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Morning light filters through the slats of Relena's bedroom blinds, striping the white duvet in pale gold. Heero wakes before she does, a fact that is not unusual. His internal clock, calibrated to precision even in peace, rarely allows for more than a few hours of unconsciousness. He lies perfectly still, a warm, solid presence beside her, and catalogs the sensations of the room: the cool air on his face, the deep, even rhythm of her breathing just inches away. Her scentt, mingled with his
They did nothing more than sleep last night. The invitation had been simple, born of a long day and a shared, unspoken exhaustion. A quiet “Stay?” from her, a single, decisive nod from him. Sharing a bed had been a new frontier, but it had been…fine. Comfortable, even, or at least it was after a point. He had lain rigidly on his back for the first hour, a soldier unused to such proximity, until her soft sigh in sleep had somehow loosened the tension in his spine. He had slept.
Now, as consciousness reasserts itself, a familiar and unwelcome biological process begins. He feels a warmth gathering low in his stomach, a tightening in the muscles of his thighs. Blood rushes downward, a physiological response with no emotional catalyst. He knows, in a detached, clinical way, what is happening. Random nocturnal erections are a documented phenomenon, an inconvenience he has learned to ignore, to will away with the same discipline he applies to pain or fear. He closes his eyes, focusing on the cooling draft from the window, trying to redirect the flow of blood through sheer force of will. It is a battle of biology versus training, and training usually wins.
But this morning is different. The warmth of the body next to him is a potent variable, a stimulus his system hasn’t been programmed to factor out. The soft curve of her hip against his, the heat radiating from her skin, the subtle scent of her hair, of her skin; all of it conspires against his control. The pressure in his sleep pants becomes undeniable, a stiff, rigid presence against the soft cotton. A faint heat creeps up the back of his neck. It's an embarrassing betrayal of the body’s machinery, a malfunction he can't immediately correct. He shifts just slightly, trying to create space without waking her.
It’s too late. He feels a change in her breathing, a soft murmur as she stirs beside him. Her eyelids flutter open, hazy with sleep. “Heero?” she whispers, her voice husky.
He says nothing, turning his face slightly toward the window, hoping she won’t notice. But she does. Her gaze is soft, still clouded with dreams, but it follows the line of his body. She blinks, and the drowsiness seems to sharpen into something else- an understanding that is gentle, and then, something more. A small, shy smile touches her lips.
“Oh,” she breathes, the sound barely audible. Her eyes lift to his face, and he can see the flicker of…what? Not surprise, and not alarm, either. It looks like fondness, like she’s touched.
Heero’s muscles lock up. This is a situation for which he has no protocol, a vulnerability of a kind he has never permitted, and he doesn't know how to respond. So, he remains silent, and Relena’s smile widens slightly. She takes his silence as shyness, as coyness. It makes a certain kind of sense to her; Heero has always been reserved, always holding a part of himself back. Of course he would be hesitant. Of course he would deny himself simple pleasure, thinking it frivolous or weak. She sees it as her role, her duty, to care for him, to help him accept the good things in life.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, her voice a soothing balm. She props herself up on an elbow, the duvet slipping down to reveal the thin strap of her camisole. Her free hand moves, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a frightened animal. It comes to rest on his chest, her fingers spread over the firm muscle. He flinches, a minute, almost imperceptible tensing that she misinterprets. “You don’t have to be shy with me.”
Her touch sends a jolt through him, an electrical current that shorts out his carefully constructed defenses. Her hand begins to move, tracing a slow path downward over his abdomen. The thin fabric of his shirt offers no real barrier. His breath hitches, a shallow, panicked intake of air. Every instinct screams at him to stop her, to push her away, to bolt from this room and this sudden, terrifying intimacy. The words are there on the back of his tongue: Stop. Don’t. They are simple, direct commands he has issued a thousand times on a battlefield, in a cockpit.
But this isn't a battlefield, this is Relena. Her face is so close, her expression so full of gentle concern, of misguided care. Her touch is not meant as a weapon. The thought that becomes a dam, holding back all protest, is solid and absolute in his mind: he is a weapon. His body is a tool of violence, honed and perfected for destruction. His strength is a destructive force. If he fights her, even to push her away, he could hurt her. He could break her wrist, or worse, without meaning to.
So he does nothing. He freezes up as her hand slips under the hem of his shirt. Her touch is hesitant at first, then grows bolder, tracing the line of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants. A tremor runs through him, a violent shudder he tries desperately to suppress. She mistakes it for arousal, a silent encouragement.
“Relena,” he manages, his own voice a foreign, strangled thing.
“Shh,” she soothes, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jaw. “Let me.” Her fingers brush the elastic waistband, and he closes his eyes. He can’t watch, he can’t fight. He can only endure. The fear is a cold knot in his gut, the fear of hurting her, a fear that paralyzes him. His hands remain fists at his sides, buried in the sheets, his knuckles white.She frees him from the constraining fabric, her touch warm and confident. He feels a sense of detachment, as if he is floating above the bed, watching a stranger in a scene he can't control. Her movements are practiced, or perhaps just naturally graceful. She leans over him, her hair falling like a curtain around their faces, and the world narrows to the sensation of her hand on him. It is not pleasure. It is a violation, an intrusion, a theft of the quiet peace he had found in the night. A cold sweat breaks out on his brow. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the pattern of the light behind his lids, willing the sensation away, wishing for anything but this.
He feels the pressure build, an unbearable, unwanted crescendo. His body, traitorous and stupid, responds to the stimulus. His back arches off the bed in a sharp, violent movement, a muscle spasm of pure resistance. His breath comes in harsh gasps. And then, it's over. A wave of heat and a sudden, messy release.
For a moment, there is only the sound of their breathing. Heero collapses back against the mattress, limp and trembling. He keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to see, not wanting to face what has just happened.
Relena sits up, a triumphant, brilliant smile on her face. She wipes her hand on the corner of the duvet, a flicker of a practical gesture. She looks down at him, her eyes shining with what she believes is success. She thinks she has broken through another wall, that she has given him comfort, that she has finally managed to give something back to the boy who saved her so many times.
“There,” she whispers, her voice full of warmth and affection. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She reaches out to smooth his hair back from his forehead. “I’m glad.”
Her touch is gentle, but a new tremor wracks Heero’s frame. He feels a hot sting behind his eyelids, a pressure building in his sinuses. His throat closes up, tight and thick.
Confused by his reaction, Relena leans closer. “Heero?” Her smile falters. The look on his face must be something she wasn't expecting. She uses her thumb to brush at a tear that escapes, tracing a hot, salty path down his temple. Then her touch stills.
He opens his eyes, and she sees.
She sees not the shy, grateful boy she imagined, but a scene of misery. His face is pale, his expression blank with shock, but from his eyes, tears are streaming. Not just a few, but a silent, ceaseless flow, cutting tracks through the faint sheen of sweat on his temples. His whole body is shaking now, not with passion, but with what she can only describe as profound, devastating shock. His lips are parted slightly, as if he’s trying to speak, but no sound comes out.
The joy on her face evaporates, replaced by a cold, dawning horror. The triumphant warmth in her chest curdles into ice. The image in front of her makes no sense. Crying?
“No,” she whispers, the sound full of disbelief. She pulls her hand back as if she’s been burned. The wetness on her thumb suddenly feels like something vile, an accusation. “Heero…what’s wrong? Did I…did I hurt you?”
The question hangs in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. He can only shake his head, a mute, miserable denial. He did hurt her. He’s hurting her now, with this reaction she can't comprehend. The logical part of him knows he is the victim here, but that knowledge is buried under layers of conditioning. The contradiction is too vast, and the system crashes. The crying is the only outlet, an overload he cannot control.
Relena’s mind races, trying to fit the pieces together, but they’re all the wrong shape. He wasn’t fighting. He didn't say no. He was…enjoying it. Wasn’t he? She had seen it as acceptance, as release. Now, his violent reaction looks like trauma. Her world tilts on its axis.
“Please,” she begs, her own voice cracking now. “Talk to me. I don’t understand.”
Heero just continues to cry, silent and hopeless. He turns his head away from her, burying his face in the pillow, a gesture of shame and escape. It’s the most profound rejection he can offer, and it shatters something inside her. The sight of him, broken and weeping because of her kindness, is a paradox her mind cannot solve.
Her gaze falls on the duvet, on the damp spot she so casually wiped her hand on. The reality of the morning slams into her with the force of a physical blow. He woke up. He was embarrassed, and he was silent. She interpreted that silence as invitation. She took that embarrassment as shyness. She saw his resistance as something to be gently overcome. She didn’t listen.
The word forms in her mind, ugly and monstrous, a word she has only ever associated with brutality, with war crimes, with faceless enemies. Rape.
No. It’s impossible. She wouldn't. She couldn’t. It was a misunderstanding. He was just…overwhelmed. He’s Heero. He’s not good with emotions. That’s all this is.
But she looks at him, at the trembling shoulders, at the raw, animal grief coming from the boy who survived everything, and the lie she’s telling herself dissolves like that. She caused this. Her hands, her touch, her misguided attempt at intimacy- she had violated him.
A choked sob escapes her own throat. She scrambles backward off the bed, her movements clumsy, desperate. The floorboards are cold under her feet. She stands there, staring at the bed, at the boy she has broken, and the full weight of what she’s done crashes down on her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, but the words are useless, profane. “Oh, God, Heero, I’m so sorry.”
Heero still can't respond.