Heero curled into Trowa's arms on the bed, unhappily accepting the comfort her friend offered. The taller boy was the only one that knew, because Trowa had taken care of her after she'd tried to self-destruct the first time. He's rescued her, and kept it quiet about her gender, a small mercy. Heero had wondered about that, why the silent pilot hadn't simply told the others, but Trowa had said that he respected her too much to tell anyone when she obviously didn't want anyone to know. She had only grudgingly accepted Trowa's vow of silence on the information after that.
A stupid weakness, she was certain, was inherent in Trowa knowing that she was a girl, and not the boy she professed to be in front of the rest of the world. But it was comforting, if inconvenient, to have him there, that she could run to about her supposed 'girl problems', and to help her out when no one else could, simply because they didn't know. And it felt nice, to have his arms wrapped about her, rocking her slightly as she cried into his shoulder, even though she rather wished it was Duo holding her. But the perfect soldier would never admit that she had cried at all. It was just a secret between Trowa's shirt and her eyes.
Trowa carded his long fingers through Heero's messy dark hair, the girl's trembling starting to subside. She'd broken down, as she usually did to her disgrace, and had cried herself out in his arms. He offered what physical comfort he could, unable to deal with the niceties of verbal comfort, and frankly he didn't think she would have accepted any flowery reassurance. It was her problem, caused by her refusal to tell her partner, and no words could blunt the edge of that truth.
As it was, he felt sorrow for her, and her inability to really talk about her feelings. She preferred to punch people rather than speak, as her father had taught her in some strange distortion of how a boy should act. It almost reminded Trowa of Wufei's struggle for justice. Heero and Wufei both tried to conform to some unrealistic ideal. But Wufei admitted it, while Heero would not, still childishly seeking to live up to her father's image of a boy instead of a girl. But it was typical of Heero: the obsession, the denial, the absolute intensity -- be it mission, belief, gender identity, or likely love also.
Trowa wondered about Heero's father, the man that had such a huge influence on how Heero's mind worked. Namely regarding how Heero's mind had been so twisted. Odin Lowe hadn't been a terribly good father figure, from what very little Heero had confided in him, and Trowa guessed that Heero's childhood had been abusive, and from Heero's current personality, extremely so. He thought that Lowe had likely punished Heero for being female, instead of a perfect soldier boy, amongst other things.
Similar to Trowa's own childhood with the mercenaries.
Trowa restrained a shudder easily, unwilling to reveal his emotions and disturb the calm that had settled over the girl in his arms. Heero was seriously messed up, but anyone that thought they could be a perfect soldier in this war probably was so. And Trowa wasn't even sure if that was a weakness or an advantage currently. Excepting the fact that Heero Yuy was in his arms, weeping about her relationship with Duo Maxwell.
Heero pulled back, suddenly squirming and unwilling to be held any longer, and wriggled out of Trowa's embrace onto the bed. The Latin boy glanced at the damaged girl, and searched out her Prussian eyes under the mop of dark mossy hair. She scowled at him, meeting his gaze, dark emerald in the moonlight.
"Heero, daijoubu ka?" Trowa asked, forcing his mouth to work, to form coherent words. He almost yawned, and glanced at the clock absently. It was late, from what he could make of the archaic hands and face. Heero sniffled, and replied, "I want-iie! I can't! Che!" Trowa arched an eyebrow as the Japanese girl twisted her arms about her legs, flustered by whatever it was she wanted, but apparently couldn't ask for. She squirmed under his motionless gaze, refusing to meet his gaze, instead glaring viciously at the bedspread.
Trowa settled his weight, regarding the uncomfortable girl. She would come to a point, at least to admitting whatever it was that made her fidget so, if not actually asking him for it. He almost frowned, a sick feeling in his stomach, familiar and yet still so painful, rising with a minimum of bile in his throat. He knew what she was going to ask.
"Ne Trowa. Duo got...iie! You have Quatre, I can't ask this of you..." Heero mumbled, twisting her hands together in some fashion of escapism. Trowa sighed, and leaned over in foul decision, drawing her in his arms again, then lying backwards on the bed, pulling Heero on top of him. Heero exhaled sharply, straddling Trowa's hips in surprise. The Latin boy blinked, distaste shining in his gaze, and Heero bit her lip softly, knowing what he offered. The Japanese girl nuzzled his throat gently, then nipped at his bobbing thyroid prominence. Trowa wriggled away from her tease, and his brow furrowed slightly as Heero propped herself up to meet his gaze. He didn't want it to be kind or nice, he just wanted to get it over with. He felt dirty already.
Heero smiled sadly, gazing into Trowa's emerald eyes. Her stomach turned faintly, and she kissed his cheek dryly. Her heart clenched painfully, feeling dry and painful as she swallowed, reaching a hand down to the hem of her tank top. He blinked, turning his face from the sight, and stared blankly at the dark, shadowed wall. She nestled into the hollow of the tall boy's neck, and whispered, "Doumo arigatou, Trowa. Gomen asai."
Trowa breathed his own regrets, then pressed a chaste kiss to her fair cheek. Heero flushed slightly, and rolled from Trowa, kneeling up beside him on the bed. Heero shot a glance at Trowa, who pulled himself up to a sitting position on the opposite side of his bed, then turned her gaze towards the wall determinedly. She fought a shamed flush to her face, and yanked off her tank top, forcing down the urge to cover her flat chest with her hands. She felt revealed, and didn't want to do it, to expose herself, to move closer in hated weakness, but the painful pulse of her blood in her ears convinced her otherwise.
She heard the rustle of clothing being removed from Trowa's direction, and stripped off her spandex shorts, throwing the only pieces of clothing she wore onto the floor distastefully. She hissed as Trowa stood from the bed, walking by her to the window. She blushed furiously, turning her face down from him and covering the myriad scars on her chest with her arms and palms. Trowa drew the curtains shut, his lip curling in resigned disgust, the revealing moonlight dimmed severely with the scrim cloth, and he glanced at his friend, who had wormed her way beneath the sheets, her back to him in shame.
Trowa could have scowled, feeling disgusted with himself, yet knowing Heero needed this, even if she couldn't admit it. He pulled the sheets up, and sat down, sliding into the bed beside the Japanese girl. He blinked in the near complete darkness, and put a hand out, tracing down Heero's spine, her skin heated with likely arousal and guilt. She gave in to his touch, and didn't protest as he pulled her closer, into his arms. She turned to face him, and buried her countenance in his shoulder, her lips pressed tightly against his flesh.
Trowa exhaled, tracing random patterns over her skin. He wanted to put it off, but there was only so much he could do to delay the inevitable of being nude in bed with his friend, even if she was a girl. Heero trembled in the unwilling stirrings of arousal, her eyes clenched shut and seeping hot tears. Trowa stared blankly at the wall, past the slim body of the girl he was caressing, and winced slightly, feeling cheap and awful, traitorous and not enjoying it. He had played the traitor before, but to do so to Quatre felt like the worst sin in a godless life. It wasn't even the first time, and that thought made him feel even sicker than he had before. He deadened his expression further, his eyes dulling with the void of emotional input.
Trowa shut his eyes, and rolled Heero beneath his lanky frame, pushing her into the mattress. She gasped softly, the foul sound escaping her lips, and he brushed his face against her neck, trailing his tongue over her skin roughly, searching out the nerves she needed stimulated. He could kiss anywhere but her lips, it was a rule between them, to preserve at least a semblance of faithfulness to their respective partners. He tried to fool himself into thinking it was Quatre he was with, imagining the Arabian's pale flesh beneath his mouth, even as he pinched roughly at Heero's nipples, the dead flesh hardening despite Heero's inability to even feel the touch. But Quatre would have screamed in pleasure from that caress, and Trowa knew he couldn't fool his mind completely. But he could damn well try.
Heero clutched at Trowa's strong shoulders, feeling her nails bite into the scarred muscle of his back, tensing beneath her hands. She scrunched her eyes shut further, slipping into the fantasy that each purposeful touch, almost dead in exact, methodical manipulations of her body, was from Duo's capable hands, calloused slightly for the hilts of his knives. She could almost make herself believe that the fingers that even now swept hot, dragging trails over her moist flesh towards the slight black curls between her legs belonged to the American pilot, not her silent friend. But it wasn't real enough, and she knew it was Trowa, and it made her sick, a vague nausea that she was forcing him. If it was Duo, it would be complete, emotional, willing...she shuddered, partly from a nerve under Trowa's finger, partly in wistful desire for Duo. But Duo would never stay with her, if he found out her weakness. She could only dream about it, however sick it made her feel.
Trowa pressed a hot, open kiss to the join of Heero's hip and leg, before sliding a tentative hand between. He felt sickened, sorrowed by his own actions, but placed another wet, sloppy touch of his mouth to the edge of Heero's channel. The girl writhed under his hands, jerking her hips into his face. Trowa winced at the pain of her bone smashing into his cheek, and wrestled an arm about her waist, pinning her as best he could to the bed. He slid up her leg with his free hand, and traced the excess skin surrounding her opening, trying not to wince at the thick red nerveless scars between her legs. He opened his eyes to gaze at her, judging from her body's response if he was hurting her or not, then slowly pushed one finger into her.
Heero bit her lip at the intrusion, and pushed back as he grazed a sensitive patch of nerves. Trowa grunted softly, and added two more fingers abruptly. She wanted to moan, lost in the fantasy world where it was Duo touching her so intimately, raising the hormones said American had activated earlier with his kisses, before she had torn away, not wanting him to find out...
Trowa pulled his fingers distastefully from within Heero's body, and shut his eyes tightly. The most vile, violating part was next, the usual violence and humiliation it caused to both parties embarrassing enough. Heero wanted punishment for betraying Duo, and the violence accounted for that. Trowa wondered if the Japanese girl would ever accustom herself to normal, gentle sexual relations, even with Duo. If she was even capable of normalcy, sex without pain, without humiliation. But he himself felt ill, wincing as he touched her, or touched himself to complete the act.
He wrapped his sticky fingers about his limp penis, and clenched his eyes and lips, frowning at himself as he began to pump. All he could see on his eyelids was Quatre, Quatre's face, Quatre smiling, Quatre gasping as he came, flooding Trowa's body. Trowa latched on to the last image for the quickening it aroused in him, focusing on the beautiful lax expression, the utter shattering of masks that happened every time Quatre took him, claiming his body, and with it his heart, as he never let anyone else. The emotions with the physical act made the otherwise painful and empty violation pleasing, trusting. Unlike with Heero, as they both knew.
Trowa brought himself to a weak erection, unable to stomach hardening further. He felt like he was disgracing Quatre by even thinking about him during this...atrocity, this willing betrayal. Heero had admitted the same awful sickening late one night previous at their actions. It made them both sick, cringing and nauseated with themselves. Yet they were there again, Heero clenching the sheets to prevent herself from ripping further scars across her mutilated body, Trowa jerking off to get an erection for vile completion.
Trowa levered himself over Heero, and guided himself inside, his eyes shut tightly, visions of his lover behind his eyelids. Heero twisted her face to the side, wrapping her legs about Trowa's waist even as she refused to face him, her eyes closed painfully. It hurt, she felt as if she was splitting as Trowa began to thrust slowly into her channel. She felt revolted, yet the physical sensation was perfect. She raged internally, her face masked well enough. Trowa's breath quickened, and he stroked inside her with clinical precision, knowing which nerves and just how to brush for the quickest physical release for both of them.
Heero raked her nails over his back, feeling Trowa break a cool sweat, pushing harder into her. She hissed as they sped up, snapping her hips up to meet him, almost hungry for the vicious pain tearing at her from within her body, mirrored by her heart twisting painfully. It approached agony, and she grimaced, her countenance matched by revulsion crossing Trowa's own face at the act. He shook, trembled as he pounded into her body, their violence painful for both. Heero gasped suddenly, a stray touch triggering her release, and Trowa groaned Quatre's name lowly as Heero panted, Duo's name on every breath, clenching about him enough to tear his own orgasm from his body. Everything felt dead, medically cold and dissected, then the flood of chemicals washed over them both, feeling filthy in what was supposed to be pleasure.
Trowa practically tore himself from Heero's slick channel, standing and dressing quickly. Heero was slowly regaining her senses, and came to full consciousness as Trowa watched her, standing over her beside the bed just long enough to make sure she was aware. She clapped a hand softly over her mouth, ashamed, and sighed, "I hate you."
Trowa nodded bitterly, satisfied that she was awake, and strode from the room into the corridor, heading directly for the bathroom. Heero rolled over, dressing herself slowly to the muffled sounds of her friend retching at his own weakness, his betrayal. She wanted to throw up herself, except she hadn't eaten in days, and didn't intend to do so and give her body fodder for nausea. Her stomach attempted a dry heave anyway, and she scowled, schooling her body into behaviour.
Heero winced as her stomach attempted to revolt against her iron control, then eased back into submission to her will. She covered her face with one hand, loathing to even think about what she had just made Trowa do. It had been a mutual agreement since Trowa had nursed her back to health, since her gender had become their little secret. They had even tried to actually be lovers, with a relationship, but that had failed. Trowa had already been in love with Quatre, and Heero had been confused enough without a relationship.
And so now she had practically raped her friend, against both their wills, because of her damned hormones. It wasn't Trowa's fault she had responded to Duo's earlier caresses, the light fondling she had allowed the braided pilot. It wasn't Duo's fault her hormones couldn't be controlled once stimulated. Another damned weakness she couldn't control, she was so full of vulnerabilities now. Emotional attachments, inability to discard guilt, and even physical weaknesses now. She was not the perfect soldier.
Heero tried to restrain a sob, but decided upon reflection to give in this time, cleaning out her emotions with the rib-cracking force of mental agony bearing down on her. The seeping ribbons of fire streaming across her face almost felt good, hot and forced as they were. Her father would have punished her. He had taught her better than to be so weak, to give in, even to her team-mates. But her father was dead. She killed him. She had to carry on his wishes.
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