Archive of Our Own

Be in the moment.

Inhale, stroke, kick, exhale.

Again.

Be in the moment.

Nothing matters beyond the confines of the water, the embrace of the water, the push and pull of the water.

Heero reaches the end of the lap pool, spinning and kicking himself off its wall to glide back through the lap pool the way he came. He closes his eyes, letting his other senses take over in this environment that is simultaneously familiar and yet unfamiliar.

The void of space does not encircle and cradle the way that water does.

The void of space does not remind him of the color of her eyes and the feel of her arms.

The void of space does not bring to mind beautiful endless summer in the light and the heat with her form sprawled out beside him in a blue bikini, reflecting the sand and ocean in her very coloring.

With each stroke the pull and response of his muscles becomes more deliberate, more forceful.

Be in the moment.

And if the moment is no longer what is wanted?

Heero veers off course, pulling himself out of the pool with little effort, already reaching for the phone waiting with the rest of his clothes. A corner of his mouth ticks upward faintly as the voice of a shuttleport receptionist echoes in his ear.

Perhaps it is time to return to Earth after all, back to Earth where each bead of sweat that rolls down her face is a miracle.

The door closes behind her of its own accord, cutting her off from any air-conditioned sanctuary, and Relena flinches as the summer heat coils its grip around her in a smothering fist. She strikes out alone across the courtyard with food-driven, single-minded determination but is brought up short by a fluttering awareness running across her skin like imaginary fingers.

As her eyes meet his across a sea of sweltering faces, she is both surprised and yet unsurprised to see him. He tilts his head to the side in question and hefts a wicker basket into her line of vision. She blinks but changes direction, forging ahead through the oblivious throngs of her diplomatic peers on a direct line to the ex-guerrilla in their midst.

Each step is awash in physical sensation: the hitch in her breath, the leap in her heart rate, the tug of butterflies in her stomach, the twitching of hands anxious to check hair or neaten clothes. She wishes she could blame it all on the heat or evening's hunger, but she knows it's all him, all because of him.

Be in the moment. Remember how to breathe. Try to smile.

She stops in front of him at a polite distance, unsure whether to greet him physically as well as verbally, and wishes, illogically, that he would take the decision into his own hands by lunging for her despite the heat.

"Supper?" he asks with no other opening.

Relena does smile then.

"Welcome back to Earth, Heero."

Although he does not let it show, he is surprised by how easily she follows him and how readily she settles onto the sun-scorched grass beside him. He considers apologizing for the lack of a blanket but ultimately disregards the notion.

He would have his pride—

He freezes as, with a muttered complaint about the heat, she slips out of her suit jacket, revealing a lightweight camisole clinging to supple curves.

—just not much of it.

The dry blades of grass around them suddenly become fascinating. From the corner of his eye, he notices Relena shading her face for a sidelong look toward the slowly lowering sun. She catches her lower lip between her teeth, and his breathing quickens.

Without fanfare Relena pulls a small bottle from her bag and proceeds to slather its contents across her skin. The odors of coconut and other things that Heero cannot immediately name fill the air with a scent of summer that is unique to Earth.

He tries not to stare as she twists and contorts in an attempt to smear sunscreen on the exposed skin just below her shoulder blades.

"Heero, could you…?"

Right. Sure. Don't forget to breathe.

As his hands close on her slick skin, he finds himself contemplating what it means to die and what it means to live. When he smooths his palm down her spine, he wonders briefly if his heart could survive the experience of her unclothed and willing in his arms.

He carefully maintains eye contact when she turns around. It only makes the tension worse.

And then it doesn't matter because her face is blocking out the sun—no, she is the sun, vibrant, blazing, life-giving—and her lips sear like fire when they touch his.

Heero decides survival and pride are overrated.

As the first sparks of minuscule light blaze into being against the grass, Relena stirs from her position draped across Heero's chest. The air is warm still, but she shivers a bit at her awareness of night encroaching. His arms tense around her before slipping upward to run through her tousled hair in lazy strokes. Relena swallows through a throat grown unexpectedly tight. She cannot ask him to stay, and he will not offer it. Yet.

"I fail to see how that could serve any adaptive purpose."

His musing breaks her from her own, and she twists in his arms. Her furrowed brow smooths as she follows the line of his gaze to the haphazard waltzing of the fireflies. One languid hand lifts to follow their flight, and she traces curlicues in the dusk air.

"They flash to attract a mate. I would have thought you'd know that. You know everything else."

How easy it would be to write out an 'I think I love you' in the space before them, leaving to vision and attention what speech could not say and touch could only intuit.

"Not everything," he responds.

"Many things then."

Except her feelings. And possibly his own.

Relena sighs and watches in fascination as her breath stirs the fine hairs of his neck. It pleases her to note his skin ripple in response, and her sense of levity is swiftly restored.

"You also have something in common."

"What?"

She muffles her smile against his collarbone.

"Flashy entrances."

The best spontaneity is underpinned by careful planning, and no one will ever be able to convince Heero otherwise.

He keeps a hand at the small of Relena's back as he escorts her back downtown to hail a cab. He does not guide; she is the one who best knows the way. However, such hovering provides the perfect excuse for willing fingers to "accidentally" seek out that strip of delightful, easily accessible skin between camisole and slacks. She continuously shifts closer, pushing the bounds of public propriety for one of her stature. At the final corner, two teenagers with sparklers in hand flash knowing gamines' grins at them.

Heero hands her into a waiting cab in the guttering orange glow and waits as she relays instructions to the driver. 'Invite me in'-He will not ask, and he knows she will not offer, not yet.

"How long will you be on earth, Heero?"

"Long enough."

"Long enough for what?"

He reaches through the window and rubs a slow, gentle thumb down the curve of her chin. Relena quivers, and he tries not to. Each brush is an unworded promise, triggering echoes of the touch of her lips and sending delightful mini shocks of sensation across sensitized skin.

The cab pulls off without another word exchanged between them. Heero accepts a new sparkler from the amused girls and waves it cheerfully as he walks away. They both know that he will be back; he always is. Very soon, he will stay.

Relena hums beneath her breath as she navigates the extensive outdoor spread that marks a temporary end to the legislative session. Her nose pulls her along on an invisible string to one of the tables, and she represses a squeal of delight at the sight of Arabian barbecue, fondly recalling informal gatherings with Quatre and his staff. Thoughts of Quatre invariably leading to thoughts of the other Gundam pilots, it seems only appropriate that she should turn from a platter of lamb kabobs to find Heero immediately behind her.

"Heero," she breathes, noting the expressionless way that his gaze travels from his own chest to the now mostly empty plate in her hand to her face. All trappings of diplomacy forgotten, Relena stares in horror at the secret spice blend spreading across the front of his white shirt.

With a bitten off yelp of dismay, she drags him out of the main crush of food traffic and proceeds to vigorously dab at the stain with a wet napkin. Her actions prove fruitless, fading it out and spreading it around but failing to eliminate it.

"Don't bother. It's fine."

His hands cover hers, stopping them, and Heero proceeds to shrug out of the shirt, standing comfortably in a sleeveless undershirt that reveals all too well the muscles cording his torso.

Relena's throat grows dry as she recalls the dusk heat of his mouth and his touch. She stares at a smear of sauce remaining on his neck. Would it be imprudent to lick him in public? Probably. Does she care? Oh, dear gracious, not nearly enough.

With her temperature rising and her inhibitions sinking, Relena casts around for a distraction and finds it in the form of the ice cream vendor.

"Heero, I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you?"

Few are more expert than Heero Yuy in inflicting pain upon the human body, including his own, yet surely there is no pain as sweet as the tug in his chest when he watches her tongue trail along the side of her wrist. In any other woman, there could be a wealth of eroticism in the movement, but Relena is so unselfconscious, so absentminded in the action. It is the mark of both innocent and sensualist—one who follows a trail of sugary delight with abandon rather than rushing to napkins and water to remove any traces of imperfection or disgrace.

The discoloration left on his clothing and the ice cream in his hand are forgotten at the simple sight of her mouth on skin, and in that moment, he finds himself taking up an old mantra once again.

Be in the moment.

Breathe.

Indeed, air turns out to be necessary for words when she smiles at him over her drooping double-scoop cone.

"I hadn't expected to see you again so soon."

"Clearly."

The word slips from his mouth without conscious thought, and he watches her flinch, summer blue eyes darting to the soiled shirt in his hand.

She always forgives him his every stain of body and soul, and in his haste to assure her that the incident was forgiven before it even occurred, he trips over his tongue and admits far too much: "I thought I could stay away for awhile. I was wrong. I've always been wrong."

Relena stares at the pretty flute of carbonated lemonade. She can almost imagine that it is champagne, they are somewhere else, she is not hot and sticky, Heero is not carrying clothes stained by her clumsiness, and she did not flee without a proper response. She lifts a hand to her throat and feels the pulse racing in the hollow there before brushing fingers across the shamed flush heating her cheeks.

As declarations of devotion go, it is sub par; for Heero, it is a milestone.

She tilts the flute, watching sunlight spark in its depths, and resists the irresponsible urge to request something highly alcoholic to scorch her dry throat and shock her senses from their Heero-induced muddle. The lemonade alternates saccharine and biting and is far too easily an analogy for their relationship.

Her gaze shifts to where he lingers in the crowd. It is not how Relena would have envisioned such a public assertion—no tuxedo, ball gown, or twinkling lights—but it is time to end the dance and welcome reality. No need for girlish illusions when reality awaits.

She gulps the lemonade for fortitude. Before she can reconsider, she is at his side, the blaze of her fingers encircling his wrist. His eyes clash against hers, wary, and each remembered glance and caress crashes over them like an ocean breaker. Joy bubbles up, clogging her chest and throat, and Relena lets herself drown.

"Stay, Heero. You don't have to leave anymore. Stay here with me."

Be in the moment.

Inhale, stroke, kick, exhale.

Again.

The sultry heat of unregulated summer air is stripped of most of its power by his immersion. Nothing matters beyond the confines of the water, the embrace of the water, the push and pull of the water….

Except maybe the beach ball that crashes down beside his head and the following quickly muffled giggle.

Heero shakes the stinging water from his eyes, bobs upright, and glares poolside. Relena lounges in a shaded hammock, lazily fanning herself as it sways, and gazes in innocent absorption at the book in her hand.

Heero declares war.

As his shadow looms overhead, Relena lets the book slip safely from her fingers and lifts her arms to greet him. Heero lunges, and her arms wind around his neck as they collide, both careless of the water cascading down his body. The hammock rocks wildly, precariously, providing a perfect excuse for clinging and stroking. Heero closes his eyes while the earth tilts on its axis, and his senses fill only with her: sweet scent, supple body, breathless laughter.

Equilibrium reestablishes with her sprawled half atop him, strands of her long golden hair clinging to his damp lips. She laughs again, and he not only hears but feels it, and his breath hitches. Relena pulls the hair from his mouth and strokes sodden, unruly strands back from his face, leaving him open to her gaze. He watches her mouth curl in a tender smile before she replaces the absence of her hair with the presence of her lips and tongue.

Both are panting upon separation, and Heero redirects his attention along the soft, highly sensitive underside of her jaw while loosening her bikini's strings.

Truly, every bead of sweat that rolls down her face is indeed a miracle.