Disclaimer: If I owned Duo Maxwell I would never leave the house. Gundam Wing and all characters belong to Bandai, Sunrise, Sotsu and peoples.

Pairing: 1+2+1
Warnings: some angst, denial, my brand of humor, fluff and sap. Heero POV.

Kagi's notes: This is bothering me. It needs to get written. This is my first attempt at writing a fluffy get-together fic. (Me? writing fluff? well, I'm going to try...*shifty eyes*) This part is the prologue, and works fairly well as a stand alone ficlet, but it's going to be longer. My muse is having trouble with it, and needs a kick in the pants... so I'm posting the prologue as a sort of teaser/ficlet thing. I'm just wondering how interested anyone is in seeing more of it?

Stealing Sweet Dreams
by Kagemihari

It was a tiny motel, not a very well-kept one. It wasn't exactly seedy, but it was by no means comfortable. It did, however, smell strongly of disinfectant and other cleaning products, so apparently it was at least clean. The rooms gave a new definition to the word 'small', and the only available one was a single room. Still, there were just the two of them; they could share the bed if they had to. They had been in worse places, many times.

Heero sat at the tiny table, in a less-than-trustworthy, uncomfortable chair, his laptop on the table in front of him. He was not looking at the screen. On the other side of the small room, Duo Maxwell sat wearing only his boxers, brushing his hair. Heero himself was already done with his nighttime preparations, and he was waiting, somewhat impatiently, for Maxwell to finish so that they could turn out the lights and get some sleep.

He felt somehow threatened as he sat there, a vague sense of impending doom, but he could not attach it to any specific factors. He sat, silent, watching the brush move in it's long, smooth rhythmic strokes through the gleaming mass. That incredibly long hair. Such a useless vanity, what a waste of time and energy. He opened his mouth to say brusquely, "You should cut it all off," -- and closed it again without a word. What business was it of his, what Maxwell did with his hair?

Maxwell laid the brush down, and perhaps he felt the weight of Heero's impatient scrutiny more keenly than usual, for instead of rebraiding it for the night as he usually did, he looked over and said, "Done. Hit the lights on your way over here, will you?" And without further comment he climbed under the covers, taking the side closest to the wall.

Heero had already gotten up as soon as Maxwell finished speaking, reaching for the light switch, but his mind was still processing the comment. That was odd. He had figured he still had another five or so minutes to wait, while Maxwell remade his braid. He frowned to himself. He hadn't been that annoyed, had he? He wondered if his impatience had shown more than he meant it to. Feeling at a bit of a loss, he stood in the tiny clear space in the center of the room, puzzling over it.

"Are you just going to stand there all night?" came the bemused voice. "I don't bite, Yuy. Jeez. You're freaking me out." He could feel those deep blue eyes, peering at him in the darkness with wary confusion. He heard more than saw a hand pat the empty side of the mattress. "Come and get into bed." Was the faint coaxing note in the tone only his imagination?

'Come into my web, said the spider to the fly.' Startled out of his thoughts, Heero frowned. Where did that come from? He snorted and mentally smacked himself. Jeez, indeed. He crossed the now dark room and crawled in beside the other boy.

Damn, he'd forgotten how Maxwell was a restless sleeper. The Deathscythe pilot turned over, several times, changing his position on the lumpy mattress. Heero hadn't been kicked outright yet, but it was a near thing, he felt. Maxwell stretched again, and flopped back against his pillow with a sigh.

"Maxwell, will you hold still."

"Sorry," the other boy muttered. Heero did not reply. At his silence, Maxwell turned to face the wall -- and Heero choked suddenly as he found himself with a faceful of hair.

"Maxwell!" he growled, clawing his face free and throwing the other pilot's hair at him. "Why the hell didn't you braid this mess?"

"Because you were sitting there glaring at me already, that's why!" Maxwell snapped back. "See if I ever care what you think again," he muttered. Sitting up, he pulled his hair over his shoulder and twisted it several times into a loose rope. Then he laid down again facing the wall, his back stiff with frustration and annoyance as he held his hair against him.

Heero restrained a sigh. So much for that. He hadn't really meant to be so obvious with his impatient stare -- he prided himself normally on doing a good job of hiding what he was thinking. He'd been sloppy, letting his guard down like that. This was Maxwell's fault, he was sure of it. He lay on his back and closed his eyes, exercising his training to put himself to sleep. As he faded into unconsciousness, a stray thought in his mind identified the scent of Maxwell's shampoo: the faintest hint of lavender.


In the morning he woke early, as he often did, and found himself laying on his side. Instantly alert, he held still for a moment... something was not quite right. Something tickled his nose, and he opened his eyes just a crack -- oh. Maxwell's hair had gotten away from him again, and was currently pooled on the bed between them, inches from his nose. He held back a sneeze, and for a moment, idly watched the highlights glinting on the chestnut strands.

Raising a hand to scratch his nose, he froze, his eyes opening wide. What the hell? Grimacing, suddenly disgusted with himself, he shook off the handful of Maxwell's hair he'd been... well, it had been tangled around his hand. He sat up, swinging his feet over the side of the bed, and shivered suddenly at the rush of cool air on his skin. It had nothing to do with the silky feeling of light brown hair sliding over his arm as he turned away.

He felt Maxwell come awake behind him at his movement, tensing as he took inventory of his surroundings. Then a half-groan of protest -- at the earliness of the hour, he supposed -- and rustling as Maxwell curled himself into a ball and buried his face in his pillow.

Shaking his head, Heero wondered if he would have to drag the Deathscythe pilot out of bed later. He hoped not. He rubbed his face with his hands, sighing. He felt alert and rested, and his mind was already tracking the problems and possiblities of the day ahead. Getting to his feet, he snagged his jeans and towel and headed for the shower. He did not have to glance behind him to know what he would see: Maxwell was curled up with his face hidden, denying daylight for as long as possible. Several inches of his bare back were showing where he had not bothered to cover it again, and his long loose hair was flung out behind him, heavy ripples of chestnut and mahogany on the stark white sheets.

"Maxwell, get up," he threw over his shoulder in a sharp tone. "We have a lot to do today." There was an edge to his voice that had nothing to do with Maxwell's supposed laziness, and everything to do with the clearness in his mind of the image he had not seen.

He did not slam the door.

on to chapter 1

back to fiction

back to kagemihari fiction

back home