It's All a Matter of Language
Your body says something else. It's funny, it's like you don't even notice. And I wonder sometimes, if maybe you do know and just pretend you don't. It's an interesting thing to watch. I'm always watching you, but only when you aren't watching me.
Another school, another system, and another room shared with you. You tell me this way no one will accidentally find out who we are. You say maybe I talk in my sleep and I just don't know. Yeah. Right. You don't even bother to wonder if you talk in your sleep do you? Nope, instant blame is on me. Before I've done a thing.
But that's not what gets me. It's that body language of yours. You tell me the braid is an attractant, like people will circle it as if they were moths. And at the same time, I can see something else, something around you when you say it, something in your eyes. You look at me suddenly like I'm a possession. Your body says so much that you don't.
So, here we sit, another weekend trapped in a room together. You're trying not to look at me, and I look away when you notice I'm watching you. It works out I think. We might as well just sit across from each other and stare openly, but it's like you don't think I see the game for what it is. A game. I wonder if you had to learn the rules, or if you just knew them, and they were fully there in your mind. Because really, you're good at it. Cat and mouse, it's such a thrill to play it with someone worthwhile.
You've just looked at me again, and I caught your eye and winked, smirking slightly at the look on your face when you've realized I've caught you. Point in my favor, who gets the next one? But you've already turned your back on me. You don't seem to like it when I notice. I think it's fun though. Like the mouse turning and baring it's little white fangs. Do mice even have fangs? Well, if they did, this one would bare them.
Why do I compare myself to the mouse in this little game of ours? Easy, I like to be chased. And I love watching you run, it could be a spectator sport for one. I'll even cheer you on occasionally; just don't let it go to your head.
I stretch and roll onto my stomach, careful to keep an eye on you. I don't like sneak attacks, I want to know what's coming, and of course, I don't know what your next move will be. You're too good at this game. But so am I, perhaps better.
I like watching you loose that control, I can actually see a visible breaking point, a minute fracture. It's like watching a line run down the street right before it splits open and exhumes the dust. You've come so close to toeing the edge lately, and really, I want to see you jump off it. Because I know, the falling will be interesting.
Everyone thinks that my emotions are so easy to determine, they look at my face and they see only the surface, of course they do. That's all I let them see. They say I talk a blue streak, they say I'm reckless; they think sometimes that I've not got all my marbles. And the funny thing is, they're only half right. I've got about half my sanity left, I will talk you're ear off if it's to save my own ass, and I love danger in a non-liking kind of way. That is to say, if I could be different I might be, but I'm not so I'll stay as I am.
But you, ahh you. You're so different and yet exactly like me. It's sort of scary. I would love to know what you think, because I swear, all I see is what you'll let me see. And I wonder if you realize we both wear the same exact mask. Perhaps we shopped at the same store. Lost boys R us. No, maybe it was War-mart, or it could have been my personal favorite, Die young for others beliefs that have become your own. Ok, so that's not a store, but it's close enough for now.
It's a joke; they built us into what we are. Society, the people who raised us, the colonies, everything. And then we got what was left of our souls and our minds, and we got to create our personalities.
You look like your waiting for me to say something. Typing away, I know what you type you know. I looked, codes aren't uncrackable, not even yours. Besides, you don't know I can do that, do you? So what do you sit over there and type away at like mad, night after night? I laughed when I saw, how could I not? It isn't a report, it's not schoolwork. No, it's more interesting and you all over. A diary. Fascinating. Who in this day and age keeps a diary? And actually writes in it? I guess you do. And it just makes me want to figure out what goes on inside that head of yours even more.
You've stopped for a moment, and your back has gone rigid. It's as if you know I'm watching, like you can feel my eyes on you, driving into you, trying to dig out your very core. That's ok, I am.
You turn around and look at me now. I'd better slide down the mask again, fencing time.
"What are you doing?"
What indeed. Why, I'm watching you, I'm digging you apart from the inside out. But I only shrug, opening my eyes a bit wide, innocence personified.
I love it when you scowl, so serious. If looked at in the right light, I would almost say it was gorgeous. But who has a beautiful scowl?
"Then why don't you find something?"
Tactful. I silently applaud that one.
"Because there is nothing to do. And if there was, I don't know if I would want to do it." I roll onto my back again, sliding my arms beneath my head and gazing above at the ceiling. Crappy plaster job, they can't build for shit on earth. Now the colonies, let's just say, when the only thing protecting you from death is man's handiwork, they make sure it's the kind of construction that lasts. This ceiling looks like a good sharp poke might bring it down. I hear you shift in your seat, closing your beloved down. Nighty-night computer that I adore. Well, I can't blame you, I love that computer too, it lets me see parts of you that never show.
You're moving across the room, kneeling down by my bed. I can feel your eyes boring into me, but I won't look away from the ceiling, that cracked and moldering space.
Yes Heero? Have you got something to say? This should be good, but I can't show I'm listening.
You lean closer and I can feel your breath slide over my cheek, whispering across the hair tucked behind my ear.
"I have something for you to do."
Such a low, husky voice. If I didn't know better, I would swear you're about to say something infinitely sexy. But, I know better. So I wait, and turn my eyes to look at you. You've got my attention, go ahead.
"Break into the cafeteria and get us something to eat."
I blink at you for a few moments. Right. And I suppose you're just hungry? This is a surprise I must say. Unusual. And once again, your body is saying something to me, and it's not 'Duo could you please go steal from the kitchen'. But I'll be damned if I can read what it is. In anyone else, I would say it's more along the lines of, 'Duo strip naked and let me ravish you from head to toe'. I shrug again, all right. Kitchen robbing it is.
You look at me as if I've just stated the obvious. And I might have. Dinner was about six hours ago, too long.
I love the question game.
"Why don't you do it?"
"Aren't you the one with nothing to do?"
"And whose fault is that?"
That should get you, how can you resist a non-question answer?
"Isn't it yours?"
Oh god, you're so much fun. And I have way too much time on my hands, and a hat full of mental problems.
"Why would you say that? Didn't you order me to finish all reports by Friday? Didn't you tell me to make sure my schoolwork was done in case something came up?"
Your mouth opens then shuts with a barely audible click. Gotcha.
"Just go get some food." You turn away and settle your back against my bed, wrapping your arms around your knees.
Good little Duo, your dismissed. But I pull out my mental chalkboard and add another little line to my side of the scoreboard. Point.
I slide off the bed, intentionally stepping on your foot as I get off. You don't say a word, you're so good. I yank out that scoreboard again and add a mark to your side.
Cracking open the door I peer out into the deserted hallway, which of course as I've just said, is deserted. I turn and glance at the back of your head.
"Want anything in particular?"
And as you turn your head ever so slightly, I swear your body says something other than what your lips do.
"Just an apple."
And your body says, just you.
I nod, right. One apple coming up. Asshole.
Sneaking into the kitchen is a piece of cake, which just happens to also be what I wind up taking for myself, along with a nice large glass of milk, two apples, and some quickly made sandwiches. You can drink tap water for all I care; the other apple is of course, for me.
No one sees me all the way back, and no one suddenly shines a light in my face demanding to know what I think I'm doing. Just some shadow flitting down the halls with an armload of food. Pay no attention to the jester behind the devil; it's all an illusion.
Dead silence reigns in our little room, don't tell me you've finally fallen asleep? No, not possible. Because if you have, I'm going to do something very sick and demented with this lovely red apple I've got for you. There's a soft sound behind me as I close the door. Cute, like someone other then me has just entered the room. Are you going to pretend you don't recognize the braid?
"Get me the apple?"
I turn and silently hand you the crimson fruit, loving the way your eyes light up. Is it feigned? Maybe not. You look up from the gift and I can almost see you smile, then just as quickly, it's gone again. You're welcome.
The cake is a bit stale, probably left over from Friday. I don't care, it's sweet, and the ice-cold milk I swallow after each bite is like a small part of heaven. Sensations, feelings, I love to have them. I like to feel each bite, each sip, the way the chocolate melts on my tongue, the milk's residue of dairy and sweetness.
And watching you, it's just another sensory thrill. Sharp white teeth biting into that apple, ignoring the tiny line of juice that slides down your chin. Your eyes are so far away. I wonder what you taste, what you savor.
Always with the question after my name. It's like you're not quite sure if that's it or not.
"Yeah?" Don't tell me you're actually going to say thank you?
"Why don't you go to bed?"
Why indeed. Because I like to watch you.
"Because I'm not tired."
"But you're bored?"
Point. Yes, I'm bored. So what plausible excuse do I have? Then it hits me, you want to watch me. Another contest, wonder who will win this time.
"Yes, but I'm not tired."
"Would you like me to help you?"
I nearly drop the glass of milk, and as it is, I still spill a few drops on the dark carpet. Help me? I look cautiously at you from beneath my bangs.
"How?" I try to keep the suspicion out of my voice.
Right. Yes sir. I'll just be lying down now. I smirk and set the glass aside. No problem.
"On my stomach or my back?"
"Where would you like to be when you fall asleep?"
"Then lie on your back."
I slide off my clothes piece by piece and toss them to one side, then slither under the covers and pull the blanket up under my arms, hands resting on my chest. Someone give me a lily to hold, I think I'm dead.
You come to stand by me, looking down with that unreadable expression.
"Tell me something," You say softly, kneeling down so we're on the same level. "Do you ever dream?"
You're in a weird mood tonight.
You nod, expected that did you?
"I don't dream," I roll over onto my side and look into your eyes. "I have nightmares."
You nod again, Am I so predictable?
"What if you didn't have nightmares?"
"Then I might know what it's like to dream."
"What would you dream about?"
This is getting way too strange for me, why are you breaking the rules? It's a serious no-no, an offense that's punishable with the end of the game. Besides, I can't tell you what I wish I could dream about, what I would love to see each night when I close my eyes.
"I don't know."
Another nod, but this one is more vague, just an absent nod of the head, to show you're still listening.
"I dream about you."
It's so hard not to show the shock I feel. Instead I merely lay, staring at you. What do you mean?
"I never had dreams before this," you gesture around us, at the ceiling, the floor, me. "I wondered if you have them."
"No." But I'm curious now; you've got me hooked. What do you dream about me?
"I dream that we're not here, not now. That I know you from somewhere else."
You're staring off into space while looking me directly in the eyes. And I get a creepy feeling just watching.
"Is this how you plan to put me to sleep?"
A sharp glare, ouch. That one cut, see how I bleed? Or is that your blood?
"I dream that," you shake your head, as if you want to dislodge whatever thought this is, as if maybe you can shake the words from your throat. "I dream that I can touch you."
Oh, shit. No, no, no. You don't just go around saying things like that at this stage of the game. You just don't. It isn't polite form. I watch you steadily, gaze unwavering, then blink, slow and dreamy.
"Why can't you now?" I lay my little mental scoreboard aside, this I think, has gone beyond every game there is.
You look at me a long time, silence hovering above us, little wings of quiet. Then you inch closer, your arms slithering across the bed, leaning close until only a small space separates us.
"Do you want that?"
"I don't know, do you?"
You slide your hips onto the bed, and you squirm closer to me still; I can feel the heat slide off your body in waves.
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Should it be?"
"Would you like me to be obvious?"
Yes, I would love for you to be obvious, so obvious it makes my head spin.
"Can you be?"
I feel your hips press against mine, one hand slide tentatively down my side. Your breath is hot and sweet on my face, and I don't think I've ever looked into your eyes at this close a range before.
"Do you really want to end the game?"
"So you admit you've been playing?"
"Did I ever deny it?"
"Why are we still playing?"
"Would you like to stop?"
I pause and stare into those large, brilliant blue eyes of yours. And for once, your body and your mouth are agreeing. And I don't even feel like winning this game anymore.