'Exonerated' for sarabi_v2
Title: Exonerated
Recipient: sarabi_v2
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language
Summary: Without the thrill of war to distract him, Heero thinks entirely too much.
Author's Notes: I've tried my best to write Heero's internal musings, hope you enjoy!
Author: end1essly
He tries not to think of regrets.
To dwell, to mourn, to extrapolate- they aren't productive endevours, and if it were Duo or Quatre wallowing or moping about he would have invented some mindless task to keep them occupied. It isn't as if he doesn't have emotions himself, but he envies the way Duo can channel his passion, his fear, how Quatre always knows exactly what to say. If he feels, he desires. If he feels, he falters. If he feels, he is imperfect.
And yet, he has spent so much time grasping at the heels of perfect, he forgets that he is, indeed, alive. A thought flashes, fleeting, that one day there may be no war.
He doesn't like to think about it.
It's the first day of Spring, or, it would be, were he back on the elusive blue planet so reverently named Earth. It's an unexpected surprise to have time off, the five of them given four days' furlough as the fighting has briefly ceased. If it were up to him, he wouldn't have allowed such an extravagence; it's the reason why his headset remains fastened to his ear, set to accept only two sets of frequencies- Doctor J, and those within the ship. He expects to hear gunfire at any moment, and he'd rather be overly prepared than foolish.
The glass before him stands silent, cold, two blue eyes that trace his every movement, the slight dip of his hair as he spits into the sink. It's an endless fascination to watch the vaccuum set itself into motion, absorping the bubble of his spittle into nothingness.
Brilliant, Yuy. You've been without work for less than twenty-two hours and you're already going insane.
His mind shuts down, eyes closed, arms relaxed at his sides. When he comes back to consciousness it's to find that his legs have taken him through the maze of pathways, sneakered feet poised over the tarmac that makes up their indoor track.
He's never been averse to exercise; indeed, daily calistentics and a seven-minute mile was an essential part of their training. Having even the slightest bit of fat meant the difference between capturing an offender and suddenly discovering one's brains splattered against the wall. Running took discipline, a concentration he would rather spend hacking and decoding then in the depths of his mind where Wufei often finds himself. The depth of the fifth pilot's serenity is merely a vapor, something he can pass through but cannot touch.
The movement of running is mindless, a simple one-two, one-two, one-two, a swing here and swing there, but it moves him. The start is slight, body streaking down the recycled faux-tarmac.
One-two. One-two. One-two.
His headset pings briefly before he halts the noise with a slap, increasing his pace and closing his eyes, head swinging to an invisible music that trickles sweat upon his neck, goosebumps across his thighs.
Earth- he's only been down a couple of times and yet it serves as the backdrop to his dreams, the hot blue that burns through his nightmares. Quatre has caught him, more than once, but the secret remains their own, his tossing, his screams, his breaking of fine instruments against walls against a cold, starless night.
Fifteen minutes have passed before he feels the shadow beside him, the lagging heat and pants that signify that Trowa Barton has decided to accompany him on his early morning stroll. Running in those tight jeans must be uncomfortable, but commenting on clothing choice isn't something that would positively contribute to the persona he is attempting to create.
"Morning, Barton."
The nod is near imperceptible, slight, but not unnoticed, mouth pressed into a firm line as he follows Heero, always a few seconds behind. It's no wonder he didn't notice the taller boy for quite some time; Barton's footsteps are so quick and light they barely cause a movement in the rubbery surface beneath them.
"Thought you deserved the company," Barton responds, several seconds after such a reply would be socially appropriate.
"Fascinating," Heero replies, shifting his gaze slightly to the side.
Barton's lips quirk for a second before melting back into nonchalance, picking up his pace until the two young men found themselves side by side.
One-two, One-two. One-two, One-two. One-two, One-two.
The light dusting of sweat across his forehead has made way to something cousin to drenching, even if his vitals remain stable, his movements steady, composed.
"I've already hacked into the computer system three times," Heero says blithely, a weak attempt at maintaining conversation. The second the sentiment leaves his lips it accompanies a strong pang of emotion, almost startling. He's too self-possessed show the shock, but the fact that he cannot decipher something so primal makes him mentally miss a step.
"The ship's selection of reading material is tedious."
Heero sucks in a breath, the sudden urge to run faster and away from the distraction worming its way in the spongey bone of his skull, and opens his mouth unattractively. "I-"
If Heero's headset tone is short, firm, saturated with simplicity, than the bouncy, chirpy pop tune that exits Trowa's is the very definition of anamoly.
"Fucking Duo," Trowa replies crossly, turning his wrist slightly to check the caller and never breaking his stride. "Oh."
"'s Winner?" Heero asks quietly, the ache beginning to throb in the back of his knees and signifying the end of his unannounced run. "Seems to be rather fond of you."
"Perhaps," Trowa replies indifferently, matching the decrease in speed that Heero has set with his own, breaths coming in gentle puffs. "I wouldn't be worried."
Heero stops just before the curve of the track, arms falling to rest on his thighs as he breathes, hard. "Why so?"
Trowa's stretch is graceful, a gentle arch that stems from his knees and sways to two hands, tightly clasped. "I'm afraid my preferences have lain elsewhere for quite some time."
It feels strange to smile, but for once, regret does not hold him.
Recipient: sarabi_v2
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language
Summary: Without the thrill of war to distract him, Heero thinks entirely too much.
Author's Notes: I've tried my best to write Heero's internal musings, hope you enjoy!
Author: end1essly
He tries not to think of regrets.
To dwell, to mourn, to extrapolate- they aren't productive endevours, and if it were Duo or Quatre wallowing or moping about he would have invented some mindless task to keep them occupied. It isn't as if he doesn't have emotions himself, but he envies the way Duo can channel his passion, his fear, how Quatre always knows exactly what to say. If he feels, he desires. If he feels, he falters. If he feels, he is imperfect.
And yet, he has spent so much time grasping at the heels of perfect, he forgets that he is, indeed, alive. A thought flashes, fleeting, that one day there may be no war.
He doesn't like to think about it.
It's the first day of Spring, or, it would be, were he back on the elusive blue planet so reverently named Earth. It's an unexpected surprise to have time off, the five of them given four days' furlough as the fighting has briefly ceased. If it were up to him, he wouldn't have allowed such an extravagence; it's the reason why his headset remains fastened to his ear, set to accept only two sets of frequencies- Doctor J, and those within the ship. He expects to hear gunfire at any moment, and he'd rather be overly prepared than foolish.
The glass before him stands silent, cold, two blue eyes that trace his every movement, the slight dip of his hair as he spits into the sink. It's an endless fascination to watch the vaccuum set itself into motion, absorping the bubble of his spittle into nothingness.
Brilliant, Yuy. You've been without work for less than twenty-two hours and you're already going insane.
His mind shuts down, eyes closed, arms relaxed at his sides. When he comes back to consciousness it's to find that his legs have taken him through the maze of pathways, sneakered feet poised over the tarmac that makes up their indoor track.
He's never been averse to exercise; indeed, daily calistentics and a seven-minute mile was an essential part of their training. Having even the slightest bit of fat meant the difference between capturing an offender and suddenly discovering one's brains splattered against the wall. Running took discipline, a concentration he would rather spend hacking and decoding then in the depths of his mind where Wufei often finds himself. The depth of the fifth pilot's serenity is merely a vapor, something he can pass through but cannot touch.
The movement of running is mindless, a simple one-two, one-two, one-two, a swing here and swing there, but it moves him. The start is slight, body streaking down the recycled faux-tarmac.
One-two. One-two. One-two.
His headset pings briefly before he halts the noise with a slap, increasing his pace and closing his eyes, head swinging to an invisible music that trickles sweat upon his neck, goosebumps across his thighs.
Earth- he's only been down a couple of times and yet it serves as the backdrop to his dreams, the hot blue that burns through his nightmares. Quatre has caught him, more than once, but the secret remains their own, his tossing, his screams, his breaking of fine instruments against walls against a cold, starless night.
Fifteen minutes have passed before he feels the shadow beside him, the lagging heat and pants that signify that Trowa Barton has decided to accompany him on his early morning stroll. Running in those tight jeans must be uncomfortable, but commenting on clothing choice isn't something that would positively contribute to the persona he is attempting to create.
"Morning, Barton."
The nod is near imperceptible, slight, but not unnoticed, mouth pressed into a firm line as he follows Heero, always a few seconds behind. It's no wonder he didn't notice the taller boy for quite some time; Barton's footsteps are so quick and light they barely cause a movement in the rubbery surface beneath them.
"Thought you deserved the company," Barton responds, several seconds after such a reply would be socially appropriate.
"Fascinating," Heero replies, shifting his gaze slightly to the side.
Barton's lips quirk for a second before melting back into nonchalance, picking up his pace until the two young men found themselves side by side.
One-two, One-two. One-two, One-two. One-two, One-two.
The light dusting of sweat across his forehead has made way to something cousin to drenching, even if his vitals remain stable, his movements steady, composed.
"I've already hacked into the computer system three times," Heero says blithely, a weak attempt at maintaining conversation. The second the sentiment leaves his lips it accompanies a strong pang of emotion, almost startling. He's too self-possessed show the shock, but the fact that he cannot decipher something so primal makes him mentally miss a step.
"The ship's selection of reading material is tedious."
Heero sucks in a breath, the sudden urge to run faster and away from the distraction worming its way in the spongey bone of his skull, and opens his mouth unattractively. "I-"
If Heero's headset tone is short, firm, saturated with simplicity, than the bouncy, chirpy pop tune that exits Trowa's is the very definition of anamoly.
"Fucking Duo," Trowa replies crossly, turning his wrist slightly to check the caller and never breaking his stride. "Oh."
"'s Winner?" Heero asks quietly, the ache beginning to throb in the back of his knees and signifying the end of his unannounced run. "Seems to be rather fond of you."
"Perhaps," Trowa replies indifferently, matching the decrease in speed that Heero has set with his own, breaths coming in gentle puffs. "I wouldn't be worried."
Heero stops just before the curve of the track, arms falling to rest on his thighs as he breathes, hard. "Why so?"
Trowa's stretch is graceful, a gentle arch that stems from his knees and sways to two hands, tightly clasped. "I'm afraid my preferences have lain elsewhere for quite some time."
It feels strange to smile, but for once, regret does not hold him.