by DSM - The Violet Eyed Devil
He is a vision.
All smooth plains of alabaster skin, incandescent in the afternoon sunlight. Back propped against the wrinkled tree trunk beside me, he stares out over the sea of faces that busy around us. Another boarding school, another base just over the way scheduled for destruction and yet we are gifted with this small chance to relax and rest…and I find myself gazing at this figure beside me.
I am not the only one.
Eyes gravitate towards my companion. He cannot be, cannot simply exist without drawing a thousand or more admiring gazes. Even as he sits here, eyes gazing off into nothingness, lips curved into that perpetual grin, and sunlight dancing across his skin, weaving through his hair, eyes follow even his slightest movement. Worship his very countenance. And who would not? Boys…men…are not generally called beautiful, are generally not deserving of that title. But he can be called nothing other than beautiful. His skin is too flawless, even or perhaps in spite of, the many scars that trace its surface. I’ve caught many of our temporary classmates fingers itching towards him as he walks past, reaching out to caress that skin to see if it is as soft, as silky smooth as it looks.
His body, small, lithe but not frail in any stretch of the imagination, moves with liquid grace and feline agility nothing short of ethereal. Even as he bounces with barely contained hyperactivity, he moves with fluidity any dancer would gladly give their lives for. It entrances people every time he moves across a room, sits in a chair, waves his hands about in that manic way of his. Eyes cannot help but follow that body as it dances its way through life.
His braid is like a beacon… too feminine to be handsome but never detracting from his masculinity no matter the jibes Wu Fei and I make at his expense. Eyes follow its swing, enraptured by its rhythmic tap, tap, tap against his backside. That twisted rope of burnt umber silk exudes a siren’s call all of its own... has a life of its own that I believe not even he has control over. If it’s not his skin, its that braid fingers itch towards, desperately wanting to touch, to run along its length and see if it feels as luxurious as it looks.
But it’s his eyes that intoxicate. A color that can barely be defined, switching and shifting with his every mood… his every mask. Sparkling cobalt, dancing lavender, limpid orchid, mischievous amethyst, deadly violet… A myriad of hues that seize you until you are drowning in their depths, searching for the secret hidden within those pools.
You can search, but you will never find what it is you seek.
Those eyes shift closed now, the sigh almost audible from his admirers as they turn and busy about their days, eyes flickering back every now and then. My lips quirk into a smirk at their foolish, not so hidden glances at a figure who barely acknowledges their existence outside of his companionable waves and friendly conversations. But still he bewitches them with his carefree smiles, kind words, and energetic nature until they are powerless to escape.
He is the best actor I have ever known.
He can move about the room and be whomever he wishes, whoever he is needed to be at that moment in time, only to become someone else in an instant. The shift is barely perceptible, impossible to detect for all but a few. I thank Dr. J every day for my training if only for the ability to detect those subtle hints, gifted with the chance to watch as he metamorphoses into each new persona with the same ease one would slip into a new set of clothes. He lives his life as though he is in front of a camera, prying eyes behind a lens to capture, dissect and analyze his movements, thoughts and emotions. A constant state of mild paranoia so intrinsically wrapped in his very being even he isn’t completely aware of it.
As instinctual as breathing and twice as important.
Even now, spared from the obligations of war that stifle him so and free to indulge in that oh so important ‘downtime’ he craves, I can see those eyes… a soft amaryllis in this afternoon light… slit open to peer around. He adjusts his posture as a group of giggling girls gaze his way with rapt adoration on their faces. A slight wave…a mere wiggle of his fingers…a grin that limbos somewhere between a coy smile and a smirk and the girls are sent into titters and hues of pink. He has fulfilled his role as playful flirt. The girls adore him, the observing boys want to be him and he can fall back into what ever role he was playing before those girls caught his eye.
They will never know he is sleeping with the boy beside him.
He cracks his eyes open again as I reach out a hand to trace nonsense patterns over a thin scar marring his skin and he graces me with the soft, contented smile belonging to the face of my lover. Not the face he parades for these teens surrounding us. Not even the face he displays to our fellow comrades. This smile is for me. Just as my smile… the only true smile I have… is only for him. Another one of his many smiles so carefully constructed, but at least this one is constructed for my eyes only.
He blinks his eyes closed again, the illusion of sun induced sleepiness blanketing his frame. We entwine our fingers, resting our joined hands in the long grass surrounding the base of tree and another slow smile crawls onto his lips. I tug him closer until our bodies are joined at the shoulders, our thighs pressing tantalizingly against each other and he leans that chestnut crowned head on my shoulder, his braid slipping a caress over his shoulder to drape over his leg and mine. My free hand is unable to resist the urge to brush gently over the tip.
We are safe in this intimacy even as our classmates look on. We are nothing more than friends, brothers, comrades, so complete is his pretense. No one bothers to look beyond what they are presented with on a carefully gilded silver platter. The world around us sees his clever illusion even as I trace my free fingertips over his lips, cheeks, jaw, neck, ear with promises of kisses…and so much more…when we are safe from prying eyes. He answers with a squeeze of his hand and a kittenish nuzzle to my shoulder.
He is a lover born of fantasy.
He worships with his whole being, achingly gentle caresses with fingers, tongue, and hair that drive a sensory overload until I am writhing in ecstatic torture under his ministrations. His lips release the most erotic mewls, whimpers, and moans as I tease his flesh with my own hands and lips until he is melting under my touch. Those eyes, turned dusky… the color of a night sky… are molten fire as he gazes up from beneath me or down from above me. His hair, a curtain of the finest silk dyed with chestnut radiance, shivers around him, drapes over my… our… heated flesh as we love each other. His hands are never idle. They caress, tease, worship even as my own do. Our lips mold together, our tongues dance as surely as our bodies. His skin glows with a fine sheen of sweat, transforming him into the fey creature he so resembles, as I move within him. He is a tight warmth of pure addiction and I am loathed to ever depart from that blissful heat. Only when he is buried deep within in me do I feel any measure of consolation. We are joined in all senses of the word in moments such as those… I within him and him within me.
Still there is a depth, a hidden place lurking within that I cannot grasp even though I reach for it with every fiber of my very being. Long to wrap myself within it to learn all of its secrets. But it remains quicksilver in my fingers.
I shall never stop searching for it.
The shift of his hand detangling from mine catches my attention and I am greeted with two mischievous violet eyes and a pair of smirking lips as he gives me a coy wink.
“Just what have you been thinking about, Heero?”
Even as his eyes flicker over our surroundings, those slender fingers crawl down my chest, teasingly slow, until they pause over the evidence of just where my thoughts had been. Violet orbs sparkle as his hand rests with gentle pressure over my clothed erection.
The low hum of his voice caresses me even as the gentle pressure turns into a stroking palm. His shoulder leans over, drawing his body around to effectively block his wandering hand from view. Eyes flicker to mine, delight flashing at the sight of my bottom lip drawn tight between my teeth, trapping the moan dying to escape.
With a soft growl I catch his wrist and he laughs, delight ringing clear across the yard. The students around us smile in response, his laughter too infectious to ignore. They see just another scene of Heero Yuy, cold, unfeeling, unfriendly bastard angry yet again with his lively, lovable friend. Not a thwarted attempt at a teasingly exhibitionist hand job by a grinning braided baka.
An answering smile flickers across my face before I call it back, but he sees and he knows and his smile grows in return. I drop his hand with a shake of my head and he entwines our fingers again, eyes alight with the humor of a good joke.
He is the eternal comedian.
His wit is as sharp as the knives hidden strategically under his clothes and can cut twice as deep. WuFei, Trowa, Quatre, myself…we have all made the mistake of allowing that sharp wit free rein at the expense of both our pride and our dignity. I’ve seen even the strictest of teachers, the most hardened of soldiers crack even the barest semblance of a smile under the full force of his wit.
His smile, permanently fixed on his face in some form or another in public, is infectious. His most deadly weapon in day-to-day life and he exploits it to his full advantage. People find their lips twitching without conscious thought in response to his charming grin, his mischievous smirk or his disarming smile. His laughter echoes above and beyond, singing loud and clear over the noise and chatter of everyone around him and people are drawn into whatever joke he’s telling now. Whatever story he’s pulled from his arse on the spot. He commands their attention with an ease any entertainer would sell their soul for.
He plays the fool as perfectly as he does every other role… perhaps even more so. I had him pinned as an idiot the moment he opened his mouth, despite the two bullets wounds I possessed to attest to his considerable skill. People see the charming grin, hear the jokes and stories, and watch the enticing figure bounce through the hallways with a ready wave and a smile. They laugh as he goofs around in class, snicker as he performs another bout of slapstick, and smile knowingly as he torments me with every opportunity he is presented. He is the clown, the baka, the jester, and the buffoon.
Because the dumber people think you are, the more surprised they’re going to be when you kill them.
It’s impossible almost, as I look down at the dozing figure resting against my shoulder, to reconcile this perfect picture of simple innocence with the dangerous weapon that calls himself The God of Death.
I’ve have seen him shoot down soldiers with an accuracy so deadly it seems unnatural. Watched as he gutted an unsuspecting guard with a knife only to impale two more with knives appearing from seemingly nothingness. He can pick most any lock in mere seconds, slip from shadow to shadow as silent as the very night itself, and construct an explosive from even the barest of materials.
But he becomes Death incarnate once inside of his Deathscythe. That towering monolith of midnight colored Gundanium is just another extension of his body as death and destruction follow in his wake. Kaleidoscope eyes black, unholy glee shining within those orbs and fires from the suits he’s felled around him blazing. He says my laugh during battle is psychotic. His is chilling, a mockery of the cheerful laughter not of this persona called Shinigami. With thermal scythe dealing the ultimate judgment, he is no longer of this world but truly the Death god he claims to be.
But the mask slips… if only for a moment… and I am rewarded with the briefest of glimpses into the eyes of the scared, heartbroken boy I know resides in the soul of a killer. I kiss away imaginary tears that cannot be shed, hold a body quaking from the aftershock of a brutal memory, and pray for the moment when he will finally allow me to give him the true comfort he has given to me.
The shrill scream of the bell breaks through my thoughts and I prod my dozing lover with a gentle elbow to the ribs. He snuffles and blinks, eyelids heavy from sleep, before gazing up at me.
“Heero?” he yawns, adorably confused and lifts his head from my shoulder.
“The bell rang. We have class.”
“Damn.” He pouts, and the comedian is back. Humor sparkles in his eyes as he imagines the chaos he will cause during this afternoons classes. I roll my eyes in response but a smile graces my features as I stand, reaching out a hand to pull him to his feet. He accepts with a careless grin and pauses to wink at me before turning to walk to class.
Only to be stopped by my hand still clasping his.
“Heero?” He turns, confused and I gaze into his eyes, searching.
Caring not, for once, of the many eyes still resting on his figure, I reach up to trace over one cheek and brush an errant stray that has escaped his braid during his afternoon nap.
“Heero?” his voice is worried now, but he doesn’t turn his eyes from mine to see if we have attracted an audience.
Cupping his cheek in my hand, I place a chaste kiss atop his mass of hair and pausing only briefly to inhale the sweet scent, I whisper…
He pulls back and as his gaze locks with mine I can see, for one blessed, sacred moment, I can see what I have been searching for. I am lost in those turbulent eyes before the shutters slam down and he is grinning like the fool he pretends to be.
“Love ya too, ‘Ro!” dropping a teasing kiss on my nose, he bounces off towards his adoring public, their incredulous stares melting into cheerful smiles and laughter as he sweeps them up into his façade.
But for that one moment I saw…
And I knew…
And I loved the Duo Maxwell that I found beyond the Masquerade.