cozzybob (cozzybob) wrote in cozzybabbles, @ 2008-02-20 02:50:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | zechs |
[GW] Blow The Hellfire
Blow the Hellfire
by cozzybob
Rated: NC-17 for hot man-sex! Adults only.
Pair: ZechsxMilliardo (literally)
Warning: yaoi in a weird way, lemon, angst, madness, adult language, takes place after the series but before Endless Waltz.
Note: Written for the first theme in 30_tortures, the naked truth, as well as being inspired from a beautiful fanart admiral_chowder posted into gw_ozzies on LJ, that you can find here: http://www.deviantart.com/view/2570
Summary: This is the story of how Wind was born.
Maybe he hadn't been found at all. Maybe he was still up in heaven, drifting and dying, lying twisted among the wreckage of Epyon and Libra like the way a cat gets twisted in the tires of a car when it becomes road kill. Maybe he was breathing his last breath, and he hardly knew it because it seemed to him like he'd breathed his last breath a very long time ago. Or so a voice told him. Hell, maybe he had been a rotting corpse all of these sad years, and he'd just simply forgotten like the way everyone else had forgotten, always forgotten about him, his troubles, and his deaths.
Maybe. But when he opened his eyes, blinded by stark light of a medical room, the smell of sterilization and blood burning his nostrils, his lungs wailing like a siren, his body screaming, thoughts raving... he knew that he was alive. He had no doubts, for he'd been through this many times and he knew what surviving death felt like. It hurt. Like hell.
"You're awake."
A nurse. Brown hair, kind eyes, hard smile, and the nametag said Joy Nightingale. She put a hand on his shoulder, and he shuddered because it was a comforting gesture and a part of him felt even then that he did not deserve to be comforted. "Go back to sleep," she said.
His head shook of its own accord, his ashen tongue rolling words he didn't even know he could make, slurring, like Noin after too much gin. He couldn't ever remember speaking before, nor how he had even learned such a thing, such a foreign concept in all of these thoughts that could have kept him occupied for ages and ages and ages. He stared at her, at the nurse, and lifted a shaking, heavy hand to rub at his eyes, as if trying to wake himself up. But it was the same bad dream, too misunderstood to be understood at all, just madness for the madman who couldn't even remember his own name anymore.
"Do you..." His throat was ash. Ashes to ashes to ashes to ashes--he shook his head, trying to focus, but the ashes were there from a fire long, long ago and he couldn't get it out of his head.
She smiled again, nervously this time, her eyes twitching with concern. "Just rest, dear. Doctor Howard ordered you to sleep, and if you don't close your eyes, I'll have to give you a sleeping pill. It's imperative that you rest now..."
She kept that hand on his shoulder, pressing down even though he made no move to sit up. A glass of water hovered over his mouth and he inched towards it, whimpering when she kept talking, refusing to give it to him. He lifted his hand to take it from her, but his fingers were too weak to grasp it and his arm fell back down to his lap, defeated. The nurse paused, softening as she realized his distress, and sat him up slightly to bring the glass to lips. He swallowed once, twice, and the cool liquidated heaven slid down his throat, washing away all the ash and drowning out the fires in his head. When she laid him down again and put the glass away, he blinked, swallowed again, and licked his cracked lips, hissing as they stung.
"Do... you know who I am?"
Again, the words tumbled out of his mouth without ever remembering how to speak them, or even entirely what they meant. The nurse's eyes widened and she gasped, leaning toward him like an eager spectator at the circus.
"You don't remember?"
A flash of light, and pain. Screams, he remembered screams. And a boy... like him, blue eyes--shattered bits of silver on the floor of Tallgeese' cockpit, scattered on the controls as he gripped them, blood oozing down his face, crying, like tears--and he wondered if Otto's blood still stained the chair, if there was still a bit of gore lodged in between the cracks of the buttons overhead from where his face had smashed in like a grapefruit--like blackened over-cooked pork, his father's eyes boiled right out of his skull--
"Hey." She put that hand on his shoulder again and looked deep into his eyes, searching for a sanity that did not exist. "Can you tell me your name?"
Ashes, ashes, ashes, and they all fell down.
He shook his head again, blinking erratically, twitching. "Name?" His voice was far away.
"Yes, your name. You said you didn't know it?"
Ashes. Like crushed coal, like Walker's cigarette tray, like his father's and mother's coffins, the words, simple little words, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, to dust, dirty, like the blood on his hands--he swallowed again. "I can't remember..." He was six when he became a man, six, barely six, just six, half of twelve and double three--"I can't remember my name."
Because he had millions of them, billions of them. Million. Billion... Million?
And suddenly, laughter bubbled from somewhere deep inside and the pain of it made a tear escape unwilling, his eyes shut tight to hold the rest of them back, the rest of the laughter and the tears and the water and the ashes. He could feel the beat of an ocean pounding against his eyelids, demanding escape, retribution, release, but he breathed in shallowly, gritting his very teeth into sand so that he didn't have to speak a word. And there was pain, throbbing in the thing that was his soul, tearing him apart as it tried to heal him, make him better--
She spoke a word. It sounded like "ambrosia." Or "anemic." Or no, wasn't it "amnesty?" No, it was... it was "ammunition."
No. No, no, no, no, no, she said, "You've got amnesia." Amnesia. He'd forgotten who he was, the little dictionary in his head said so. That was all. No big deal.
Better to forget.
"Sleep," she ordered like way Treize used to order, soft spoken, suggestive, undeniably--
Who's Treize?
He surrendered, and there was darkness.
**
There was a fire and a man. The man was standing in the fire, burning, and he had tears running down his face, boiling, burning up, burning crisp, just standing there as he watched him, watching each other, burning in the fire, burn, burn, burning...
He stared back. He stared and he felt a wetness run down his own cheek, and he noticed that he was crying too. But as he lifted his fingers to touch it, the other man lifted his hand as well, like a mirror image, like a twin. It was then and then only that he finally noticed that the other man was completely nude as he stood in the fire, burning, and that he was dressed in a red suit. He looked down as the other man looked down, every movement mimicked, and then he looked back up again, staring at the other man with cold suspicion as the other did the same.
He lifted that hand to his face again, to the wetness still running down his cheek. The other man, again, did the same, and the two of them in precise timing touched that wetness and brought it into the light to stare at it, to study it, to see it for what it really was.
The other man was crying tears. But he was crying blood.
Shocked, he wiped furiously with one hand, rubbing his eyes, but the flow continued, ceaseless, like Heero Yuy's determination.
Who is Heero Yuy?
The boy. He looked back at the man in the fire again, who was looking back at him as well, and they stared at each other for hours. The other man had long white-blond hair, hair like his, like his father's, like his mother's, like his sister's, like his, like strings of satin clouds, ice-blue eyes that were tortured, angry, emotional, hurt--like his--a chin that rose in defiance even as his shoulders shook from the burden of too much pain--like his.
Their words came before the thoughts did, and they both said them together, so precisely aligned that it was heard as one loud voice.
"I know you."
And he did. He knew that man in the fire, had known him for a very long time--in fact, he'd known the other for so long that he'd almost forgotten his name.
Again, they spoke as one, and the names intermeshed together as though from an alien tongue.
"Milliardo."
"Zechs."
He smiled coldly to his other half, hatred washing over him in a bath of bloody memories, and a name, a single name, a name that he'd made for himself too many years ago so that he could forget and kill and massacre. He was a killer. Should he kill this man too?
His head tilted to the side as he regarded Milliard, who regarded him back with a hopeful smile on his face rather than the cold detachment that defined Zechs Marquise. Milliard was hopeful. Why would he be hopeful, standing in that fire, burning naked, in so much pain, hopeful in death and torture and imprisonment?
Zechs sneered. "I hate you," he said.
But Milliard smiled. "I know."
Did he? Did he really know? How could he know how much he'd hated himself for so long for so many years, running with the lightning bolts of the storm, running from Milliardo Peacecraft, dead heir to the throne of a fallen Sanq Kingdom, an heir who could no longer feel and no longer love and no longer appreciate life?
His father's spitting image.
Zechs Marquise spat at Milliardo Peacecraft's nude feet, and the fire made it sizzle.
Not to be intimidated, Milliard lifted a hand out to him beyond the fire, his arm extended, his tears almost like tears of hope--again, that word hope, daring to hope beyond all of this hatred. His voice was very quiet. "You could save me," he said. "You could end this."
But Zechs backed away, shaking his head, the bloody tears oozing into his mouth, dripping off his chin, staining his coat and his skin and his hands...
"No," he said, bordering on panic. "I couldn't. I need to be saved as well."
Milliard stuck his hand out insistently, annoyance and determination and sorrow and hatred and hurt and other things burning in his eyes like the way the fire burned his body and his soul. It was like trying to decipher a Kaleidoscope, one pattern of emotions shifting to the next, twisting and churning and spilling on again to the next, never quite the same thing twice.
His other half smiled again. "We could save each other," he said. His finger crooked, beckoning from the fire, and Zechs stepped forward before he knew that he'd done so. He extended his own hand warily, trembling--what if this is a mistake, what if this is wrong, what if it just hurts, always hurts, always pain, on and on like Frankenstein's torture chamber, beyond death, beyond madness, beyond life--
They touched, fingertip to fingertip, and it was like touching a photograph of himself from long ago collected to dust and only just now remembered again, to be loved and thought of and cherished. It was like he could finally see again without ever noticing before that he'd gone blind, like walking after years bound to wheelchair, feeling after a lifetime of pretending to be made of metal.
He wanted more.
Slowly, key to lock, their hands connected into a fist, gripping hard as to not let go, never ever again, not for all the fallen Sanc Kingdoms of the universe, all the dead Treize Kushrenadas and his fathers and his mothers and his sisters and his heritage, not for anyone or anything but himself. And Milliard, gripping Zechs with an iron will, pulled his other half into the fire with him to burn as he burned. Zechs screamed until even his throat bled. He did not blister, he did not char, but he burned, seared with invisible pain, like a burn on his soul, a burn on his life. Hellfire for a sinner, he thought, and he had far too many sins...
Milliard embraced him and he embraced back, and the pain lessened very slightly, enough to know that their unity would make them stronger so that he wouldn't have to burn like this anymore. He held on tightly, his face buried into the crook of Milliard's neck even as Milliard buried his own face into the essence that was Zechs. Zechs inhaled his other half, and he thought of the breeze of lilacs in the field back home--way back home--where Relena would roll in them, giggling, demanding to be tickled again. Gingerly, he licked at the underside of Milliard's jaw, and at that precise moment, Milliard mouthed at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He felt the body under him shiver as he shivered, their tastes intermingling together as one. He tasted spring water, and sea breeze, and peaceful things like books and his mother's piano, and he tasted gun oil, and blood, and terrible things like ash and sulfur, and sweat and tears. Each taste was opposite of the other, but the same, and he became addicted. He wanted more. The burning was only a dull throb in the back of his mind and he wanted more.
He found Milliard's face and licked the tears running down his cheek, and then Milliard grabbed his own face and licked the blood running down Zechs, a rumbling moan escaping as he savored it, drinking more. Zechs pulled away after Milliard was too much--he was so passionate, when did he become so passionate?--and he grabbed the other's face, staring into his eyes, reading the hunger and the hope and the havoc running through his mind. He leaned in and Milliard followed and they met half way, lips connected softly, sucking each other's breath, tongues sliding out to greet one another. Milliard's arms pulled Zechs close and Zechs followed; their mouths suddenly became viscous, biting one another and then sucking to apologize, diving in like a submarine in the Atlantic, deep exploration, nearly choking each other with their own tongues, inhaling each other's breath to make them theirs, to steal them into each other, to become one again after far too long apart.
They could have kissed for centuries, time was not of the essence in this place, but eventually they did pull away from each other to kiss lower, to taste more, hands groping and sliding and scratching and pulling, reaching for a slice of heaven itself. Zechs bit at a left nipple, Milliard kneeling awkwardly to bite at Zechs' shoulder, and Zechs went lower, Milliard's hands pulling him back up again to rip furiously at the buttons of Zechs' uniform, tossing the red coat away, and the shirts, and the cuff links and the ruffles and zipper of the pants, down, down, down his legs, passed his knees, to his feet. Zechs stepped out of his boots, socks and the tangle of his pants, and then the two of them were so alike in appearance that the only thing to separate them was the blood on Zechs' face to the tears that stained Milliard. Milliard kissed Zechs again, very lightly, and Zechs bent down, lower, back to where he was before, kissing at the borderline of where the pubic hair started, implying dirty things with his tongue. Milliard let him, even proceeding to push Zechs lower, and Zechs' mouth hovered over his other half's erection, staring, wondering, feeling the tingles of his own breath as if Milliard were down there at his own, thinking, I'm about to fuck myself raw.
He choked a laugh, and felt Millard smile above him. He licked, groaning as he felt it through Milliard as he did it, licking again and then swallowing, devouring, pleasing as he could feel the effects of his pleasure, and slowly he moved up and down, holding Milliard back as his hips started to move, and he whimpered when Milliard whimpered, eyes shut tight even when they lowered to slits, basking in the taste, the feeling and the wonder at what it was he was actually doing.
He pulled back, stilling to message the head with his tongue, sucking hard, teasing, groaning like a Taurus wrapped in the throes of Epyon's whip, shredding fields of melted shrapnel, and the pain, but good pain, dull pain, pain that centered at one focal point down there in his body and vibrated into the rest of him, down to his toes and up to his neck, along his fingers that he dug into his own hair, pulling, encouraging, and grasped onto his own hips, holding himself back as he pleasured and was pleasured, pleasured until he couldn't take it anymore and begged.
"Please."
Neither was sure who said it or if they both said it, but Zechs knew just as Milliard knew that neither should have to beg the other for anything, for they were one and whole and the same person, and why would you beg yourself to bring yourself to orgasm? So Zechs pulled away, crawling in between Milliard's legs, bringing the knees over his shoulder, reaching under to press against Milliard's entrance, to which he was surprised to find prepared and lubricated, wet, warm, welcoming, as if he were entering a woman. But Milliard was hardly a woman because Milliard was himself and he was a man and he figured it must be the dreams, because dreams will do that sometimes when you aren't prepared for it.
Shaking his head, wishing for one clear thought among the many, he carefully nudged against the other's--his own?--entrance, and groaned as the sensations came back to him. He pushed in and there was little resistance; he pushed all the way in, deep, deep inside, until he was swallowed in it, and filled with it, and connected like a prongs to socket, like chain interconnected, like the sky to the earth, like the night to the day--
He moved and felt movement and he groaned again, twitching, burning, the good pain intensifying, pleasure overwhelming, thoughts running in little circles, whimpering--
And he stroked once, twice, three times, and felt it too, and it then it was over before it even begun, both coming to a climax at the same time, again moaning, groaning, gasping, sobbing, whimpering, enjoying--
They embraced each other, melting into one another quite literally, until they were a tangle of skin and limbs and hair and eyes, mouths connected, again kissing one another as they became each other. They kissed until there was only one mouth and it was kissing itself, only one pair of hands stroking itself, only one body, comforting itself. Only one pair of eyes, no longer crying blood or tears, but dry, clear, sane, understanding, watching the fire burning around him with a strange acceptance.
He stood and he was one body, naked but comfortable, dark but kind, peaceful but not sympathetic, beautiful, but ugly enough to know the difference. The fire touched his skin, trying to burn him, to hurt him, but he stood impenetrable, unafraid and unhurt and not burning any longer. The pain was gone.
The licks of the flame trembled in fear, but the man smiled, inhaling a deep breath into his lungs, deeper than humanly possible, deeper, like a god from the heavens leaning down to blow the sail of a pirate ship, and then he exhaled. Wind blew from his mouth, strong, like a hurricane onto a defenseless city, and the fire ran, dancing, screaming, dying. Wind blew hard, putting out all the fires until he was the only one left standing, no longer burning, no more fires, no more pain.
Gone.
He stood like a man made of stone, his face expressionless, his eyes clear and assessing. And then he smiled.
He woke up.
**
"Hey, welcome back to the world, crazy man."
He blinked, swallowed, and as the world blurred into clarity, he stared. An old man was dressed in a loud hula shirt and shorts, sunglasses hiding the twinkle in his eyes that his mouth reflected, watching him, waiting for an answer.
He grinned. "Doctor Howard. I should have known."
Howard lifted an eyebrow at him, surprise showing on the eyebrows that comically lifted over the frame of his sunglasses. "You remember?"
"Of course," he said with a shrug, sitting up. He had much more strength now, though he knew it would be long before Howard let him out of bed. "I don't think I can forget a terrible shirt like that."
Howard grinned back, patting his knee, plucking self-consciously at his bright pink, yellow-flowered Hawaiian shirt. "You'll never change, Zechs."
He shook his head. "No. Zechs is dead, and so is Milliard. Just call me Wind."
"Wind?"
He nodded, running a hand through his tangled hair, eyes flashing like Wing Zero before a massive falling chunk of Libra, threatening nuclear winter should he fail to destroy it--but he knew that he would, because Heero always did.
Heero had a fire in his soul, a fire like his, that burned and burned and--
"Yes," he said, his voice solemn, lost in memory. "For one who puts out fires."
--Fini