It is certainly not out of love. No, it's out of something more base, more animal almost -- something primal. Heero rarely feels primal impulses any longer, except from his finely honed fight or flight reflexes and his uncanny ability to pinpoint weaknesses.
So when he actually feels lust, he doesn't really bother denying it.
It's amusing how, all along, Zechs was persuaded that he was the hunter, when he was the one who was getting tracked down. It's amusing how he can be such a fearsome adversary on the battlefield, how he understands and respects Heero's abilities, and yet, out of it, sees only a young boy who, if he isn't quite innocent any longer, should still have the last shreds of it preserved.
Zechs is a romantic. He believes that Heero's soul might be dirtied with blood, but it shouldn't be dirtied with his inappropriate desires -- even less with other, less mentionable sticky fluids.
Heero is a pragmatic. He's fifteen, and like all boys of fifteen, he thinks of sex, and he thinks about it a lot.
That, and he knows perfectly well what he looks like in that flight suit.
He allows Zechs to approach him, lets him believe that he's seducing him, and when the blond's morals torture him, he allows a lock of hair to fall across his eyes, or unzips his suit, just a tiny bit. He doesn't even know how to do sexy, or sensual, or suggestive -- but he knows how to do casual and unaware, and that's enough.
Zechs is a psychological masochist. He's not happy so long as he doesn't have something to feel miserable about. Corrupting an underage boy fits the bill.
Zechs touches him as if he was afraid to break him, and Heero loses patience. He wants sex, and he wants that man who is so different from him, that man he doesn't understand. He grabs the shining, golden locks, and he crushes his mouth against that cultured smile, feels vicious elation at the gasp of surprise. He presses their bodies together. Zechs is taller, wider -- but in hand-to-hand, Heero is stronger, even despite the difference in size and weight. He could break Zechs in two without forcing that hard. He enjoys reminding him.
He enjoys making all pretense of polite restraint break in tiny shards, being kissed back with feral passion by the warrior hiding inside the prince. He enjoys not being underestimated anymore. Besides, he likes it rough. It reminds him that he's, in fact, still quite alive.
Zechs' hands are large, and strong, even despite the white gloves. Heero runs his own callused fingers over him, with no shame, no hesitation. He has seen naked men before. He knows what he's going to feel, what he's going to find.
Zechs insists on kissing him as he comes against Heero's belly, splattering bare skin as much as smooth black cloth. Heero doesn't have a problem with it, so long as he's allowed to bite down on his shoulder as he explodes all over those white gloves.
Zechs is a romantic. He asks if he's all right. Heero grunts, and grabs the ends of his hair to pull his head down, and kisses him again to shut him up. He's fine. He's just fine. He's great, in fact.
Well, his expensive, tailored flight suit is covered in come, and he's not sure how that will wash off if it's allowed to dry.
Heero is a pragmatic. Besides, his hand is still holding Zechs's hair.
Zechs looks astounded, outraged. Heero smirks, just barely.
Now they have a good reason to share a shower. Still holding a fistful of long, soft, positively sinfully beautiful hair like a leash, Heero tugs him along. He's not finished with the man. And if he can believe the way his outrage gives way to dark anger and narrow-eyed watchfulness, he's in for a challenge. That's good. Fair-play fascinates him, but it only has its place in games. Anything goes in love and war, and this...
Well, it is certainly not love. But for that particular saying, desire is more than close enough.