notes: if you know this arc, I shouldn’t have to explain it. If you haven’t, go read the rest of it first. As usual, this hit me at a weak moment; my Mariners are out of the playoffs and I’m bummed...oh yeah, the title comes from the lyrics of a Jeff Buckley song.
One foot in front of the other. One breath at a time.
That’s all it is for me now. I hate what I’ve become. Once I wished that I could stop fighting—now I wish more than anything that I could go back to it. The rush of battle clears the mind, drives all other thoughts and emotions away. And I need that now. I don’t want to think, I don’t want to feel, because all I feel now is shame.
This collar is too thick around my neck, and the lace scratches my throat. Strange, to be bothered by such a trivial thing. I ignore the knowing glances of the servants in the hall and rap lightly on her door.
I told her I was going to leave. I kept on saying it, repeating over and over again, I would complete my mission, get back my Gundam, and I would be gone.
She didn’t believe me. She found my weakness, without even having to look for it.
I think I hate her. But no more than I hate myself.
I had just told her I was going to leave. She told Quatre and I that we were done fighting, that she would give us sanctuary, that we would be nothing more than students. I could see in Quatre’s eyes that he wanted to believe her, even if he knew better.
I told her I had no intention of staying.
“Trowa Barton,” she said. Two words.
And then I knew neither of us would leave. She said she was already looking for Trowa, that Noin had told her he was “someone important.” I don’t know how Noin knew that...I would hate her, too, if I had the energy, but I don’t.
Relena lets me into her room. The top button of her blouse is undone, and her feet are bare beneath the hem of her long skirt. The usual braids are missing from her hair, the ends are flyaway, as if I’ve caught her in the midst of brushing it. I don’t know how artful she is, if this is genuine or contrived.
Then again, does it matter? I’m using her, the least I can do is let her be the one to seduce me.
She kissed me first. I didn’t want her to, I didn’t like the way it made my insides churn, the way it brought to the surface all the pain of every other kiss I’d shared. But I couldn’t break away. I couldn’t turn and leave her, couldn’t risk making her angry, or hurting her. Because then she might want us to leave, might stop looking for Trowa.
And to have him safe again, I would do far worse things than this.
So I let her do what she wanted with me. She knew more than I expected her to—she speaks of ideals so naïve that I had thought she would be so much more innocent.
She asked me to come back again. I didn’t dare refuse.
And now I come to her whenever she asks. She never says it directly, but she has a way of entreating with her eyes, so that I know when I am summoned.
She puts her arms around my neck and draws me inside, nudges the door shut with her bare toe, presses her lips to my neck. “I’m glad to see you,” she whispers, the way she always does. And I don’t answer, because I never do, but again she accepts my silence.
Her fingers are in my hair, fumbling with my shirt buttons, skimming down my sides. She dances me across the floor, and I follow her lead, let my hands slip beneath the thin cloth that covers her body. Her skin is soft, so different from mine, or Trowa’s, or Quatre’s—so different from the skin of a soldier. She is slender, with the awkward beginnings of curves, not quite a woman but definitely no longer a girl.
She eases my shirt off my shoulders, and it falls to pool on the floor at my feet. Her hands caress the planes of my chest and slide lower to toy with my waistband; one leg hooks around my own. She knows all the right places to touch, to make my body respond even though my secret mind wants to beg her to stop, to fall at her feet and plead for her forgiveness and her help.
I press her back onto the bed and sink to my knees before her. Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling my head closer as I kiss up the length of her thigh, my fingers pressed against her hips. Her head falls back, her breath coming quicker, shorter. I will trade her pleasure in exchange for her dignity. I will give her memories, that when I am gone, will not haunt her the way mine haunt me.
I will use her, yes, but I want her to believe that I loved her.
She grips my shoulders and pulls me upward. Her legs wrap around my waist, she kicks away the last of my clothes and urges me above her. It was not always like this. The first time, I was the one on my back—lying there under her, lost, closing my eyes to force away the reality of where I was.
It’s not that Relena is a bad lover...far from it. But I am sinking, til I am too deep to ever see the light again. I have only so much to give, and with every loveless union I lose a little more of myself.
And for now I lose myself in her. Mindless rhythm, primal urges, the slick slide of skin against skin. Her nails in my back, just hard enough to sting—she rocks against me, arcing up into my thrusts. She gasps out my name, and the last syllable becomes a moan that wavers in the air and bores into my numbed brain.
I collapse onto her, and she wraps her arms around me, holding me warm against her. My cheek is pillowed on her breast, and I am glad that I don’t cry, or I would give away this secret that I keep so close to my heart.
“I love you, Heero,” she whispers.
And because I must make her believe, I cannot remain silent. Still, I do not say it to her. Far out in the distant reaches of space, there is another I am directing my words too. I believe he’s alive because Quatre tells me he is, and because I want to. I don’t know where he is, and I know he cannot hear me.
But somehow I still do everything for him.
“I love you,” I say softly.
I mean it for Trowa, but Relena is the one who hears.