by Alleyprowler
I observe. It's my nature to be aware of my surroundings at all times. The shrink at the Preventers diagnosed me as hypervigilant and made it seem like it was somehow pathological, but I disagree. If I wasn't like this, I wouldn't be alive today.
"You have eyes in the back of your head, sir," one of my trainees said to me the other day. At the time, I smiled at the bizarre image that conjured up, but I suppose he had a point. For instance, I can tell what my roommate is doing without looking up from my studying. He is absentmindedly polishing the lenses of his IR binoculars with a paper napkin, which is something he shouldn't be doing.
"Use the polishing cloth, Quatre," I tell him, still looking at my anatomy textbook. "That napkin will scratch the coating."
He makes a noise in his throat as he realizes what he's doing. "Oh... Sorry, Heero."
I ignore the apology. Apologizing is a reflex with Quatre, and it usually doesn't mean anything. Even if I had said something, he probably wouldn't have heard it.
He gets into these moods sometimes. Quiet, withdrawn, distracted. He goes through the motions, but his mind is engaged elsewhere.
Sometimes those moods annoy the hell out of me. If it was anyone other than Quatre, I'd hit him, shake him to make him pay attention. Instead, I do what I do best: I observe. I listen, I watch. I see. I understand.
And I don't like it.
The noises started up just as I was falling asleep. I wouldn't have noticed them had I not been listening. My hypervigilance has its uses sometimes.
I could almost dismiss the sounds coming though the paper-thin walls as a nightmare on Quatre's part. The heavy breathing, the quiet moans, the final surprised-sounding grunt followed by abrupt silence could easily be interpreted as such. I felt tempted to do so, but I am not by nature inclined to turn away from the truth.
Besides, there were the other sounds to consider, the ones that came after the silence. The really disturbing ones. The whispered words were hard to decipher, but the emotions behind them was unmistakable. They were words of rage, shame, and self-recrimination spoken in venomous tones. There was the dull thud of a fist striking flesh, again and again. A sharp intake of breath as Quatre did something else to punish himself.
This was really none of my business, I told myself. It became like a prayer every night I heard it, and again every morning after when I saw Quatre empty-eyed and aching, dazed by his self-directed violence. None of my business. I am not responsible for him.
My head is telling me that I should shout at him to tell him to keep it down. My gut, however, tells me something entirely different.
I'm out of bed. The false wood flooring is cold under my feet, but my head is hot from the low, steady stream of vitriol coming from the next room. This has got to stop.
It's only a few short steps to Quatre's room, but it seems to take an eternity to walk there. I want to kick the door down and roar at him when I hear a particularly vicious slap, but I hold back. My head and my gut may be at war, but that doesn't mean I can't strike a compromise. I give the door a slight push and it folds back nearly silently on oiled hinges. It wasn't even latched.
Out here on the training satellite, the moon is always full. Cold light streams in through the port opposite Quatre's bed, throwing his body into stark black and white. The shadows hide everything and nothing. He is lying on his side with his face turned toward the wall that separates our rooms, which explains why I could hear his voice. He is naked, the duvet kicked down around his ankles. Moonlight turns his skin the color of death.
He hasn't noticed my presence, but that's not surprising given the low curses coming from his mouth and the flat smacking of his fists against his legs and ribcage. His cock lies limp and spent in the crease of his thigh. It's obvious what he's been doing, even if I have no idea what he's doing now.
"Quatre, stop." My voice is night-quiet, but he hears me. I can tell by the way he tenses and curls up to hide himself from me.
"Get out, Heero. This is none of your business."
The words are designed to hurt and enrage me--and they do, to some extent--but I am determined not to show it. "I'm making it my business. You're no good to anyone if you're injured."
"Fuck you."
I won't stand for coarse language, and Quatre knows this. I grab his wrist a little more roughly than I intend to, pin it up against the headboard of the bed, and reach for the other one. It's easy to catch; he tries to smack me and I simply grab his arm and hold it down. When he tries to kick me, I pin his thighs down with one of my legs to hold him nearly immobile on his bed.
He doesn't struggle much. There's no point. I've got the position and the leverage to keep him down as long as I want with minimal effort, and he's already tired out. He lies there breathing heavily and staring at me with wild anger in his eyes. "What do you want?" he demands.
"I want to know why you're hurting yourself."
He lets out a laugh that almost sounds like a grunt of pain. "Are you blind? Can't you see what I've done?"
Most of the time Quatre and I communicate well, but this is one of those times when the words just don't fit the context. All I can do is shake my head at him hope he's going to explain himself.
He snarls, and his teeth look very white and very sharp in the stark moonlight. "You really are an idiot, aren't you?"
I modulate my voice into a quiet, cool tone that in no way matches how I feel. "You know very well that I'm not. I'm not blind, either. I see you lying naked, pinned down, and trying your best to get my temper up and I have to ask myself: Who is the idiot here?"
He turns his face away from me and I feel the tension in his wrists go slack. "I'm filthy."
Once again, the conversation takes a turn that makes me feel like I've missed a step going down a staircase. "I take it you're speaking metaphorically."
"I'm filthy, weak, disgusting...let me go!" He struggles against me, but I hadn't made the mistake of loosening my grip on his wrists when he went limp.
"Not until you tell me why you're doing this."
He gives one more mighty heave before lying still. He will not meet my eyes.
"Penance," he whispers.
"Penance is punishment for a sin," I say, remembering the religious section of our intercultural communications course. "But you aren't religious, as far as I know. How could you have committed a sin?"
"Some sins are secular, Heero." He stares down at himself, at the limp flesh between his legs, and I suddenly understand.
"You're doing penance for...masturbation?" It takes a great deal of effort not to laugh out loud, especially when I see Quatre turn his head away and squeeze his eyes closed in confirmation.
He begins to breathe harder and I can feel the pulse in his wrists quicken. This is no joke. He really does feel anguish and remorse for doing something as simple and reflexive as scratching an itch.
"Quatre, answer me."
"Weak. Dirty. Wrong."
"Wrong how?"
He gives me a sullen look. "It's just wrong."
"Maybe you're just not doing it right."
"Right? How could you do such a disgusting thing right?"
Instead of answering him verbally, I grab his cock in my left hand while catching both of his wrists in my right. He tries to wrench away from me. "Don't. You'll hurt yourself," I advise.
"What are you doing, Heero?" he asks with a note of panic in his voice.
Keeping a firm grip on his hands, I straddle his thighs. I am naked and cold, but Quatre is radiating heat like a furnace. It feels good; comforting. The melting sensation begins at my feet and slowly moves up my body. Quatre has just spent himself, but he is young and resilient and his cock begins to grow firm in my hand. I give it a slow pump.
"H-Heero, stop!"
"Why? Does it hurt?" I ask, though I know it doesn't.
He does not answer. I pump him again, and again, feeling the natural reaction grow in my palm as his cock becomes longer and thicker, the skin growing taut and smooth.
"Dirty..." he moans.
"I don't think so, Quatre." I feel warm up to my waist now.
He shudders below me as I work on him. "This is wrong."
"Wrong?" I say, feeling my own body respond. "No, this is not wrong." My hand moves faster.
"It's bad...dirty."
I have to laugh. "Bad? Like showing a new recruit the proper isosceles stance for target shooting is bad? Dirty, as if learning how to apply a pressure bandage to a gunshot wound is dirty? Wrong, as in teaching young kids how to become killing machines for the sake of 'peace' is wrong? It's all wrong, Quatre! Everything we do here is wrong, and this may be the only thing we can...do...RIGHT!"
He does not close his eyes as he comes. They are wide and moon-silvered, blank as newly-minted coins.
He doesn't speak. He makes no sound at all. All he does is turn himself to the wall and fold into himself.
And all I can do is lie down behind him, wanting but unsatisfied. This will be my penance.
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