depths of my stomach. The second time, it rang three times before the dial tone came, a sign of acknowledgement. The third time he answered but stayed silent, allowing me to hear only his scattered and heavy breathing for a few moments until, Duo. I exhaled, relieved to hear his voice.

I'm here, I told him. Where are you?

I'm..., he stuttered. His voice sounded so distant and small that I wanted to reach through the power lines and touch him. I can't...it. I need your help.

I shut my eyes and tried to fight tears that I knew would never come. I hated the thought of him alone and hurt, without control. I hated even more what he needed from me, but was honored that I was the one he'd ask. Heero Yuy asking for help is not something one takes for granted, no matter how distasteful the task. I loved him for trusting me, always trusting me, with this primal need for restraint. Not for the first time, I felt something inside me go numb.

I'll be there. Wherever you are, I will be there.

I'll run.

I know. I'm prepared to chase you.

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It isn't until midnight that he shows signs of having come around to the situation he's in. He inhales deeply and tilts his head back until a single tear runs from the corner of his eye into his hair. I stand in front of him and place my hand against his cheek and he leans into me, presses his lips against my palm.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"I know," I tell him. "It's not your fault. Our lifestyles have a way of catching up to us, regardless of how hard we try to fight them off."

"I just want to rest."

"I want that too." I try to smile, just a little bit. "Are you satisfied?"

He pulls away from me and struggles against his bonds. I want to tear them from him and hold him until morning, but he needs to be comfortable.

"I think so," he says in a nineteen year old's voice; thinks for a moment. "I...visited Trowa."

"How's he?"

"He's fine. Quatre wasn't there."

"And the blood?" For a moment I think he might not know what I'm referring to, but the hollow look in his eyes tells me otherwise.

"It's mine," he whispers. More forcefully, he meets my gaze with something akin to panic and says louder, "I won't hurt anyone, Duo, I won't do it."

"I know."

"Last night, I was at a bar."

"You don't drink."

"I didn't drink. I just...watched. I don't understand...these people."

I laugh, a sad sound. "They're drunkards, Heero. You're not supposed to understand them."

"I understand you."

If anyone other than Heero had said to me I would have thrown a few angry fists, but knowing the innocence that lies behind my partner's words I can merely look away with guilt.

"Untie me."

"Are you sure?" I try to sound patient but am unable to keep a small amount of eagerness from my voice. He nods, and I untie him, kissing his lips and neck all the while.

The moment he is unbound he does not stand up, but pulls me into his lap and buries his forehead into my collarbone. I run my fingers through his hair and feel my heart beat in time with his heart, my inhales and exhales merge with his. I feel as if I'm sinking into water, sliding quickly down a flume. Outside it is dark. The breeze rustles the curtains and when they part I am granted a vision of a shining, silver moon.

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