Zechs/Heero. R. ~150 words. Breathplay. Violence.
As comforting as freefall in space.

He opens gritty eyes to see the hard line of one glossy black boot and nothing but darkness beyond it. The concrete is cold, unforgiving, his cheek throbbing where dirt and stone has scraped it raw.

Zechs crouches down beside him with the soft whisper of cloth on cloth and the creak of fine leather. “You’re a fool,” he says, his voice as comforting as freefall in space. He brushes gloved knuckles against the bruise marring Heero’s neck, flips his hand over and fits his fingers to the perfectly matching marks.

As bright white eats away at his vision, Heero realises it’s true, but Zechs’s hand fisting tight around his cock and the rough, stinging kisses that steal what’s left of his breath convince him some things are worth being foolish over.


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