Story: IT WON’T BE LONG
Author: FancyFigures (fancyfigures@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, wish I did, just enjoy
writing about ‘em for free etc
Pairings: 1x2
Category: Heero POV, romance
Warnings: Yaoi, lime, slight angst, sap
Spoilers: None
Notes: Some
things you just never get over…
Feedback: If
you liked it, PLEASE let me know!
Written for
the Vault’s Spring Songfic Challenge 2005, loosely
based on Alison Moyet’s ‘It Won’t be Long’.
*
It’s one of those tear-off calendars. You know - a page a day, and some pithy
saying, credited to Shakespeare or Martin Luther King, or maybe just ‘Anon’. All’s
well that ends well - There’s nowt so strange as folk. Whatever. I’ve been staring at it for three whole
minutes, or so the digital clock on the kitchen counter seems to say. I don’t remember hearing the gentle clatter
of the minute flags turning over; I’ve tuned out the steady hum of the fridge,
too. I remember who gave us the calendar,
last Christmas, it was Quatre - he loves that kind of novelty! Trowa fixed it on the wall,
I must have been busy with something else at the time. And I remember that the first few sayings in
January were sharp and witty and thought-provoking; it had seemed an amusing
gift, and we were grateful for the thought.
Each day, another motto. We laughed over such a domestic measure of
our life together.
It hasn’t been updated for over a week, I can see that now. I know why I’ve forgotten it; it’s my usual
excuse. It’s because it was always part
of his morning routine. I tear off the first sheet and crumple it in
my hand. I’m rather rough about it; I don’t
read the saying properly. Something
about Everything comes to him who waits. And to think I always prided myself on my
patience. There’s some irony there,
somewhere.
I wander back through the quiet apartment, into the lounge, mentally
ticking the list of things I need to do today.
A couple of days off means chores - means some
experimental cooking - means easy listening and watching movies. All such entertainment, all
for myself. I pick up the rented DVD
that lies on the couch, ready for this evening, and I gaze at the lurid
cover. For a second, I’m confused. I don’t remember hiring it myself. By instinct, my mouth frames the familiar words,
ready to scorn the trash quality of the movie - ready to berate him for his
careless choice.
My mouth closes, slowly, no words emerging. There are echoes in my head; protests;
plaintive jokes. In his
voice. The corners of my mouth
twitch, as if I’m about to grin. I never
could resist those damned jokes of his in the end, could I? Well, most of them, anyway. Then the voice fades; because it’s only in my
mind, after all.
But of course, I did
hire the DVD. Must have picked up the
wrong one - I think I remember the sceptical look of the guy in the
store, glancing around me as if to find someone else involved in the choice. Someone more suited to that particular brand
of shock!horror movie. I make that mistake quite often - choosing the
movie that he would do. I bring them home and sit and watch them,
regardless; after all, particularly in the first few weeks of the new year,
there wasn’t a hell of a lot else to do.
*
The washing in the bathroom basket is an unusually small
pile. It always is, nowadays - it never
fails to surprise me, though. A towel has
slipped from the basket and lies crumpled on the bathroom floor. I stare at it, and the pattern of its folds
and creases. There’s the cloying
fragrance of our favorite shower gel, still wafting up to the ceiling after my
shower, earlier; there are still misty trails of condensation on the
mirror. For a second, there’s the
flicker of movement in the distorted reflection -
But when I turn, there’s nothing but my own face staring back at
me, hair still damp from its washing.
My hand traces a lock across my forehead. For a second, seen through the foggy
droplets, it might be someone else’s hand, doing it for me. I slide my hand down to my neck, tracing the
quickening pulse at my throat. I can
feel goose bumps along my sides, as if I were still naked; as if hands were
teasing at me; nudging me; drawing me against another skin. The erection I’m feeling is all too familiar
- it visits me too many mornings, after too many vivid dreams.
I stroke slowly at the front of my sweat pants, watching the
gentle dilation of my pupils in the clearing mirror. The voice is in my head here, too - but it’s
much lower; much more mischievous. One minute
it’s laughing, teasing - then it’s gasping.
Begging.
Crying out.
I can hear my name, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. I’m afraid that the sound is from my own
mouth; from my own need, as I rub faster and more satisfyingly.
There’s a single vest lying on the upturned pile of laundry that I
dropped at my feet. It’s not been worn
for a long time now; it doesn’t need another wash. It should go back in the drawer in the
bedroom. Or it shouldn’t be here at all. I grip hold of the sink behind me and it
rocks a little on its foundation. My
body arches against it; my eyes close. But
I can still see the vest, white, creased, too tight for my own size - I can see
it imprinted on the front of my closed lids.
I can smell its particular smell; feel the excitement of fresh cotton
pressed against a bare thigh. Mine.
I’m awash with dissatisfaction, even as my body shudders with
completion. I despise my own lack of
self control; I don’t know where the hell that proud patience is that I used to
treasure so much.
*
I clear my papers by the laptop in the dining room and dust a
little round the shelves. So much stuff,
still here. Still his. Ornaments; books; souvenirs
of his travels. He’s a terrible
hoarder. But he’s never bothered to
collect it from the apartment - to move it on with him, somewhere else. I tidy a few piles of CDs, most of them not
my style of music - I straighten the picture of the sea on the wall over the
music system. He’d been fascinated by that
one; said it reminded him of last summer away.
I’d only just started to use water colours, and although there were so
many things wrong with it that I wanted to tear it up and start again, he
snatched it from me with a laugh, and later that night I found it framed and
hung on the wall.
My hand lingers on the pale wooden frame. There’s still a stain there - a dark
nut-brown stain where the coffee cup shattered, and the hot liquid spilled down
the wall and on to the floor.
That voice is very clear in my mind, too. The one that was shouting - that was
arguing. I can’t remember the exact
words, nor the mixture between his and my voice. We were both represented; both angry; both
cruel. I hate raising my voice - I’ve
always tried to avoid conflict, though I’ll defend myself without doubt. That’s what I felt I was doing, defending
myself. I don’t know at what stage I
progressed from righteous indignation to fierce attack. I found vocabulary I’d always associated with
him; I found resentment and confusion
that must have been building up inside me for months. And suddenly spilling out
in a single, explosive evening.
Like I said, my voice was just as harsh - my words just as damaging.
I stare into the reflection in the glass of the picture. It’s just me; just my hooded eyes; my weary eyes. That night it saw two faces, both twisted
with fury. It caught the glimmer of
movement of a hand raised; the wide shining of tortured eyes. That night, the
whole picture shivered on the wall as door after door slammed.
And then it had reflected nothing but stillness and silence.
That silence is still there, every morning, when I wake up and fix
a light breakfast. Every
day, as I power up the laptop and start to work. Every evening, as the light fades outside and
the heating system in the basement hiccups its way into life. Other people in the block come home from work,
they chat and laugh by the elevator, they turn up
their TVs over supper. In our apartment,
I hear this particular brand of silence over everything else; I hear it as
plainly as the shouts from a football crowd.
When I go back into the kitchen for coffee, I see the pages of the
calendar fluttering in the warm spring breeze from the kitchen window. I tear at the top one - Look ere thou leap, see ere thou go - and another comes with
it. It stays nestled in my palm for the
moment.
*
In the hallway, there’s a message blinking on the machine. I know it’s Wufei; I know it’s about last
Saturday night. And I know I’m a coward
not to answer it. You see, I like him a
lot, but the nights out will have to stop soon.
It was a great evening - great fun, great atmosphere - then it got to about midnight and I ran for home, like some
kind of modern-day Cinderella.
And why?
Because I thought he might touch me - I thought he might want to be
something more than a friend. No, that’s
hypocritical; I know that he does,
but I also know that I’ve never encouraged him, and he respects that. On Saturday night, he’d done nothing but put a
friendly hand on my shoulder, but the whole of my body had shuddered with
shock.
“It’s been months,” he’d said, very softly. Not an accusation; not a plea. Just a statement. He sounded a little weary.
I nodded, because he was right.
I think about it now, very objectively.
All those pages, all those curling edges on that
damned stupid calendar. All those
moments when my mind drifts away - all those times my heart misses a beat. I don’t know how long it’s going to be before
things change. Guess all the guys are a little weary of me by now.
“The time will come,” I’d said to Wufei. “One of these days. That’s how it should be. I’m sure it won’t be long.” Then I’ll be over him, is what I was too
cowardly to say.
Wufei hadn’t even smiled; just sighed.
I dig now a little deeper for my brave patience, but it’s even
more elusive. I walk into the lounge and
sit carefully down on the couch. The
page from the calendar is still between my fingers. A little while later I reach for my coffee
cup and wonder when it went stone cold.
*
The doorbell rings and even now I sit there for a second, waiting
for him to answer it. He was always so keen to get there first, to
see who was visiting us. Then I bite
back a sigh and get up myself.
He’s on the doorstep.
“Heero,” he says. I can’t work
out the tone; I can’t decipher his expression.
I feel as if my stomach is fighting to get out of my mouth, but can’t
get round the swollen tongue.
I move my hand back down to the door knob and suddenly his foot is
between the door and its frame and his look is very fierce. “No, I won’t let you freeze me out
again! Let me talk to you.”
I try not to look up into those eyes but it’s inevitable; I’m like
a rabbit drawn to the snake. My mouth
fills with warm saliva and my heart seems physically to push out from between
my ribs. “Every couple of weeks, Duo, you turn up
here. We said we were making it a clean
break. How the hell do you think we can
do that if you keep coming back and confusing us all over again?”
“I can’t do it,” he says, a little hoarsely.
“Give it time,” I say, rather woodenly. “It won’t be long -“
“Until it’s all gone?” His fierceness looks very damp around his
eyes.
“Yes,” I say, simply. “Then
maybe we’ll be free to move on.”
“That’s - not what I want.”
He bites off any other words. His
head shakes quickly, sharply, as if only for himself. I can see his fist clenching. I don’t remember him ever being this
tense. Volatile, yes - but never so
agitated. And never at
a loss for words.
“I can’t do it,” he repeats, as if anything original escapes him
for the moment. His hand darts out
quickly, and takes hold of my arm. “Can
you?”
“Let go.” My voice sounds
rather faint. His palm is warm, and I
can feel its sweatiness even through the cloth of my shirt.
“Can you?” he urges
me. I don’t pull away. “Look at me and tell me that’s what you
want! For a time to come when it’s all
gone - when I don’t see you any more in my mind’s eye - when I don’t feel you
around me all the fucking time!”
“It’s for the best,” I say, but it sounds more like an excuse than
an explanation. “We hurt each other -
all the time.”
“Not all the time…” he
whispers. The flashes of memory seem to
crackle with static from his fingers; Saturday shopping; Wednesday movies; laughing
all times of the day and night. His
clothes folded over my arm; his plate clattering into the sink; his calls from
another room, demanding my attention, my company. His hand on my wrist; his smile against my
neck; his whispered words in the middle of the night, always more vulnerable
than in the bold light of day.
“Three months, we said.” I
cling to old, painful conversations like some kind of security blanket; like a
comforting mantra. “Trial
separation. To help us see
clearly again.”
“But not to forget,” he says, sharply. “I do
see clearly now, Heero. Believe me! I know I wasn’t ready, before - I was
careless of it all. Of
us. I needed to grow up a little, I guess - I
needed to appreciate what we had; what you were to me.” He laughs, a little brokenly. “But fuck,
I doubt this time away from you is going to make that any clearer than the
crystal it already is!”
I stare at his anguished eyes; listen to the impassioned tone of
his voice. I can see an equivalent
beggar, reflected in his pupils. He’s
speaking my words - describing my shame; my misery. How obvious it all seems to me now!
“I was arrogant,” I say, almost too abruptly, so that he’s
startled and his speech falters for a second.
“Don’t say any more. We’re both
to blame. I didn’t listen; didn’t
understand. I wasn’t ready, either. For it all - for you.”
His lips purse together.
His leg seems to relax, but his foot stays in the doorframe. He rubs his nose quickly, like he does when
he’s nervous.
We stare at each other for a moment, the rest of life around us
completely ignored.
*
“Three months,” I say again, hearing the sterile, disheartening
words echoing in my own head. “It won’t
be long.”
“Heero – look, please -“
“But anyway, that’s longer than I want to wait,” I continue. How the hell did I ever think otherwise? “It seems I can’t do it either, Duo.” His eyes widen suddenly, but I don’t let him
speak yet. I have things that need
saying, and I’m tired of saying them to the silence in the apartment.
“I have days when I don’t think that time will ever come - that my feelings will never change. That I’ll never be able to pass a mirror
without seeing your eyes reflected back at me - that I won’t ever be able to enjoy
the rich taste of a meal without remembering you at the table opposite me -
that I won’t ever be able to brush my hair without feeling your fingers running
through it instead. That
I’ll never be able to touch another’s skin without remembering the imprint of
yours on my fingers.”
He’s nodding, watching my eyes, my lips - he’s wary; he’s a little
bemused; he’s hopeful. His eyes are
alert and calculating the truth of my expression, and maybe a little
mischievous too. He’s everything that
Duo is, and always was; all the deepest and best
things.
“I don’t want that to be gone,” he almost whispers. “I don’t want
to move on. Not without you. I’ll do anything to put it right.”
I put a hand to his mouth and the soft dampness of his lips sends
shivers through my fingertips. “So will I. I want that as
much as you do. Those days I described -
they’re all days, Duo. There will never come a time when I can be over you. Because I don’t want to
be.”
He’s moving forwards into the apartment - more like a stumble than
a step. He reaches for my hand and the
slip of paper creases between our palms.
His eyes dart down in surprise.
“I’m days behind on the calendar,” I say, softly. I feel a fool. “I need to tear another few pages off to
catch up -“
“Leave it,” he murmurs. His
head dips down, his breath brushing against my cheek. “Let’s not rush the days away.” He takes the paper from my hand and unwraps it. And grins. Remembrance
rushes into me like warmth into a vacuum.
“Home-keeping hearts are
happiest,” he quotes. “Now ain’t
that a fact!”
End
***
Alison Moyet :
It Won't Be Long
One
of these days
I'm waiting on a day
When nobody comes to trample my meadow
Biding my time
There's gonna be a time
Might take a while
But changes are coming
And it wont be long
When everything you said
Won't sit around and pile up with the traffic in my head
And when I wake up
I wont see you on the bathroom floor
In the tangle of clothes we left lying there
It wont be long
One of these nights
With company I find
I wont be inclined to leave before sunrise
When my eyes, my mouth, my hands, my head
Don't tell me that nobody else will do
And it wont be long
When everything you said
Won't sit around and pile up with the traffic in my head
And when I wake up
I wont see you on the bedroom floor
In the tangle of rope we left lying there
It wont be long
It wont be long
'Till it's all gone
And it wont be long
When everything you said
Won't sit around and pile up with the traffic in my head
And when I wake up
I wont see you by the bedroom door
In the wallpaper stained by the cup that I threw at your head
It wont be long.