Pomegranates: A Story in Three Parts (part 1)
He was eating my pomegranates.
Heero has the oddest, most inexplicable appetites, offsetting his otherwise apathetic vision of the world. I find him, sometimes, draped over a kitchen chair, fresh from battle, devouring peaches and plums; his slick blood on the linoleum floor because he couldn't be bothered with cleaning and binding his own wounds. The clearest memories I have of Heero involve watching him stir melted chocolate, dipping one tentative finger into the thick sauce and swirling one plush tongue around it, before, with almost solemn glee, a strawberry would be dipped, coated, and rested on wax paper. As with all other things, Heero was meticulous in this process. The consistency of the chocolate would always be the same. He would make two dozen. Refrigerate for half an hour, and dine for fifteen minutes.
So when I walk through the door of our apartment in the late afternoon, already irritably pulling off the restrictive tie that was part of our Preventers uniform, it's no surprise that he's slouched over the coffee table, eating a pomegranate. All the same, I lean against the doorway; pristine clothing rapidly descending into wrinkled disarray, watching him eat. The fruit is split into two with one clean cut, and he alternately peels or breaks, and nibbles. Heero lifts little pieces of mottled pink rind and burgundy fruit to delicately extract a few crimson kernels, spitting out the seeds. His fingers work deftly and quickly, and his lips are stained a ruby red.
He's reaching for the second when he glances up and for a moment, an apprehensive look crosses his features. His fingers fly to smear the juice off his lips as he murmurs a quick, "Gomen nasai." Heero has the grace or intelligence to look vaguely apologetic, but this didn't disturb the smugly sated look on his face.
"I found them in the fridge," he says, voice light, tilting his head so that I can see the slivers of skin that disappear under the loose tank top. "I thought they were for me," he continues, giving me that same unfathomable look. His lips curve slightly. "Were they?"
I sit beside him and he draws an arm around me. His lips are still tinted a cherry red; his smooth, alabaster fingers can't draw the pigment from his skin.
"Yeah, sure," I agree, looking at him levelly. He views this with more than a little apprehension-- I can see it in his eyes-- and sighs, setting down the fruit.
"What's the look for?" He asks, flatly.
I smooth his hair, more out of habit than to obtain any desired effect on his unruly mane. I nibble on my lower lip a little, savoring the suspicions he's emoting, before answering, drawling a languid response.
"You've heard of Hades and Persephone, right?" I murmur, lazily.
His eyebrows twitch. He eyes the fruit warily.
I snatch the pomegranate and the knife, cutting it in equal halves. I lift one to my lips, swiping one tongue over the split scarlet kernels, appreciating the tangy taste. Heero's still staring at me, mouth now slightly agape.
It's all I can do not to purr when I speak. "So this is Shinigami and Heero." The words are husky anyway, as my voice drops to a coarse whisper.
His eyes take on a glazed twinkle, catching onto my game. "Yeah? So?"
"So..." I take a bite, crunching fruit, and offer him a single seed, trapped in a little ruby pill, placing it into his willing mouth like a wafer. "So, once you've eaten the food of Hades, you can't leave. It's divine law."
Heero takes another bite, juice dribbling down his chin to ultimately stain his shirt. He absentmindedly wipes it away again, keeping his eyes on mine, trying to anticipate my next move. I lean in close, cheek brushing check, mouth enticingly close to his ear.
"You're mine," I breathe, lips nuzzling his earlobe. He shudders slightly, exquisite. His eyes flutter as his lips curve and open. My chaste little angel with the eyes like blue marble and a face carved from limestone. Luminous. Glowing in the dark underground of my arms.
The angel speaks, and I laugh. Heero narrows his eyes in mock anger, a smile still playing over his lips.
"Go right ahead," I murmur. He rolls his eyes and makes a face, but moves his arms to encircle my waist. Clucking admonishingly, I dart away, rising from the couch, and wag one finger. He glowers, but sits still, crossing his arms.
Swaying just slightly, I settle onto his lap, locking my knees around his waist and arms around his neck, humming as I draw him closer. One last look into his eyes-- allowing another sigh to escape my lips-- and I close my eyes, drowning in the bliss of memory alone. He moves beneath me, rumbling his discontent, scent cloying, alluring. My eyes snap open and I lean forward with deliberate slowness and flick my tongue out to swipe across his lips, before he opens his seraph's mouth and draws me in. Our mouths collide and I shift, unable to restrain from rolling my hips just a little. A repressed moan slips through his lips.
Still kissing him, I slip one hand beneath his shirt, the pads of my fingers slipping up and down, swirling over the center of his ribcage and the flesh around his nipples, diligently waiting for them to pucker by themselves before running light fingertips over them. Heero growls, teeth bared against my lips and I have to chuckle at my persistent Persephone who still tastes of pomegranates.
"You're a tease," he hisses, back held in the slightest arch. My other hand disappears behind him, tracing his spine as he flexes and settles, sleek muscles contracting and compressing, before withdrawing and cupping his chin. I inch forward on his lap and he bites his lip, glaring at me with a mix of ruffled dignity and a glint of diabolical playfulness. My hand brushes over his chest, down the crunch of abs, shifting towards where skin is suddenly warmer. One slim finger hooks into the ubiquitous black spandex while the other hand fists a handful of the tank top and jerks up. There's a small crackling sound of ripping thread as it tears, slightly, at the seams. Two fingers pulling on the spandex now, as he raises his arms and waits, with strained patience, for me to properly coordinate my movements well enough so that I can pull the shirt over his head, further tousling his hair.
Heero growls-- now glaring darkly from beneath mussed bangs-- and I lean down to nip at the space where his collarbones lapse to quiet him, further pacifying him with a trail of kisses from his jaw to his shoulder.
"Hey." I lean up, pressing a little pure kiss on his forehead as my hips jab downwards with vicious certainty. Heero bucks a little, involuntarily offering another muffled whimper.
"Yeah?" His voice drops to a rough whisper as his harsh breath grates in his throat. I commit it to memory, with all the other little nuances. Heero still glows like he's bathed in a certain type of light that renders his newly exposed skin luminescent, and his eyes still have the same lurking intensity that trap me with astonishing swiftness. His lips are still stained red, and he still tastes like the tart flavor of fresh pomegranates. There is a play of light and shadows around the hollows of his throat, shifting as his head tilts. Or as his eyes close and his mouth opens, sharp exhalations of air escaping as my hands begin to peel the spandex from him, drawing it over slim hips. The fabric catches against the insistent dark bulge and his breathing grates again. Heero's hands are suddenly on my face, pulling me so close that he encompasses my vision-- just like how he constitutes my world. His eyes swim, blue-black-grey, solemnly reflecting light-- his gaze and my gaze mingle and intertwine until there is nothing but the mirror reflection of our dual lust.
He fumbles with the buttons of my shirt, fingers trembling and seemingly unable to slip the little slices of pearl from between the slits.
Suddenly, we freeze-- his hands on my shirt, frozen; my hands on his hips, stayed; his breath caught in his throat; my gaze ripped away-- as Heero's laptop begins beeping insistently with anal regularity.
"Heero Yuy, come in," buzzes in a voice I instantly recognize as Dr. J's. Heero's hands clench and unclench as he sits, silent and unmoving.
"01, come in." The voice sounds vaguely irritated now-- he must be. He never addresses Heero as 01 anymore. It continues coolly. "Mission intel from Preventers. Mission director is J. Heero Yuy, come in." I grimace-- Demeter, snatching Persephone away from hapless Hades. The world seems drugged as I descend from the heights of Olympus, still tasting the pomegranates like bitter ambrosia on my tongue.
Heero and I stare at each other before I wordlessly rise and his lithe body straightens, white-knuckled hands adjusting spandex and aimlessly searching the couch and the nearby floor for his shirt. He spots the patch of green on the coffee table, slips it over his head, and lopes to the laptop. Heero slides into his chair, eyes riveted on the screen as he begins conversing in emotionless Japanese. I can't decipher what he says, but I've gathered my legs into my arms, and I peer over my knees, wrapping myself up in typical gloom.
Soon, the transmission ends and Heero gets up, snaps his laptop shut, and goes to the hall closet. He rummages a little before retrieving a worn duffle bag, which he slings over his shoulder. He glances towards me, an indefinable look in those spiraling blue eyes, and slowly twists the doorknob and glides through the doorway. I gaze, wistful, Shinigami with the violet eyes and cross over his heart, drawing old movie lines from the electric pulse of my mind. /It's funny how beautiful people are when they're walking out the door./
"Duo?" He looks at me, hesitating and uncertain. I raise my eyes.
His mouth is open, plush tongue against white teeth. A tiny little spot of brilliant red catches my eye-- a pomegranate seed. His mouth closes, teeth click, throat bobs-- his mouth opens again and nothing remains.
"I'll come back," Heero says. His eyes twinkle just a little as the light from the hall spills into our apartment.
He disappears and the door shuts with a decisive click.
Demeter's summer is always Hades' winter.
I begin buttoning up my shirt.
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