Contains: 1+4?1
It occurs to me 5 months after our move to this neighborhood that I can no longer live in denial. We’ve become domesticated. Our lifestyle is suburban in nature and we, ourselves, have become mundane. The blonde no longer relies on, what is essentially, his father’s money to get by. He’s a working stiff. As am I. I’m well aware of it as I leave my study and head towards our bedroom to retrieve a manual.
I’ve been working as a programmer for the past few months. Ostensibly, I’m part of a company that makes alternatives to expensive software. I’m called a Troubleshooting Technician when, in reality, I’m a flunky. I field complaints and resolve the program bugs. It’s the job no one wants, but it allows me to work on my own schedule and where I choose. No clocking in. Just deadlines. And I’m dealing with one now. I have three days to make a disaster of an application run, consistently.
The work itself isn’t as difficult as it is tedious. I’m reminded of that as I sight the blonde’s briefcase by the front door. He can do what I do faster and better. For that reason, he keeps his distance while I’m working. I know it without him telling me. For instance, today is a good example of his circuitous navigation. He’s been dodging me since his arrival. Two hours of staying away from me as though I have something infectious.
I’m passing through the living room when I see him. I stop in my tracks. He’s standing with his phone to his ear. He’s partially undressed. His shirt is out of his pants and half unbuttoned. His feet are bare. Either he was called on his way to the shower or he decided to handle a necessary communication before going in.
As I watch him, I realize that I’ve had enough seclusion. Work is shelved and I seat myself on the sofa that’s on a diagonal from him. I accept my new identity. I’m furniture…his furniture, taking up space, waiting to be acknowledged by having him park himself on me.
Briefly, he glances at me. After a few seconds of sitting in a clearly attention-hungry position, it finally hits home that I may have to expend some effort. My arms are both on the back of the sofa and my lap is open and willing for any intrusion. I haven’t remained still. I’m nonstandard furniture. I come with features…and not of the commonplace variety. I prove my availability. There’s been shifting on my part, movements that make it more than clear that I’m simply trying to draw his interest. Evidently, I overestimated my appeal. I’m getting no response.
As I tune into what he’s saying on the phone, I’m fully aware of an ongoing problem: I’m second fiddle to that manipulative android of his. I sit up.
I tolerate it, his creepy conversations with his double. His tone is intimate; his words are doting. This is how he keeps Raberba in line, with kind words and patience. He doesn’t remember what that droid did just a few months ago. If he did, things would be different. But I’m keeping my mouth shut. There’s nothing to gain by him also recalling his decision to cast me off.
I continue to listen to them. It’s sickening. It’s sickening how much it scratches at me, especially when I realize why: I don’t get the same treatment. I haven’t, not once.
Suddenly, I’m being addressed.
“Heero.” His gaze hasn’t shifted to me. It’s on the windows. “Your muttering is a distraction.” He pauses. “Frowning is just as bad. I’m aware of it, even without looking.”
I suppose that’s my cue to get lost. Bastard. I get reprimanded and his double gets worshiped.
I leave.
Muttering? He’s suffering from aural hallucinations.
I look at my surroundings. I’d made a straight trek back to my study, my study that functions as a home office. And now I’m sitting at my desk.
After some malicious internal griping, I realize my mistake. No manual. I can’t move ahead without it. I’m out of my chair and retracing my earlier thwarted path to our bedroom. I make it there without a problem.
He wasn’t in the living room and he’s not in the bedroom. I think I heard the shower going. I’ve got the manual and I’m flipping through it to see if it’s the only thing I need to take back with me. The smarter solution is to keep every potentially useful material in the same place, but I don’t. Looking for stuff gets me away from the trio of glowing screens I park myself in front of. With those monitors teamed up with the processors…I’m probably baking myself with radiation. I’ll leave everything scattered.
I hear movement coming from the hallway and now I see the cause. I have confirmation. He was in the shower. And now he’s standing in the doorway dripping wet and facing me. And, as I watch his hand creep up to rest on the doorframe, I know something else.
He’s good at what he does.
The manual falls out of my grasp.
He’s a master at manipulating people. Earlier, with Raberba, he’d done on it purpose… reprimanded me, rejected me with his droid on the other end of the line, listening. He’d sent him a message: talking with you is a greater concern. You’re more important than Heero, despite my actions, despite how I have abandoned you to live with him.
I watch the water trickle down his flesh. He’d left the phone and gone straight into the shower and gotten himself plenty wet before trekking back to our bedroom to find me. I was heading here earlier, wasn’t I? No toweling off for him. There are puddles where his feet had passed. He came in dripping wet knowing fully well that it would be difficult for me to keep my hands off him, even when I know he’s doing this to make up for his previous brush-off. He’s a calculating bastard who knows his victim’s weaknesses and never hesitates, just capitalizes.
It’s what I want to believe, but I’m wrong.
He’s flaccid. My gaze moves upwards. He looks dazed, in a bad way. I didn’t catch on before because his hair is all over his face, but I get it now. I completely understand the situation as he shuffles off toward the bed. It’s a walk that’s too old for him.
It hit him in the shower: a migraine. It explains his curt attitude earlier. It had started then. Mistaking it for something less crippling, he probably thought a shower would help. It wasn’t long before he realized he was wrong and got out. The sight of beads of water rolling down his back spurs a reiteration of an earlier thought: he made no attempt to dry himself off.
I look left. He’s in bed slumped against the headboard with his weight on one shoulder. I turn away and think logically. I’ll follow the usual protocol. I’ll turn the lights down but leave enough illumination so that I’ll be able to find my way back to the bed without doing it blindly. I’m almost at the dimmer when he stops me.
“Heero.”
I look back at him.
I can’t see his face. It’s still hidden behind wet hair. But, apparently, he can see me. He sounds uneasy as he says, “You…look ready to die.”
“I’ll get the medicine. Just stay there.”
I turn down the lights and head out.
The medicine isn’t in the bathroom. The other day he’d brought it into the kitchen and I saw it there this morning. I’m already in the kitchen. I see the bottles. They’re on the counter just under the hanging pots. Stuff for the pain and stuff to knock him out. The sun has been down for 3 hours. He’ll need both sets of medicine. And water. I turn around. He’ll need a glass of water.
The two bottles are in my left hand and the glass is in my right as I reenter our bedroom. He’s in the same position I left him in. It’s as though he’s something that has been posed and abandoned. It’s a thought that’s interrupted. At the sound of my footsteps he begins moving, getting himself under the sheets. He partially sits up as I approach. It was a process I didn’t miss a second of. And there are other things that haven’t escaped my attention.
I don’t know what it feels like to have a migraine, but I know what it looks like. And I have my theories as to why they’re occurring with this frequency. Three in the past week and several times before then. I want to say that they’re residual damage from his injury, but it feels like they’re punishment geared at me.
It’s impossible to forget what he’s forgotten. He’d lost the entire day before the hurricane, but it wasn’t just Raberba and Jiro’s visit that had slipped his mind. He has no idea how he was injured, that he prevented me from being struck. He believes that I found him unconscious and brought him to the place where we were protected from the storm. Instead of it being a mutual rescue, his amnesia made me the sole hero. I’d seen it on his face then and for days afterwards. And I see it now. It’s a look of gratefulness and embarrassment over being taken care of.
I’ve reached the bed. I hand him the glass of water. Once it’s out of my grasp, I deal with the bottles. I undo the tops and shake two pills out of each. I pass the pills to him. He takes them. I close the bottles and set them down on the night table.
Rigid, I stand by the bed and watch him drink. I watch him for a long while…minutes, maybe. He’d closed his eyes after taking the pills. He’s still holding the glass and now it’s tilting in his grasp. The medicine is working, stealing him away. I reach down and take the glass of water. It’s shaking with my hand as I eye his lax form.
Even with him like that…I can only think of one thing: I want to lick him, to start from his groin and run my tongue up to his lips.
I bring the glass to my mouth. I drink the rest of the water. It’s the only way I’m going to get a taste of him tonight. I put the glass down beside the medicine bottles and bring my attention back to the bed. My eyes have become accustomed to the low illumination. I can see him clearly enough. He’s sleeping there, highlighted, outlined in the glow of soft lights.
I lean over and reach down. He fell asleep with his hair slick against the side of his face. I move his hair away. There’s no reaction from him and I give into what has become a habit. I’ve been doing this for a while…waiting for him to fall into a deep sleep to have my way…to feast on him… to look at him without him pointing out that I’m staring, without him taking all too close guesses at what I’m thinking.
I take my fill. It’s better to have him oblivious than to make my sentiments obvious.
I pull the sheets tight over him. I’ll join him in bed later, after I
get more grunt work done.