Smoky. Sultry. Sensual.
"Heero?"
That voice. The voice of God. The voice of an angel. A warrior angel. St. Michael, with a broken halo. One too many fights. A voice of doom. A voice with substance, rich and deep—
"Heero..."
Caressing my mind with each syllable. Deep, like a river. Deep like a highball glass without any ice. Deep and soothing. Smooth—
"Heero, please?"
Smooth, like a cat padding slowly along a fence—
"Heero, please don't..."
No. More like a smoke ring rising in a dark corner of a jazz club. A waiter brings over a 12-year-old bottle of scotch, and it goes down oh so smooth—
"Heero, don't make me beg."
Are you begging, Zechs? Funny, because I feel like the one surrendering. Why does his voice always do that to me? His smoky, sultry, sensual voice?
"Heero, I'll make you a deal. You let me have one more turn, and I'll let you go twice in a row right after that. Okay?"
He's done it to me again. Why can't I resist that voice? "Fine. Take the damn gamepad. But think about this: Halo 42 comes out next month, and I'm gonna play it three hours straight before you even get to look at it. Understood?"
"I got it. You see, Heero? I told you with a little cooperation we could share an X-box without killing each other."
Game night: Zechs 1, Heero zip. But maybe if I get him drunk, he'll keep talking...