[[ All The Little Things ]]

Author: K. Koumori

Series: Gundam Wing.

Pairing: 1x2.

Standard Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and it's collection of nummy boys and girls = not mine.

Rating: PG-13.

Warning: Shounen-ai. Duo's insecurities and toilet mouth. Bit o' sap.

Feedback: Adored. Flame if you really must. KK doth snicker at flames.

Notes: Takes place after Endless Waltz. Duo's POV. Just a little reflection into the newfound relationship between Duo and Heero. Based on real feelings of the author. ; I was missing my boyfriend and feeling a little sappy, so this sorta... jumped out.


There's this little cliché I hear all the time that says, "The smallest things can make the biggest difference". Or something like that. I normally never pay attention to stupid little catchphrases like that, even if I do wind up saying them sometimes without noticing it. But I think something about that one up there, however it goes, hits home more than any other I've ever heard.

Because it's just so true.

I'm not as complicated as some people might think I am. You might think differently, though, right? Me, Shinigami, the God of fucking Death, not complicated? Trust me. I put Shinigami to rest almost four years ago, and ever since, I guess I've just wanted nothing but simplicity. I've never really had that. I didn't have that as a kid (my whole goddamn life burned to the ground, after all), I definitely didn't have any during the war (obvious reasons), and I'd like to think I deserve it, thank you.

After we established a relationship beyond friendship, Heero calmed down a lot. Hell, he started to let a lot of my own mannerisms rub off on him. Only in... less annoying ways. He's not a complicated person, either. Not the real him, at least. The emotionless, cold-hearted soldier that he was molded into for most of his life was complicated in the sense that he was really fucking hard to get close to.

If he'd have caught me looking at him back then the way I do now, I can guarantee you that we wouldn't be as close as we are to this day. I wasn't that ballsy. I had some common sense.

I watch him when he doesn't think I'm looking. I don't wake up very easily, but normally I'm dragging myself out of sleep just as he's finished taking his morning shower. And when he trudges into the room in only a towel, and digs through his drawers for clothing, I watch his movements. I admire how involuntarily graceful and fluid they seem. I admire the way his muscles move underneath his skin. I admire the way the water still clings to his body. I admire his strong shoulders, his smooth back, his long neck and how the hair at the base always seems to want to curl at the end when it's wet. I'm a sneaky little bastard, though, and when he finally feels my gaze on him, and he's about to turn around, my eyes close and I slip into a long stretch, pretending not to notice.

When he's sitting on the easy chair, intently reading a book, I stop at the corner between the living room and the hallway leading to our room and let it all sink in. It's the most domesticated I've ever seen him, nestled comfortably into the chair with his feet tucked up underneath him, one hand holding the book out for him to read and the other holding his chin up, his strong profile so relaxed and at ease, and his eyes slowly scanning as they take in each word. He looks good in reading glasses. Doctor's orders. I'm thinking the war just did his senses in. Sometimes he has a hard time hearing, too.

Sometimes I feel like I love him so much more than he could ever love me. Call it paranoia, call it incessant worrying, call it stupid, for all I care. I know he's still getting used to things, still settling into a life without explosions and death and fear. I've always been a very heart-on-sleeve kind of person, even though I'm careful with who I finally end up giving said heart to, and I'm an open book to him, if he ever chooses to dig deeper.

It makes me feel really helpless sometimes, when I'm suddenly overtaken with this incredible urge to touch him, or hold him, or kiss him simply because he's there, he's real, and he's alive. I need to stuff it back a lot, because I'm too fucking afraid of pushing him away. I'm afraid of losing him due to my selfish clinginess.

Fancy that, huh? I've never been afraid of that before. If I had, I woulda left Wu-hoo alone a long time ago.

Still. Whenever I feel like that, I start thinking about those little things. There are little things he does that give me hope. Of course, I'm not going to whine and snivel about it to his face because even though we're close, I'm still trying to impress him. I'm still trying to leave a good mark on him, just in case things don't work out and we happen to... split. God forbid.

Feeling him wrap his arms around me from behind when I'm on dish duty. Catching him looking at me with this really content expression on his face at random times. Him sliding his hands into my open shirt after work and pulling me against him for a long hug. Taking my bullshit and just being there to listen when I need him to. Watching stupid shit on the TV with me and having no complaints. Letting me fuss with his hair after he washes it because it's really soft when it's wet. Not caring if I fall asleep in his lap and drool all over him. Putting up with 'that noise I call music' and maybe even starting to like some of it.

I guess, in the long run, the paranoia's got nothing on the kind of connection we have. Sure, we didn't have the best of first meetings (oh yeah, there's another thing to add to that little list. Forgiving me for shooting him), but we sure as hell got through a friendship practically unscathed, and I gotta say, this relationship is the best I've ever been in. It's the last I want to be in. He's it for me.

And it's all because of a simple, little cliché.