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Pomegranates: A Story in Three Parts (part 2)


The days go by slowly, and my nights are usually spent constructing elaborate sexual fantasies. I leave the windows open so that the curtains billow in the wind, and close my eyes, nude beneath the sheets. My mind trips and fumbles, and I dream of Heero-- eager, red-stained lips and the hollow of his cheeks-- beside me or above me, or maybe his lean form against mine, shifting in smooth planes of motion.

And then, afterwards, mind still hazy and foggy with unconsummated lust, I open my eyes to the world again and catch the phantom scent of him, here in our bed. Tonight, my mind creeps back and gently probes a memory, which unfolds as my eyelids drop and I'm lost in the blurring space of memory and desire.


There was nothing in the world but the slick heat between us; the alternating layers of light perspiration and skin, and the chill of air that wafted through the open hatch of Wing, cooling my back. My fingers, frantic and rough, stroked over his ribs and stomach, dipping down to-- after a moment's hesitation-- curl around his burgeoning erection. Heero hissed, grimacing in a familiar expression of painful satisfaction, and repeated my name like a mantra.


I bowed my head, lowering my mouth to his lips to tentatively nibble one corner. I could feel him twitch against my hands, minutely, and hear the evidence in a muffled groan. My knees were locked around his hips, holding him down as he strained upwards. My free hand traversed across his stomach, feeling the muscles begin to tighten as my fist quickened its strokes up and down his length. Beyond his tattered breath, I was acutely aware of my own throbbing need that was trapped between my stomach and his, brushed occasionally by my wrist as my hand bobbed furiously up and down along Heero's erection. His legs twitched beneath me, muscles clenching with agonizing slowness as his back arched, calloused hands gripping my hips, his mouth opened and closed wordlessly. A shudder ran through his body like an electric current, and finally, he surrendered with one long, guttural moan. It was the first time I'd seen his face shatter with ecstasy-- divine ecstasy-- that ripped across his face like a storm.

His breath slowed, descending, and Heero was quiet and withdrawn again, then lifted one hand to stroke back my honey-streaked chestnut bangs. He leaned towards me, kissing my throat, one hand on the small of my back.

I can still taste the salt of his skin on my lips. ...>

My eyes open slowly and my tongue runs over my lips pensively; I can half-imagine the taste of salt from honeyed skin. I stare at the bright red lettering of the digital clock that rests on the nearby bed stand. It's only 10:34. I rise slowly, body reluctant to part from the warm sheets, to shut the windows.

My muscles are inexplicably sore, so instead of returning to the bed, I head for the bathroom, intending to take a quick, hot shower and then rest until the grey morning. My nose wrinkles at the prospect of another listless day, awaiting Heero's return to my Tartarus[1]. I'm mildly disconcerted by the sullenness with which I approach each day and the uncharacteristic grimness of my thoughts when not lingering over recollections. Perhaps most of all, I'm perturbed at my own unwillingness to take matters in my own hands, so to speak. The Catholic boy I never knew existed in me surfaced with a vengeance. Water begins to mist from the showerhead and I test it: still a little too cold.

The water warms gradually and I step in, breaking my morose streak with a blissful sigh as the water soaks into my hair and drips from my face and limbs. I'm too tired, too enervated, to do anything besides stand there as the water slips down my body, into the porcelain tub, and drains away.

After a few minutes, I feel much better. The muscles have unknotted themselves, and the water has thawed and softened the forecast of tomorrow.

I step out, feet on moist tile, and grab a towel. Veering down the hall, I go to the living room instead, some unexplainable urge impelling me towards the couch. I stare down at the carpet and the deep red stains that show, even in this half-dark. Pomegranate juice. I cluck admonishingly but shrug, resigned to sleep.

I step into the darkened bedroom, only to stop, abruptly. I can feel the night breeze in the room-- the windows are open. My eyes sharpen, searching for shapes in the dark. I can barely distinguish the silhouette on the bed because the moon is clouded.

Heero rises from the bed and walks over, the expression on his face imperceptible in the absence of light. His hands run down my arms, locking around my wrists, and he pulls me close; so close, I can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against my cheek.

His voice, close to my ear, murmurs, "Miss me?"

A draft sweeps in, swelling the curtains, rustling the sheets, and ruffling Heero's hair. I think about pomegranate stains on the carpet, and that single ruby-crystallized seed disappearing down his throat.

/I'll come back./

"Hell yeah," I breathe. "Abso-fucking-lutely."


End Part 2

[1] Tartarus = Hades' realm; the Underworld.

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